“Yes, sir.”
“You might take Frau von Wachtstein to the Mess there, Cronley. It’s really very good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” Connell said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
—
On the way to the Kurhotel, Cronley’s mind turned to Frau von Wachtstein’s intimate undergarments.
She’s still naked under that uniform; she hasn’t had a chance to put on any of the stuff she bought.
Well, she can do that as soon as we get to the hotel. Maybe that black brassiere and the matching see-through underpants . . .
Damn it! Get your filthy mind off her underwear, pervert!
—
In the hotel lobby, Elsa pointed to the sign that read DINING ROOM.
“In there?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They were shown to a table next to windows that overlooked the Lahn River.
“The river, the Lahn, is out there,” he said, pointing. “But you can’t see it in the dark.”
Brilliant conversation, Jimmy!
“I saw it earlier from my room,” she said.
A waiter appeared and asked in English with a thick Hessian accent, “May I bring you a cocktail before dinner?”
“I really would like a glass of wine,” Elsa said, in German, looking at Cronley.
“I will bring the wine list,” the waiter said.
“I don’t know anything about wine,” Cronley said.
“Would you like a cocktail instead?” Elsa said.
“What I would really like to have is a double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.”
“What is that?”
“Whiskey. Bourbon whiskey. They make it out of corn.”
Elsa looked at the waiter. “Bring two. And the menu.”
“If you want wine, have wine,” Cronley said.
“I probably wouldn’t know anything on an American list. And besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”