Free Buried Caesars by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

straightening up and adjusting her uniform.
    “Let it go,” I said, finishing my burger.
    “You are Jewish, aren’t you, Mr. Peters?” Hammett asked.
    “I guess,” I said.
    “Are you offended by Miss Olympia’s comment?” Hammett asked, scratching the cat’s head.
    “It’s not worth it,” I said.
    “… German tanks, infantry and planes have made a frontal assault on Stalingrad from the west and have forced the Russians back to new defensive positions, according to the Soviet high command,” the radio voice went on, in the same tone of panic.
    “It’s always worth it,” Hammett said gently.
    “I’m sorry,” the waitress said.
    “It’s okay,” I moved in. “I’m finishing this burger and the fries and we’re off.”
    “Guys giving you trouble?” one of the two overalled customers called over to the waitress.
    “No trouble,” Sheila said. “I just sometimes don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”
    Hammett pursed his lips and tugged gently at the cat’s ear. The cat kept lapping at the soup.
    “Just the same,” the overalled customer said, getting off his stool. “These guys are giving you trouble.”
    The man on the radio said that the British and Americans had dropped three thousand tons of bombs on Tobruk and given Romqiel something to think about along with the new assault of American tanks.
    “No trouble,” Sheila said. “No trouble. Just sit down and finish your blue plate, will you?”
    But the two men, who looked much bigger when standing, were moving behind me and Hammett. I kept eating the second burger.
    “You upset Sheila,” one of the men said to us behind our backs.
    Hammett looked up from the cat to examine Sheila’s face seriously.
    “Could be,” he finally said.
    “We’ll just call it our contribution to improved harmony among all the great contributors to the American melting pot,” I added.
    “Don’t play smart with me. I’m not stupid,” he said angrily.
    “I appreciate the information,” Hamm’ett said, downing the last of his beer. “Without it I’d have gone through life in the belief that I’d run into Clifton Fadiman in a diner.”
    “I’m gonna smash your face,” the man behind us said.
    “Forget it, for chrissake, will you?” Sheila screeched.
    The lone old trucker in the corner went on eating and reading and pretending none of this was happening. The guy on the radio seemed to be getting more and more excited as he ran out of news.
    “… bombers hit Crete … U-boats sink two Allied merchant ships …”
    “Get up,” the bigger guy in overalls said to Hammett and me.
    In the stainless-steel coffee pot behind the counter I could see the distorted reflection of the two big men, walking ads for how to abuse the products of Oshkosh B’Gosh. They were not only bigger than Hammett and me, they were younger, quite a bit younger.
    Hammett looked over at me with a smile, a strand of the white hair curving down his forehead. Before I could return his smile, Hammett threw his elbow back, a sudden, sharp jab. It hit the nearest man, the one who had been doing the talking, just below his chest and just over a rivet on his overalls. The man staggered backward to the sound of Sheila screaming, “No, no, no, you’ll get me canned.”
    The second man, who looked something like a bulldog, put his hand on Hammett’s neck as I spun half a turn on my genuine leatherette-covered stool and threw the cat in his face. The man tripped back with a dull bleat as the cat bounced off him. I could see now that the two men had their names neatly sewn over their pockets. The one Hammett had hit, WYLIE, had pulled himself together and was looking for something lethal. He picked up a wooden chair from a nearby table. By now Hammett and I were on our feet, with our backs to the counter. The cat jumped back on the counter and went for the remainder of the soup while we waited for the denimed duo to come at us again. There were cat scratches on the face of Wylie’s