Minister of Propaganda was none other than Joseph Paul Goebbels and in the late 1920’s he was the editor of Der Angriff. Hitler was able to use that publication as his own little e-Mail to the lumpenproletariat.”
“Lumpen-what?”
“It’s a German phrase, I’m not sure of the exact translation. To me, it means the dregs of society, the lower class.”
“Fred, you never cease to amaze me. I can’t believe you knew that.”
“Well I’m glad I could amaze you. You know, I’m far more than just a pretty face.”
“Please Fred, let’s not get carried away.”
“All right, at least now I’ve got a little better feel about Von Klamer and I’ve got to agree with you. It does appear that he could well be a Nazi sympathizer or at the extreme worst a war criminal. Neither of which, I might add is my personal cup of tea, but I am intrigued. Give me the directions, I’ll go over and meet with him. Just so we’re straight, if I get a bad feeling, I’m bailing out. There’s no way I am going to consult for him, if I’m uncomfortable. By the way, does he know what I charge?”
“I took the liberty of doubling your normal rates. I hope you don’t mind.”
“The money didn’t bother him?”
“Not in the least. He never batted an eye.”
“Well at that price, war criminal or not, he’s probably got himself a financial consultant of questionable talents.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised.”
“Now, what about the directions?”
“Just go up Monmouth Hills to the point, its number 1889, you can’t miss it.”
“I’ll give you a call after the meeting and let you know how I made out.”
“See you Fred, and be careful when you back out of the parking lot.”
“Why?”
“My cat, Trouble is outside and you never know where she’s going to turn up. She could be under your car, curled up fast asleep. So just be careful.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be extra careful. See ya later.”
“Good bye, Fred, and good luck with the meeting.”
“One more thing before I go.”
“What?”
“I strongly recommend you get rid of those oversized bunny slippers. They really don’t go with the robe.”
“Just get the hell out of here.”
“Alright Pam, I’m going.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As soon as I left Pamela’s office I routinely checked my watch. It was a little after high noon, and I still had plenty of time to make the one o’clock meeting with Von Klamer. As I approached my car, I took, a quick look around for Pam’s cat Trouble. I found her, sunning herself on a chaise lounge in the backyard. Being a sucker for all animals, I just couldn’t resist walking over and petting her. She looked up with a contented gaze and purred. Why Pamela had ever named the cat, Trouble, was beyond me. Over the years I had observed that most pet owners named their pets after a common characteristic or personality trait. This cat was anything but trouble, she was the exact opposite, as sweet an animal as you could find.
Trouble would have been a far more appropriate name choice for my cat, Tuxedo. My wife was actually the one responsible for naming Tuxedo, she chose the name because of his physical appearance, it seemed a logical choice at the time. Tux had four white paws, a white nose, and a patch of white under his chin.
He was a dashingly good-looking cat, some might say even handsome. Who, would have ever thought that he would turn out to be such a fiend. Of course renaming the cats at this time was totally out of the question. It was too late; Tux was Tux and Trouble was Trouble.
I slid behind the wheel of the Triumph, it was time to get back on the road and stop day dreaming about cats. I turned the key and again the car purred. I pulled out of the parking lot, made the right hand turn and continued east on River Road. Von Klamer’s place was only fifteen minutes away.
Since I still had some extra time, I thought I’d shoot over to Briody’s for a quick bite.
The ride over to the restaurant was rather enjoyable, especially on a day like this. Rumson, for my money, is the most picturesque town in all of Monmouth County, for that matter probably in the entire state of New Jersey. As I drove down the road, it was one distinctive estate after another. The majestic houses on my left, with there well manicured rolling front lawns, couldn’t have been any more grand. I was just passing the old Borden carriage house, one of my favorites. It was built in the late 1880’s and was designed by a major New York architect named Thomas Hastings. Rumson was full of magnificent estates and manors designed by many of the great architects of their day. Architects like Brunner and Tyron, Bruce Price, E. Harris James, and the renowned Stanford White. Yet, this unique old house with it’s Shingle Style architecture with Richardson Romanesque elements had always been my favorite.
I was pulling into Briody’s, time to get a quick burger and a drink. One should never go to a business meeting with an old Nazi on an empty stomach.
After inhaling my hamburger and finishing my bourbon, I raced to the car. Lunch had taken a little longer than I had anticipated. At this point there was no sense getting upset, if I was late I’d just make up some excuse. I turned on the tape player in the car. It was a Stevie Ray Vaughan tape and it had been a while since I had listened to it. I wasn’t sure, but if my mind served me correctly, the tape was titled Double Trouble. If ever there was an omen, this was it. How many times are you going to see a black cat named Trouble and then randomly play a tape called Double Trouble. Of course I never believed in omens, I was much too smart for that.
I continued my joyride over the Oceanic Bridge, listening to the tape with the guitar licks of Stevie Ray Vaughn serenading me as I entered into the Locust section of Middletown. I took a right hand turn over the Locust bridge and then onto Navesink Avenue, past the old stone church. At the end of the road, I made the hard right that led up to Monmouth Hills. The main road was quite aptly named Serpentine Drive. But the snake like road presented no problem to me. I raced up the hill and the Triumph hugged every corner. About half way up the hill, I suffered a minor set back. An old gray pick-up truck was blocking my path. There was no way I could safely pass him, so I was forced to lay back.
As I approached the summit, I was feverishly looking for the house numbers, the last one I saw was number 425. Pam said the number was 1889, I hoped in her state of confusion she gave me the right number. The gray truck mercifully pulled off the road into one of the estates, kicking up dust and stones in the process. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Pam did say Von Klamer’s place was the last one on the point, but the house numbers just didn’t jive. In fact that damn truck had pulled into the last house on the point. No reason to panic, I’d just circle around till I found number 1889. Unfortunately the highest number that I spotted was 1327. I raced around and made my way back up the hill. Somehow I must have missed it.
There it was, number 1889, just were Pam said it would be. Had the name Von Klamer, right on
