But Max had had two full glasses of the potent Feteasca and besides
was feeling pleased and effervescent over his success in getting Joe
Mauser, his idol, to spend a night on the town with him. He'd wanted
to impress his superior with the extent to which he had get to know
Budapest. Max said now, "We got places just as good as this in the
West, and bigger too. Lots bigger. This joint wouldn't hold more then
fifty people."
The one who had spoken, one of the majors who wore the boots of the
cavalryman, said, nastily, "Indeed? I recognize now that when I
addressed you both as gentlemen, I failed to realize that in the West
gentlemen are not selective of their company and allow themselves to
wallow in the gutter with the dregs of their society."
The Hungarian captain said lazily, "Are you sure, Frol, that _either_
of them are gentlemen? There seems to be a distinctive _odor_ about
the lower classes whether in the West-world or our own."
Joe came to his feet quietly.
Max said, suddenly sobered, "Hey, major, sir ... easy. It ain't
important."
Joe had picked up his glass of wine. With a gesture so easy as almost
to be slow motion, he tossed it into the face of the foppish officer.
The Hungarian, aghast, took up his napkin and began to brush the drink
from his uniform, meanwhile sputtering to an extent verging on
hysteria. The major who had been seated immediately to his right,
fumbled in assistance, meanwhile staring at Joe as though he were a
madman.
The cavalryman, though, was of sterner stuff. In the back of his mind,
Joe was thinking, even as the other seized a bottle by its long neck
and broke off the base on the edge of the table, _Now this one's from
the Pink Army, an old pro, and a Russkie, sure as Zen made green
apples_.
The major came up, kicking a chair to one side. Joe hunched his
shoulders forward, took up his napkin and with a quick double gesture,
wrapped it twice around his left hand, which he extended slightly.
The major came in, the jagged edges of the bottle advanced much as a
sword. His face was working in rage, and Joe, outwardly cool, decided
in the back of his mind that he was glad he'd never have to serve
under this one. This one gave way to rage and temper when things were
pickling and there was no room for such luxuries in a fracas.
Max was yelling something from behind, something that didn't come
through in the bedlam that had suddenly engulfed the Becsikapu.
At the last moment, Joe suddenly struck out with his left leg, hooked
with his foot the small table at which the three Sov officers had been
sitting and twisted quickly, throwing it to the side and immediately
into the way of his enraged opponent.
The other swore as his shins banged the side and was thrown slightly
forward, for a moment off balance.
Joe stepped forward quickly, precisely, and his right chopped down and
to the side of the other's prominent jawbone. The Russkie, if Russkie
he was, went suddenly glazed of eye. His doubling forward, originally
but an attempt to regain balance, continued and he fell flat on his
face.
Joe spun around. "Come on, Max, let's get out of here. I doubt if
we're welcome." He didn't want to give the other two time to organize
themselves and decide to attack. Defeat the two, he and Max might be
able to accomplish, but Joe wasn't at all sure where the waiters would
stand in the fray, nor anyone else in the small cabaret, for that
matter.
Max, at the peak of excitement now, yelled, "What'd you think I been
saying? Come on, follow me. There's a rear door next to the rest
room."
Waiters and others were converging on them. Joe Mauser didn't wait to
argue, he took Max's word for it and hurried after that small worthy,
going round and about the intervening tables and chairs like an old
time broken field football player.