Numbered Account

Nick looked to where Sprecher was pointing. As if on cue, a clutch of attractive women parted company offering him a clear view of a small man, beer stein in hand, dressed in a wrinkled three-piece charcoal suit. It was Yogi Bauer. Just one problem. Ten empty mugs littered the table in front of him. "He's legless."

Sprecher was signaling the bartender. "Barman, give us another round and whatever Mr. Bauer over there is drinking."

The bartender looked over Sprecher's shoulder. "Mr. Bauer? You mean Yogi. Beer or schnapps should do the trick."

"One of each," volunteered Sprecher.

The bartender left to pour their beers and when he returned, said, "Go easy on him. He's been in since noon. He may be a little surly, but remember, he's a paying customer."

Nick picked up two beers and followed his colleague through the crowd. He doubted they'd get anything out of this guy. When they reached Bauer's table, Sprecher pulled out a chair and sat down. "Mind if we join you for a pint? Name's Peter Sprecher and this is my pal, Nick."

Yogi Bauer straightened his arms and adjusted his frayed cuffs. "Nice to see our young ones still have manners," he said, lifting the stein to his lips. His dyed black hair was matted and in need of a trim. His maroon tie sported a stain the size and shape of a small African country. His eyes were rheumy. Bauer was the textbook definition of an aging alcoholic.

He finished off half of his beer, then said, "Sprecher, I know you. Did a little time in Blighty, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Exactly. I did my schooling at Carne in Sussex. In fact, we wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your time in England, when you were with USB."

"When I was with USB?" Bauer asked. "When wasn't I with USB? When weren't all of us with USB? I've already told you Schweitzer's story. What else do you want to know?"

Nick leaned forward ready to fire away, but Sprecher placed a calming hand on his shoulder, so he eased back and let his colleague bait the lure.

Sprecher waited until Bauer set down the beer. "You were at USB London for how long? Two years?"

"Two years?" said Bauer, as if shortchanged for time spent before the mast. "More like seven. We opened her up in seventy-three and I left in seventy-nine. Got the heave-ho back to the main office. That was a black day, I can tell you."

"So it was a small branch?"

"Small enough, at least early on. Armin Schweitzer was the branch manager. I was his assistant. Why the interest? You heading back?"

"Heading back?" asked Sprecher, caught off guard momentarily. "Yes, yes, in fact I was thinking of transferring there. London's the place these days. By the way, how many staffers were you?"

"Started with three of us. When I left we were thirty."

"Must've known everyone?"

Bauer shrugged and grunted in a single well-choreographed movement, as if to say "Of course, you stupid fucking idiot." "We were a family. Of sorts, that is."

"There was a man named Burki there at the same time, wasn't there? Vice president. I believe his name was Caspar. Surely, you must have known him."

Yogi Bauer's eyes darted from the empty beer mug to the full glass of schnapps.

"Caspar Burki?" Sprecher repeated.

"Of course, I remember Cappy," blurted Yogi Bauer, more forced confession than idle reminiscence. "Hard not to know a man when you work in the same office for five years."

Nick said, "Burki was a portfolio manager, right? You were a trader?"

Bauer shifted his attention to Nick. "Cappy was on the client side of the firm. What about it?"

Sprecher touched Bauer's arm and inclined his head toward Nick. "My pal's father knew Burki, too. We wanted to find him, you know, say hello, shoot the shit, catch up on old times." He slid the schnapps across the table.

Yogi Bauer grimaced, not liking what he heard. He picked up the schnapps and polished it off in one messy gulp.

"He is still alive, isn't he?" asked Nick.

"Hell yes," gasped Bauer, eyes watering at the burn of the peppermint liqueur. "Cappy's still kicking."

"And what does he do these days? Enjoying his retirement like you?"

Bauer shot Nick a dirty glance. "Yes, he's enjoying himself fine. Just like me. We're making the most of our golden years. Sitting in front of roaring fires with grandkids on our knees. Vacations to the South of France. Wonderful existence." He lifted an empty stein. "Cheers. What did you say your name was again?"

"Neumann. My father was Alex Neumann. Worked out of the L.A. branch office."

"I knew him," said Bauer. "Piece of bad luck, that. Condolences."

"It's been a long time," said Nick.

Bauer eyed him warily, then asked in a newly sympathetic voice, "So you're looking for Caspar Burki? Not a good idea. Listen to Yogi. Forget about him. Anyway, I haven't seen him in months. Don't know where to set eyes on the man."

"But he still lives in Zurich?" Nick asked.

Bauer laughed, sounding like a horse whinnying. "Where else would he go? Has to stay near the source, doesn't he?"