A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky

carnal activity till late in life, and a desire to engage in the creation of literary works.
    “The bank,” said Gunther.
    Fields had more to read but his head shot up suddenly and he stuffed the pages of Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript back in his picnic basket. “Five minutes to nine,” he said. “We’ve beaten Hipnoodle here, and today we shall have our satisfaction.”
    Fields was wrong on both counts.

Chapter Five
     
There’s no room in the White House for a man with barber’s itch.
     
    While we watched the front door of the First Consolidated Bank of Altoona, we listened to “Aunt Jenny’s Stories” on the radio. In the episode a woman had lost her husband and had to take over raising her three young children and running her husband’s real-estate office. Love came to her in the form of a wealthy widower who was looking for a small house where he could mourn with a beautiful view. Fields listened attentively, his eye fixed on the door of the bank. He hadn’t taken a drink yet.
    “The gold digger’s looking for a free ride,” said Fields finally, pointing at the radio. “Taking advantage of a grieving man to stop working and sit home eating cashews and holding the old man’s hand while she clothes her brats in diaphanous dresses and fine lace.”
    Aunt Jenny seemed to think the marriage of the widow and widower was the happy ending.
    “Turn on the news,” Fields barked.
    Gunther changed the station.
    “Never did find out what killed the first husband,” Fields muttered. “Probably poisoned by the greedy wench.”
    We caught the tail end of the morning news and heard from the deep-voiced announcer that one hundred flying fortresses had battered Sardinia and destroyed twenty-six ships and seventy-one Axis airplanes.
    “Gotta remember to put a pin up for that one when I get back home,” Fields said.
    People entered the bank and came out. None, even if they were wearing disguises, were tall enough to be Hipnoodle. Gunther and I kept looking back for the black Ford.
    An hour passed. No Hipnoodle. No black Ford. Fields reached for his first drink of the day, a premixed martini from his backseat bar. He drank slowly, scanning the street for suspicious faces. He concluded that all the faces were suspicious.
    “See that woman there?” he asked, waving his drink.
    A young woman, slightly on the heavy side, held the hands of two children, a small boy on the right, a slightly taller girl on the left.
    “I see her,” I said.
    “German face,” he said. “Probably a spy, perfect cover. Two kids are probably rented.”
    “What would a German spy be doing in Altoona?” I asked.
    “They’re everywhere,” he confided. “Besides, there’s a secret bombsight development center in Altoona. That’s what my barber told me. Always trust your barber. Especially when you’re getting a shave. If he’s good enough to run a razor across your neck, he’s good enough to know if there’s a bombsight center in Altoona. Come to think of it, he said Ashtabula.”
    None of us noticed the uniformed cop until he knocked at the curbside window next to me. I lowered the window. The cop leaned over, examined us. Fields pretended to ignore him and continued to look out the window at the bank.
    The officer was too old for the draft, even if they raised the age to forty-five. His blue uniform was a little baggy and so were his eyes.
    “Mind tellin’ me what you’re doing here, gents?” he asked.
    “Watching the bank,” I said.
    “Mind if I ask why?” he asked, hands resting on the rim of the open window.
    “It is your civic duty to ask why,” said Fields. “We could be a bizarre trio of bank robbers—a midget, an ancient juggler, and Mr. Peters, who, I must admit, fits the description of half the felons described each week on ‘Gangbusters.’”
    “I know you?” asked the policeman.
    Fields’s face was still averted, drink in hand. “Ever been in Nepal?” he asked.
    “Yep,” said the cop.
    The reply