Inside the Blue Parrot: Lent in Casablanca, Night 14

“You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, Signor Ferrari. Thank you for seeing me.”

The little rat-faced man sat down opposite the large fezzy man in the white suit.

“You’re Berger, right?”
“Yes, Signor. I’m with–“
“My dear boy. As leader of all illegal activities in Casablanca, I know who you are, and I don’t want to hear it said aloud.”

A ravishing young woman in belly dancing attire approached the table.  Berger looked up at the girl.

“Brandy for me, please.”

Signor Ferrari grabbed his bourbon bottle and cracked it upside Berger’s head.

“Berger, you herring-munching Norwegian swine, this is my daughter, Testarossa Ferrari.”

Berger clambered to his feet. “Oh, Signora! My apologies.” He offered his hand, head bowed deferentially. Rossa smiled demurely, before kicking Berger right square in the nuts.

“Papa, I’m off to swindle tourists in the bazaar. I’ll be back for dinner.” She kissed her father’s cheek.
“Very well, my dear. Have fun, and be careful.”

“And Fraulein Berger, it was lovely meeting you.”
Rossa rolled her eyes and smiled as she stepped over the greenish-tinged Berger and pranced away.

“Oh Mussolini with clam sauce, Berger, you dipshit.  It’s no wonder you can’t get out of Casablanca.  Get off my floor, and act like a teenaged girl didn’t kick your ass with her bare feet.”

Berger climbed back into his chair.  “Signor, I ask for your help. Victor Laszlo has come to Casablanca, and Signor Ugarte was to provide these Letters of Transit to help him escape to Lisbon. There’s a train coming from Oran with Nazi reinforcements. If that train reaches Casablanca, there will be no way to protect Laszlo.”
“And?”
“And Signor. If you can help me put my hands on those Letters of Transit, or…” Berger looked around suspiciously. “Or if you could help me find some way to stop that train from reaching Casablanca…”
“I know one sure-fire to derail that train, Berger.”
“Yes, Signore?”
“Put a douchebag like you in charge of driving it.”
“Signor?”
“Berger, you insult my daughter by treating her like a waitress, then insult my floor with your tears, and now you insult me with your begging. Now get out of my bar before I give my younger daughter a shot at you.”

Berger left quickly, making his way to the marketplace, where he saw a familiar face. He ran up to her.

“Madamoiselle Lund?”
Ilsa saw the man, then turned and hustled into the crowd. 

Behind the table, a small woman with a giant attitude rolled her eyes. “Oh, Christ on a cracker, Berger. Are you still trying to sell that madre-freakin’ ring?”
“Annie the Soapmaker. Have you no idea what it means to be part of something great?”
“No, dipshit,” she shot back. “Do you?”
“I am part of the French resistance! And why do people keep calling me a dipshit?”
“You’re Norwegian, and you’re empirically a dipshit.”
“Annie the Soapmaker, you must help me get Victor Laszlo out of Casablanca.”

Annie shook her head incredulously. “How? And why?”
“He is a great man!”
“Babe Ruth is a great man, as is your mother, Berger.”
“Annie, please. Help me get ahold of those letters of transit.”
“What letters of transit?”
“They are signed by General Weygand, and can not be rescinded, or even questioned.”
“Berger, are you retarded?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think those letters mean jacques merde?”
“They are signed by–“
“By Weygand. Who’s Hitler’s puppet in Vichy.”
“But they’re official documents!”
“Right. Like that non-agression treaty signed by Hitler and Stalin?”
“The what?”
“Look, Berger? Those letters of transit are only as valuable as the letters to Santa you could write on the blank sides.”
“Is this Santa you mention in the resistance?”
“Dear Lord, Berger. Calling you a dipshit is an insult to dipshittery.”
“If you won’t help me get the letters, please Annie, help me blow up the Nazi train.”
“Now THAT I can help you with!”
“What? Really?”
“Absolutely.  I have plenty of explosives right here.” Annie gestured at a neat pyramid of soap. “Just 10,000 francs.”
“VIVE LA FRANCE,” cried Berger, scooping up an armful of the small fragrant bricks and running away.

Captain Renault happened by, and pulled out his police whistle.

“Louis, no!!”
“But, Annie…”
“Merci, anyway, mon Capitane.” Annie the Soapmaker tossed the Prefect a bar of soap. “This one will have Yvonne slobbering all over you in seconds–it’s made with hemp oil, rosemary, despair, and whiskey.”
“And Berger?”
“Well…” Annie grinned. “Testarossa Ferrari here got his wallet, and that poor, stupid sonofabitch is about to try and blow up a train with ERDA Studios ultra-moisturizing pumpkin and nutmeg face cream bars.”

Captain Renault laughed. “Oh, Annie. It’s always a pleasure.”  He tipped his cap and strolled away.

“C’mon Rossa. The Minion can watch the stand. Let’s go pick up Hermione and that weird Swedish chick. The big hand says it’s time to get our schnapps on.”