He was a small man in his early twenties, with a mustache like a line of ants, and, on his head, an SS officer’s black service cap from which all the insignia and cap cords had been removed. None of the Americans getting into Stuber’s E.T. would ever have recognized his cap for what it was. But I did. I’d damn near had to wear a black cap myself. As it was, I’d been obliged to wear the field gray version only as part of the M37 SS uniform, which came along after 1938. I figured Stuber had found the cap or someone had given it to him. He was too young to have been in the SS himself. He looked too young to be driving a cab. In his small white hand the weapon he’d brought me was recognizably a firearm, but in my own sixteen-ounce glove it looked more like a water pistol.

“I said a firearm, not a spud gun.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “That’s a twenty-five-caliber Beretta. That’s a nice little gun. There’s eight in the clip and I got you a box of pills to go with it. It’s got a hinged barrel so you can slide the first one in, or take it out with ease. Five inches long and just eleven ounces in weight.”

“I’ve seen bigger lamb chops.”

“Not on your ration card, Gunther,” said Stuber. He grinned as if he ate steak every night of the week. Given his passengers, he probably did. “That’s all the gun you’ll need around this city, unless you’re planning a trip to the O.K. Corral.”

“I like a gun people can see,” I said. “The sort of gun that gives a man some pause for thought. With this little popgun no one will take me seriously unless I shoot them first. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“That little gun packs more of a punch than you might think,” he insisted. “Look, if you want something bigger, I can get it. But it’s going to take more time. And I got the impression that you were in a hurry.”

We drove around for a few minutes while I thought about it. He was right about one thing. I was in a hurry. Eventually, I sighed and said, “All right, I’ll take it.”