Lucifer's Tears

by James Thompson

  However, many securitas are poorly trained, and worse, have psychological profiles that make them unfit as guardians of the community. The pay is bad, the work thankless. Bullies, racists, the kind of people who like authority so they can use it to push others around, tend to gravitate toward the rent-a-cop business. Often, they’re the kind of people our citizens need protection from, and have no business enforcing the law. What pisses me off most is that the city has the money for things like heated sidewalks in the shopping district, so tourists won’t get snow on their shoes, but not enough to provide its citizens with adequate protection.

  “Those bastards killed my brother,” Sulo says. “What are you going to do to them?”

  I see no point in lying and causing him disappointment later. “I’m going to investigate, but I doubt much will come of it. This kind of thing happens on a regular basis. Very few bouncers are even charged, let alone convicted.”

  “But they murdered him.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but at most, they’ll be charged with involuntary manslaughter. You can file a civil suit if you want. They’ll counter and have you charged with disorderly conduct. Most likely, they’ll walk and you’ll end up paying a fine.”

  “That’s insane.”

  Sulo is right, it’s insane. Finnish drinking culture is a hypocrisy. Men are expected to drink. If they don’t, they’re considered untrustworthy. Both social and business life revolve around booze. Deals are often made at night, drunk. The good ole boy system comes into play. Since a lot of those drunken meetings take place in saunas segregated by sex, women are often shut out from the decision-making process.

  If something goes wrong in a bar and somebody gets killed, most of the time it’s just too fucking bad. Witnesses are discredited. They can’t prove they weren’t drunk. The courts lay blame on the victim and refuse to convict. Alcohol abuse is a cultural requirement, but once people are drunk, they in effect lose all legal rights.

  “I feel for you,” I say, “and I’ll do the best I can. I just don’t want you to expect too much.”

  Shock combines with anger. His face turns scarlet. Veins in his neck and forehead pulse. He’s unable to speak.

  I get his address, telephone and social security numbers, and tell him I’ll have him taken home.

  My cell phone rings. I answer.

  “Hi. My name is Arska Kuivala. I’m Securitas. Are you related to an American named John Hodges?”

  “He’s my wife’s brother. Why?”

  “He’s in trouble, and this is a courtesy call. I’m with him in Roskapankki. He ran up a bar tab close to three hundred euros, doesn’t have money to pay it, and he’s fucked up. Do you want to come here and fix this? If not, he goes to jail.”

  Kate will be devastated if he gets locked up. “I’ll be there,” I say, “and I owe you a favor.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “you do. Your brother-in-law is an asshole.” He hangs up.

  I’ve got the Filippov murder, the Arvid Lahtinen situation, and various and sundry other deaths to investigate at the same time. My qualification to be in murharyhmä is already under question by my colleagues, and now I have to walk out on an investigation because my brother-in-law is a lush. It’s more than just an inconvenience, it’s fucking humiliating.

  I tell Milo I’ve got an emergency and have to leave. He says he can clean this up. I give him the car keys and take a taxi to Roskapankki.

  18

  ROSKAPANKKI—THE GARBAGE BANK—is one of Helsinki’s most notorious dives. It opened during the financial crisis of the early nineties. Banks went under left and right, and the government instituted a state-guaranteed bank to absorb their toxic assets, hence the bar’s name. It offered some of the cheapest beer in the city to help medicate personal depression caused by the economic depression. The place has become synonymous with a low-priced buzz, and enjoys tremendous popularity with a certain clientele. It must have sold close to a couple million beers by now.

  I check my watch. It’s nine p.m. John sits at a wooden table, his hands cuffed behind him. A rent-a-cop sits across from him. He drums his fingers and stares at the wall, bored.

  I walk over and ignore John. “Are you Arska?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “What did you cuff him for?”

  “I would have duct-taped his mouth shut, too, if I had any. He’s an annoying fuck. You gonna take care of this? I have things to do.”

  “I’ll pay his tab and make things right.”

  Arska uncuffs John, shoots him a dirty look and leaves.

  John starts in. “Those fucking dickheads—”

  I cut him off. “Just explain yourself.”

  I watch him concoct a lie. It takes a while. He’s sloppy, drunk as hell, but propped up by speed or coke. I wonder how it’s possible to run up a three-hundred-euro tab when a pint of beer only costs two and a half euros. “Never mind,” I say, and go to the bar.

  The bartender tells the story. John came in early, started drinking hard, got drunk and loud. He bought people drinks to make friends. He dropped a credit card. In the late afternoon, he asked if he could take a hundred euros in cash on his card. The bartender didn’t run the card, just made a note to add it to the final tab. John annoyed the shit out of everyone, but they put up with him since he kept the beer flowing. The bill got high, the bartender got suspicious. He ran the card. The card was dead. He asked John if he had another card. John gave him two more. Both dead. John got haughty. John started name-calling. John feigned indignation and tried to leave. A bouncer stopped him. Securitas was called in.

  “I’ll pay the bill,” I say, and hand over my MasterCard. John has been in Helsinki for two days. Between champagne last night and his drinking binge today—and the hundred he took from the bartender, which I’m sure he used to buy drugs—he’s become an expensive annoyance. I’m not happy.

  I go back to the table and sit across from him. My headache isn’t monster-from-Alien bad, but it’s getting worse again. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” I ask.

  “Kari, it wasn’t my fault. Listen, Kari, there’s something wrong with their credit card machine, and they made out like it’s my mistake. Kari, you’re a cop. Do something. Kari, I swear to God I’m going to sue these bastards.”

  I hate the American habit of using a person’s name over and over to create a fake sense of intimacy. “John,” I say, “here’s what I’m going to do, and here’s what you’re going to do. John, you’re a lying whore. John, you’re drunk and stoned. John, you’re going to sober up. John, you dumb motherfucker, you and I are going to cover this up because if Kate finds out, it’s going to upset her. John, when someone upsets my wife, I get upset. John, do you want me to be upset?”

  He shakes his head no.

  “Good. I should be finishing a death investigation right now and going home to Kate, where I want to be. Instead, I’m going to call Kate and tell her we’re having a little boys’ night out, to do some bonding.” I hate that term, but think he’ll relate to it. “My plan is this. I’m going to take you to a sauna, then to get something to eat. When we get back to my house, you’re going to act like a choirboy.”

  He starts to speak. I press a finger to my lips. “I don’t want to hear your voice for a while. We clear?”

  He nods yes. I call Kate. He stands, puts on his coat, weaves. I help him toward the door.

  KOTIHARJUN SAUNA IS WITHIN walking distance of both our apartment and Roskapankki. John never intended to go sightseeing today. He just wandered out and got smashed in the first place that looked inviting to him. He stumbles through the snow. The cold air and exercise will do him good. The sauna will be good for both of us, and also serve as a small punishment for his bad behavior. I’m going to use the opportunity to fuck with him, just a little.

  Kotiharjun sauna opened its doors in 1928. It’s a Helsinki institution and one of my favorite places. The only public sauna left that’s both wood-fired and keeps to the old traditions. We approac
h it. A line of men are outside in the snow, sitting on a low wall, wrapped in towels, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.

  “What the fuck are naked guys doing in the snow?” John asks.

  “The same thing you’re going to do, sans beer.”

  We go inside to the front desk. They know me here. I’m a regular, like to come here after lifting weights in the gym. Our little electric sauna at home does its job, but their big wood-fired sauna is a special experience. It generates a wonderful soft heat.

  I pay our admission, get us towels and a vihta—a bundle of leafcovered birch branches tied together at one end. “My brother-in-law, John, needs the full treatment, a wash and a kuppaus,” I say. “Is there somebody still here to give it to him?”

  The cashier is a friendly young guy. “Ellu was about to go home,” he says. “John looks like he should go home, too.”

  “That’s the point, I don’t want him there yet. Tell her I’ll tip her an extra fifty if she stays.”

  He checks it out, Ellu agrees. We go to a room that looks like a little operating theater. I tell John to take his clothes off. He protests. I stare at him. He peels down to his underwear and stops. I keep staring. He takes off his briefs and stands there embarrassed and naked. Ellu waits, impatient. I tell him to lie down on the table. He does it. Ellu proceeds to give him a good scrubbing while I watch. Usually, kuppaus is done after spending some time in sauna, because the raised body temperature enhances bleeding. But I figure what the hell, John can bleed slow.

  After a few minutes, John relaxes. “Thanks Kari,” he says, “this is nice.”

  Ellu finishes washing him and starts taking out the plastic bubbles used for sucking blood in kuppaus. “You sure about this?” she asks me.

  I answer, “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  She brings over to the table the clear suction bottles with short hypodermic needles extending from them.

  John gets suspicious. “What are those? They look like they hurt.”

  “It’s an old Finnish folk remedy,” I say. “It gets the poisons out of your system.”

  “I don’t want it.” He starts to sit up.

  I shove him back down. “Sure you do. Don’t be a pussy.”

  He understands I won’t take no for an answer. Ellu attaches the first bottle to his back. He grunts, but doesn’t complain. Ellu attaches six bubbles. John looks over his shoulder and watches them fill with blood. “It doesn’t hurt much,” he says, “but what the hell is the point.”

  “They’re like plastic leeches,” I say. “Now you can tell your buddies that you’re a true-blue Finn and got your blood sucked.”

  He manages a laugh. “Most of their stories are about getting their dicks sucked. I think this story is better.”

  I thought John would piss and moan. He’s impressed me, if only slightly. I get undressed in the locker room. We rinse off in the shower room and I take him into the sauna. It’s a Tuesday, so the crowd is small, maybe fifteen men. On weekends, the place gets packed and rowdy. Friends come here to drink and sweat together.

  The iron stove is massive. Logs heat it. The sauna is hotter or cooler, depending on where you sit in relation to the stove. John and I take a spot almost behind it, on the third and top seating tier. John has sobered up somewhat, his humiliation from Roskapankki faded, his courage bolstered by a successful engagement with kuppaus.

  “This feels great,” he says. “You know Kari, I had my doubts about you, but you’re all right.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thanks. I was worried you didn’t like me.”

  I wet the vihta and start smacking my back with it. It occurs to me that I’m employing much the same motion that Iisa Filippov’s murderer used while torturing her with a riding crop.

  “What’s that for?” John asks.

  “Being hit with the branches makes you sweat more, and the birch leaves are curatives, help get the toxins out of you.”

  “Finns must be chock-full of poisons,” he says. “You go to a lot of work to get them out of you.”

  “Believe me,” I say, “we are. Try it. I’ll help you, teach you the technique.”

  He smiles. “Okay.”

  There’s no technique. I take the opportunity to whack the hell out of him. It doesn’t hurt, just stings a little. The guys in the sauna heard us speaking English and realize I’m teasing a foreigner. They chuckle. John gets it, takes it in stride and laughs with them. He has problems, that’s apparent, but he also has a good side. I want to like him, but he’s done his best to make it hard for me.

  We sit for a while until he gets too hot, then go outside and sit in the snow and cold air for a bit, go back to the sauna, repeat the process. An old man I know offers me a beer and asks me to play a game of speed chess at the table in the dressing room. He and I pass a Koskenkorva bottle back and forth a couple times. The sauna and vodka dull my headache. John looks at the bottle but knows better than to ask for a drink. Despite John, I’m enjoying myself.

  We go back to the sauna a third time. John says he would like to try it hotter and asks how to do it. I say the valve on the stove releases water and creates more steam. Before I can instruct him further, John hops up and moves toward it.

  This sauna is holy ground, a place for aficionados. Many are older men who’ve practiced the art of sauna for a lifetime. The rules of Kotiharjun sauna are as sacrosanct as those of a church service. A major rule is that only men sitting in the hottest area of the sauna may throw water without asking permission. Too much steam turns the hot corner into an oven.

  Exuberant John yanks the valve open and lets water fly. Way too much. Even in our cool corner, the steam burns my lungs and the inside of my nose. The guys in the hot seats get scalded and turn furious, start screaming at John and calling him names. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. They come out of their corner after him. The floor is slick. He can’t move fast enough to get away from them. Plus he’s naked and has nowhere to escape to. Four men grab him and force him across the room.

  “Kari!” he yells. “Help me!”

  I might if I could, for Kate’s sake, but I can’t. I consider that John has come halfway around the world and, within a day, has managed to almost get himself thrown in jail, and now finds himself attacked by four naked men. I can’t help but laugh. Welcome to Finland. Three men force him to sit down. Another comes back and throws the valve open. He yells at John, “Let’s see how you like it, you stupid cunt.”

  “Just sit still for a minute,” I say. “You won’t die. Try not to breathe too deep.”

  The four men stand in the middle of the room with their arms folded and stare at John while he cooks. They don’t want to hurt him, just teach him a lesson. They go outside to cool off. He creeps out of the hot seat over to me. “Can we go now?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, “let’s get something to eat.”

  I GET A TAXI and take John to Juttutupa, a favorite restaurant. I figure if I have to babysit Kate’s brother, I might as well enjoy myself as best I can. The building sits opposite the water and resembles a small castle constructed from granite blocks. It’s been around for better than a century. Juttutupa is next door to the offices of SDP, the Social Democratic Party, and has a reputation for politicos hanging out and making deals over food and drink.

  A couple of nights a week, Juttutupa offers live jazz. I like good jazz, and Kate has picked up my appreciation of it, so we sometimes come here together. I reflect that I’ve offered John an ultimate introduction to classic Helsinki culture this evening, even if only for my own benefit.

  A waitress comes to our table. I ask her to speak English, for John’s sake. She asks what we want to drink. I order kossu and beer. John looks sad, like a little kid, asks if he can have a beer. I feel sorry for him, revert to Finnish and order an ykkösolut—a weak beer—for him. He won’t be able to taste the difference. John was shit-drunk when I rescued him earlier. He’s better now, but no way he can pass for sober. If I h
ave a few drinks, too, to make it seem like we were drinking together, it will help maintain the pretense for Kate that he’s not a fucked-up drunk doper. I’m drinking to spare my wife’s feelings. A strange day.

  The waitress brings our drinks and menus. I say we don’t need them and order for both of us. Snails in garlic butter as an appetizer to share. Liver and onions with mashed potatoes for him and a big horse steak for me. Bloody rare.

  Still drunk, John protests. “What the hell is wrong with you? I hate liver, and no one should eat slimy things or horses. You’re blackmailing me because the credit card machine at a bar was broken.”

  He won’t eat snails, but has no problem with caviar. I guess the price of caviar makes its texture more appealing to him. “No, John, you’re wrong. I’m doing what it takes to hide whatever is wrong with you from Kate. When we go home, you’re going to be in presentable condition. You’re going to tell Kate what a wonderful time we had, and starting tomorrow, you’re going to behave yourself. Don’t eat the snails if you don’t like them, but you’re going to eat the liver, because it’s the best sobering-up food I know.”

  The speed or coke he ingested is wearing off, only booze is left in his system. He starts to slur. “Kari, you’re wrong about me. You think I’m some kind of loser. It’s not my fault if a credit card machine in a goddamn bar doesn’t work with American cards.”

  We stare at each other for a minute.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  I take a sip of Koskenkorva, see the longing in his face. “If you come back high,” I say, “I’m going to be more than pissed off.”

  “So now you’re accusing me of taking drugs.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I covered your bar tab. You forgot to thank me.”

  He huffs and gets up. When he comes back, he’s not stoned. I eat the snails by myself. Our main courses come. He looks at the liver with distaste but digs in. He must be hungry. His indignation disappears. “It’s good,” he says.