“Your friend over there. The one with the rubber feet and the pipe up his ass.”
He turned, then turned back, looking irritated. Flexing his right arm like a weightlifter, he repeated: “No need nothing, no buy nothing.” When I still didn’t make a move to leave, he said it a third time, roaring on behalf of the town of Dietzenbach: “No need nothing, no buy nothing!”
“Very good. Now we know that one. Let’s move on to Lesson Number Two: How do I get to the After Hours club? And let’s be a little more on the ball if you don’t mind.”
He froze in the middle of a motion that could have led to all sorts of things. Slowly, setting one foot behind the other, he backed off in the direction of his BMW.
“Fuck off! Get the hell outta here!” His voice turned falsetto. “I sure hope I didn’t catch anything from talking to you, you-”
I held up my right hand and imitated the motion of a windshield wiper while pulling a scrap of paper out of my pants pocket with my left. “Number seventeen Hirschgraben. Tell me how to get there, or I’ll spit on your tulips.”
Pale, and holding the toothbrush like a crucifix in front of his chest, he leaned back against the radiator. “Go straight, then right at the second traffic light, and you’ll see a pink neon sign …”
“Much obliged.” I waved. “And keep on studying your German. There are times, these days, when the place feels like a foreign country.”
A heavy, dark brown, wooden door with a one-way peephole; to the left of it, a menu of drinks, to the right a brass plate with a marble bell button. I pressed it, and a taped voice croaked: “Please wait; attendez s’il vous plait; bitte warten!” Minutes later, the door opened, and a pale runt with facial hair and large eyes clung to the frame. White tennis shoes, jeans, an opalescent shirt open to the navel, a gold chain, and a quart of pomade in his hair.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to your boss.”
His long thin fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the doorframe.
“Sorry, but Gerhard is not available at the moment.”
“Is he here?”
“I told you, he’s not available.”
Before he could close the door again, I pushed him aside and entered the barroom. It stank of alcohol and brimming ashtrays. The chairs had been put up on the tables among many glasses that were empty except for straws and bits of fruit. In the back of the room there was a cabaret stage. On it stood the remains of a gigantic pink cake, and next to it lay an unshaven fatso dressed in sexy lingerie. Two neon tubes cast their sallow light on the scene. In addition to the entrance, there were three more doors in the room. All three had signs on them: “Pool”, “Safety First”, and “Private.”
Someone was tugging at my jacket. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”
I turned and grabbed the runt’s shirt collar. He tried to hit me, but I held him at arm’s length. I pointed at the fat guy.
“Is that Gerhard?”
No reaction. Now he was completely motionless. He stared straight ahead and seemed determined to keep his mouth shut.
“Listen, kiddo, tell me where your boss is, or I’ll glue you to the ceiling.”
A quick tremor ran through his body, but that was all. He hung his head as if resigned to be glued to the ceiling for Gerhard’s sake. I let him go, went to the door marked “Private”. A cast-iron spiral staircase took me to the hallway of the second floor. Another set of three doors. I picked the one behind which I could hear quiet radio music. I pushed it and was surprised by sunlight. The near-darkness in the barroom and hall had made me forget it was still day. It was a fully furnished office with a computer, fax machine, an array of telephones, lamps, screens. The third surprise was Gerhard himself, or rather, the click of the safety catch on his gun.
“Hands up, sweetheart.”
I raised my arms and turned slowly. He was tall, wide, and well fed. Perhaps a little too tall, wide, and well fed. Steely blue eyes stared at me out of a salon-tanned face framed by a marcelled, peroxide-blond mane. A bit like Kalli Feldkamp in leather. His feet were encased in athletic shoes adorned with American flags.
“My, my,” he rolled his eyes, “a genuine sheik.”
I responded with a tired grin. “Can I put my arms down now?”
“But why? You look good that way.”
Holding the gun, he minced around me. Facing me again, he smacked his lips loudly. I stared at the ceiling.
“Cute, really cute … Your beer belly needs a little work, and that haircut needs modernizing. In some nice threads-well, you wouldn’t be a Don Johnson exactly, but chubby fellows have their own kind of charm. Right?”
“My arms are falling asleep.”
“Just keep them up there, sweetheart. As long as it’s just your arms.…” He winked, sat down behind the desk and put his feet up on it. “You just have to emphasize your type a little more.”
“And what would that be? A cross between Gerd Muller and Ghaddafi?”
He groaned with delight. “Ghaddawi! My idol!” His eyelids drooped. “With him, I could do a thousand and one nights-at least.” He tilted his head to the side. “But in your shoes, I’d go for the more rustic look. Navy blue, sleeves rolled up, heavy boots-you’re the sailor type.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. But right now I’m looking for a woman by the name of Sri Dao Rakdee. I’ve been told she’s staying here.”
He gave a start. “A woman …?” He made a face as if the devil had just run past. Then he brightened and flashed his capped teeth at me.
“Oh, you must mean Dolores, our transy? But she isn’t here today.”
“No, I don’t mean Dolores. I mean-fuck you.”
I let my arms drop and pulled out my cigarettes. Dumbfounded, he watched as I lit one, shook the match out and tossed it into his pencil holder.
“So? You going to shoot me just because I entered your office without knocking? I’m here because I’m looking for that woman-and she can’t help being born a woman, can she? Now tell me if there’s someone of her gender in this joint.”
Very slowly, he took his feet off the desk, sat up straight, and held the gun with both hands aiming it at my forehead. His eyes, glittering a moment ago, were dry and cold. His voice had an edge to it.
“You’re not a cop, are you?”
“Do I look like one?”
“You look like a boozy little rat.”
The sky had darkened, and there was a distant sound of thunder. My quota of half-assed loudmouths was filled for the day.
I pointed at his nose. “Booger.”
He didn’t get it right away. Then, in a reflex motion, his hand rose to his face, and he glanced down. My first blow made him drop the gun, the second did some damage to his tanned jaw, and the third made him gasp for air.
I picked up the gun and sat down on the edge of the desk. “All right, let’s take it from the top. Is that woman here?”
Bent over in his chair, holding his jaw with one hand and his stomach with the other, he looked at me in disbelief. Then he shook his head, cautiously, and groaned: “You’re out of your mind.”
“Yes or no will do just fine. Are you a dealer in forged papers?”
“Forged papers?” He let go of his jaw and waved at the high tech scenery. “I make half a million a year just on the stock exchange. Why would I deal in shit like that?”
“But you seemed pretty concerned when it occurred to you that I might be a cop.”
“So? I just don’t like you guys. Can’t help it. Besides, you have no right whatsoever to barge in here. That business was three years ago. This is a completely clean shop. We don’t even show dubious videos.”
“What business?”
“Oh, stop pretending. The one about the kid who wasn’t sixteen yet, whatever-the fucking little liar …”
His face brightened in mid-sentence. While I was still wondering what had cheered him up so suddenly, I was struck by a lightning bolt, straight do
wn the spine to the tips of my toes. With a glaring light in my head and the feeling of falling into the void I heard his voice from far away: “Come here, angel, let me give you a kiss for that.”
I was rushing down an endless steep slope at an infernal pace. No one and nothing could have stopped me, not even I myself. Everything was white. No sky, no sun, no trees. Just white. The skis carried me across the snow at such speed that I had no time to breathe. I had no poles. I went down, ever farther down, my heart slid into my head. But suddenly nothing was white anymore, everything turned black, and a huge abyss yawned at the end. I was unable to stop, my body was bereft of all sensation, and a deafening noise spread out over everything, the roar of a thousand firestorms.
I opened my eyes. About a foot away, a vacuum cleaner was moving back and forth. Behind it, working the vac with one hand and holding a gun in the other, was the runt. He looked at me with sad big eyes. I tried to move my head. It felt as if someone had stuck a knife into my neck. I sat up, gingerly. They had swept me into a corner of the barroom. The dirty glasses were gone, the chairs were back on the floor, and the place smelled of violets. The vacuum curved around my feet. I closed my eyes tight.
“Isn’t it neat enough now? Or are you expecting a visit from your Mom?”
He kept pushing the monster around the floor. Then he hissed at me: “Fuck off. I’m doing my job.”
He waved the gun in the direction of the door. I managed a painful nod.
“All right, all right.”
I was sure that I wasn’t the first to poke fun at him; nor would I be the last. I could imagine heavy-duty leather guys like Gerhard stomping on him every day. One day he would probably kill one of them, and he would certainly get caught. In the joint, people would start stomping on him again, and so on and so forth, all the way to the coffin. “You won’t have me to stomp on anymore” is what they should engrave on his headstone. If he’d get a headstone.
Five minutes later I was up on my feet. I touched the matted spot on the back of my head.
“You’ve got some real strength in those arms, kiddo.”
“Fuck off.”
I sighed, tapped my forehead, and staggered to the bar. My head, my stomach, all my franchised parts clamored for a drink. Without asking for permission I grabbed a bottle of scotch and raised it to my lips. Some time later, when I set it down, the knife in my neck had turned to a rubber arrow. The fat guy in lingerie was sitting at the other end of the counter. He stared dimly in my direction, then raised his hand and waved furtively: “Care to join me in a drink?”
I twinkled back. “Sorry, but I’ve got the curse.” I staggered out into the rain.
“Gina?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Kayankaya.”
She laughed, and we exchanged a few pleasantries about a mutual female friend with whom they had spent the previous evening. That person must have gossiped quite extensively about my alleged mating behavior. Gina and Slibulsky had been, living together for more than seven years, and apart from occasional tussles, they got along famously, although they were a rather incongruous couple: Gina, a young thirty, studied archeology, saved seals, read fat books, and worked as a teacher in a dance and deportment school for girls from good families. She claimed that this was just a job to pay the rent, but I wasn’t always so sure. One memorable evening she explained to me how napkins had to be folded, and why. On the other hand, she was as unconcerned about Slibulsky’s lifestyle as she was about whether other people were as interested in old potshards as she was.
“Listen, Gina; Slibulsky told me he broke his arm because he fell downstairs. Do you happen to know what stairs?”
“In the whorehouse, of course.”
“That’s all he told you?”
“That’s all.”
“Mhm. And that legacy from the aunt in Berlin-what do you know about that?”
“What’s to know? He used it to pay off his debts. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no particular reason.”
The rain sounded like a shower of golf balls against the glass walls of the phone booth. Around the booth, a small lake was forming.
“No, you see, I’m recommending him to my tax accountant, and the guy needs to know a few things about him … What kinds of debts were they?”
She made a pert puffing noise. “Just debts.”
“How much did he inherit?”
“Fifty thou.”
Now it was my turn to puff. “When did he get the money?”
“In January. But they withheld the tax before it was paid.”
“I see-well, then, I don’t suppose my accountant will be interested in that. Thanks, Gina, and let’s keep this to ourselves, O.K.? I want to make Slibulsky a present of a free advice session with my guy.”
“Gee, you must be rolling in it.”
“Well, at the moment … Talk to you soon.”
The sky was turning even darker. I stared into space for a while. Then I tore the door open and bounded across the puddles to my car. Mrs. Olga may have been an alarmist, but she did not hallucinate things.
8
Shortly after five-thirty I drove into Gellersheim. Ten minutes later I had located Rosenacker, a short street in the outskirts. It looked as if a couple of nouveau riches had decided to emulate the truly wealthy. The nameplates on the gates were too big, the driveways too small, and every villa looked different: some were perfectly round, others had Gothic arches or Bavarian-style carved wood curlicues. In front of an aerodynamic one-story building stood a gigantic flagpole: the flag bore the legend Theo Manz Cinema Production. A closer look revealed that the flag was plastic and that the garden gate had no handles. I was reminded of a movie type who had hired me to follow his future wife around for a week. He wanted to know if she was likely to waste his money in boutiques and bookshops. At the end of the assignment, he was unable to pay me because one of his projects had just collapsed. He told me that I should, nevertheless, be grateful for having made his acquaintance: he would gladly arrange a small part for me in his next movie. When I told him I didn’t want a part in a movie, only my fee, he said he was “somehow quite totally amazed,” as he put it. In style of speech and dress, this forty-year-old owner of a Volvo and a penthouse had an insatiable desire to give the impression of a high school student hitchhiking to the south. My fee arrived in dribs and drabs, a hundred marks a shot, at intervals corresponding to the times I saw him dining on red snapper and drinking bubbly in fashionable restaurants.
In its surroundings, Number Six looked pleasantly normal. The two-story brick box with a vine-covered terrace stood in a large well-kept garden with a pond and two driveways: one was hidden behind dog rose bushes, for staff and deliveries, the other was covered with light-colored gravel and bordered by roses and cast-iron carriage lights mounted on poles. Through the bars of the black iron gate I could see tire tracks. These were the only signs that anyone except for the gardener had been visiting here for a while. All the shutters were closed, the mailbox was full of advertising materials, and the moist glittering lawn looked undisturbed. I regretted that the thunderstorm was over. In the present radiant sunlight I had the unpleasant feeling of having my every move observed from a long way off. Nothing could remain hidden from Mrs. Olga whose neighboring villa with its little pink turrets looked like an American miniature copy of Heidelberg Castle.
The name on the mailbox was “Dr. Schelling.” I acted as if I had stopped at the wrong number and walked down the street past the staff entrance. After ten steps or so, I turned, ran back, jumped over the wooden fence and landed on a wire. Held up by plastic supports about three feet above ground it stretched all around the walls of the plot, ending in small gray boxes installed in the corners. I got up and took cover behind the nearest tree. Nothing happened. The alarm must have been turned off. Hunched over, I ran across flowerbeds, overturned a few pieces of garden furniture, reached the terrace, and pressed myself against the glass sliding door. Shielding my eyes with
my hands I scanned the room inside and saw a couch, some chairs, a television set. As I slid to one side, the door slid open as well, to my surprise. After casting a quick glance all around, I went in.
Instead of the usual cold stale smell of furniture in vacant houses, I noticed an odor of stale cooking, with a lemony whiff of men’s perfume thrown in. I listened. A wall clock was ticking, a refrigerator humming somewhere in the distance. I touched the radiator. It had been turned off but was still warm. Then I noticed what I hadn’t been able to see from outside: the light was on in the entrance hall. I proceeded cautiously to the door, leaned against the doorframe, pulled my Beretta. Moving past a built-in kitchen and a toilet I reached the stairs. Halfway up the stairs I noticed, diagonally below me, a basement door. I tiptoed back, slipped the safety catch, and went down the steps to a large room furnished with a soccer game machine, a pinball machine, and a ten-meter-long dining table. On the table stood a huge tin bucket in the midst of some thirty plates with remnants of stew and bread on them. There was silverware on the floor, several chairs had been overturned; there were three more games on the pinball machine, and there was a ball in the chute. I walked across the room toward a curtain of gray blanket material. I pushed it aside and found myself in a narrow, yellow-lit hallway with doors to the right and the left. Each one of the rooms was some twenty-five square feet in size and furnished with three army cots, a sink, and the kind of light fixture you find in garages. Only the last room on the left contained something else.
He lay on his stomach, stripped down to his socks, and the gray skin on his arms was tattooed with images of women and weapons. He looked surprised. Under the mustache, his mouth was open, as if he wanted to say “But-?” or something like that. But he wasn’t saying anything, and he would never say anything again. His neck was broken.
I felt his pulse, then covered him with a blanket. I went through his clothes which lay scattered on the floor. There was no wallet or address book, only a box of matches, half a pack of cigarettes, and a nine-millimeter Browning pistol. I slipped the gun in my pocket, pulled the blanket off him again, and read the inscriptions on his arms: “Manne loves Ingrid”; “Manne loves Sabine”; “Manne loves Iris more than all the chicks before!”; and “Manne hates Tempo Hundred!” No last name. I sat down next to him and smoked two cigarettes. Then I went out into the garden behind the house, found a tool shed, took a shovel and dug a three-foot-deep pit next to a basement window. Then I took the cable of the electric lawnmower and went back to Manne. After I had wrapped him and his clothes into a huge sausage, I pulled him to the window and heaved and pushed him outside. A little later, I had covered the shallow grave so that it was invisible to the casual eye.
One Man, One Murder kk-3 Page 6
