One Man, One Murder

by Jakob Arjouni

  I offered him a cigarette. He took it without even looking at it. Then he came to a sudden halt, stared at the thin white cylinder in astonishment, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it with his tasseled loafer. While I was still marveling at his unexpected adaptation to my house style, he sank into my visitor’s chair, stretched his legs, and gave a high falsetto command: “I want to find her again, and I want you to rearrange that hoodlum’s face!”

  The bit about rearranging a face sounded as if he had memorized it for the day.

  I concentrated on cleaning my fingernails with a match. “How did you find me?”

  He looked startled. His eyelashes fluttered irritably. He didn’t say anything.

  “You must have checked the Yellow Pages. But why Kayankaya, why not Müller?”

  “Because she’s Thai, and I thought …”

  “You thought Thailand and Turkey both start with a T?”

  “How could I have known that you’re a Turk? On the contrary, I expected—but …”

  Unfinished, the sentence hung between us as if someone had strung barbed wire across the room.

  They visit exhibitions in New York and go on safaris in Africa; they smoke hashish in Cairo, eat Japanese food, and propose to teach democracy to the Muscovites; they are “international” down to their Parisian underwear—but they’re not able to recognize a Turk unless he’s carrying a garbage can under his arm and leading a string of ten unwashed brats. I thanked my lucky stars that Weidenbusch was not my prospective landlord. I tossed the match on the floor and examined my fingernails. “What’s the name of the club your friend worked for?”

  “It’s the Lady Bump. On Elbestrasse.”

  “And to whom did you pay the five thousand marks?”

  “To a man called Korble or Koble …”

  “Köberle? Charlie Köberle?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Who else knew the expiration date of her visa?”

  “Oh—a couple of friends, and my sister.”

  “What does your sister do?”

  “She works at a day care center. She does therapy there, child therapy.”

  “She’s a kindergarten teacher?”

  “Something like that.”

  I fished out a cigarette and rolled it between my fingertips.

  “You don’t really look like a guy who’d fall for mysterious phone calls. You should have known that people like that aren’t harmless pranksters.”

  “But I wouldn’t have agreed to it, if.” He gulped, closed his eyes for a moment. His hands locked together like a couple of fighting octopi. “You see, yesterday morning, what with her bags all packed, everything happened so quickly, and then …” His shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

  “Do you know anyone else who received an offer like that? Maybe one of her former colleagues at Lady Bump, for instance?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “All right. Two hundred marks a day, plus expenses. Your address, your phone number, where you can be reached during the day, and your girlfriend’s complete name. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Five hundred-mark bills emerged from his alligator skin wallet and wandered across my desk.

  “One more thing. I’m not into strong-arm stuff. If you need someone to rearrange faces—”

  “No, no—I was just so excited when I said that. I’m sorry.”

  I accepted his apology and took the money. “Your profession?”

  “Artist.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Huh?”

  With an eager but nervous glitter in his eyes he explained: “Yes, I’m a sculptor and painter. I write, too—short stories for television. I may even get to make a movie sometime soon. And I write things for the radio, as well.”

  I stared at him. “You do all those things at once?”

  “I can’t help it. I have to do things, I have to work and be creative. If I don’t, I go nuts.”

  “I see. You ever try television and beer?”

  He gave me a sweet and sincere look and said in a confidential tone: “I can’t stand that. I really can’t. I envy you for being able to do that.”

  I wasn’t sure he’d gotten my point, but I didn’t really care.

  “Your address?”

  He handed me his card. A little flower on the left, a little flower on the right, and in the middle: Manuel Weidenbusch.

  “Sri Dao Rakdee. Rakdee with two ‘e’s.”

  I flicked the card with my thumbnail and said: “See you later.”

  2

  Frankfurt was covered by a blanket of rumbling darkness. The first raindrops started falling. I managed to more or less squeeze my Opel between two convertibles from Offenbach and ran up the steps to the Eros-Center Elbestrasse. Two gray plastic flaps marked the entrance. They looked as if every visitor had stopped to puke on them before leaving the establishment. I pushed them aside and entered the ground floor. Tiled walls and floor, pink lighting. The walls decorated with bosomy plaster busts and joke paintings of the genre “Hunter Pursues Stag While Stag Mounts Hunter’s Wife.” Invisible speakers played “Amore, amore” sung by a swoony Italian voice. The air was dense and sweet and seemed to move in waves as one walked through it. It was a depraved, gigantic pissoir de luxe in which the female attendants wore garter belts and colorful panties. Not far from the entrance, rows of doors stretched down half-dark hallways. Every few feet another door, and behind each door a room that smelled of sweat: a towel on the bed, porno pictures on the walls, a sink, a pack of Kleenex. Most of the doors were closed. In front of those that were open women sat on stools, bored and heavily made up, their legs stretched out into the hallway, their smiles as fake as glass pearls. This time of day, no one worked unless they had to. There were no clients except for a couple of weirdos who toured the hallways three or four times pretending that they had just wandered in by accident.

  Tucked away in a corner was the establishment’s own refreshment stand. Soft drinks and small sandwiches for the personnel. On the counter three flies were fraternizing with the sandwiches under a glass bell. A small man wrapped in a blanket huddled next to the cash register contemplating a jigsaw puzzle, the unlit butt of a hand-rolled cigarette in a corner of his mouth. The puzzle seemed to represent the German Chancellor in fifty pieces. Next to the man stood a full glass of vermouth; at his feet lay a sleeping dachshund sporting a knitted vest. The shelf behind them held a row of dusty cans of lemonade.

  “Slibulsky here?”

  He shook his head without looking up. I watched him compose Herr Kohl’s chin.

  “Having fun?”

  He shook his head again. Droplets of sweat were trickling down my neck. My palms were damp, the collar of my coat felt scratchy in the stifling heat. I was being boiled alive, slowly, and I found it astonishing that he had wrapped himself in that blanket.

  “It’s an easy one, just fifty pieces.”

  He set the piece he was holding aside and turned to me. “It’s a freebie. From the party. I don’t care for politics, but it’s a freebie. Capish?” He sneered. “Normally I do the ones with three thousand pieces. At least” The cigarette butt stayed stuck to his lip and wagged up and down as he spoke.

  He looked at me a while longer as if to say “and if you’d like to be punched in the mouth, I’ll be glad to oblige.” Then he turned his attention back to the puzzle. I smoked, he did his jigsaw puzzle. I checked the time. Quarter past eleven. I had agreed to meet Slibulsky at eleven sharp.

  I had known Ernst Slibulsky for two years. We were almost friends. He fixed my car, I advised him on the choice of presents for his girlfriend, and whenever he’d had a fight with her, he came and crashed on my couch. Once a week we played billiards, had a couple of beers, talked about soccer. Sometimes we had too many beers, tried to discuss other subjects, and didn’t agree about anything. Three months ago, Slibulsky had started working for “Ibiza” Charlie. He bounced the johns when they got out of hand, he collected the money from the ladies. It was the first tim
e he’d done this kind of work.

  The small man sighed. The puzzle was done. He reached for the glass of vermouth but did not remove the cigarette butt while he drank. When he put the glass down, it was empty. He frowned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Maybe this is so easy because it’s designed for Herr Kohl? So he can have a little relaxation when he’s all worn out from governing the land.”

  I yawned. He squinted up at me. “Guess you’re not easily amused?”

  “Not when I haven’t had enough sleep.”

  Without averting his eyes, he lit the cigarette butt and leaned back in his chair. “You a john?”

  I shook my head. The tip of his cigarette glowed. He looked up at the ceiling. “In the old days, I wouldn’t have asked you that. In the old days, this was a decent establishment with decent girls. We had a sign on the door that said ‘No Tourists.’ Funny, huh?”

  “A scream.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “But now? Nothing but kaffirs and perverts. But it’s no wonder, what with all the new diseases they’re inventing in America.”

  I dropped my cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “ ‘No Tourists’ … Those were the days. You’re a kaffir, too, aren’t you?”

  “One who’s ready to rub these little sandwiches all over your ugly mug if you don’t watch your mouth.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “Better not do that. You see, I’m Charlie’s big brother. A little retarded, but his brother.”

  “You don’t seem all that retarded to me.”

  “I don’t?” He pulled the blanket off his lap. His legs were two short stumps. “What do you say now?”

  “I’d say you’re pedestrianly challenged.”

  “You would, would you?”

  His laugh sounded more like a cough. It was ugly and maliciously gleeful. He picked up a bottle of white Cinzano from behind his chair and poured himself a refill.

  “Yeah, I used to be a big shot. But then, one day—shazam! Both legs sliced off—like sausages. After that, Charlie got me this gig. Making little sandwiches for whores. Nice, eh? In this dump.”

  “That’s family loyalty for you.”

  A draft of air. Slibulsky came tearing round the corner.

  Short dark curls, hamster cheeks, boozer’s nose. He was wearing a turquoise jogging outfit with sequins and carried a box of plastic “surprise” eggs for kids under his left arm. His right arm was in a plaster cast.

  “Morning, guys.”

  The box landed on the counter.

  “On special today. One mark apiece. So the girls have something to laugh about. Charlie had a brainstorm yesterday. He thinks this bordello needs a ‘friendlier ambiance.’ ”

  The man in the chair growled contemptuously. Slibulsky smiled at him. “What’s the matter, Heinz? Having a bad day?”

  The cigarette butt, dead again, landed on the floor. “Got out of bed on the wrong leg.”

  Slibulsky grimaced noncommittally, turned to me, punched my shoulder with his left: “So, Kayankaya, you’ve gotten over your defeat last Sunday?”

  I nodded at his cast. “Doesn’t look like your victory did you much good.”

  “Yeah, well … I fell down a flight of stairs. Forgot to tell you that when you called.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Hardly worth mentioning.”

  “What about the tournament?” He shrugged.

  “Maybe you can practice left-handed shots? We can carve a groove in your cast, for the cue.”

  “Figure-pissing is about all I can do with my left.”

  We grinned.

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it: the tournament begins, Bierich and Glatkow and all those hotshots take their ivory cues out of their cases, and you get up and say ‘Look here, folks, billiards isn’t everything’ and piss a nice sunset on the rug.”

  Slibulsky flashed a smile. Then he mimed a bow and said in a loud voice: “Thank you, gentlemen. Five pilseners on the house, and I’ll sign for them.”

  From under the counter came a drawn-out creaking sound. Then the dachshund started barking.

  “Now you assholes woke up the dog! Shut up, Howard! I’m telling you, shut up! Goddamn dog—Howard!” Barks and roars crescendoed to unbearable decibels.

  Slibulsky signaled to me, shouted “Later, Heinz” at the battle scene, and we left the refreshment stand.

  The Eros Center Elbestrasse had four floors, and on each floor there were twenty to twenty-five rooms, one shower, and one toilet. The first and second floor were swept every day; firmly in German hands, they were the busiest. Going up, the hallways grew darker, the women less expensive and more colorful. On the third floor, Asiatics, on the fourth, Africans; the cleaning woman came once a week. A separate street entrance led to Lady Bump in the interior courtyard, a dingy little bar with corduroy armchairs and a strip-tease stage. It was designed to give an impression of class, but except for the privilege of drinking champagne with the ladies and seeing one of them dance naked under colored lightbulbs every half hour, conditions, prices, and rooms were the same as in the Center.

  Above all this, in a refurbished penthouse, were the quarters of Ibiza Charlie, one of the Schmitz brothers’ managers. In addition to the Eros Center and the Lady Bump Charlie also supervised a small porno movie house next door. As long as the monthly accounts satisfied the Schmitz brothers, Charlie was free to manage the three enterprises as he pleased. He was able to hire his brother to work the refreshment concession, to hire Slibulsky for the scheiss-work and two assistant managers for the bar and the movie house, and to spend his days riding around in his convertible, getting drunk, and going to the races. But if, one day, the accounts shouldn’t please the Schmitz brothers, Charlie would be out, on his ass pronto, or laid up in hospital, or—in the worst case—neither of the above, and nevermore. The brothers knew their business. Their business consisted primarily of their ability to impress everybody else with how well they knew it. They owned three other brothels in the district around the railway station, a dozen bars, several game arcades, and two furrier’s shops. They were two big fish in that pond, and their connections to City Hall enabled them to walk over dead bodies. Eberhard Schmitz was the honorary president of the SPCA, brother Georg the director of the Mardi Gras Society Sachsenhäuser Narren Helau.

  As we walked upstairs I asked Slibulsky: “What does he call the dachshund?”

  “Howard, after Howard Carpendale. He’s the favorite singer of Heinz’s wife. Heinz hates the guy, so that’s what he calls the dog.”

  “His wife calls him Howard, too?”

  “No. She calls him Heinz.”

  We sidled past two johns who stood leaning against a railing. They were staring at a closed door.

  “Which name does the dog recognize?”

  “Neither one. He’s deaf.”

  “Doesn’t seem like they love him a lot.”

  “Oh, they love the dog, all right.”

  On the third floor, two Thai women retreated quickly into their rooms as soon as they saw Slibulsky. We walked up the next flight of stairs in silence.

  “They seemed to be scared of you.”

  Slibulsky stopped. His cheerfulness had evaporated.

  “Don’t we have an agreement?”

  He was right. We had discussed the matter. Slibulsky was able to earn some fast money here, as he himself put it, and it was his intention to quit after a year to open his own car repair shop. An old dream. I hadn’t really cared; the world would be none the worse for Slibulsky’s working in a brothel. On the contrary, its employees probably benefited from his working there. Then again, when we had discussed this I had not yet seen women disappear behind closed doors when they caught sight of him.

  “You used to be a dealer. Strikes me that was a more decent job.”

  “More decent, eh? The last time they put me away for a decent year in jail.”

  I kicked a crumpled handkerchief down the stairs. “What happened to that inherit
ance?”

  Slibulsky looked at me reluctantly. “Come again?”

  “You told me about it last winter. Some grandma in Berlin was going to leave you a bunch of money.”

  “Oh, yeah … That was a bust.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “No inheritance. Nothing but debts.”

  He looked out the window. Somewhere below us a door slammed.

  Slibulsky turned toward the next flight of stairs and said: “Let’s go. Charlie’s waiting.”

  We didn’t say anything during our final ascent.

  A bar, a black leather couch and chairs, red lightbulbs, a metal-frame table with a glass top, a bed covered in blue silk, framed heavy metal posters on the walls. A video/stereo/CD entertainment center in one corner, a fluffy white rug on the floor. A thousand or so square feet of space with all the charm of a porno movie set. The window provided a view of the rooftops of the railway station district. To the left, the BFG building, to the right, the main station, a game arcade and a homeless shelter across the street. A ventilation unit hummed quietly. The air smelled of cleansing fluid. Ibiza Charlie sat on the couch in his red kimono, checked his Rolex, and yawned. His face was swollen and spotted. Red welts made his eyes look tiny. His neck was as thick as a sewer pipe. Charlie’s head reminded me, to a regrettable degree, of a double helping of pork knuckles topped with a permed thatch of sauerkraut. He leaned back, eyes half closed, and ran his fingers through that hair as if it was time to impress the ladies. His kimono fell open, exposing a plump white belly.

  I went to the window and lit a cigarette. Behind the bar, Slibulsky rummaged through cabinets and empty bottles on his quest for an eighty-proof liquid breakfast.

  After Weidenbusch had left, I had made several calls and discovered that Sri Dao was not the only person who had disappeared. An Iranian and two Lebanese had been reported missing for two days from the asylum seekers’ center in Hausen. All three of them had deportation orders out on them. They could have gone underground even without forged papers; to tell the truth, I didn’t really believe the forgery story. Then I had called Slibulsky and had asked him to arrange a meeting with Charlie.