One Man, One Murder

by Jakob Arjouni

  With a sigh, Slibulsky came out from behind the bar, brushed dust off his pants, and stated: “The Asbach’s all gone, and there’s only a drop of Bacardi left. The beer is warm. So, Cola straight up, or eggnog?”

  Charlie’s lips curled in disgust. “That slut!” He turned to me, man to man: “Here I’ve been buying her goddamn underwear for weeks, taken her out to eat in the best beaneries, showed her a good time, spent money like I was seducing the Empress of China—and that fucking peasant cunt from Odenwald can’t manage to keep a couple of beers in the icebox.”

  He got up and stabbed the air wildly with his index finger. “But that’s all over now! Tomorrow she’ll go to work. And that other one, the brown beauty, she gets fired tomorrow. I can’t stand her whining anymore.” Waving his arms, he started striding around the room, his face set in a fixed stare. “Is it my fault that her brats don’t have anything to eat? Am I Jesus? What kind of mother is she, anyway, leaving her kids behind in the desert? I gave her a little lecture on Third World affairs, a while ago. I explained to her ‘no fucky-fucky, no baby, enough chappies in desert already’—it’s as simple as that. So …” He stopped for a moment, mulled things over. “Well, she smiles at me the way she always does and says ‘No problem, Mister, no problem.’ I say, ‘Very big problem. You not make enough money, I kick you out in street.’ And she just goes ‘No problem, Mister.’ So, what can I do? I’m responsible for making sure that this fucking business runs the way it’s supposed to—and as long as I have any say in the matter, it will!”

  He turned, grinned, and rumbled: “Right, Ernst?”

  Plaster cast, arm, and head propped up on the bar counter, Slibulsky looked bored. He nodded. For a moment, Charlie didn’t react, but then his grin turned dangerous, and he slouched slowly toward Slibulsky.

  “Listen, asshole, when I ask you something, I want to hear an answer. Understand? I want to hear it. Anything. ‘Yes, Charlie,’ or ‘Right, Charlie’—I don’t give a shit. But I want some sound waves in my ear. And even if that requires a great big effort, I want you to open your goddamn mouth. Because I’m the boss here, capish?”

  Slibulsky made a cotton candy face and said “Capish,” and, after a pause which could be interpreted a zillion ways, “Boss.”

  Charlie nodded, satisfied. “That’s it, little buddy.”

  He patted Slibulsky’s shoulder. “No offense, now.”

  He strutted back to the couch and sank back into it, his legs wide apart. He raised his eyebrows.

  “People of character tend to be a little brusque in the morning; Sometimes in the evening, too. But especially in the morning.” He shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

  I cleared my throat. “How about talking about my stuff for a change?”

  He stared contemplatively at my shoes. Then he picked a small cigar from the table and flicked a golden lighter.

  “Our little buddy has told me about it.”

  The cigar crackled. Slowly, he turned his head toward me. “Do I look like I need to cheat some poor girl out of her last pennies?”

  “I don’t know what you need. But it’s not a question of pennies, it’s about a woman who can make six or seven thousand marks a month in a brothel—not to mention the three thousand she had with her.”

  Charlie took the cigar out of his mouth.

  “I thought it was a matter of forged papers.”

  “First of all, somebody knew when Sri Dao Rakdee’s visa expired. And up to a couple of weeks ago, she was working here. For you.”

  “Right.” He leaned forward. “But I have enough girls here. I don’t need to use dirty tricks. You have any idea how many of them show up daily, begging me to let them work here?”

  “If you say so. And how many are being specially imported from Thailand? Before she could leave here, Mrs. Rakdee had to pay you five thousand marks for her travel expenses.”

  Thin-lipped now, he stared fiercely at me. “And that’s because I have such a big heart. Let me tell you, Snoopy, before she came here she worked for a guy who didn’t even give her enough to eat. And I lent her that money so she could buy her freedom.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What do you think I am? Some kind of information office?”

  The hand holding the cigar sliced the air and slammed down on the glass tabletop. The cigar broke and bits of it scattered across the rug.

  Charlie froze. “Shit! My brand-new rug!”

  He got down on hands and knees and frantically picked ashes and bits of tobacco out of the white fluff. I cast a “check-this-out” glance at Slibulsky. Poker-faced, Slibulsky just stood behind the bar, drinking warm beer and looking as if he’d spent his entire life watching people picking tobacco crumbs out of fluffy rugs.

  Still on all fours, half under the table, Charlie ranted: “Jesus, Slibulsky, where do you find these guys, huh? I’m supposed to blow the whistle on people? What is this?”

  Then he reared up, his face apoplectic. “Or is it that you’re a snoop, too? Some kind of dirty undercover cop? Planted here to find out if I do anything illegal? Come on, let’s hear it!”

  “But, Charlie …” Slibulsky tapped his forehead with his left index finger. “No one would dare do such a thing to you. Everyone knows you can smell an undercover rat from a hundred yards.”

  Charlie gave him a suspicious look. Then, satisfied, he growled and grinned.

  “That’s true. Someone would have to be very foolish.

  Narcs don’t stand a chance with me. I can spot them. Even if I couldn’t see anything, or if it was dark all the time—”

  “Blind, we call that.”

  I waited until both of them had swayed in my direction.

  Then I added: “And now it’s my turn to rant and rave.”

  It really got quiet. Only a few street noises mingled with the hum of the ventilation. The thunderstorm had passed, and rays of sunlight danced through the room.

  “You hit the nail on the head. I am a goddamn snooper, and I had hoped that you could tell me who, except for yourself, knows about Sri Dao Hakdee’s visa. Slibulsky told you why I wanted to see you, and you agreed to see me, and I don’t suppose you did that just so you could indulge in histrionics. So please pull yourself together and try to remember your reasons. We don’t have to rush things, but with a little effort we may be done by lunchtime.”

  Charlie stared at me as if I were a creature from another planet. Slowly he straightened his kimono and tightened the sash. Then he strode calmly toward me. Too calmly. Just as Slibulsky stuttered, “Hey, Charlie, he didn’t really—,” his hairy paw landed on my shoulder. We scrutinized each other. Two tough guys in a tough world. One unable to make the rent, the other upset about dirt on his rug. There was a hint of a smile in the corners of Charlie’s mouth, and the paw slapped my neck.

  “I like you, snoop. Whenever you run out of suckers who need a detective because they can’t do anything for themselves, you can always start working for me.”

  I took the paw and handed it back to him. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with it.

  “I don’t think that would work. I’ve got sensitive ears, and I’m not flat enough to use as a doormat.”

  “Mouth as big as a barn door, eh?” He turned.

  “Slibulsky—three eggnogs, and then you guys get outta here.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to remember what eggnog tasted like and whether it agreed with my stomach.

  We walked down the stifling staircase. A nubile voice was singing something about “bodies in action”. The eggnog stuck to my ribs like glue. It also gave me the burps. The perfect drink for getting rid of people. It was invented by a host who wanted to let his undesirable guests know what he thought of them; he was probably the same guy who had come up with applejack, cherry liqueur, and Amselfelder Spätlese.

  Slibulsky was leaping rather than walking, taking two steps at a time and well ahead of me.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be much use.”

>   “You tell Charlie that if I don’t get the name of Sri Dao Hakdee’s pimp, I’ll call the cops on him.”

  In mid-stumble, Slibulsky grabbed the banister and swung back to face me: “What did you say?”

  “I’ll tell them to shut the place down. Illegal personnel, drugs, dead bodies—I’ll think of something.”

  “Have you lost your marbles? I’ll be out of a job.”

  “If you don’t want that to happen, you better come up with another idea. Ask around in the quarter. You know people who know these things.”

  “Wait a minute! I never agreed to impersonate Dr. Watson.”

  “And I never agreed to come here to watch some half-crazed guy get out of bed.”

  “You wanted to talk to Charlie, and you got to talk to him.”

  Sparks flew between our eyes. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the flaking and faded black paneling that adorned the stairs and hallways. We could hear Howard Carpendale barking on the ground floor.

  “And I wanted to call the cops if I didn’t get that name by tonight. I still want to do it.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “A lot of things aren’t. For instance, I knew from the start that Charlie wouldn’t tell me anything. Why should he? He’s a red-light district boss. I’m just a lowly private eye. Nothing in it for him.”

  “Then why did he agree to meet you?”

  “That’s just it.”

  Slibulsky frowned. He shook his head, looked down at the floor. “You had too much to drink last night.”

  Before I was able to respond, a Mr. Supercharged approached us. A mountain draped in blue jeans, leather jacket, and black cowboy boots of a size my feet would disappear in. He was more than six feet tall, and his face consisted of nothing but hair: his beard, nose and head hair was a continuous dark brown rug. In the middle of the rug sat a pair of round mirror shades decorated with naked girlie stickers. His voice made the stairwell vibrate.

  “Hey, man, Slibulsky, at long last! Everything’s hunky dory, all I have to—”

  Slibulsky coughed, loudly and drily. After he stopped coughing, he pointed at me and said: “This is Kemal Kayankaya. He’s a private investigator.”

  Mr. Supercharged raised his shades and checked me out without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Then he offered me his hand. It had a ring on every finger, including the thumb. Taken singly, those rings were just tasteless jewelry, but as a combo they served as a knuckle duster.

  “Name’s Axel. Ernst has told me about you …”

  We shook hands. It was a bit like grabbing hold of a bazooka.

  Slibulsky wiggled his feet. “I’m just taking him down to his car. See you upstairs.”

  Axel pushed the shades back into his rug-face, took his leave with a resounding “All right,” and pursued his clanking ascent.

  “Playmate of Charlie’s?” I asked Slibulsky when we reached the sidewalk.

  “Uh-hunh. He’s all right, though. That’s just his style.”

  “Does he always stop talking when you cough?”

  Slibulsky pretended to be watching an exciting pair of legs. They were exciting only if one favored the kind encased in tight jeans and ending in basketball shoes, moseying along to indicate years of hiking experience.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “There are things it’s better not to know.”

  I opened my mouth but did not say anything. Then I tapped my forehead and walked to the Opel. Slibulsky reappeared next to me as I was unlocking the door.

  “Is it my fault that you are a kind of cop? What happens if someone wants you to snoop on me?”

  I opened the door, stepped inside of it, and shrugged. A wave of stale air escaped from the car and enveloped us.

  “O.K., O.K. Why not. Axel deals in stolen motorbikes. Sometimes I help him with the paint jobs.”

  He looked at me. His jogging suit glittered in the sun. I got behind the wheel, closed the door, and wound down the window.

  “I am not a cop. Don’t worry about that pimp’s name. Forget it, I’ll find him some other way.”

  I turned the key in the ignition. Slibulsky was chewing his lip. Then he turned and walked away, lost in thought. In the rearview mirror I saw him collide with a parking meter.

  3

  TURKISH PIGS A PLAGUE—I’M PROUD TO BE A GERMAN! I opened the door of the phone booth whose glass panes were covered, inside and out, with more of the same sort of drawings and statements, making it look like a favorite hangout of the juvenile delinquent SS, I lit a cigarette, took Weidenbusch’s card out of my pocket and jammed the receiver under my chin. While I dialed, I read a spidery legend: “Alf is German.”

  Before the phone had rung even once, there came a breathless whine: “Sweetheart?”

  “No. Kayankaya.”

  I could hear him gulp. “Have you found her?”

  “I may have a lead. Tell me, for whom did Mrs. Rakdee work before she was employed at the Lady Bump?”

  “You mean in Thailand?”

  “No, here in Frankfurt.”

  I told him about my visit with Charlie, and he seemed genuinely surprised. Sri Dao had indicated to him that she had arrived at the Lady Bump directly from Bangkok, via Frankfurt Airport. He said he didn’t know anything about a pimp.

  “Was it her idea to come to Germany, or was she hired by an organization?”

  “She didn’t want to talk about that. She said those were just bad memories.”

  “So all you know is that she came here the end of December?”

  “Why December? June.”

  “June …?” I counted on my fingers. “That’s nine months A normal visa is good for three.”

  There was a moment’s silence. He was probably torturing his necktie. “You have to ask Köberle about that. He took Sri Dao’s passport after she arrived and only handed it back to her in my presence.”

  “Was the visa for the whole period, or had it been renewed every three months?”

  “Renewed twice.”

  “And when you pondered how to keep your friend in this country, it never occurred to you to figure out how they managed to renew the visa?”

  He hesitated again. “Yes, it did occur to me. I even wanted to go to the club and ask Köberle, but Sri Dao didn’t want me to.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “Because she was afraid of those people.”

  “I see.” I dropped my cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. Through a curved letter L in “Heil Hitler” I noticed a policeman who was circumambulating my Opel with evident interest.

  I had double-parked it and left the engine running.

  “Then I’d say there are two possibilities: Either the visa stamps were forged, or your friend told the immigration service that she was getting married to a German citizen.”

  “But I told you, Köberle kept her passport all that time.”

  “Yes, that’s what you told me.”

  Hands clasped behind his back, the policeman now leaned into the open window on the driver’s side.

  “Just like you told me this morning that a marriage to her was out of the question. Tell me—why?”

  While Weidenbusch was busy composing an answer, the policeman’s green hat reappeared, and the head under it scanned all directions in search of the culprit. Setting his hands in motion, he pulled pad and pencil out of his shoulder bag and proceeded to write a friendly note from your fairy godmother.

  “… I would have liked to marry her, but when I suggested it to her, she just shook her head. Later, she even got angry with me. It must be something to do with her culture.”

  Right. Tribes outside of Central Europe didn’t need reasons for their actions. They had “cultures.” Now the cop was scrubbing dirt off my registration sticker.

  “All right. I’ll be in touch when I have news for you.”

  “Will you get her back?”

  “I will. Don’t worry. Talk to you soon.”

  Bef
ore he could say anything else I hung up and ran across the street.

  “O.K., O.K.! I’m back! You can toss that ticket!”

  He looked up, surprised. He had just started lifting a windshield wiper to place the ticket under it.

  “I’m leaving. Just had to make a quick phone call.”

  “So? It’s illegal to park in a traffic lane.” He snapped the windshield wiper down over the ticket, straightened his back and adjusted his hat. “And let me tell you something, young man. You need to improve your attitude.”

  “I don’t need any advice on attitude from my employees.” While he glared at me, uncomprehending, I opened the car door.

  “Just think about it for a moment: I’m paying you a salary for writing tickets so the fines can be used to pay others who write me more tickets, and so on. In that sense, and as far as I’m concerned, traffic cops are a total loss. Nevertheless, I keep on paying my taxes every year so that you can have an apartment, buy schoolbooks for your kids, and go to the movies. Now, think about it—would you go on paying someone who keeps kicking you in the ass?”

  He looked at me as if I had lost all my marbles, or as if I had never had and was never likely to have any. I pointed my finger at him across the doorframe. “See what I’m saying? But I keep on paying. How about a conciliatory gesture? How about tearing up that ticket?”

  No reaction. Unchanged, frowning, one eye slightly narrowed he stood there as if he hadn’t heard or understood my question.

  “Oh, forget it!” I got into the car and leaned out the window. “Loitering in the sun, wearing those threads paid for by the state, and bothering people—some would call that ‘workshy’ behavior.”

  Ten minutes later I parked across the street from the immigration office, slammed the door, and ripped the ticket from under the windshield wiper.