More Beer

by Jakob Arjouni

  “On the night of the twenty-second of April, you put up a tent on the factory grounds of Böllig Chemicals?”

  “Next to the factory grounds, not on them.”

  “All right. By the lake. Tell me what it was like.”

  Alf told me that his parents had discovered that lake a long time ago, opined that it was surely all right to spend a night together in a tent without a marriage certificate, and went on to explain how many cans of provisions they had been able to fit into his Rabbit. I interrupted him.

  “Mr. Düli, what woke you up in the middle of the night?”

  “The explosion, of course …”

  “Any gunshots?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Before or after the explosion?”

  “Ah … More or less at the same time … No, right after. Böllig came running after he heard the bang, didn’t he?”

  “I’m asking you if you heard any gunshots, and when you heard them. I’m not asking you for your conjectures.”

  “Well, I’m really not totally sure, but it stands to reason …”

  I turned to the little blonde.

  “What about you?”

  “I can’t remember anything except for that explosion.”

  “But Anita—”

  “Please! So, Ms. Anita, you heard no gunshots?”

  “No. I didn’t hear any.”

  “What did you do after you heard the explosion?”

  Düli made a fist. “I grabbed my knife, and then I—”

  “I’m talking to your friend.”

  His Boy Scout smile froze. He leaned back, clenched his jaw, and looked offended.

  “Yes, Alf rushed out, and I followed, and we could just still see those four running away.”

  “Those four? Not five?”

  “Oh yes, a little while later one more ran across the field.”

  I lit a cigarette.

  “Could it be that one of the four had turned around, and that you just saw him twice?”

  “If so, he must have been running damn fast.”

  “All right. And then?”

  “We waited there, by the tent, for about fifteen minutes. Then the police came.”

  Düli couldn’t stand it any longer. He demanded center stage.

  “I wanted to go after them right away, see what they were up to. I knew they were up to no good. But Anita, you know how women are, she got scared, and so—”

  “Yes, all right.” I turned back to the girl. “Did they take statements from you?”

  “They took our names and addresses, and the next day we had to go to the station. Two weeks from now we have to appear in court as witnesses. That’s all.”

  “Did you know the Böllig family?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all. Many thanks.”

  I got up and shook hands with them. Alf Düli demonstrated one more time what a guy he was by almost crushing my hand. I called for Anastas, and he escorted the couple to the door. Carla Reedermann came in and sat down on the edge of the desk. In her tight skirt, she did that really well. Her long legs swung gently. I watched her and pondered what kind of a test this might be.

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Why do you ask? I’m sure you kept your ears glued to the door. Didn’t you?” She stopped swinging her legs, shrugged. “We did.”

  I leafed through papers on the desk. Then Anastas came back and set a bottle of beer on the desk.

  “You don’t have anything on Böllig’s private life?”

  “Just the usual. Born, married to, and so forth. Why?”

  “The most revealing thing about a murder is its motive. And the most revealing thing about a motive is the victim. It’s as simple as that.”

  I finished my beer and took my leave, reassuring them that they would be hearing from me.

  7

  I parked by the fence and walked over to number five. A wet wind swept down the street and struck my neck like a spray of cold water. Number five was a building from the fifties with a fluted glass door. I rang the bell and waited. Heinzel, Lechmann, and Schmidi. Heinzel and Lechmann and their two buddies were now behind bars, tending their relationship with their attorney Anastas. That left Schmidi, if he was home. The buzzer sounded, and I pushed the door open. Schmidi stood in a doorway, in T-shirt and underpants. He was overweight but not obese; still, his thighs certainly did not indicate a macrobiotic diet.

  I wished him a good evening, and he responded but did not budge from the door.

  “What’s up?”

  “Kayankaya. I work for Dr. Anastas.”

  He scratched his hairy belly and scrutinized me.

  “The lawyer?”

  “Right. Can you spare a moment for a couple of questions?”

  “… Awlright.”

  He took me to the kitchen, through a short hallway plastered with posters and newspaper clippings. A tattered Japanese paper lampshade lit the room. You could smell the garbage. I sat down at a table that looked homemade and watched Schmidt pick up some empty coffee cups. Then he leaned against the sink and stuck both his thumbs into the elastic of his underpants.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Were you and Lechmann and Heinzel close?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “All kinds of things. For instance—have you given any thought to the Böllig case?”

  He rubbed his unshaven chin.

  “Well, what do you think? We’ve been sharing this place for two years.”

  “And why do you think those four were arrested so quickly?”

  “Didn’t surprise me. Computers and networks and all that shit. Of course it wouldn’t take them long.”

  “Were you there when they planned the operation?”

  “Oh no, boss. I didn’t know anything about it, and all I know now is what I’ve read in the papers.” He sneered.

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Do I look like one?”

  “Well, you guys were raised in a dictatorship …”

  He grinned. He liked his joke. I lit a cigarette and waited. “Has it occurred to you that the fifth man could have been an informer who ratted on his buddies?”

  He leaned forward, made a serious face, and said, “You speak in riddles, chief. I don’t know what you mean by the fifth man.”

  “It was in all the papers. There were five people at Böllig’s. One of them is still running around free. The computers don’t seem to be catching up with him.”

  “You mean the story by that character who was camping out there? No one believes that.”

  “But I do. And I ask myself why the police found those four in only three days, and haven’t been able to find the one guy in seven months. Then I ask myself, how is it possible that four people can deny, so convincingly, that they committed a murder which they clearly …”

  “OK, chief, I see what you’re driving at. Not a chance. I have nothing to do with any of it, I don’t know any fifth man, and I’m not the least bit interested.”

  He crossed his arms and looked me up and down. More down than up. He was about thirty-five, lived in a run-down apartment, and knew that his train had been and gone. It was obvious that he felt somewhat illegal because he knew the fifth man’s name but did not divulge it, and he was proud of that, without having the faintest idea who it was he was protecting. He was the kind of guy who walks down the street with you and at some point, a tear glittering in his eye, points at a window and whispers,” That’s where Ulrike Meinhof hid for a while.”

  I tossed my cigarette into a half-empty yogurt container and got up.

  “If that’s all you have to say, Schmidi …”

  “Mr. Schmidi. I don’t call you rat-Turk.”

  “So that’s what you wanted to get off your chest all this time?”

  “You better leave while the going is good.”

  “Yes, I might just give in to the urge to beat the name of that fifth guy out of you.”


  He took a step toward me.

  “Fuck off!”

  He was too unappetizing. I left.

  For about ten minutes I stood behind the fence and kept an eye on the front door of number five. Then it opened. Schmidi looked quickly up and down the street, then walked off. It was raining again. I pulled my coat collar up higher and followed him. We made a left turn, then a right, then proceeded down an alley and ended up in front of Lina’s Cellar. After scanning the street again, Schmidi went in. Five minutes later I followed. Lina’s Cellar was a rustic tavern with a bulletin board next to the restrooms and a blonde behind the counter. I sat down at a vacant table and ordered some Scotch. The joint was fairly busy. I couldn’t see Schmidi anywhere. A young couple next to me were frozen in rapt contemplation of each other’s face and letting their plates of spaghetti get cold. Across the room, a group of young people were celebrating the end of a South American folk dance class. The waitress brought my Scotch and nodded in the direction of the celebrants. “They’ve been at it all night. One of them told me they’re social-work teachers, and they’ll be going to Nicaragua next. I bet those folks will be pleased to see them …”

  I grunted noncommittally. She crossed her arms and stared at the group.

  I knocked back my Scotch and asked her to bring me another.

  “Do you know what the French say when they see one of those painted VW buses?” she asked me when she came back. “ ‘Fritz is wearing camouflage again.’ ”

  “Do you have a phone?” I asked.

  “Through the door next to the restrooms and down the hall. It’s on the left.”

  “Is there another exit?”

  She smiled. “We don’t get raided every week.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  I described Schmidi to her. She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like “barfly Guevara.” “He came in a little while ago. You see those guys over there?” She nodded in the direction of three palefaces all in black. “They call themselves the ‘Gallus Column’ and spend their time drinking applejack. Schmidi is their guru. When he’s had a skinful, he talks about the revolutionary avant-garde.”

  She checked me out.

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  “He knows someone I have to talk to.” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.

  “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “Nor am I one.”

  “I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. I can tell any cop to take a hike.”

  She leaned forward. “Would you like another one?”

  I nodded, but before she could pick up my glass, Schmidt’s unshaven face appeared in the door next to the restrooms. He scanned the tables and fixed his gaze on me. For a second, our eyes held. The waitress understood and made herself scarce. Schmidi walked over.

  “You’re following me around?”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  He lit a cigarette, let the smoke trickle through his nostrils, and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “A private investigator. Fancy that.”

  He grinned wearily.

  “And you work for the lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  He let the cigarette dangle from his lips and put his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a while. I took the initiative. “Who did you call?”

  “My true love, chief,” he whispered, and grinned again. Finally he took the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbed it in the ashtray, and leaned across the table.

  “All right, smartass. Maybe I do have something to tell you.” With a glance to the counter, “But not here. Wait for me outside.”

  He turned and walked over to the palefaces. While I paid for my drinks at the counter, he left the joint. The waitress gave me my change and said, “I couldn’t swear to it, but I think Schmidi’s avant-garde is interested in you.”

  In the mirror above the bar I could see the three sitting there, motionless, staring at me. I found Schmidt leaning against a streetlight by the corner. It was pouring, his hair was soaking wet. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, “Let’s take a little walk.”

  “Because it’s such nice weather?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone to eavesdrop on us.”

  In silence, we trudged through the puddles in the direction of the Westbahnhof.

  “There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to eavesdrop on.”

  Without looking at me, he muttered, “Give me a little time, man. I have to figure it out.” He spat. “Besides, I have a photograph that might interest you. Don’t want to pull it out in this rain. But there’s this pedestrian underpass, a little ways ahead.”

  I didn’t believe him about the photo, nor did I believe that he really wanted to tell me anything. But something was bound to happen. We turned into a narrow street and descended some steps to the underpass. Its walls were covered with all kinds of slogans, it was poorly lit, and it stank of urine. A shopping cart lay on its side by a wall. Our footsteps echoed. I stopped.

  “Here we are, in your underpass.”

  We looked at each other. He put a cigarette in his mouth and nodded. People appeared at the other end of the passage. Three of them. Three palefaces. Schmidi grinned, cigarette between his lips, and said, “A light?”

  I punched him and ran.

  I charged up the steps, vaulted over a railing, slipped, rolled, got back up, and ran down the street. They were right behind me. I thought of the Beretta, safe between my underwear in the closet. The street forked, and I went left. A dead end, with residential buildings on both sides. I ran to a front door and grabbed the door handle. Locked, just as it should be. Before I could ring the bell, they were on top of me. Panting, they dragged me back to the sidewalk and slammed me against a lamp post. Schmidi hissed between clenched teeth, “So now, you fucking pig …”

  He pulled my coat collar up while the other three hung on to my sleeves. They wrapped me around the post like a rubber band. Then one of them said, “He’s a Turk, right?”

  “But he’s a cop, nevertheless.”

  He put his fist under my chin. “Still acting cool, hey, pig?”

  “Tell your kiddies I don’t need longer arms.”

  He swung and slapped me in the face with his open palm.

  “You’re just an asshole. Just like us. But the difference is that you’ve sold yourself to the pigs. You understand?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a Turk, all right, that’s a bonus. A dago … But if you try to sell us to the cops, we won’t be so tolerant anymore. Is that clear?”

  “Listen, man, I’m too old for your party.”

  He slapped me again, then held his index finger under my nose. “For the last time: I don’t know anything about the Böllig affair, and I don’t know the fifth man. And something else: you won’t come snooping around again. Got it?”

  The three were hanging off of me like shopping bags. I had had enough.

  “If the fifth man isn’t an informer, I’ll buy you a soft drink.”

  His fist flew through the air, a white lightning bolt flashed through my skull, then everything turned gray. I tried to defend myself, but they hung on and pummeled me.

  “Fucking traitor!” Then I was down on the sidewalk, and I stopped trying to ward off their blows. It was pointless. I saw their faces whirl above me like a carousel. A punch in the stomach, a kick to the head, fireworks, and curtains.

  I woke to stinging pain. I opened my eyes and saw a crumpled Coke can. They had left me lying in the gutter. My head throbbed wildly. My tongue tasted blood. Something tugged on my pants leg, then crawled over it, and then there was that vicious sting again, in my arm. I rolled sideways and felt the wet fur, heard it squeak. A rat was hanging on to my arm and staring at me with its pinpoint eyes. I scrambled to my feet and pounded the rat, shouting, but it only tightened its jaws harder on my broken skin and flesh. Crazed with pain and revulsion, I made it to the
next streetlight and slammed my arm and the rat against the pole. If the beast hadn’t borne the brunt of the blow, I would have broken my arm. I banged it against the lamp post one more time and it let go, slid to the sidewalk, and ran squealing into the nearest storm drain. I leaned against the post, totally confused. The rat had torn my jacket and shirt, and I could see a mess of blood and broken skin. I was in urgent need of a doctor. Behind me, a front door opened, footsteps approached. “Good God! What happened to you?”

  “Call an ambulance! Please!”

  Then I blacked out again. When I came to, a man in a white coat was supporting me. We were still by the streetlight, but a crowd had gathered. Someone wanted to know what had happened. He was attacked by a rat, someone said. People giggled.

  “Wow, that’s wild, a Turk chewed up by a rat!”

  Boom, boom, boom. That was my arm. A distant murmur reached my ears. My mouth tasted as if I had been sucking on a rotten herring. The murmur came closer and turned into a voice right next to me. It hurt my head.

  “God, I hate the emergency room! Stabbings, alcohol poisoning, broken noses—it’s always the same. This one’s lucky to keep his arm. God, the garbage we have to deal with here at night! I used to feel pity, but now it’s simply disgusting. When he wakes up, send him home to bed, and tell him how many of these pills he should take. If he doesn’t understand, draw a picture.”

  “All right, doctor.”

  I squinted into the blinding white light. Slowly the white coats acquired outlines. I dragged myself up onto my right elbow. My left arm dangled lifelessly. Two men stood watching me the way anglers look at a poisoned fish.

  “See you later, Heckler.”

  I raised my hand and croaked, “Doctor—”

  He didn’t turn around, just kept on going. Heckler was studying papers. I touched my damaged arm, moved its elbow and fingers a little. It was far from functional. It had always been the weaker arm.

  “Heckler.”

  He didn’t look up but indicated that I had his attention, growling, “Yes?”

  “How is my arm?”

  He put the papers aside and came to the cot. A young paramedic, clean-shaven, impeccably manicured, white clogs on his feet. Legs apart, knees straight, he stood before me.