Basic Law

by J Sydney Jones

  No drinks are offered. They sit and Helmut gets directly to the point. “Tell me,” he says.

  Faced with it, Kramer does not know where to begin, what to tell Helmut and what not to tell him.

  “Did you know Reni was writing memoirs?” he finally says, looking for a reaction.

  Helmut’s face is a blank. “No. As with you fellows, I have not seen Reni since, well, since those days.”

  Kramer looks to Randall for help, but there is none there. Clowning is Randall’s job; interviewing, Kramer’s.

  “You see, I was made her literary executor,” Kramer goes on.

  “So you remained friends, then?” he says. “I mean I read long ago that she had married Gerhard. You two were always thick as thieves. One imagined that you and Reni would have …”

  “I haven’t seen Reni since 1974.”

  “Oh,” Helmut says. “But then, I don’t see what this has to do with me. Will you be publishing her memoirs? Are you looking for sponsorship? Is that it?” He thinks a moment, and suddenly the color drains from his face.

  “She didn’t write about Prague, did she? Christ, Sam, that could ruin me.”

  Kramer and Randall exchange glances.

  “I don’t know,” Kramer says. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “You’re the executor, you said.” Then he looks from Kramer to Randall. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there? This isn’t just a friendly visit, old friends getting together once again. The Magnificent Seven!” He says it with an anger and a derisive passion that breaks through his smooth, at-arm’s-length demeanor. “We were such children then.”

  “Agreed,” Randall says.

  “Playing at revolution,” Helmut adds. “Playing with fire and getting our hands burned.”

  They sit quietly for a moment; the shrieks of the children can barely be heard in this solemn room. A clock on the mantle ticks loudly.

  “So what is it?” Helmut finally says.

  “Her memoirs seem to be missing,” Kramer says. “She was interviewing some pretty freaky people before her death. And there are people who might not want the memoirs to see the light of day.”

  Helmut considers this, in control of himself once again. “Such as me?”

  Kramer lifts his eyebrows at this.

  “I think somebody killed Reni,” Kramer says. “Made it look like suicide, then stole the memoirs. All traces of them.”

  “Obviously, the police do not concur,” Helmut says. “That explains why you are going it alone.”

  “We’re trying to trace down any leads. People in Reni’s life who might not have wanted the memoirs to be published. People in her past and her present.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Helmut says. “A confession? You think I killed her to keep my connection with Prague a secret from my new trading partners?”

  “I don’t know what I expect from you,” Kramer says. “Information, I suppose.”

  “I have no information, Sam. I didn’t even know about the memoirs. I surely wouldn’t have killed to stop their publication. Bribed, perhaps.” An attempted smile that dies on his lips. “Somebody killed her?”

  “That’s what we think.”

  “There’s more to it, isn’t there? You’re a journalist. I don’t suppose you go jumping to conclusions without more evidence.”

  Kramer nods.

  “I don’t want to know, Sam. I’m not really part of this anymore, you see. I’ve got something to lose now. Too much to lose.” He looks around the library, glances back toward the voices. “But maybe it is good you came. I mean about information. You see, I’ve been thinking about Prague lately. I go regularly, see the old department store where it happened. And the more I think of it, the more I know it wasn’t vandalism.”

  “What do you mean?” Kramer says. “The car?”

  Helmut stands suddenly. “Cold in here, isn’t it. I should have laid a fire.” He walks toward the fireplace and then turns. “Oh, well. Yes, the car. We all were contented with the idea of a vandal, even when the Czechs themselves were calling it a car bombing, a Western provocation. Or maybe because they were calling it a bombing.”

  Kramer thinks back to the meeting where they drew straws; each of them relieved in turn to pick the long ones, until only two were left in Reni’s hand and there were only Maria and Helmut remaining to draw. They accepted the responsibility without even looking at their straws. Kramer did later that night, after Reni went to sleep: the straws were all the same length. Reni playing her little games; Reni who devised the scheme to throw the antigovernment leaflets off the tallest building in downtown Prague to protest the Soviet invasion and suppression of the Prague Spring.

  “And what have you been thinking, Helmut?” Randall asks.

  “That it wasn’t an act of vandalism, after all. No blind coincidences. We all know there is no such thing as coincidence in the universe; yet we deluded ourselves all these years into believing in that incredible one.”

  “Just a feeling?” Kramer asks.

  Helmut shakes his head. “My firm does more than import Czech beer,” he says. “In fact, we deal in what the Czechs do best, armaments. I’ve seen these things close up—incendiaries, land mines, plastic, the lot. Back then, I didn’t know gelignite from alum. I just saw the car burst into flames on the street below. But there was a sound. I heard that same sound again a few months back when our field men were testing a shipment of incendiaries. A sort of hissing growl preceding a bright flash and then flames. Odd that a sound can bring up memories from more than twenty years ago.”

  “What are you saying, Helmut?” Kramer says, but he feels he already knows.

  “That a bomb was planted in our car. Probably in Vienna, set to go off in Prague. We could have been in it. But it was planted to do exactly what it accomplished: to cause an incident in Prague; to be something bigger than a couple of idealistic kids throwing leaflets off the top of a building.”

  “But that means …” Randall begins.

  “Yes,” Helmut says. “No one else knew of our plans. So it means that one of the seven of us planted the bomb. There’s reason to suppress Reni’s memoirs, if she discovered who it was. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t Reni herself who did it.”

  The door opens and Helmut’s wife stands on the threshold, pouting her lips. “We were wondering where you went.”

  “Just coming, dear,” Helmut says, going to her and giving her a peck on the forehead.

  “What have you men been talking about? Former conquests?”

  “Don’t worry, Frau Pringl,” Kramer says, rising. “Helmut led a very monastic life when we knew him.”

  “Poor boy. We’ll make up for that, won’t we?” She pats him on the cheek and then looks at Kramer. “Sorry to drag him away.” She does not look one bit remorseful.

  “We’ve got to be going anyway,” Randall says, on his feet now. “Hope the kids liked the juggling.”

  She smiles, leading Helmut back to the party. “You can let yourselves out, can’t you?” she says over her shoulder.

  Helmut stops, whispers in his wife’s ear a moment, then comes back to shake hands.

  “One of us,” he says. “Not a nice thought in the middle of the night. I’m actually glad to share it finally.”

  Back in the car Randall looks at Kramer hard, “Lying?”

  “I don’t think so. It sounded way too real. Even for a good actor. I would not call Helmut a good actor. Not by any stretch.”

  Randall starts the car, and they drive down the lane to the street once again. The rain has stopped; an occasional drop splatters on the windshield. Back on the street, they turn left toward town.

  “I’m ravenous,” Randall says. “I hope you’ve still got room on that piece of plastic.”

  They don’t talk about Helmut’s revelation. It’s the sort of
thing that needs to soak in. Near the docks, Randall pulls in at a seafood joint with graffiti spray-painted on the wall: TV ist Gerhirnwaesche.

  “Can’t be all bad if they call television brain-washing,” Randall says.

  Kramer is amazed. “How’d you know what that says?”

  “Intellect, Sam.” Randall thumps his right temple with his forefinger. “It’s the stuff of evolution.”

  It’s a rough neighborhood, but Randall’s instincts about the restaurant turn out to be correct, and they have a hearty meal of cod, salad, fried potatoes, and beer. There is none of the salty taste fish gets if it’s been lying around a cooler for days; the potatoes are crisp, not greasy; the beer, cold and plentiful.

  They have no plans for the night. It is late to be driving back to Bad Lunsburg; dark by the time they finish their meal. About all Kramer knows of Hamburg is what any ten-cent tourist does: the shows on the Reeperbahn, which do not interest him in the least. They return to the car, trying to decide if they should hit the road or not, when from a nearby alley they hear a scream, then the unmistakable crunching sound of knuckles meeting cartilage.

  Kramer moves to the alley cautiously, Randall following. From the mouth of the dead end, they see two youths dressed in black leather pounding on an inert body at their feet. Their black jeans are cut off at the ankle, revealing lace-up black boots. The skinhead on the right draws a boot back and kicks viciously; the body twitches and groans.

  Kramer does not take time to consider the situation, but runs toward the thugs. “Stop it, for Christ’s sake!”

  The two turn as Kramer and Randall approach.

  “Fuck off,” the one on the right says. Kramer sees a chain dangling from his right hand.

  “You’ll kill him,” Kramer says, still sprinting.

  “That’s the idea, prick.” The skinhead slides the chain back and forth to get momentum for a swing.

  Kramer stops and Randall bumps into him, panting hard.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Kramer says. “The guy’s down. Leave it.”

  Chain Man smirks at him, his chain glistening in the light from a streetlamp in back of Kramer. Kramer is close enough to see swastikas tattooed on the knuckles of the hand holding the chain. The body groans again, catching Kramer’s attention. The victim is curled in a fetal position, arms around his head, leaving the kidneys wide open for kicks. The hands protecting the head are coal black.

  “You sound foreign, fucker,” the other skinhead says now. He is shorter than the one with the chain, but stocky. Thick arms and thighs on him like tree trunks. Kramer checks it out quickly, looking for other weapons. No bats, no guns. Just the chain. And the one swinging that looks anxious, his breath coming in rapid puffs like a junkie high on violence, needing another fix.

  “Maybe we should fix you like we did the nigger here.”

  Kramer knows there’s no use talking; it’s past that. But he buys time.

  “We just don’t want to see anyone hurt,” he says, stepping to his left, bringing the chain man with him, closer to his buddy so that he won’t be able to swing the chain in a wide arc.

  “Shouldn’t we maybe go for the police?” Randall says in an urgent whisper.

  Kramer can feel the adrenaline pumping now, feels the tension in his guts like he hasn’t since he was a kid in Golden Gloves competition. No more observing, he tells himself. No more taking notes about violence, reporting on it dispassionately.

  “You take the shorter one,” Kramer says to Randall in English, never taking his eyes from the chain. “At least keep him off me until I handle the guy with the chain.”

  “Sam,” Randall begins, but then stops. “Okay.”

  The two skinheads look at each other at the sound of English.

  “Americans?” Chain Man says. “I haven’t killed an Ami yet this year.”

  Kramer makes his move as the last word is spoken. He leaps on the bottom links of the chain dragging on the wet asphalt, and drives a right upper cut into Chain Man’s gut, digging in deep, knocking wind out of him and sending him onto his ass. The chain is ripped out of his hand and Kramer picks it up and throws it clattering into an open dumpster. Out the side of his eye, he sees Randall and the stocky one squaring off, circling each other. That’s all he has time for because Chain Man is on his feet again, raging like a stuck bull. He’s young, good at beating up defenseless people two on one, and cocky.

  Kramer can taste blood; can feel it like a white-hot need. He lets the kid come in close, throw a wide blow that he ducks underneath, then jabs twice into the soft gut again, and circles out of range. Kramer’s heart is popping like an engine; he’s on the balls of his feet. It feels good. The kid comes in again, throws a left, then counters with a kick that catches Kramer in the thigh, just missing his balls. The muscle knots and Kramer stumbles as the kid grins wildly. He senses motion to his right, bodies grappling, but the kid is coming in again, all legs and a long reach. The kid throws the left again and counters with his leg, but this time Kramer kicks out, too, from a solid base leg, tearing into the kid’s knee joint, and crumpling him like a marionette with his strings cut.

  The kid rolls on the ground and Kramer wants him to get up, wants to work on his face. Randall is knocked into him and Kramer turns toward the other goon now, snapping his head back twice with two sharp left hooks, but this stocky one is unfazed; his head’s as thick as quarry rock. He charges in past Kramer’s punches, taking three to the head like mosquito bites and grabs Kramer around the chest, squeezing air out of his lungs and lifting him off the ground. Kramer feels light-headed, cannot get his breath, knows his eyes are going bleary, his mouth gasping for oxygen. He forces his thumbs into the skinhead’s eyes, pressing and pressing until the youth roars, dropping him. Kramer moves in for close body work as the stocky one holds his hands over his eyes; two in the solar plexus, spinning him with the force of the punches, then a jab to the kidneys, buckling him over, and a kick to the seat of the pants sending him head first into the side of the dumpster.

  “Look out, Sam!”

  Kramer spins around at Randall’s warning. Chain Man is up again, with a stiletto in his hand.

  Kramer’s eyes dart back and forth, looking for some shield, some weapon. He whips his oilskin jacket off and wraps it around his left arm as the other circles closer and closer, swiping­ at him in wide arcs with the gleaming blade.

  Kramer doesn’t know about this; Golden Gloves never gave him much instruction in knife fighting.

  “Hey, dickhead!” Randall yells, but Chain Man pays no attention.

  “Hitler prick, I’m talking to you,” Randall screams.

  Both Chain Man and Kramer look this time. Randall is spinning a long piece of piping he’s picked up from a heap of rubble at one side of the alley; twirling it like a baton, like a weapon in martial arts. The pipe’s a blur as it spins and spins from hand to hand, and Randall assumes an attack pose; bent left leg, right leg jutting straight back.

  “Hai!” Randall shouts, a loud explosion that startles even Kramer.

  He circles with the swirling pipe, his face all intensity. “I’m going to give you an eight-foot enema, fucker.” Randall’s face is bleeding at the nose and mouth; his eyes are completely lucid.

  Chain Man looks at his buddy, just getting to his knees by the dumpster. The stocky one peers up at Randall wielding the pipe. “Shit.”

  “Split,” Kramer says, “and maybe we’ll let you live.”

  Chain Man glances once down at his knife, then charges between Kramer and Randall down the alley and away. The stocky one’s eyes are big as saucers as he inches along one wall toward the open street.

  “Hai!” Another feint with the pipe sends him scuttling like a fat pig after his friend.

  Kramer looks at Randall, amazed. “I didn’t know you were into that shit.”

  Randall drops the pipe, w
iping his hands together. “I’m not. But don’t ever be telling me juggling is a useless art.”

  “You silly son of a bitch.”

  “And what are you? Bleeding Rambo? Rocky Ten? I’ll be your manager, Sam. A new career for both of us.”

  Another groan from the inert body cuts short their rejoicing. Kramer leans over him. “It’s okay now. Can you walk?”

  He rolls the guy over; his face is a purple welt where the chain cut him.

  “Jesus,” Randall mutters. “We better get him to a hospital.”

  This makes the man come to life. “No hospitals,” he says in a clipped Nigerian accent. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Can you walk?” Kramer gives him a hand, and he stands unsteadily. “We should get you out of here. Your friends could be back.”

  The man allows Kramer to help him to the car, his eyes staring down at his feet all the while.

  “Really, Sam,” Randall says once they reach the car. “That was pretty fancy fisticuffs. Wish I had a video. I thought you were a pacifist.”

  Kramer feels the rush of the fight now; he could coast on it. He once came to love that feeling; that’s why he quit boxing. He needed the rush, just like Chain Man.

  Randall unlocks the car door and props the front seat forward to get the African in back, but the man hesitates.

  “No. I live here. Just around the corner.”

  “We’ll give you a lift, then,” Kramer says.

  “No. You’ve done enough.” He lifts his eyes now; there are tears in them. “Why couldn’t you just mind your own business? They weren’t going to kill me. Just rough me up a bit. It’s like an initiation. Then they leave you alone. But now they’ll kill me if they ever see me again. I’ll have to move. And it starts all over again. Why couldn’t you just stay out of it? It’s no business of yours.”

  Kramer wasn’t expecting thanks, but the words hit him like Chain Man did not. They take the wind out of him; send nausea into his bowels.

  “Fuck me running,” Randall says in a moan, looking down the street.