One Man, One Murder

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 time 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 Sachsenhauser 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 inheritance?”

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.

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 Spatlese.

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.