One Man, One Murder

7

“You’re my baby, baby, baby-oh yeah. You’re my sunshine, sunshine, sunshine-oh yeah. You’re my-” krzzzzzzfghtntrzzzzzz “-the Chancellor put on a hat in honor of the Jewish victims of National Socialism. President Richard von Weizsacker, who also attended the ceremony, concluded his speech by asking, aren’t we all human beings, after all? And I agree wholeheartedly: Yes! Yes, we are human beings. The weather-” krzzzzzzzerbgmgnzzzzzz “-in the light of stars far away, I love you night and day, as if we were two stars, shining there so fa-” krzzzzzzzzfghnlrtzzzzzzz “-now a purely technical question, Mr. Fips. How do you manage to concentrate on your text while Simultaneously trying to beat a hole into the table top with your forehead? Just considering the rhythmical-” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my texts are bursts fired into the dark future.” “I see, well, that’s nicely put. But you haven’t answered my question. Could you tell us something about the visual aspect-what do you do when blood starts running into your eyes? Do you wear sweatbands on your wrists, like a tennis player, or does it just fly off to the side?” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my words are bursts into the dark future-if you like, I can read a poetic sequence that will answer your question.” “Uh-well, why not. But please let’s not have any blood stains on the carpeting-” krzzzzzzfgnerzzzz “-the President’s speech yesterday, on the theme Joy through Peace, at the beginning of the NATO exercise Friendly Touch, met with both national and international acclaim …”

I turned it off. I thought that I would have liked to work for the radio. It is a medium in sore need of improvement, and I know hardly anyone who has not at least a hundred times, behind the wheel or the shop counter, thought about what a good radio program might sound like. But people who work for radio stations probably think the same thing. They sit there at their turntables, put on “Tommy and His Jolly Bavarian Brass,” and think they’d like to work for the radio.

Fifteen miles later I passed the sign that told me I had entered Dietzenbach. I parked the Opel, got out, and looked around. A bird, a distant moped, and somewhere else a lawnmower. It seemed as if the inhabitants were busy laying their town to rest. The corpse was laid out before me: sparkling windows with drawn curtains, shiny mailboxes, manicured front yards, disinfected sidewalks. The parked cars looked as if they had just been removed from their Styrofoam packaging. I liked small German towns. They made me think that I had made a few good decisions: rush-hour traffic, winter sales, noisy neighbors, even the construction work on the expansion of the Frankfurt subway that had been going on right under my window-in a place like Dietzenbach, all those things now appeared in a much kinder light.

I walked fifty yards down the street, up to a “rustic” fence and a man who was cleaning the license plate of his BMW with a toothbrush.

“Good afternoon.”

The guy looked up and assumed the expression they all do when they stand in their front yard next to their automobile behind their “rustic” fences and assume that another person might have less than or nothing like what they have. Waving the toothbrush he approached me: “No need nothing, no buy nothing!”

“Is it caries, or does his breath just smell bad?”

“What smells bad here?”

He stopped in front of me, shoulders back, chin jutting.

“Your friend over there. The one with the rubber feet and the pipe up his ass.”

He turned, then turned back, looking irritated. Flexing his right arm like a weightlifter, he repeated: “No need nothing, no buy nothing.” When I still didn’t make a move to leave, he said it a third time, roaring on behalf of the town of Dietzenbach: “No need nothing, no buy nothing!”

“Very good. Now we know that one. Let’s move on to Lesson Number Two: How do I get to the After Hours club? And let’s be a little more on the ball if you don’t mind.”

He froze in the middle of a motion that could have led to all sorts of things. Slowly, setting one foot behind the other, he backed off in the direction of his BMW.

“Fuck off! Get the hell outta here!” His voice turned falsetto. “I sure hope I didn’t catch anything from talking to you, you-”

I held up my right hand and imitated the motion of a windshield wiper while pulling a scrap of paper out of my pants pocket with my left. “Number seventeen Hirschgraben. Tell me how to get there, or I’ll spit on your tulips.”

Pale, and holding the toothbrush like a crucifix in front of his chest, he leaned back against the radiator. “Go straight, then right at the second traffic light, and you’ll see a pink neon sign …”

“Much obliged.” I waved. “And keep on studying your German. There are times, these days, when the place feels like a foreign country.”

A heavy, dark brown, wooden door with a one-way peephole; to the left of it, a menu of drinks, to the right a brass plate with a marble bell button. I pressed it, and a taped voice croaked: “Please wait; attendez s’il vous plait; bitte warten!” Minutes later, the door opened, and a pale runt with facial hair and large eyes clung to the frame. White tennis shoes, jeans, an opalescent shirt open to the navel, a gold chain, and a quart of pomade in his hair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to your boss.”

His long thin fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the doorframe.

“Sorry, but Gerhard is not available at the moment.”

“Is he here?”

“I told you, he’s not available.”

Before he could close the door again, I pushed him aside and entered the barroom. It stank of alcohol and brimming ashtrays. The chairs had been put up on the tables among many glasses that were empty except for straws and bits of fruit. In the back of the room there was a cabaret stage. On it stood the remains of a gigantic pink cake, and next to it lay an unshaven fatso dressed in sexy lingerie. Two neon tubes cast their sallow light on the scene. In addition to the entrance, there were three more doors in the room. All three had signs on them: “Pool”, “Safety First”, and “Private.”

Someone was tugging at my jacket. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”

I turned and grabbed the runt’s shirt collar. He tried to hit me, but I held him at arm’s length. I pointed at the fat guy.

“Is that Gerhard?”

No reaction. Now he was completely motionless. He stared straight ahead and seemed determined to keep his mouth shut.

“Listen, kiddo, tell me where your boss is, or I’ll glue you to the ceiling.”

A quick tremor ran through his body, but that was all. He hung his head as if resigned to be glued to the ceiling for Gerhard’s sake. I let him go, went to the door marked “Private”. A cast-iron spiral staircase took me to the hallway of the second floor. Another set of three doors. I picked the one behind which I could hear quiet radio music. I pushed it and was surprised by sunlight. The near-darkness in the barroom and hall had made me forget it was still day. It was a fully furnished office with a computer, fax machine, an array of telephones, lamps, screens. The third surprise was Gerhard himself, or rather, the click of the safety catch on his gun.

“Hands up, sweetheart.”

I raised my arms and turned slowly. He was tall, wide, and well fed. Perhaps a little too tall, wide, and well fed. Steely blue eyes stared at me out of a salon-tanned face framed by a marcelled, peroxide-blond mane. A bit like Kalli Feldkamp in leather. His feet were encased in athletic shoes adorned with American flags.

“My, my,” he rolled his eyes, “a genuine sheik.”

I responded with a tired grin. “Can I put my arms down now?”

“But why? You look good that way.”

Holding the gun, he minced around me. Facing me again, he smacked his lips loudly. I stared at the ceiling.

“Cute, really cute … Your beer belly needs a little work, and that haircut needs modernizing. In some nice threads-well, you wouldn’t be a Don Johnson exactly, but chubby fellows have their own kind of charm. Right?”

“My arms are falling asleep.”

“Just keep them up there, sweetheart. As long as it’s just your arms.…” He winked, sat down behind the desk and put his feet up on it. “You just have to emphasize your type a little more.”

“And what would that be? A cross between Gerd Muller and Ghaddafi?”

He groaned with delight. “Ghaddawi! My idol!” His eyelids drooped. “With him, I could do a thousand and one nights-at least.” He tilted his head to the side. “But in your shoes, I’d go for the more rustic look. Navy blue, sleeves rolled up, heavy boots-you’re the sailor type.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. But right now I’m looking for a woman by the name of Sri Dao Rakdee. I’ve been told she’s staying here.”

He gave a start. “A woman …?” He made a face as if the devil had just run past. Then he brightened and flashed his capped teeth at me.

“Oh, you must mean Dolores, our transy? But she isn’t here today.”

“No, I don’t mean Dolores. I mean-fuck you.”

I let my arms drop and pulled out my cigarettes. Dumbfounded, he watched as I lit one, shook the match out and tossed it into his pencil holder.

“So? You going to shoot me just because I entered your office without knocking? I’m here because I’m looking for that woman-and she can’t help being born a woman, can she? Now tell me if there’s someone of her gender in this joint.”

Very slowly, he took his feet off the desk, sat up straight, and held the gun with both hands aiming it at my forehead. His eyes, glittering a moment ago, were dry and cold. His voice had an edge to it.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I look like one?”

“You look like a boozy little rat.”

The sky had darkened, and there was a distant sound of thunder. My quota of half-assed loudmouths was filled for the day.

I pointed at his nose. “Booger.”

He didn’t get it right away. Then, in a reflex motion, his hand rose to his face, and he glanced down. My first blow made him drop the gun, the second did some damage to his tanned jaw, and the third made him gasp for air.

I picked up the gun and sat down on the edge of the desk. “All right, let’s take it from the top. Is that woman here?”

Bent over in his chair, holding his jaw with one hand and his stomach with the other, he looked at me in disbelief. Then he shook his head, cautiously, and groaned: “You’re out of your mind.”

“Yes or no will do just fine. Are you a dealer in forged papers?”

“Forged papers?” He let go of his jaw and waved at the high tech scenery. “I make half a million a year just on the stock exchange. Why would I deal in shit like that?”

“But you seemed pretty concerned when it occurred to you that I might be a cop.”

“So? I just don’t like you guys. Can’t help it. Besides, you have no right whatsoever to barge in here. That business was three years ago. This is a completely clean shop. We don’t even show dubious videos.”

“What business?”

“Oh, stop pretending. The one about the kid who wasn’t sixteen yet, whatever-the fucking little liar …”

His face brightened in mid-sentence. While I was still wondering what had cheered him up so suddenly, I was struck by a lightning bolt, straight down the spine to the tips of my toes. With a glaring light in my head and the feeling of falling into the void I heard his voice from far away: “Come here, angel, let me give you a kiss for that.”

I was rushing down an endless steep slope at an infernal pace. No one and nothing could have stopped me, not even I myself. Everything was white. No sky, no sun, no trees. Just white. The skis carried me across the snow at such speed that I had no time to breathe. I had no poles. I went down, ever farther down, my heart slid into my head. But suddenly nothing was white anymore, everything turned black, and a huge abyss yawned at the end. I was unable to stop, my body was bereft of all sensation, and a deafening noise spread out over everything, the roar of a thousand firestorms.

I opened my eyes. About a foot away, a vacuum cleaner was moving back and forth. Behind it, working the vac with one hand and holding a gun in the other, was the runt. He looked at me with sad big eyes. I tried to move my head. It felt as if someone had stuck a knife into my neck. I sat up, gingerly. They had swept me into a corner of the barroom. The dirty glasses were gone, the chairs were back on the floor, and the place smelled of violets. The vacuum curved around my feet. I closed my eyes tight.

“Isn’t it neat enough now? Or are you expecting a visit from your Mom?”

He kept pushing the monster around the floor. Then he hissed at me: “Fuck off. I’m doing my job.”

He waved the gun in the direction of the door. I managed a painful nod.

“All right, all right.”

I was sure that I wasn’t the first to poke fun at him; nor would I be the last. I could imagine heavy-duty leather guys like Gerhard stomping on him every day. One day he would probably kill one of them, and he would certainly get caught. In the joint, people would start stomping on him again, and so on and so forth, all the way to the coffin. “You won’t have me to stomp on anymore” is what they should engrave on his headstone. If he’d get a headstone.

Five minutes later I was up on my feet. I touched the matted spot on the back of my head.

“You’ve got some real strength in those arms, kiddo.”

“Fuck off.”

I sighed, tapped my forehead, and staggered to the bar. My head, my stomach, all my franchised parts clamored for a drink. Without asking for permission I grabbed a bottle of scotch and raised it to my lips. Some time later, when I set it down, the knife in my neck had turned to a rubber arrow. The fat guy in lingerie was sitting at the other end of the counter. He stared dimly in my direction, then raised his hand and waved furtively: “Care to join me in a drink?”

I twinkled back. “Sorry, but I’ve got the curse.” I staggered out into the rain.

“Gina?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Kayankaya.”

She laughed, and we exchanged a few pleasantries about a mutual female friend with whom they had spent the previous evening. That person must have gossiped quite extensively about my alleged mating behavior. Gina and Slibulsky had been, living together for more than seven years, and apart from occasional tussles, they got along famously, although they were a rather incongruous couple: Gina, a young thirty, studied archeology, saved seals, read fat books, and worked as a teacher in a dance and deportment school for girls from good families. She claimed that this was just a job to pay the rent, but I wasn’t always so sure. One memorable evening she explained to me how napkins had to be folded, and why. On the other hand, she was as unconcerned about Slibulsky’s lifestyle as she was about whether other people were as interested in old potshards as she was.

“Listen, Gina; Slibulsky told me he broke his arm because he fell downstairs. Do you happen to know what stairs?”

“In the whorehouse, of course.”

“That’s all he told you?”

“That’s all.”

“Mhm. And that legacy from the aunt in Berlin-what do you know about that?”

“What’s to know? He used it to pay off his debts. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no particular reason.”

The rain sounded like a shower of golf balls against the glass walls of the phone booth. Around the booth, a small lake was forming.

“No, you see, I’m recommending him to my tax accountant, and the guy needs to know a few things about him … What kinds of debts were they?”

She made a pert puffing noise. “Just debts.”

“How much did he inherit?”

“Fifty thou.”

Now it was my turn to puff. “When did he get the money?”

“In January. But they withheld the tax before it was paid.”

“I see-well, then, I don’t suppose my accountant will be interested in that. Thanks, Gina, and let’s keep this to ourselves, O.K.? I want to make Slibulsky a present of a free advice session with my guy.”

“Gee, you must be rolling in it.”

“Well, at the moment … Talk to you soon.”

The sky was turning even darker. I stared into space for a while. Then I tore the door open and bounded across the puddles to my car. Mrs. Olga may have been an alarmist, but she did not hallucinate things.