INTERNATIONAL PRAISE FOR JAKOB ARJOUNI
“As winning a noirish gumshoe as has swooped onto the mystery scene in some time.”
—The Washington Post
“Jakob Arjouni’s downbeat detective Kemal Kayankaya has proved as enigmatic as Columbo, as erudite as Marlowe and occasionally, as crazed as Hammett’s Continental Op.… Arjouni forges both a gripping caper and a haunting indictment of the madness of nationalism, illuminated by brilliant use of language: magnificent.”
—The Guardian (UK)
“A worthy grandson of Marlowe and Spade.”
—Stern (Germany)
“Arjouni tells real-life stories, and they virtually never have a happy ending. He tells them so well, with such flexible dialogue and cleverly maintained tension, that it is impossible to put his books down.”
—El País (Madrid)
“A genuine storyteller who beguiles his readers without the need of tricks.”
—L’Unità (Italy)
“In the emphasis on action and quick-jab dialogue, readers will notice an echo of James M. Cain and Raymond Chandler, but Arjouni’s stories also brim with the absurd humor that made The Sopranos so entertaining.”
—Vikas Turakhia, The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“This is true hardboiled detective fiction, realistic, violent and occasionally funny, with a hero who lives up to the best traditions of the genre.”
—The Telegraph (UK)
“A good thriller doesn’t need a specific milieu but it can be so much more satisfying when it has one. Jakob Arjouni was born and bred in Frankfurt and does a remarkable job of turning what is often considered Germany’s most boring city, into a vivid setting for violent crime capers … Arjouni’s [four] Kayankaya novel[s] … deserve to be better known in the English-speaking world.… If you like your investigators tough and sassy, Kayankaya is your guide.”
—Sunday Times of London (UK)
Copyright © 1987 Diogenes Verlag AG Zurich
Originally published as Mehr Beir
Translation copyright © 1994 by Anselm Hollo
Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.mhpbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the paperback edition as follows:
Arjouni, Jakob.
[Mehr Bier. English]
More beer : a Kayankaya mystery / Jakob Arjouni; translated from the German by Anselm Hollo.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-61219-102-7
1. Private investigators—Germany—Fiction. 2. Frankfurt am Main (Germany)—Fiction. I. Hollo, Anselm. II. Title.
PT2661.R45M4413 2011
833′.914—dc22
20110067
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Day One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Day Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Day Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
APRIL 1986
RHEIN MAIN FARBEN TO OPEN PLANT IN VOGELSBERG
Two hundred thousand demonstrators expected in Vogelsberg
MAY 1986
POISON GAS SCANDAL
According to today’s edition of Le Monde, the German concern Rhein Main Farben has sold basic ingredients for the manufacture of mustard gas to Iraq.
DUTCH SHIPOWNER BLOWS WHISTLE
Mr. Zoetemelk, a Dutch shipowner, has confirmed to journalists that his firm shipped several hundred barrels of chemicals produced by Rhein Main Farben to Iraq. He claims to have had no knowledge of the contents of these barrels. A spokesman for Rhein Main Farben disclaims any wrongdoing on the factory’s part: “We were told the chemicals would be used purely for civilian purposes.”
DEMONSTRATORS OCCUPY PLANT SITE
Rhein Main Farben complies with Hesse Government’s request to halt
production until further
notice Mayor of Frankfurt on Rhein Main Farben payroll as legal consultant
JUNE 1986
GREEN TERROR! CHEMICALS MANUFACTURER MURDERED!
Death of a great man
“Friedrich Böllig was not only an outstanding comrade-in-arms in the struggle for a clean future. He was a friend. All who knew him will remember his consideration, kindness, and fairness. As the head of one of the last family-owned concerns in our field, he worked indefatigably for the development of new remedies, particularly those used in the treatment of childhood diseases. Friedrich Böllig’s premature and tragic death is cause for universal grief.”
FRANKFURT MAYOR’S WIFE
Confirms she is Rhein Main Garben shareholder
Does “Red Army Faction” have “green” successor?
Rhein Main Farben urges prompt decision
Maximilian Funke, President of the Board of Directors: “If the Hesse Government does not grant us a permit for our projected plant in Vogelsberg, we must assume that the murderers of Friedrich Böllig acted in the spirit of that government. It would make me very happy if such a suspicion proved unfounded.”
NOVEMBER 1986
NO INCIDENTS AT LAYING OF FOUNDATION STONE
OF RHEIN MAIN FARBEN PLANT IN VOGELSBERG
Former Mayor of Frankfurt appointed President
Of United Nations Environmental Security Council
DAY ONE
1
The coffee was weak and the soft, moist cheese sandwich must have spent many days in the refrigerator. I tore chunks off it and washed them down with coffee. The sticky counter smelled of beer. Two meters to one side, a rumpled man dozed over his corn schnapps. From time to time he blew his nose, then wiped his mouth and forehead with the same handkerchief. He was staring at the framed verses above the sink: A FEW BEERS A NIGHT, THAT’S QUITE ALL RIGHT—A SCHNAPPS AT DAWN, YOUR HANGOVER’S GONE. I glanced at the sports pages next to his elbow
“How did Gladbach do?”
“Lost, two to zero,” he mumbled, without raising his eyes.
I rapped on the counter.
“More coffee. A little stronger.”
The proprietress pushed through the brown bead curtain, took my cup away, and brought it back with a refill. Her ample bosom was swathed in a ball gown from which her arms, neck, and head protruded like sausages. Her rear was adorned with a purple satin bow, her wrists with fake gold bracelets. Her hair had been dipped in liquid silver. Hertha was the owner of Hertha’s Corner—open twenty-four hours. The place was large, dark, and empty. The dusty bottles behind the bar were lit up by fluorescence. Raindrops rattled against the dirty windowpanes. In one comer stood the table reserved for regulars, with its wrought-iron emblem, a wild sow waving a beer stein. Hertha was rinsing glasses. A fly landed on my mutilated sandwich. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings around the fly.
Time passes slowly in these early morning hours. It was eight thirty. My court date was at nine. I went to the john. The latch was broken, and the flushing mechanism leaked water onto the floor. When I came out again, the radio was playing “Oh Schnucki, oh Schnucki, let’s travel to Kentucky …” Hertha swayed in rhythm with the tune. The guy at the bar used his snot rag again. Then he grabbed his glass with both hands and knocked back the schnapps in one go. He slammed the glass back onto the counter.
“Hertha! One more.”
“Now, now, Karl. You’ve had enough.”
Karl pulled a wrinkled fifty-mark bill out of his pocket. �
�You think I can’t pay? Is that what you think?”
“Put your money back.”
Hertha arranged the rinsed glasses on the shelf. Karl lit a cigarette. After a while he glanced at me.
“Gladbach, eh?”
I nodded. He scrutinized me from head to toe. Then he turned away, growling, “Well, this is Frankfurt.”
The radio was playing “When Heidi and her Hans, tah-rah, tah-rah …” I picked the newspaper off the rack. “FRANKFURT TRIAL BEGINS WITH EXTENSIVE SECURITY MEASURES. The trial of four members of the Ecological Front begins behind closed doors.” It was a quarter to nine. I paid and left Hertha’s Corner.
Outside, the wind was driving the rain diagonally across the street. Fall. I pulled the brim of my hat down, dug my hands into my coat pockets, and stayed close to the wall. At the intersection, the furious rain whipped my face, and water began to slosh in my shoes. Everything looked gray. Only a few neon signs interrupted the dreariness of the concrete wasteland. Empty cans, milk cartons, cigarette butts, garbage floated down the gutters and got stuck in the drains. There were streaks of dog shit on the sidewalk. People with umbrellas charged past me. Women stood chatting in the doorways, waiting for the rain to let up. I could feel my coat getting drenched. A taxicab splashed puddles onto my pants. I kept going, slipping on cartons and vegetable refuse, until I reached the courthouse steps. The door fell shut behind me. Like a leaking bucket, I left a wet track on the stone floor.
“Halt!”
Two cops barred my way. I pulled out my private investigator’s license.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Anastas.”
“We don’t know him.”
“He’s the defendants’ attorney.”
“Unh-hunh.”
A squad was pacing up and down the hall, submachine guns at the ready. The cop looked up from my license.
“Your I.D.”
I showed it to him. His companion scratched his chin, raised his walkie-talkie, and recited my I.D. number into it. After he received the all clear, I had to spread my legs. They didn’t find anything. “Upstairs, second door on the left,” they told me. A bunch of journalists were lounging in the waiting room, which smelled of cold tobacco smoke and wet clothes. They were all chattering away with supreme self-importance. A pretty thing with long dark hair sat down next to me.
“Cold, isn’t it?”
She sniffled.
“Sure is.”
She snuggled down into her fur coat.
“What paper you with?”
“My Wife and Your Car.”
“I see.” Pause. “Don’t know that one.”
I lit a cigarette.
“May I have one?”
I lit it for her. We smoked for a while. What did that attorney want from me? Why had he asked me to be here so early? She was studying my profile. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“You’re not a journalist.”
“Right you are.”
“I can tell.”
“I see. How?”
“Well, you have no camera, you don’t talk, you don’t know anybody, and now you’re taking a nap.”
She smelled nice. Something heavy, from France.
“Nonsense. I’m a Turk. That’s how you can tell.”
She ground out the cigarette under her heel.
“Maybe.” Pause. “So—why are you here?”
“I’m a private investigator. Don’t ask me why, I just am. And I’m waiting for someone.”
Now there was a commotion by the door. Cameras were focused, note pads raised.
“A private investigator—and a Turk? I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Take it or leave it.”
The noise level rose. The pack was straining at the leash. My avenging angel moved closer.
“Have you been living in Germany for a long time?”
“My father was one of the first Turkish garbage collectors of this republic. He brought me here when I was a year old. Soon after that, he was run over by a car. I was adopted by a German family.”
“And your mother?”
“She died when I was born.”
She mimed compassion.
“Oh, how terrible.”
I pointed at the door.
At that moment, the double doors to the courtroom swung open and the reporters charged. She took her leave and dived into the melee. There was a lot of noise in the hallway. I stayed put and contemplated my soaked shoes. Then I too entered the courtroom. The attorney was answering questions from a group of newspaper people. Cameras flashed incessantly, camcorders jockeyed for position. Off in a corner, a guy was broadcasting live, manically yelling into his mike. Policemen were posted by doors and windows. I sat down on a bench. My clothes were wet and stuck to my skin. The place was drafty, and I was cold. I lit a cigarette and watched the court clerk, who was waving his arms at me from a distance, presumably to indicate that smoking was prohibited. Ten o’clock. Five minutes later, the attorney walked over and sat down next to me.
“Please forgive me, Mr. Kayankaya. You know, in a trial of this importance … One has to humor the press. I’m sure you understand.”
Dr. Anastas was small and sturdy. Everything about him was brown: the curls around his balding pate, the frame of the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his snub nose, his suit, his fingernails. His tie drooped like a wet towel.
“Why did you ask me to come here at nine o’clock?” He frowned.
“I did? I thought we agreed on ten. I’m sorry.”
He stared pensively into the courtroom, which was emptying out. Even the cops were picking up their things and leaving.
“You wanted to see me.” He gave a start.
“Forgive me, I have to keep track of so many things. Maybe …”
“Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee?”
He deliberated, then raised a hand to his forehead.
“Excellent idea. Let’s. I agreed to meet someone in a restaurant just around the comer. What’s it called? Something with an O in it. I’m sure we can find it. After all, you’re a detective.”
He laughed and patted my shoulder, bounded to his feet, and trotted off. I pulled my damp coat around my shoulders and followed.
2
“That’s it, over there! Chez Jules. No O in that. Doesn’t matter. We found it.”
He parked, and we went inside. It was one of those nouveau joints where you’re afraid the table might collapse if you set down a decent glass of beer on it. You sit on tiny chairs, munch on tidbits, drink out of little glasses. Everything has dainty legs—the furniture, the ladies, the candlesticks. You say “pardon” when you sit down at a table and “ciao” when you get up again. The habitués call out things like, “Jules, are the crabs fresh today?”
The place was packed with a lunchtime crowd. Anastas hurried through it, his neck stretched like a chicken’s, looking for his date. Sipping white wine and nibbling on slices of roasted garlic, the stylish ladies and gentlemen cast pitying glances at the little lawyer. I could hear them whispering to each other. Anastas waved to me and shouted, “Over here, Mr. Kayankaya!” It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the patrons fall off their chairs. As I joined Anastas, I recognized my pretty inquisitor from the courthouse. She looked at me and laughed.
“Oh, it’s the private eye. Now I understand.”
“You do?”
Anastas looked astounded.
“You’ve met before?”
“Just briefly. Not long enough to exchange names.”
“Carla Reedermann of the Rundhlick. Kemal Kayankaya.”
We nodded and slid onto chairs. Carla Reedermann smiled.
“What a coincidence.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
I lit a cigarette and hid behind the menu. Anastas slid his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and perused the offerings three times over. A waiter, bouncy in white tennis shoes, ambled over, stopped casually by our table, and asked for our orders. Anastas ordered two ch
eese baguettes and two tomato salads. Then he removed his glasses, folded his hands, and smiled at me. “So here we are, Mr. Kayankaya.”
“Here we are.”
Contentedly he stroked his balding pate. I stared at his round head and pondered why I had been up and about since eight o’ clock. The waiter returned with our plates. With a broad grin, Anastas wished us bon appetit and attacked his first baguette.
I stirred milk and sugar into my coffee, poured my shot of Scotch into it, and took a long sip. My egg on toast was lukewarm and tasted like a fried egg wrapped in brown paper, but the little lawyer was really enjoying his food. His tongue was angling for the threads of cheese that had strayed onto his face, his teeth mashing the greasy white bread. He washed it all down with black coffee. A thick slice of tomato slid off his fork—he sucked it right off his tie. When he asked me if my toast was all right, I pushed it aside and lit a cigarette. Carla Reedermann was working on her order of mussels. I wondered about her connection to this gluttonous little fellow. Her brown eyes kept glancing provocatively at me. I ordered another coffee and Scotch. The two of them chewed their food in silence. I constructed houses out of beer coasters. Five minutes later, the waiter brought my coffee. Anastas reached for the menu to place another order. I slammed the beer coasters onto the table. “Now, wait a minute! I didn’t get up at that ungodly hour just to watch you have lunch.”
The waiter made himself scarce. Anastas put the menu down, wiped his lips, and put his glasses back on.
“I’m sorry.”
“And I don’t want any reporters.”
I pointed at the newspaper woman. After a moment’s silence, she pushed the plate of mussels aside, put a twenty-mark note on the table, and went to get her coat.
Anastas followed her with his eyes.
“Mr. Kayankaya, Miss Reedermann is on my side. I’m sure she won’t write anything that …”
“You can do as you please. I prefer working alone.”
She returned, picked up her purse, and left. She was furious.
“So. What’s the story?”
Anastas adjusted his glasses and murmured, “You must have read about the Ecological Front’s act of sabotage?”
More Beer Page 1