The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  He looked around, still woozy from sleep, and since the familiar pain was creeping up his leg he grabbed his heroin tablets from his pants pocket. There weren’t many left. He would have to stop by Winter’s later to grab more.

  Quickly he popped a pill in his mouth and washed it down with the rest of the tea, which was now ice cold and bitter.

  “Minna.” He shook the young woman awake. “You have to tell me everything about emigrating. Most importantly about the black sheep.”

  “First of all, good morning.” The young woman coughed. “Can you make tea? I’m freezing.”

  Emmerich felt her forehead. Her fever had risen. He hoped so badly that she would make it abroad before it was too late. “Here.” He handed her one of his tablets. “It’s heroin. It’s supposed to help with all ailments.”

  Minna’s face brightened. “Thanks.” She took the tablet and broke it up with her fingers.

  “What are you doing?” asked Emmerich as he looked for the tea, hunched over because he could barely stand up in the tiny room.

  “Heroin is supposed to be a wonder drug.” She continued to rub the pieces of tablet until it was a nothing more than powder. “I’ve heard that it works better if you sniff it.”

  “Interesting. I’ll have to try it next time.” Emmerich watched as she rolled up a little piece of paper, stuck it into her nose and snorted the white dust while the tea water heated up.

  “Ow,” she said. “It burns.”

  He steeped the mysterious brown leaves—she’d probably picked them and dried them herself—and then handed her a cup.

  “I feel better already,” she said, and her face had in fact regained some color.

  “I’m glad.” Emmerich sipped on the brew and gave her a second tablet. “For later. And now tell me.”

  22.

  Here,” Emmerich tossed a newspaper onto Winter’s desk.

  He studied the masthead: “The Emigrant. An independent source for all emigration issues,” he read aloud, then looked at his boss with a frown. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

  “Jost wanted to go to Brazil and the men in Poldi Tant were discussing emigration, too.” Emmerich leaned against the desk. “These so-called resettlement companies have spread like the plague in the past few months. They promise people a real-life paradise and get paid exorbitantly for their services.”

  Winter motioned to Emmerich’s rumpled pants. “You weren’t able to sleep at home.”

  Emmerich ignored his assistant’s observation. “And like everything else, where there’s money, there are black sheep in the flock. What if our victims were taken in by swindlers? What if these swindlers fleeced people of their entire life savings and then silenced them?”

  “The victims didn’t look as though they had much in the way of savings to steal. On the contrary.”

  Emmerich thought of Minna. “It’s usually the poorest of the poor who want to get out of the country. Those who are doing well don’t need to leave. And there are many ways to get money.”

  Winter nodded. “And now?”

  “Now we’ll take a closer look at these resettlement companies.” Emmerich opened up the paper and pointed to a page full of ads.

  “Settlement Society, Association for World Business and Migration, New Home Resettlement Society, Society for the Protection of Migrants from the Former Austro-Hungarian Empire, Association of Austrian Emigrants . . . ” Winter looked up at Emmerich. “There’s a lot of them.”

  “There are a lot of people who want to get out of this shit hole.”

  “Not me,” Winter said in solidarity with his hometown. “Things will get better soon. Like it used to be, just without the Kaiser. Don’t you think so?”

  Emmerich thought for a moment. “With or without the Kaiser, life is hard and unfair.” He folded the paper and pointed to the information about the publisher, which was on the front page. “I think we should begin there. At the Emigration Aid Society ‘Austria Abroad,’ 46a Blindengasse.”

  As they went outside into the street, Winter stopped. “It smells like rain,” he said. “Maybe we should take an umbrella.”

  Emmerich looked up at the clear sky and wondered about his assistant again. “Come on. The sun is shining, and even if it does rain . . . we’re not made of sugar.”

  They went three stops on the tram. The conductor was a pretty blonde woman—a rare picture. During the war years women had filled almost all the positions at the Vienna Transit Authority, but since the end of the war the men had reclaimed their domain to such a degree that women conductors were rarely seen anymore.

  “Tickets, please,” she said.

  “We’re with the police detective corps.” Winter showed his badge and blushed all the way up to the roots of his hair. “This ride is for professional purposes.”

  She nodded and moved on to the other customers.

  “So, petite blondes, is it?” said Emmerich when they hopped off and turned into Blindengasse. “And speaking of women . . . how was Bauroff yesterday?”

  This time Winter blushed even more, if that was possible. “Yeah,” he said with feigned nonchalance, pushing open the door to the newspaper office. “Ample breasts for sure.”

  “Excuse me?” A corpulent woman behind a massive desk was staring at them from over the rim of her glasses.

  Winter’s head drooped and Emmerich stepped in front of him. “His grandmother needs new blouses.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “What can I do for you?” Her nameplate identified her as Frau Nöstel. She pointed to a couple of chairs.

  Emmerich sat down and put out photos on her desk of Jost, Zeiner, and the unidentified man. “Ever seen them?”

  “Are you with the police?”

  Emmerich asked Winter to show her his badge. After she had examined it, she picked up each photo and studied the faces closely. As she did, Emmerich looked around the room. Like at Minna’s place, the walls were covered with colorful posters, postcards, and pictures except that here they weren’t of Paraguay but the United States, Brazil, Argentina, Canada, and other overseas El Dorados. Welcome to the Garden of Eden, Find your fortune in this blessed country, Wealthy settlements welcome you with open arms . . . These and the other slogans tried to lure abroad everyone who was struggling with cold and poverty.

  “I don’t know these two, but this one was here.” She pointed to Jost.

  “Can you tell us anything about it? Did he sign a contract with you?”

  “He wanted to go somewhere warm and sunny. Preferably Brazil.”

  “And were you able to help him?”

  She looked sadly at her hands. “The poor guy was shell-shocked, he trembled. Totally unfit for any type of work.” She saw that the detectives didn’t seem to be following her logic. “Relocation companies are there to protect people,” she explained. “To give people information and guidance. Many of those who come to us have irrational hopes or a completely false idea of what awaits them.”

  “So no Garden of Eden?” Emmerich pointed to a poster that showed a happy, attractive, doe-eyed woman standing among exotic fruits.

  “That’s a part of the reality. Unlike the shady companies, we communicate the other parts, too. Only when I think my clients understand what they’re getting into will I finalize a contract.”

  “And Herr Jost didn’t get one.”

  “The possibility of a pleasant life abroad is predicated on good mental and physical condition. Food doesn’t just fall from the trees over there, either. You have to work hard for it. And Herr Jost was clearly in no condition for that. No settlement would have taken him in, and he’d never have made it on his own. Someone like him is better off here. Soup kitchens, emergency shelters, institutions for the less fortunate—you’ll look a long time for that kind of thing in South America.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of brochures. “Men like you
, on the other hand . . . ” She handed Emmerich and Winter each a brochure. “Strapping lads are needed everywhere.”

  “You sent him away?”

  “It broke my heart, but anything else would have been irresponsible—ach, what am I saying, it would have been impossible. What else could I do?”

  “Could another company have accepted him?”

  She snorted. “Certainly not the honorable ones. But there are also shady ones, as I mentioned.”

  Emmerich paged through the brochure. It looked idyllic overseas. For a moment he thought about what it would be like to start fresh somewhere else. What did he have to lose? Then he got hold of himself again. He had responsibilities. Vienna wasn’t a very livable place at the moment, and as a cop he had the chance to change things for the better.

  “Could you possibly give us some names?” he asked.

  “They change their names every few months. Their scam works like this: people pay and then are supposed to wait until a large enough group has been assembled so that they can all travel together. Of course, they are waiting in vain.”

  “And then they just change their name, open a new office, and are out of reach. Cunning. Now we just need to know how we can find these con artists.”

  “Finally, someone is doing something about it.” Frau Nöstel pounded resolutely on the desktop. “I can tell this much, that all the companies that advertise in our paper are trustworthy.”

  “Including the New Home Resettlement Society?”

  “Of course. What made you think of them?”

  “Ach, no reason,” Emmerich brushed aside the question, thinking of Minna. At least in this she got lucky.

  “The best thing to do would be to have a look around near the city employment agency. The bastards from the fly-by-night companies go there looking for victims. They promise heaven and earth to strong men and pretty women. Once they get their hooks into someone naïve, they make sure they get hold of their money quickly. I don’t even want to think about what the poor people they scam have to do to get the money together.”

  Emmerich stood up and put the brochure in his pocket. “Thanks very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Frau Nöstel’s round cheeks went red. “If you see poor, poor Herr Jost, give him my best. And tell your grandmother she should try the clothing store called Breier on Mariahilferstraße. A friend of mine works there and they have a large selection of blouses.”

  23.

  Standing in lines had become a fact of everyday life in Vienna. Thousands of people regularly waited in front of businesses and offices in the hope of getting hold of food, clothing, fuel, or—in the case of the city employment agency—work.

  “You can’t even see the entrance from here,” complained the man behind Emmerich and Winter in line. He shoved his hands into his pockets, leaned his head to the side, and drifted off into a state of resignation.

  “They won’t run out before the end of the day,” said another man, looking at Winter, who, well dressed and in good spirits, didn’t fit in so well with the crowd of tired, hungry people whose daily battle to survive had sapped them of all their energy.

  Emmerich, who had slept in his clothes and was unshaven and unwashed, fit into the milieu better.

  “And now?” asked Winter. “Are we supposed to wait the whole day?”

  “If we have to. Standing around is real investigative work. You might as well get used to it.” He looked around and put up the collar of his jacket. “I’ll survey the situation. You can hold our spot in the line in the meantime.” Emmerich crossed the street and ambled down the opposite side of the street looking across at the waiting masses. Was one of them a wolf in sheep’s clothing? He paused abruptly when a familiar face caught his eye. The man was tall and haggard and was wearing ragged clothes. His long brown hair was unkempt and fell over his face. Where did he know him from? Was he an old army comrade? Someone he’d once arrested? The flash of recognition hit Emmerich like a punch to the gut.

  It was Xaver Koch. Luise’s husband.

  Emmerich knew that one false look from the man, or a hint of pity or triumph from him would make him lose control. He held the brochure from the resettlement company in front of his face and hurried back to Winter.

  “Everything okay? You seem agitated.”

  “What could possibly have happened? I was only gone a few minutes.” Emmerich didn’t look at his assistant, he couldn’t take either his sympathy or his cheerfulness just then. It’s not his fault, he thought. Though he wasn’t sure if he meant Winter or Koch.

  He leaned silently against the wall of the building and watched the line continue to get longer while up front nothing moved. The man who had said they’d still have a chance today had spoken too soon.

  The incessant honking of a car suddenly set the lethargic mass of job seekers in motion. One after the other, people took a step to the side so the vehicle could pass. Just before the car reached Emmerich an ear-splitting pop rang out, like a gunshot, which made all the men reflexively duck. The war was still deep in their bones.

  “It was just the car backfiring.”

  Emmerich hadn’t ducked, and now his gaze fell on the face of a man a few paces behind him. He wasn’t sure how he noticed him. Maybe it was his tense demeanor, the scar running across his right cheek, or just the fact that the man was just as indifferent as he himself.

  Before he could think about it more, the other people straightened up again, looked around sheepishly, and returned to their spots in line.

  “Cigarette?” A man in a gray sports jacket made from the remnants of old uniform had sidled up to him.

  “Sorry, but I don’t have any,” he brushed off the annoying sponger.

  “Would you like a cigarette?” the man reformulated his question. To bolster his words he held out a pack of Nil no filters.

  Emmerich, surprised by the unexpected generosity, took one. “Thanks,” he said, let the man light it, and relished the taste of the fine Middle Eastern blend.

  “You are looking to emigrate?” The man pointed at the brochure Emmerich still had in his hand.

  “My young friend and I have thought about it.” He pulled Winter over. “But unfortunately we can’t afford it.”

  “Right. We don’t have enough cash,” said Winter, stating the obvious.

  “My friends, today might just be your lucky day.” The guy smiled broadly. “The resettlement companies just want to make money. They demand ridiculous sums that bear no relationship to what they are actually offering.” He put a hand on Winter’s shoulder. “But there are still good and honest men in the world. And the man I work for is one of them.”

  Emmerich smiled. “Oh yeah?”

  “He’s a real philanthropist. Doesn’t try to get rich off poor folks. On the contrary—he often contributes. He charges half what the cutthroats charge.” He took the brochure out of Emmerich’s hand, crumpled it up dramatically, and threw it to the ground. “What country were you interested in going to, if you could choose?”

  “Brazil,” said Emmerich. “Sun, beautiful women and enough work and food for everyone. And your boss really charges half the price?”

  “If that.” The guy offered Winter a cigarette, too, but he passed. Emmerich grabbed greedily for it and tucked the Nil behind his ear.

  “Good that you guys met me. If you really want to get to Brazil, I’ve just saved you thousands of crowns.” He stuck out his hand to shake both of theirs. “I’m Tamás, by the way.”

  “August.” Emmerich shook the proffered hand.

  “Ferdinand,” said Winter, doing the same.

  “Pleasure.” Tamás lit a cigarette and began to talk about his boss, a certain Dr. Farkas.

  “Szar!” he cursed in Hungarian when the bells of a nearby church struck ten. “I have to go.” He rummaged in his pockets. “Szar!” he swore again. “I don�
�t have any brochures with me. But hey, why don’t you just come with me?” He pulled Winter out of the line and motioned for Emmerich to follow him.

  “Slow down, slow down. How do you picture this happening?” Emmerich said to the stranger. “Half price is still a whole lot of money, and if we had that kind of loot we wouldn’t be standing in this line.”

  “We can figure something out.” Tamás waved Emmerich and Winter closer. “Dr. Farkas also arranges jobs,” he whispered. “Good-paying jobs. And you don’t have to wait around, like here.” He leaned in so close to the two of them that they could smell his bad breath. “Let’s be honest. The city employment agency only gives out crummy jobs. Do you really want to hire yourselves out as day laborer, floor sweeper, or shoe repairman for a few miserable pennies? Not to mention that you have to wait ages to get paid. It could be weeks before you see any money. If at all. Brazil will just keep getting farther and farther away.” Emmerich acted as if he’d been persuaded. “Come on. If the offer doesn’t convince you, you can always come back here and get in line tomorrow.”

  “Go ahead,” snapped the man behind them in line. “It suits us just fine.”

  Emmerich took the last drag of his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and stepped on it. “Alright,” he said. “Off to Brazil.”

  “Maroni! Hot maroni!” yelled a street vendor as the three men walked past him, fanning his grill with a newspaper so the smell of the roasted chestnuts went straight into their noses.

  “Mmmm.” Winter closed his eyes and relished the smell. “Are there chestnuts in Brazil?”

  “They have everything there. Everything your heart could desire . . . ” Tamás turned to them and continued on, walking backwards, “and your eyes and your mouths and your . . . ” He grabbed his crotch and grinned lasciviously. “You’re going to love it.”

  “Watch it, intersection!” Emmerich seemed totally unimpressed.

  Tamás stumbled backwards on the curb and came within a hair of being run over by a passing draft horse. He reached the other side of the street safely only with a lot of luck and dexterity.