“ ‘But’? I’ve always thought those two go together …”
Before Löff could respond to that, his wife appeared and declared in dulcet tones that the sausages were waiting.
The Löffs’ dining room looks like the showroom of a plastics factory, a space designed for messy little kids. The pale yellow walls are adorned with recipes encased in plastic. The chairs and the dining table are bright orange, and the floor is covered with dark green linoleum. Our placemats were washable plastic. All it needed was an open drain, and the place could have been cleaned with the garden hose.
Mrs. Löff shoveled sausages, mashed potatoes and sauerkraut onto my plate. I twisted the tops off two bottles of beer.
There were a great many half-raw chunks in the homemade mashed potatoes. But they were homemade.
“You can really tell this isn’t that instant stuff.”
Mrs. Löff thanked me for the compliment.
After we had chatted about the weather, the prices of things, and special offers, and had had a few good laughs at the expense of our new Chancellor, Löff asked me, “Now that I’ve heard your story, tell me how I am supposed to help you out.”
“Oh, Theo, can’t that wait until we’ve finished eating? Even Mr. Kayankaya has to take a break sometimes—isn’t that so?” She patted my shoulder.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Löff. I have a lot to do today.” Then, to Löff, “I need access to a couple of documents, that’s all. I’m sure you can get them for me. They remember you at headquarters. What I need are the files about the two traffic accidents Vasif Ergün was in, and also, if they exist, the Narcotics Squad files on Ahmed and Vasif. It would be great if you could get me photocopies of those things. But only if you feel like doing it.”
“Of course I do! At which precincts were those accidents recorded?”
“The first one happened in nineteen seventy-nine, right behind the railroad station. So it would have been that precinct.”
“Right, right,” he said, looking almost angry.
“The second one, the one in which Vasif was killed, took place on the twenty-fifth of April nineteen-eighty, on the road to Kronberg. I don’t know exactly where, but …”
“I can find out. No problem.”
The zeal of this grandpa of detectives was beginning to get on my nerves.
“All right. When can you have those copies for me?”
“Come back around five this afternoon.”
“Will do.”
Over dessert, Theobald Löff told us how, back in nineteen thirty-seven, when he was just a rookie, he had caught a Jew in the act of stealing eggs. “I was supposed to arrest him, that was my job. But you know, Mr. Kayankaya, I had heard how they were treating the Jews in those camps, so I just let him get away with it. You may say ‘so what,’ but do you have any idea what a risk I took? I’m sure you don’t. These are different times. See, here I am, sitting at a table even with a Turk!” He laughed heartily and slapped my thigh with his shriveled old man’s hand. His wife proclaimed the advantages of having one’s own garden. Then I thanked them for the meal and took my leave.
Back in the Opel I had a good burp or two.
4
I parked the car in front of a games arcade and proceeded slowly down the sidewalk in the flickering heat.
A couple of my ethnic brothers stood on a corner discussing things. Otherwise it was quiet except for the noises made by pinball machines and video games. I headed toward Heini’s Fried Chicken. A patrol car drove by, slowly. I pushed Heini’s door open and was once again enveloped by the same weeks-old smell of grease. I sat down at a table.
It seemed my nimble friend of last night was having a day off. The waiter who now shambled in my direction looked much better suited to this stinking chicken crematorium. He had combed a few greasy strands of reddish hair across his balding pate.
“What can I get you?”
He stuck his soccer ball of a head at me as if he wanted me to pat it.
“A Scotch, a cup of coffee, and some fresh air.”
“Right away.”
He turned and danced off, swinging his hefty hips. He reminded me of a gay hippopotamus.
The ventilation fan started humming. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and searched for matches. A familiar scent hit my nostrils.
“How you doing, big strong sheik?”
The young lady from Milly’s Sex Bar flopped into a chair across from me. This time she was in civvies.
“Hello, darling. No purple panties today?”
She smiled. Not too much and not too little. Just right.
“I don’t start work till seven. Mind if I join you? I need to eat something.”
The soccer ball reappeared between us and pushed my coffee and Scotch across the table.
“What can I do for you, madam?”
“Half a chicken with fries, please.”
“Half a chicken it is.”
She lit a cigarette, crossed her long, tight-skirted legs, and said, “You sure made an impression in our shop. The boss and her beat-up friends spent all night trying to figure out how they could tear your head off. What happened?”
“Oh … I was just in a bad mood.”
She flashed her white teeth at me in an ironic grin.
“Right, sure, it was all in a day’s work for you, wasn’t it? You just felt like wasting those two gorillas. You’re a super-sheik. May I stay here, or does my mediocrity bother you?”
“Not a super-sheik, just the Fat Thing from the Kebab King.”
“And that’s why you beat people up?” Her half-a-chicken fluttered onto the table and saved me from trying to think up an answer.
The french fries had a brown patina. She guided a forkful to her mouth. Before she had quite swallowed it, she asked, “Have you had any success in your search for that, that … what’s his name again?”
“Ahmed Hamul.”
“Right. How’s it going with that?”
“Well, I don’t have to look for him. He’s dead.”
“OK, I guess I meant his girlfriend, whatever …”
“The search goes on.”
A piece of chicken trembled on the tines of her fork.
“Really feeling talkative today, aren’t you?”
“Oh, dear God, there really isn’t that much I can tell you. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh. And what are you doing here?” She laughed. “Are you waiting for Rudi to come off his shift?”
“Who’s this Rudi? Should I know him?”
She rubbed two fries together and giggled. “That depends.”
“You don’t mean the waiter they forgot to give a neck?”
“He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“Sure. He’s real sexy.”
“You got a hard-on?”
“I wear leather briefs.”
“Rudi insists on condoms.”
“Why doesn’t he take the pill?”
“He likes those ribbed ones.”
“What if there’s a hole in them?”
“Rudi likes taking risks.”
“And see where it’s got him. He looks like he’ll have twins, at least.”
She gnawed on a drumstick and twinkled at me. I could feel it in my toes. I lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring that landed on her nose.
“Do you know a girl by the name of Hanna Hecht?”
“Sure.”
She dropped the bone on the plate, wiped shiny puddles of brown grease off the corners of her mouth, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in her chair.
“Why do you ask?”
“Hanna Hecht was Ahmed Hamul’s girlfriend. I found her last night. But that was as far as that went. Her lord and master soon made it clear to me that my presence was not appreciated.”
“So? Why didn’t you just beat him up?”
She grinned. A small piece of dark chicken skin stuck between two of her teeth. I told her, and she stopped grinning.
“He’s tougher than all those butthea
d bodybuilders in your shop.”
“He may well be. Is that who you’re waiting for?”
“Uh-huh. Tell me, do you know how deep into the heroin business those two are?”
For a moment she stared at me with suspicion. Like a cat gazing at a visitor.
“She’s a junkie, and he is small fry in that line. No big deal, as far as I know. This Turk used to hang out with her here, it probably was your Ahmed. But I don’t have anything to do with any of that. You have to look for someone else.”
I looked at her full, soft lips, dark eyes, almost masculine shoulders, her long, powerful legs, one of them swinging slowly back and forth, her dark purple toenails, and her narrow, slightly chapped hands—and thought—? Nothing.
A voice roared, “Check, please.” Rudi swished past. The place still smelled of fried chicken. A broken muffler made the window rattle. Lightning flashed in the distance.
“But I don’t want to look for anyone else. Are you here in a private capacity?”
A little later, we paid up and left.
5
A few minutes before five I departed from the quarters of Susanne Böhnisch, a.k.a. Darling, and sailed down into the street with wobbly knees and a nice warm feeling in my gut. I still wanted to speak to Hanna Hecht. Löff could wait. I went back to my car and got the Parabellum. That mustachioed fop wouldn’t be able to show me the door again.
In front of Hanna Hecht’s apartment door I put my ear to the keyhole. He was there, all right. I banged on the door and shouted, “Telegram!” The Parabellum felt cold in my right hand. I heard him come out of the kitchen grumbling about the doorbell. He opened the door.
At first, when he saw my shooting iron, the thin man’s expression was one of surprise, then it changed into one of disgust. He did not seem to be paying any attention to the rest of me. I noticed, just in time, his hand creeping up to his armpit.
“Freeze, buster. Hands off that gun. This time it’s my finger on the trigger. Turn around and put your hands behind your neck.”
He made an annoyed face. As if he had spilled sour milk all over himself.
“I bet you learned that from TV, didn’t you, my friend?”
That’s right, I thought, but didn’t admit it.
“Cut the chitchat. Turn around.”
He obeyed. I pushed the black barrel of my gun into his spine, pushed him up against the wall, and retrieved his pistol from its shoulder holster. “Take it easy. Now we’ll go through that door. For your sake, I hope your partner won’t do anything stupid.”
He growled something and walked ahead of me. As we entered the room with the horse posters, we saw Hanna Hecht standing behind the refrigerator. She was holding a small brown automatic with both hands.
“Put that down, sister, I’ve got a bigger one.” To emphasize that fact, I waved the Parabellum in the air. That was a mistake.
Mr. Moustache shifted gears real fast and jammed his elbow into my ribs. If he had managed to get me in the solar plexus, I would have hit the linoleum like a sack of wet garbage. But he missed. I staggered back a step while he turned. Then I swung and slapped the barrel of the gun across his face. He stood there a second or two, staring past me into the void. Then his eyes went dim and he crashed to the floor, striking a shelf on the way. I turned to face Hanna Hecht. Still holding her automatic, she stared at me with wide eyes and trembling lips.
“Put that thing down, sister, or I’ll blow your friend’s brains out.”
Slowly, as if hypnotized, she let go of the gun. It fell on the floor.
“All right. I don’t enjoy acting the wild man, but there doesn’t seem to be any other way to have a word with you.”
I pointed at her kitchenette furniture.
“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me a little about Ahmed Hamul.”
She stuck her trembling hands in her jeans pockets and leaned against the window frame.
“I’d rather stand.”
Her frozen face began to look stupid to me.
“As you wish.”
I lit a cigarette, inhaled a little nicotine, and considered what I wanted to know.
“How long did you know Ahmed?”
She nibbled on her bloodless lower lip and didn’t say anything.
“Listen, dearie, if you can’t bring yourself to open your mouth, we’ll just hurry on over to the nearest police precinct. Those folks are also interested in Ahmed’s death. I’d rather not take you there, because I don’t like them either, but if you’ll just go on chewing your lips, I’ll …”
“All right, all right. I’ll talk to you.”
She swallowed. “I knew him for about three years.”
“Was he dealing when you first met him?”
“He sure was.” She sounded bitter.
“You got together with him because he had the stuff?”
“That’s how it started.”
I pointed at half-dead Mr. Moustache.
“And what about him?”
“He worked for Ahmed, now and again.”
“Quite a threesome you must have been.”
“You might say that.”
“Did you and Ahmed have anything going besides that business?”
“I really liked him.”
“What about Mr. Moustache?”
“That’s just business.”
“You don’t think it’s possible that this guy, while he worked for Ahmed, got pissed off at him and stuck a knife in his back—do you?”
“No, that’s impossible.”
I believed her.
“Where did Ahmed get the stuff?”
“No idea.”
“I’m asking you: where did he get the stuff?”
“And I told you. I have no idea.”
“Pay attention, sister. If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll take you and your buddy straight to the precinct. You hear me?”
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and looked at the floor. For a moment, I thought she was getting ready to act seductive. But she replied, in a bored monotone, “You ought to know, that business only works if nobody knows each other. Ahmed and I got along great—but he would never have told me who his supplier was. It would have been damn stupid of him to do that. The less you know, the less you have to tell.”
Unfortunately, she was right. But I didn’t believe her.
“Did you know his family?”
“He didn’t talk about them very often.”
“Did you know that his little sister-in-law is on the needle?”
“Yes.”
“And did you know that it was he who got her on it?”
I had no idea whether that was true or not, but it was a possibility. She hesitated, then said “yes” in a quiet, choked voice. I patted myself on the back and briefly pondered the family life of the Ergüns.
“But he wanted to get her off it again. He …”
Her voice faded. She stared into space, lost in thought or memory. It couldn’t have been easy for her, a stone addict, to talk about recovery.
“How did he intend to do that?”
“One of those sanatoriums. He had found a place for her. Something like that.”
My brain came up with a brand-new thought.
“Was Ahmed planning to get out of the business?”
“Uh-huh. Yes, he was.”
“What did he have in mind?”
“He wanted to take his family and move someplace else. He had a little money, and he wanted to buy a house. In another town.”
“Did his family know about this plan?”
“I don’t think so.”
It was time for me to find out who Ahmed Hamul had been dealing with.
“The day Ahmed died—had he been here?”
“Ye-es.”
She looked through the dusty window pane, down into the street. The sun was still shining out there. I looked at her bony back. Her shoulder blades stuck out from her emaciated body.
“When was he here?”
“In the afternoon.”
“What time, exactly?”
She turned, and pushed her hands even deeper into her pockets, and for the first time there were some signs of lucidity in her face. She was pissed off.
“Why is that so important, you dumb sleuth?”
“It just is.”
She went to the table and tore a cigarette out of a pack.
“He came here around four and left again at five thirty.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No. He said he had to check something out.”
“Some smack?”
“No, jelly babies.”
“But I thought he wanted to get out of the business.”
“You need some folding money to do that.”
“OK. Did anyone call him here?”
“Just one of his buddies.”
“His buddies?”
“All right, one of his Turks. That’s what he told me, at least.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I picked up the phone, and the guy spoke standard German. With maybe a little bit of an accent, but not much.”
“Could it have been a pretend accent?”
“I have no idea.”
“What was his voice like?”
“Just a voice.”
“Deep? High? Nasal? Anything?”
“Listen, I only spoke to him for a second. I didn’t have time to find out if he had a headache or athlete’s foot.”
“Ahmed spoke German with him?”
“All he said at this end was ‘ja, ja’.”
“When did he get the call?”
“Just before he took off.”
I dug a little earwax out of my left ear, crumbled it between my fingers, waited for inspiration. Hanna Hecht nibbled her knuckles and looked at me as if I were a vacuum cleaner salesman.
There had to be some connection. Somewhere there was a person who had supplied Ahmed Hamul with heroin and who had tried to flatten me with a Fiat, or at least had pretended to do so.
And that was, in all likelihood, the same person who had killed Ahmed Hamul.
“Do you have a newspaper?”
“You plan on staying here a while?”
“I’ll stay until I can’t think of anything else to ask you. Come on, do you have a paper?”
Happy Birthday, Turk! Page 8