My name is Hauke, by the way. The nuns in the Catholic orphanage who raised me were great fans of the novel The Dykemaster by Theodor Storm. Maybe you’ve heard of the story about the mad dike warden, who’s my namesake. And my background? Does it really make a difference? They plucked me from a baby flap at Urban Hospital, that’s what I always claim, at least. Dropped off anonymously. Family unknown. Not an ounce of blue blood, this much can be assumed. And surely no Baby Moses. If you could see me now, odds are that you wouldn’t take me for the toughest guy in the ’hood. Rather the opposite. I’m clean shaven and neat, wear a black suit, and even carry a briefcase at all times to look respectable. Stuffed with dope, of course. It’s also equipped with a hidden compartment with an Uzi in it for self-defense, an absolute must-have. I also pack a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. One of the best handguns I know. Reliable and precise. Nineteen rounds. My special trick is to always load it up with a rubber round first. Underneath, there is a regular 9mm cartridge, followed by a dum-dum bullet that will burst open upon impact, virtually shredding the opponent to bits. I call this my three steps of escalation. Step one: the warning. Step two: the chastisement. Step three? Game over, player one. Not a beautiful thing to behold, I can tell you. I’m not a gun-toting weapons fanatic, I swear. And not one of these army types either who give their rifles names. I also don’t like using my fists. I never once had my nose broken. It’s something to be proud of, I tell you.
Things just don’t seem to improve. Not in the Ghetto. Once you’ve reached your early forties, you start seeing things clearer while abandoning your illusions. Just the other day I was held up by a little kid. Maybe eight years old, I guess. The tyke pointed a knife at my crotch and demanded my money. When I explained that I only had dope, he happily toddled off with five units of coke. What can I tell you? It can get a little trying to adhere to one’s principles out here. Human values and such. At least I’ve managed to remain one of the few Pushers who don’t sample their own merchandise. Okay, I pop psycho meds. But only those which need a prescription. So don’t get any wrong ideas. Plus, I went off these pills a while ago, because I want to be myself again. The name of the stuff, I’m using? None of your business, I think. We don’t know each other that well yet. But, hey, things can always change. Follow me or leave me alone. It’s the same to me. But there’s one thing I promise you: I won’t lie. This is something you can count on.
2
Natasha sounded rather worried on the phone. Have I told you about her yet? She’s my supervisor at the LKA. She coordinates my jobs with me, procures the drugs, and informs me of the latest developments. The LKA has just moved into new headquarters in X’berg across the river. To the spot where the Watergate used to be, if you happen to remember this club. Electronic music on two floors, adjacent to Oberbaumbrücke. This was a lifetime ago. Now, the investigators have a perfect view of the Ghetto from their brand new glass-enclosed high-rise. Maybe they use their roof antennas to listen in on the junkies’ chattering. They might also be watching the traffic of losers on the streets. Or they’re eavesdropping on the constant squabbling among the ultra-orthodox Muslims, while barely able to stifle a yawn.
Natasha. She’s different. A special person, a trait I noticed at once. Not one of these beauties who’re only good as clothes-horses. She also has a good head on her shoulders. And personality. A first-class lady. Well bred. From a good family, I think. Even though I never ask. Certain things are better left to imagination. She’s not married, I believe. But she also might just not be wearing a ring around the Ghetto. There’s a boyfriend now and then, I guess. No one on a permanent basis.
I’m driving down Frankfurter Allee in my Lincoln Continental. A real classic car that guzzles up more than ten gallons per one hundred miles. That’s a lousy gas-mileage, I can hear you say. But who the fuck cares? In F’hain nobody goes long distances anyway. The Ghetto isn’t all that large. It’s all a matter of being seen.
Natasha wants to meet at RAW, the ancient train depot bearing the name “Reichsbahnausbesserungswerk” that was transformed into a cultural center a long time ago. Its compound is located on Warschauer Strasse, a boulevard lined with dead plane trees that everyone started to call “The Warsaw” last year. This name-change is related to an incident in the fall, when a Chechen decided to chop a biker into two halves with a chain saw. A dramatic event, even in the Ghetto. The bloodstains on the tarmac were only covered up with sawdust. Thus, the traces of this gruesome act of violence remained in plain view until a week later, when it finally rained again. Usually, the Chechens don’t tend to do things in halves—pardon my pun. Their signature is to skin their victims, a habit they picked up during the Afghan war in the eighties, when Grandpa Chechen fought against the Mujaheddin side by side with the Red Army. This was when there still was a Soviet Union. Damn. Does this odd construction of states still ring anyone’s bell? Probably for the Communists among you. However, I find it vital to know one’s history, as you must have realized by now. Looking into the past to put the future into perspective. It shows me what we are and what will become of us. Anyway, two years ago the Chechens had the brilliant idea to skin the boss of the Arab clan and to display his body right next to the Märchenbrunnen, the fairy-tale fountain, in Volkspark. The Grimm Brothers’ bedtime stories taken to the extreme. Had they only known who was going to follow the impaled ruler to the throne, as in this case they might have preferred to instead share a pipe of peace. Because Ali Bansuri, the new Imam, retaliated by beheading six Chechens with his own hand. There are rumors around that he still keeps their heads somewhere in his mosque. The result was some back-and-forth traffic that went on for a while. Friendly visits on one, declarations of love on the other side. In the end, a good four hundred people were dead and power structures had been restored to normal. A field day for pushers, I can tell you. I just had to comfortably lean back with a cold beer and watch the activities unfold. But no more reminiscing. You don’t get a new Imam every day. Now, the conflict has to be carefully rekindled. The flickering flame needs to be fanned.
In the Warsaw the new Imam’s word is law, just like that of his predecessor. All the way from RAW up to the former stockyard, today the site of his humongous mosque. The area north of the old Ostbahnhof, the eastern train station, is controlled by Selim, called the Babo. And around Strausberger Platz the Tsar, this wily Chechen bandit, is pulling the strings. The bikers of Aryan Motorcircle with their president Thor, dubbed the Emperor by the Lemons, are at the bottom of the food chain. The Emperor’s realm is limited to a narrow strip of land in the east around Jessnerstrasse. He also is the only one of the bosses who resides outside the Ghetto in the former Stasi headquarters in Ruschestrasse. Stasi? Does it ring a bell? For those of you who were too zoned out during history class in schooclass="underline" it’s short for “Staatssicherheitsdienst,” the former Eastern Germany’s secret service. The Emperor carries a lot of clout in Lichtenberg, which isn’t part of the Ghetto. Thor’s time in F’hain, however, seems to be up. Therefore, regular deliveries to him by yours truly wouldn’t make much sense. He doesn’t have many minions left anyhow, as the number of native Germans around here is dwindling, most of them having moved to the borough of Wedding. The only ones remaining are the seniors, the indigents, a few Christian missionaries, the junkies, and the hookers. You might think that a Christian missionary’s life expectancy must be pretty short in an out and out Muslim ’hood. But owing to one of the many enigmatic ways of life, these religious zealots usually are left alone. Chances to die a martyr: absolutely zilch. No idea why. Maybe the bosses don’t see them as a threat. Sometimes, the logic of the street is a mystery even to me. But facts are facts. And a fact goes without explaining, as it has a life of its own.