“Hey, are you listening to me?” Natasha’s voice eventually reaches my consciousness.
“What?” I ask, admiring her feminine curves. “Digital asses,” I blurt.
Natasha laughs. “What’s wrong with you? Seems like you haven’t seen the inside of a whorehouse for a while.”
Embarrassed, I scratch my head. “I’m a little distracted… by… I…,” I stammer like an idiot.
Natasha turns and lasciviously puts her right hand on her gun in its belt holster, while tilting her body a bit to the side. I have problems meeting her eyes. She is in her thirties, but looks a lot younger. Like a ripe fruit. I should have let off some steam before this meeting. After having spent time in a Catholic boarding school the feeling that you missed out on something never seems to leave you. “What do you have for me?” I eventually ask.
“See for yourself,” she replies and motions to the SWAT guy out in the hall to wait for us. Then, she leads me into a kitchen.
A dead man is slumped forward on a chair, his head resting on the table. He’s white as a sheet, his limp arms dangling on left and right. His skull has been shattered. Hairs are stuck in the dark red blood that’s drying on the oilcloth. The Salafist has slippers on his feet. One of it has come off. Eyes wide open, he’s staring at the sink, where dishes have been left to soak. It’s Yussuf Bansuri, the manager of this brothel.
“Somebody wanted to make sure,” I state, when I notice the brain-matter in his hair.
“Sent to the great beyond with love. Looks like it was a matter close to someone’s heart,” Natasha agrees.
I just love her cynicism. A rare trait with women.
“Look at this,” she points out to me.
“What?”
“Look what he’s holding in his hand.”
I kneel and study the dead man’s hand. There’s a poker card stuck between two of his fingers. Someone must have placed it there after his death, I suppose. “Ace of clubs,” I announce the value of the card.
“It was the killer who wedged it between his victim’s fingers,” she echoes my own assumption.
I nod, yes. “A sign?”
Natasha lifts a brow, thinking. “Ever come across this symbol?”
“No.”
“A gang?”
“None that I know of.”
“What does it mean, you think?”
“Gambling? Gambling debts?” I joke.
She shakes her head as if I’d just said something stupid. “Stop fooling around, Hauke.”
“Why are you guys here, anyway?” I ask. “I mean, since when do you care what happens inside the Ghetto?”
“The Imam has notified us,” she explains.
“The Imam?” I’m surprised. “He wants the LKA involved? Why?”
“He figured that there might be trouble that couldn’t be contained inside the Ghetto.”
“Because of the dead manager of a whorehouse?”
“It’s one of his cousins.”
“So what? He’ll live. Half of the Ghetto is somehow related to him.”
“There seems to be more behind it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called us in,” Natasha speculates.
“The Chechens?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who else? The Turks?”
Natasha shakes her head, no.
“The bikers wouldn’t dare pull such a stunt,” I think aloud. “Thor doesn’t have a death wish. It’s also the Chechens he has an ax to grind with, not the Arabs. What good would it do him to raise up stink with the Imam?”
Natasha bends over the dead Salafist, examining the deep gash on his head. “What, do you think, did this? Baseball bat?”
“Maybe,” I reply, nodding. I study her sparkling eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. This simply reeks of bikers. But it doesn’t mean a thing.”
Natasha gives me a serious look. “The Imam has issued a threat against us.”
“So?”
“If we don’t hand the killer over to him, he’ll declare holy war.”
“So what?” I wave her off. “Why should it bother you when these jokers finish each other off?”
“Don’t you understand? He wants to start a jihad against the infidels. The idea is to export the fight outside the ghetto.”
“Out of the ghetto? What makes you think so? The ace of clubs?”
“He reads it as a Christian symbol, because the clubs are shaped like little crucifixes.”
I snort. “Bullshit—it’s nothing but a playing card.”
“You know the Lemons. They wallow in the past and have successfully convinced themselves that we’re the oppressors.” Natasha waves her hands. “Booooh, conspiracy, watch out,” she scoffs with a tense smile. “Man, they still blame us for the crusades.”
“What does Ali Bansuri think? That the LKA is behind the whole thing?”
Natasha strokes her chin. “No idea what he might be thinking.” She again studies the battered man.
Same as me. “Looks pretty happy, right?” I say. “Maybe he’s with his 72 virgins now.”
Natasha turns around to face me. “Is everything okay with you?” she asks.
“Fine and dandy,” I reply, fascinated by her luminous blue eyes and the pride reflected in them.