“Half a million? You’re not going to goddamn sit there and tell me it’s gone?”
Baldersen shrugged. He turned his head and stared out the window. “Fuck you,” he said.
The man in the oilskin coat stood up, light reflected from the gloss. “Everybody trusted you, Baldy, it was a confidential deal. Everybody knew you had it under control.”
“You bought me out.”
“You’ve damn well never been worth half a million. You know that. Sure as hell you do, Baldy.”
Aage Baldersen didn’t even make an attempt at hunkering down. He just sat there.
“What you’ve done, how you’ve fixed it all up, I don’t care. I’ve just been sent to collect.”
“It was my money.”
“Your money? It was our money. Fair and square. You hear?”
The man had stepped behind Baldersen’s chair. A moment later he lifted his arm and hit Baldersen behind the ear with a small sandbag.
“Just a sample,” he said, “there’s more coming real soon. If you don’t start talking.”
Aage Baldersen rocked back and forth on the chair. That damn rain, the damn darkness. In fact, he was soaked.
“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” he said, “tired, tired, tired…”
Soon the man started pounding him. It was almost like a machine. It was as if he didn’t just want to beat Baldersen to the floor, he wanted to beat him into it. Slowly the figure melted and slid down off the chair.
“Night, Baldy, goodnight. And sleep tight,” the man whispered.
After a while the man stuck the sandbag in his pocket, opened the door to the hallway, closed it behind him, and began the long walk down to Parmagade. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind still blew, and the figure’s shadow moved uneasily over the walls of the buildings in the streetlights’ glow. There was no traffic, but the steady ding-ding from a small bell announced that a late trolley car was backing into the depot.
WHEN IT’S TOUGH OUT THERE
by Gretelise Holm
Istedgade
Despite a double gin-and-tonic and two of the small pink pills that she preferred to call “muscle relaxants,” her hands shook when she punched the number. And she held her breath while listening to the amorous voice: “You’ve reached City Sex and Luxury Massage. For telephone sex, press 1. For information about net-sex, press 2. For appointments, press 3. For personal service, press 4—”
She hung up as if she’d been burned, mixed a dry martini, and curled up in the well-preserved, original Arne Jacobsen Egg chair.
She looked out over the sound through the coast road villa’s picture window, waiting for the alcohol to relax and embolden her. Her Philippine au pair gave a friendly smile through the glass, which she was cleaning.
A half hour later Claire Winther felt she was ready. It was the only solution, the only way out of this situation, she told herself.
She punched the number again and pressed 4 for personal service.
“This is Bonnie. What can we do for you?”
“My name is Michelle Jensen, and I’m interested in hearing if there’s a possibility of working for you.”
“There’s a decent possibility if you look really good and know what you’re doing. How old are you, and how long have you been in the business? You specialize in anything?”
“I’m thirty-four but I can easily pass for twenty-six, definitely. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience, in fact I’m a beginner. But you know how it is, it’s tough out there right now, you need a little extra cash, so why not… if you have a natural talent?”
“We’ll take a look at you and talk about it. Come in around six if you can, and if you have some porny pictures of yourself, bring them along on CD.”
“I don’t.”
“No problem. We’ll figure it out. In fact, we could use a Danish girl right now, so if you’re okay…”
Claire felt calmer. Bonnie had sounded like a normal, everyday person. How hard could it be?
She chose a dark wig and large sunglasses. The oldest pair of jeans she owned, and a red lace top under the black leather jacket that hadn’t been outside the closet for five years. Given her exclusive wardrobe, this was the cheapest she could look, she decided, and she topped it off with crimson-red gloss lipstick and a shot of a much-too-heavy and sweet perfume, a shopping mistake.
Obviously she couldn’t arrive at the brothel in her Jaguar, so she called a cab and asked the driver to drop her off at the main station. It came to eight hundred kroner.
The November murk lay wet and heavy over the city, so she pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead as she walked down Istedgade, first past the row of hotels next to the station, then past all the porn and sex shops decorated for the Christmas season.
It was fascinating, she had to stop and stare through the shop windows. A Christmas manger scene with the tiny baby Jesus-surrounded by dildos. A blow-up sex doll with a silicone pussy wrapped in a chain of red heart-shaped Christmas lights. Handcuffs, leather whips, half-masks, and chastity belts hung on a plastic Christmas tree with a star on top and icicles covering it.
At the shelter, the Men’s Home, the guests for the night had already begun to gather. Hoarse voices, the clinking of bottles, and tubercular coughs rose from the group of ragged, dirty, homeless figures. Claire decided to cross the street to the other sidewalk.
There was more dignity to the slick black kings of the street, who in two-and three-man groups marked off their territories, while the black females busied themselves braiding hair in salons, the walls covered with wigs and hairpieces of all colors.
The African hair salons were something new, thought Claire, who hadn’t sat foot in Vesterbro since she left as an eight-year-old.
A drunk wearing only an open leather vest on his upper body tumbled out from one of the half-basement tattoo shops and knocked into her. His skin was totally and colorfully illustrated from his bald head to his waist.
More sex shops, more Asian grills, more stores with weird combinations of souvenirs, Christmas decorations, porn underwear and sex toys, more bars, more brothels.
At Skelbækgade, the street prostitutes-the lowest in the pecking order, the most desperate-were already busy. Addicts and Africans, as far as she could tell. Several men walked back and forth, openly sizing them up, while others crept past in their cars.
The nine-to-five shift, they called these early sex customers, when she was a kid.
At the spot on Istedgade where the place begins to look respectable again, she turned right, down a side street.
She stopped when a text message beeped in. It was John, from Rio: All’s well, dear. Brazil is the land of opportunity. Great deals. Looking forward to getting home December 9. Hug and kiss.
She answered at once: Thanks, hon. On the way to new fitness center. Trying to get in shape for Christmas. Take good care of yourself.
The fitness center was to be her alibi. She had a membership card in her pocket.
“Wow! You’ve got class!” Bonnie said, looking almost lovingly at her as she pulled her in through the hallway to the reception area.
Ikea, Claire Winther noted. Cheap, but light and clean and less sleazy than she had expected. A beige corner sofa and a coffee table with porn magazines. A counter with a coffee maker and plastic cups. A flatscreen on the wall, fastened to a swinging arm.