“I’m not a credit-rating agency, Buddy,” said the Black Giant, whose smooth-shaven skull was a sparkly slime-green because it was reflecting the light from the club’s neon sign.
When men taller than 190 or shorter than 170 centimeters call you “Buddy,” incidentally, there is call for increased caution, which is why all of my warning lights immediately started flashing.
“I really hate to bother you with a favor, but I’ve got to know what her name is and where she lives,” Martin said. You could hear clear exhaustion and a certain resignation that had set in his voice. The only way I’d been able to convince him to keep going at all was with maximum effort and urgency. So this guy here was going to be our last witness.
“What are you looking for her for, Buddy?” the Black Giant asked.
Over the course of the evening I’d determined that my position as disinterested observer entailed unexpected advantages. Up to this point my immateriality was an “extreme burden” on me, as a shrink would presumably say. But my unobservability had also had its advantages during the countless conversations Martin had had all night. I was free to pay much closer attention to what people were saying between the lines. Usually there wasn’t much there, other than angling how to trade a piece of information for money.
But as Martin was rattling off his story about the girl from the grocery store checkout line, my warning bells suddenly went off. The bouncer wasn’t making a particularly affable impression, but he wasn’t really acting like a thug, either. Still, his vibe had something menacing about it, and I had the impression the guy knew more than what he was telling us.
“Martin,” I called. “This guy knows something.”
Martin responded promptly.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen this woman even once?” he asked politely. “It’s really incredibly important to me.”
“When I say no, that applies to the first, second, and third time you ask the same question,” the bouncer said. He was parleying as though he’d been a humanities major. And maybe he was. There are barkeeps with PhDs and taxi drivers with tenure at the university, after all!
“She may not speak German,” Martin said, as though he hadn’t heard the objection.
The Black Giant didn’t say anything.
“I’m sure that you know more than you want to tell me,” Martin said, politely.
“And I’m sure that you’d better get scarce,” the bouncer replied, sounding not at all amicable.
“All right, we’re done for tonight,” I said.
“Well, thank you very much for your time,” Martin said, turning around. He stuck the drawing, which the bouncer had taken a curious look at but not touched, back into his duffle coat pocket as he snuck down the dark alley toward the car.
“No matter what he knows, he’d never have said anything in a hundred years,” I said, trying to console him. The way Martin had to be trotting along here at one thirty in the morning, you really had to feel sorry for him.
“Hmm,” he muttered.
I think he was just wiped out.
His car hadn’t been damaged any further, which didn’t surprise me because most people have a kind of amused affection for a 2CV, no matter what kind of crowd you hang out in.
Martin was driving so carefully, but to make matters worse he still got flagged into a drunk-driving checkpoint. In response to the question whether he had drunk any alcohol, he said no; in response to the question where was he coming from and where had he spent the whole evening and half of the night, he stated he was looking for his girlfriend. Was she missing? No. Uh-huh. She had run off with a guy, Martin explained. This statement in conjunction with the dark rings under his anguished-looking eyes redeemed him, and the police were nice enough to wish him well and good luck with his girlfriend. Martin was slowly but surely evolving into a skilled liar. But there was no way my praise could coax even one more grunt out of him tonight.
Once home, he crashed still-dressed into his bed and immediately fell asleep. Oh, fabulous! Now I could take a look at his collection of city maps in peace. I’ve always dreamed of something like this. I looked over at the TV and determined that Meticulous Martin didn’t leave the set in standby mode because standby still draws too much electricity, so I had to marinate in my bad mood until morning.
Morning started rather early, when someone began incessantly ringing the doorbell at seven. The noise pierced through me down to my balls, because it took a solid three minutes for Martin to emerge from the bedroom. He looked like an animal had eaten him, half-digested him, and hacked him back up again.
It was Gregor, Martin’s detective friend. At seven in the morning. Just guess if he came as a friend or as a detective. Exactly, criminal investigation.
“Didn’t sleep much last night, eh?” he said, greeting Martin and heading right into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
Martin mumbled something incomprehensible and vanished into the bathroom. Gregor putzed around in the kitchen. I decided to go into the kitchen, too. Watching people in the bathroom in the morning is not really my thing. Plus, I wanted to know what had brought Gregor over here so early in the morning.
Gregor found a can of coffee beans, grabbed the grinder, and started turning the crank. By hand. Have you ever seen such a thing? He did it without any kind of amazement, but since he apparently knew his way around his friend’s place pretty well, he apparently also knew how pointless it would be to look for instant. Anyone who normally sips tea from the finest porcelain would likewise turn the guzzling of coffee into some kind of fussy, civilized ceremony. So Gregor was endeavoring to prepare a cultivated coffee and had just finish brewing when Martin entered the kitchen, freshly showered but still far from top form. He took the mug that Gregor handed him with a mumbled thank-you. Then, totally exhausted, he collapsed onto one of the two stools that were half-slid under the breakfast table the size of a proper gentleman’s handkerchief.
“An all-night investigation like that is pretty tiring, huh?” Gregor said.
Martin nodded, staring at his coffee while Gregor added fresh milk and a half spoon of sugar for him. Man, I’d never have expected so much mothering from a heavyset criminal investigator. But apparently Gregor was playing the good cop/bad cop routine here in one person. The good one had made the coffee; the bad one was going to continue his questioning.
“It’s especially tiring when you have to watch your back loitering around the roughest corners of the city all night while still doing a professional job looking around. Right?”
Martin nodded again.
“So you see why police officers always go in pairs.”
No one said anything for a while, interrupted occasionally by Gregor sipping his coffee. Martin drank silently.
“So, what the hell is going on?” Gregor asked once he’d had enough of the mutual silence.
“I wanted to find out who the dead Jane Doe is,” Martin said.
Of course that wasn’t particularly helpful since Gregor evidently already knew that; otherwise he wouldn’t have been standing around all healthy, wealthy, and wise here in Martin’s kitchen instead of at home in his own warm bed.
“Your great love from the grocery store,” he said, caustically. “God, Martin. I’m serious,” he then added, now no longer looking irritated but really very, very serious. “You have put yourself and me into an impossible situation.”
“How do you know anything about it?” Martin asked.
“Let’s just say there are people who hang out in ugly crowds even though they may not be that ugly themselves,” Gregor said. “Some of them are also happy to pass on a tip now and then when something strange crops up.”
“The bouncer,” I yelled.
“The bouncer,” Martin said.