On the way to the police sub-station I bought two soccer magazines. Then we had to wait a while until Benjamin Weiss got rid of a female reporter who had managed to get into the attorneys’ room. She explained that she was working for the illustrated magazine Schampus and wanted to secure an exclusive “picture story” on the refugees in the bunker. As they were released, the refugees could recreate scenes of that “heavy time”, and the “kicker” would be that they would all be wearing “the new Gaultier winter collection, with sunglasses, the women with veils but otherwise real sexy.”
After she was gone, we handed the money and the jewelry to Weiss. He drank a schnapps with us, chased it with aspirin, chain-smoked and told us that no one had been deported so far and that the attorneys thought no one would be during the next few days or weeks. Then I went to the cells and gave Abdullah the soccer magazines. We left the building. Outside, police guards with helmets and pistols were stationed at five-yard intervals. Facing them, a dozen reporters hung out next to a potted palm, passing thermos bottles to each other. The area between them was covered in discarded leaflets.
“Now what? Would you like me to buy you a drink?”
Slibulsky shook his head. “I have a date with Schlumpi.”
“A midnight date?”
The sliding doors flew apart, and we entered the arrival hall. Slibulsky stopped. Looking determined, he told me: “I think we’re quits now, and if I have a midnight date with Schlumpi, then that is where I have to go. But we can have a drink afterwards.”
“If you’re still able to lift a glass.”
He gave me a suspicious look. Then he waved his hand at the ceiling. “I don’t care what you think, but you better stay out of it.”
15
The blocks around the railway station were really jumping. It was the Americans’ night off, and the Eintracht team had taken a bath in Mannheim, zero to one. Frustrated G.I.s and even more frustrated soccer fans reeled down the sidewalks, and cars shaking with music were gridlocked around the block. Shell game artists gathered crowds on street corners. Flickering neon; honking horns, shouting and singing blended into one garish surge. We passed two derelicts fighting over a can of beer while a third one was busy spilling its contents over his shirt front and reached the entrance to The Smiling Die.
Slibulsky went inside. I sat down on the trunk of a parked car. Two women were patrolling the sidewalk. The air was warm and smelled relatively clean; for this night, at least, the rainy weather had washed exhaust fumes and male odors into the gutter.
Turkish music was playing behind a window. I took a cigarette from my pack and noticed that I was out of matches.
“Need a light, darling?” One of the women planted herself in front of me and smiled. Thirtyish, she had a pretty but slightly fleshy face. Her white patent leather outfit didn’t quite cover her ass, and her legs were encased in tall pointy boots.
I nodded, and she produced a lighter.
“Got an ashtray, too, upstairs.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m waiting for somebody.”
She checked me out, from top to toe. “You like the exotic types better? My roommate’s the sweetest seductive thing since chocolate …”
I shook my head again. “I told you, I’m just waiting for somebody.”
“For the guy you were with? Charlie’s pet? You may have to wait a long time.”
“How so?”
“Cause he’s a loser.”
I dragged on my cigarette, expelled the smoke through my nose, and shrugged. “None of my business.”
“So why are you sitting here?”
“When he comes out, we’ll go have a drink.”
“He’s a buddy of yours?” She made a face. Then she looked me up and down again and asked, contemptuously: “What kind of an asshole are you?”
Shaking her head, she strutted back to her beat. I watched her go, tossed my butt, got off the car trunk and went in. The joint was packed. Clouds of smoke hung under the ceiling, and the waiters’ faces glistened with sweat. I made my way to the bar. Ignoring the instant angry chatter of the woman working the beer tap I opened the door marked Office and saw Schlumpi, the man I didn’t know, and Slibulsky. Slibulsky’s right cheek was red; now the left cheek turned the same color.
“Kayankaya! Oh, shit! Fuck off”
I slammed the door shut behind me. The man I did not know pursed his lips, looked indignant. Schlumpi wiggled his fingers and very carefully moved a little to one side. I opened my jacket to show the handles of the guns I was still wearing tucked behind my belt. “Take a good look before you make a mistake.”
Schlumpi froze, and the man I didn’t know cleared his throat.
“Such manners.…” Suddenly I knew him, all right-I recognized his voice.
“Is it better manners to break someone’s arm when he can’t pay his debts?”
He was sitting behind a desk in a yellow and brown checked jacket, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and some open ledgers in front of him. His hands were folded around a gold-plated ballpoint pen. He looked for all the world like a postal employee, maybe even a postmaster. One of those faceless types that make one wonder if they invented the rubber stamp or if the rubber stamp invented them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll explain it to you. Slibulsky here lost a bunch of money he inherited, fifty thousand marks to be exact, at your roulette table. And since he is a goddamn idiot, he then went on to borrow the next fifty thou, or whatever, from you, and proceeded to lose those as well. So now you’re giving him the business, and he gets involved in a lot of bad shit in order to pay you back. You follow me?”
“Kayankaya.…” Slibulsky sighed.
Ignoring him, I walked up to the guy to whom I had spoken on the phone the day before. I aimed my index finger at his nose. “But here’s the kicker. To whom does he owe that money, and for whom are you collecting? For Wang. And who are you? You are Eberhard Schmitz’s secretary. We spoke yesterday. Now the fifty-thousand-mark question is: Where has Wang been hiding since his wife was strangled and her lover fell out of the window? Even the cops should be able to find an answer to that. And while you’re mulling that over, Schlumpi can tell the croupier …” I turned. “… to fix the wheel so that our numbers come up when we’re playing.”
A pause. Schlumpi looked at the secretary, the secretary looked at me, I looked at Slibulsky, and Slibulsky looked at the ceiling. Then the secretary gave Schlumpi a nod, and Schlumpi left the office.
“I admit that you’ve got the edge, for now. But don’t forget the consequences. How will Mr. Wang react to this? He can change his residence quickly. I can foresee a few problems for you.”
Slibulsky almost managed to nod and shake his head at the same time. I did the latter.
“We won’t have any problems. This is mainly a matter of principle. No one should think they can get away with just about anything merely because Wang isn’t here. And that is why Slibulsky will recoup his losses in plain view of everybody. The alternative? Well, I’m a private investigator, and for twenty thousand marks I’ll be glad to find Wang for you.”
He rolled the pen between his fingers, looking pensive. Then he shrugged and started closing the ledgers. “As you wish. I’ll inform Mr. Wang about all of this. The rest will take care of itself.”
After he had stuffed the ledgers into a brown briefcase, he got up and walked around the desk. He moved jerkily, as if he had trouble retaining his posture without a backrest. “As for you, Mr. Slibulsky … Please accept my apologies for the business with your arm. It was done according to orders, and, as you must have noticed, I found it hard to observe.” Looking mildly embarrassed, he held out his hand to Slibulsky. “No offense …”
Amazed, Slibulsky raised his eyebrows. Then he made an awkward gesture, and I had a hard time keeping a straight face. The secretary turned red in the face.