Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

“A private investigator. Fancy that.”

He grinned wearily.

“And you work for the lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

He let the cigarette dangle from his lips and put his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a while. I took the initiative. “Who did you call?”

“My true love, chief,” he whispered, and grinned again. Finally he took the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbed it in the ashtray, and leaned across the table.

“All right, smartass. Maybe I do have something to tell you.” With a glance to the counter, “But not here. Wait for me outside.”

He turned and walked over to the palefaces. While I paid for my drinks at the counter, he left the joint. The waitress gave me my change and said, “I couldn’t swear to it, but I think Schmidi’s avant-garde is interested in you.”

In the mirror above the bar I could see the three sitting there, motionless, staring at me. I found Schmidt leaning against a streetlight by the corner. It was pouring, his hair was soaking wet. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, “Let’s take a little walk.”

“Because it’s such nice weather?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to eavesdrop on us.”

In silence, we trudged through the puddles in the direction of the Westbahnhof.

“There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to eavesdrop on.”

Without looking at me, he muttered, “Give me a little time, man. I have to figure it out.” He spat. “Besides, I have a photograph that might interest you. Don’t want to pull it out in this rain. But there’s this pedestrian underpass, a little ways ahead.”

I didn’t believe him about the photo, nor did I believe that he really wanted to tell me anything. But something was bound to happen. We turned into a narrow street and descended some steps to the underpass. Its walls were covered with all kinds of slogans, it was poorly lit, and it stank of urine. A shopping cart lay on its side by a wall. Our footsteps echoed. I stopped.

“Here we are, in your underpass.”

We looked at each other. He put a cigarette in his mouth and nodded. People appeared at the other end of the passage. Three of them. Three palefaces. Schmidi grinned, cigarette between his lips, and said, “A light?”

I punched him and ran.

I charged up the steps, vaulted over a railing, slipped, rolled, got back up, and ran down the street. They were right behind me. I thought of the Beretta, safe between my underwear in the closet. The street forked, and I went left. A dead end, with residential buildings on both sides. I ran to a front door and grabbed the door handle. Locked, just as it should be. Before I could ring the bell, they were on top of me. Panting, they dragged me back to the sidewalk and slammed me against a lamp post. Schmidi hissed between clenched teeth, “So now, you fucking pig …”

He pulled my coat collar up while the other three hung on to my sleeves. They wrapped me around the post like a rubber band. Then one of them said, “He’s a Turk, right?”

“But he’s a cop, nevertheless.”

He put his fist under my chin. “Still acting cool, hey, pig?”

“Tell your kiddies I don’t need longer arms.”

He swung and slapped me in the face with his open palm.

“You’re just an asshole. Just like us. But the difference is that you’ve sold yourself to the pigs. You understand?”

“No.”

“You’re a Turk, all right, that’s a bonus. A dago … But if you try to sell us to the cops, we won’t be so tolerant anymore. Is that clear?”

“Listen, man, I’m too old for your party.”

He slapped me again, then held his index finger under my nose. “For the last time: I don’t know anything about the Bollig affair, and I don’t know the fifth man. And something else: you won’t come snooping around again. Got it?”

The three were hanging off of me like shopping bags. I had had enough.

“If the fifth man isn’t an informer, I’ll buy you a soft drink.”

His fist flew through the air, a white lightning bolt flashed through my skull, then everything turned gray. I tried to defend myself, but they hung on and pummeled me.

“Fucking traitor!” Then I was down on the sidewalk, and I stopped trying to ward off their blows. It was pointless. I saw their faces whirl above me like a carousel. A punch in the stomach, a kick to the head, fireworks, and curtains.

I woke to stinging pain. I opened my eyes and saw a crumpled Coke can. They had left me lying in the gutter. My head throbbed wildly. My tongue tasted blood. Something tugged on my pants leg, then crawled over it, and then there was that vicious sting again, in my arm. I rolled sideways and felt the wet fur, heard it squeak. A rat was hanging on to my arm and staring at me with its pinpoint eyes. I scrambled to my feet and pounded the rat, shouting, but it only tightened its jaws harder on my broken skin and flesh. Crazed with pain and revulsion, I made it to the next streetlight and slammed my arm and the rat against the pole. If the beast hadn’t borne the brunt of the blow, I would have broken my arm. I banged it against the lamp post one more time and it let go, slid to the sidewalk, and ran squealing into the nearest storm drain. I leaned against the post, totally confused. The rat had torn my jacket and shirt, and I could see a mess of blood and broken skin. I was in urgent need of a doctor. Behind me, a front door opened, footsteps approached. “Good God! What happened to you?”

“Call an ambulance! Please!”

Then I blacked out again. When I came to, a man in a white coat was supporting me. We were still by the streetlight, but a crowd had gathered. Someone wanted to know what had happened. He was attacked by a rat, someone said. People giggled.

“Wow, that’s wild, a Turk chewed up by a rat!”

Boom, boom, boom. That was my arm. A distant murmur reached my ears. My mouth tasted as if I had been sucking on a rotten herring. The murmur came closer and turned into a voice right next to me. It hurt my head.

“God, I hate the emergency room! Stabbings, alcohol poisoning, broken noses-it’s always the same. This one’s lucky to keep his arm. God, the garbage we have to deal with here at night! I used to feel pity, but now it’s simply disgusting. When he wakes up, send him home to bed, and tell him how many of these pills he should take. If he doesn’t understand, draw a picture.”

“All right, doctor.”

I squinted into the blinding white light. Slowly the white coats acquired outlines. I dragged myself up onto my right elbow. My left arm dangled lifelessly. Two men stood watching me the way anglers look at a poisoned fish.

“See you later, Heckler.”

I raised my hand and croaked, “Doctor-”

He didn’t turn around, just kept on going. Heckler was studying papers. I touched my damaged arm, moved its elbow and fingers a little. It was far from functional. It had always been the weaker arm.

“Heckler.”

He didn’t look up but indicated that I had his attention, growling, “Yes?”

“How is my arm?”

He put the papers aside and came to the cot. A young paramedic, clean-shaven, impeccably manicured, white clogs on his feet. Legs apart, knees straight, he stood before me.

“Not so hot.” He clicked his tongue. “You should take better care next time.”

“I want to know how my arm is.”

He crossed his arms and rocked back on the wooden sales of his clogs.

“You have light to medium contusions allover your body and a laceration on your right leg. Your left arm is badly infected. We sewed it up as well as we could.”

As he was speaking, he was performing a kind of mime.

“What do you mean, as well as you could?” I asked, after explaining to him that the laceration was on my leg and not in my brain.