Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

I rattled my handcuffs.

“Please take these off.” He got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly around the desk.

“I’ve gathered some data on you, Kayankaya. You think you’re a tough guy who can stick his nose into whatever he feels like.”

“Is that all you found out?”

He sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his hands over his soccer-ball stomach.

“You’re a boozer.”

“Does that worry you?”

He picked up a metal ruler and pointed it at me. “What do folks drink in your parts? Raki, right? Would you like a shot?”

“No, thanks. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“A cigarette?”

I didn’t reply. He reached across the desk and took a pack of Rothmans from a drawer. Unwrapping it, he asked, “So? You’ll resign from the case?”

“I don’t think so.”

Furious, he tossed the pack in the wastebasket and came closer. I had had enough. I tried to get up, but he pushed me back into my seat.

“You stay where you are until we’ve settled this,” he hissed at me through his teeth. Then he switched back to balloon man, smiled, and said in a low voice, like someone explaining the advantages of an account with their savings and loan association, “Listen carefully, Kayankaya …”

He clasped his hands behind his back and strode slowly back and forth in the room.

“In here, I can beat you within an inch of your life, and no one gives a rat’s ass. On the contrary, I may even get a pat on the back.”

He studied his fingernails.

“Naturally, I prefer another solution. It wouldn’t please me particularly to … Well. Four officers would testify that you attacked me with a knife, and off you’d go to prison for attempted grievous bodily harm. But”-he beamed ecstatically-“things could get much worse.” He patted my shoulder gently. “I could do things to your face, Kayankaya, that would make crashing through a windshield look like cosmetic surgery.”

“You’re really something, aren’t you? You sit there like a saint, relying on a bunch of uniformed hoodlums next door who are just waiting to have a little fun. Then you give me all this tough-guy shit.”

He smiled.

“Mr. Kayankaya, do you really believe that I would call in my officers?” He laughed. “My, my, the ideas you get.”

He giggled quietly as he walked back to the desk. He picked up the metal ruler, held it in both hands, and looked pensively at the floor.

“If you give me your word that you’ll leave this case alone, I’ll take those off’-he indicated the handcuffs, with his chin-” and you may leave. If you don’t …” He cleared his throat. “Well, then I’ll be compelled to give my words a little additional emphasis.”

For a moment he seemed to be lost in thought. Then he looked up and beamed at me. “You may rest assured that I am quite capable of taking care of things all by myself. To quite a satisfactory degree.”

I told him that I was ready to believe in his abilities, but that it would only be fair if he took the cuffs off me first. After all, I said, I too had some talent for physical violence, and would be glad to show him a couple of tricks.

He giggled. “What a card you are.”

Then he moved in close and placed the cold ruler under my chin. “So?”

There were only two choices. I picked the wrong one. I bounded off my chair and rammed both fists into his stomach, but I didn’t hit him just right, and after he had reeled backward for a couple of meters, he was able to sidestep my second try, and I slammed into the desk. Before I could put my guard up, the ruler struck my ear like a red-hot iron bar, slid across my right cheek, and tore it. For several seconds, I became deaf. A fire raged in my head. Slowly the pain subsided. I looked up and saw him standing there, saying, “Tch, tch, tch …” Then he took aim and hit me again, striking my wounded arm. I felt the hot sting. The wound broke open and spurted blood like a firehose. I fainted. When I came to again, the nice little man slapped me in the face. I closed my eyes. He slapped me again. I tried to crawl under the desk, but he caught my ankles by stepping on them. He stood there looking down at me, smiling.

“Now then, Mr. Kayankaya, have I been able to convince you?”

I wanted to tell him “convince” wasn’t the right word, but only managed to spit blood. He took his heels off my ankles and sat down on the edge of the desk. “Get up. You’re making a mess of my floor.”

I pulled myself up. My cheek was throbbing. I dragged myself to the chair. The whole floor was smeared with blood. He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Just a little foretaste. But,” he gave me a pat, “in two or three days you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

I closed my eyes. I heard a tap running. Then I received another slap in the face. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t here to enjoy ourselves.”

I held out my wrists. “Take these off and give me a cigarette.”

He grabbed my hair and brought my face close to his. His eyes were like rocks, and he smelled of mouthwash.

“Kayankaya, I’m warning you. If you try to pull anything on me, I’ll make you feel like this was a picnic!”

“Unlock these damn things!”

He let go of me. I fell back. Keys clinked, and he said, in a flutelike voice, “Get up.”

I wrenched myself off the chair and raised my arms. He grinned, and before I could duck, he slammed the bunch of keys into my face. I fell backward and banged into a bookshelf.

“You know what that’s called in court? Resisting state authorities.”

Then he unlocked the cuffs, and I felt a lit cigarette between my lips.

“And don’t forget: This will remain our little secret. I trust you with that.”

Then he sat down behind the desk and said quietly, but just loud enough for me to hear, “Kayankaya will no longer engage in any activities concerned with the Bollig case.”

He wrote that in a small black book, put the book into a desk drawer, and went to the door.

“Hansmann!”

Hansmann, a fat blond with sloping shoulders, shuffled in.

“Get a rag and wipe up the mess.”

He handed him the cuffs. “And rinse those off.”

Hansmann grinned as if to indicate that his boss was the greatest, and disappeared. The boss approached me, holding out his hand, and said, “Well, Mr. Kayankaya, we have reached an agreement, haven’t we?” In a sharper tone of voice: “I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”

He shook my hand, escorted me to the door as if I were his brother-in-law, and wished me a good day. I dragged myself through the hallway to the exit. On my way I passed Hansmann, who was carrying a bucket of water. Shaking her head, the girl at the switchboard watched us go our separate ways.

I was working on my third slice of ham on toast in the Hotel Intercontinental’s breakfast room when Max Schwartz came marching in. He is a reliable fellow, and the boyfriend of one of the most beautiful women I know. Unfortunately, she is an alcoholic, and Max is also hitting the bottle, to drown his sorrows. He is a professional electrician and knows how to debug a room. He planted himself in a facing chair, squinted at me with interest, and said, “What on earth did they do to you?”

I gave him a brief report, adding that my doctor had brusquely shown me the door an hour ago after I had refused to take to my bed. Max looked around the large, impeccable room until he located the small group of waiters standing by the buffet and waiting for a soft clapping of hands. Max signaled to them and ordered coffee and Scotch. I abandoned my good intentions and did likewise. Around us, bankers took their seats. Young, tanned professionals, all of the same model, trim and fit. They ordered lox and champagne and appeared to be in excellent spirits.