John Brady - Poachers Road

She glanced at Felix to see if the old-fashioned courtesy was genuine.

“Melange for me,” he said.

“Mineral water also,” Speckbauer added. “For my associate here.”

Franz moved into the booth slowly. Felix thought he heard him sigh once.

“Watch and make sure that she doesn’t spike the coffees,” said Speckbauer. “Right Franzi?”

Franz nodded.

“Ah, but why complicate matters?” said Speckbauer then, and turned to watch a van negotiating the lane to the side.

The music was techno, a continuous tattoo with heavy backing.

It sounded like an electronic string section made of tired banshees.

Speckbauer began to hum something, tapping his finger rhythmically on the envelope. Felix still couldn’t see Franzi’s eyes behind the sunglasses. Still he felt sure he was eyeing the two women across from them.

“So,” said Speckbauer, and drew his elbows up on the table.

“How’d you like it so far?”

Felix didn’t know what to say.

“My duties?”

“Yes, your duties.”

“Well, there’s a variety of them I hadn’t expected, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

“Oberstleutnant?” said Speckbauer. “You know the rank? It didn’t come up in yesterday’s chat, at the farm. Yesterday I was Horst and you were Felix.”

“Correct, er.”

“Let’s go back to that. No rigmarole, please. Even in suits we’re still Gendarmes.”

“I understand.”

“Good. We have enough things to make us unbehaglich, don’t we? And stress can kill. Isn’t that so, Franz? The stress?”

“Terrible harm,” said Franz, tonelessly.

The waitress/owner was prompt with the coffees. She laid napkins and a plate of wafer biscuits.

“Mannerschnitte, how could I forget,” said Speckbauer.

“They are complimentary,” she said.

Speckbauer told her she was very kind, and that he would be telling everyone he knew to go to this restaurant. Felix stirred his sugar in and wondered if she were trying to make up for something earlier. Maybe she hadn’t taken the two for cops when they came in.

Speckbauer tore open his sachet of brown sugar.

“Did you know Franz is also a Leutnant?” he asked. “No? But he wears it lightly. He’s the deep thinker. I am the talker. And the sunglasses? You were too polite to ask, I think. So, I will tell you.

Franz’ favourite movie is The Matrix. So there. The American dreck wins, all the time. You like that new Clint Eastwood one, the girl boxer…?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“Before your time, maybe. Franz? Clint Eastwood. Yes, or no?”

“No. I told you before. I suspect he is a latent homosexual.”

“Franz is well educated. Night school. I made him go. Isn’t that funny? I mean funny peculiar, of course.”

Felix made a noncommittal gesture.

“Damn but that is a fine coffee,” said Speckbauer, and sucked at the ends of his moustache.

“Franz was feeling sorry for himself, you see,” he went on. “So I kicked his arsch around the room quite a number of times. Right, Franzi?”

“Just so. Many times.”

“I had rank on him then. But now he caught up. You can see how outspoken he is. Tactless insolent, actually. Some days he is unbearable. Yesterday, for example. See, did you hear him say a word yesterday? All those hours up at that delightful farm five million kilometres from dreary city civilization as we know it?”

“No, actually.”

“Do you speak Italian, Felix?”

Felix tried not to react to the sudden shift.

“No.”

“Not even a bit? Mi amore, that sort of endearment?”

Felix shrugged.

“ Cappuccino,” Speckbauer said. “ Ciao, bambino. Carabinieri, maybe?”

“They are police, that I know.”

“Indeed they are. Franz, how do you rate our friends in the Carabinieri? Give us out of five only the last couple of years, with our team, our side.”

Franz held up three fingers.

“They are only good when we can see what the hell they’re doing. If you go to, I don’t know, Sicily or Calabria, well all bets are off. Where is Giuliana from?”

“Giuliana who?”

And Speckbauer exploded into laughter.

Felix was surprised to realize that his own anger soon disappeared. He looked over to Franz who was wiping the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. His mouth was like a slash, thin-lipped.

There was something of the alien look to him.

“Keep going,” Franz murmured. “He likes it when you kick back.”

Speckbauer’s laughter subsided and he stopped shaking. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes with his knuckles.

“Good,” he said, and lifted his cup again. “It’s been a while since we had that. Did Gebhart warn you?”

“He said to smarten up and mind my manners.”

“Lovely. Solid advice indeed. Been to Zagreb, have you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because in Zagreb I heard there were problems, gangsters probably.”

“Okay,” said Speckbauer. “But that has changed for tourists anyway. I forgot, sorry. You’d have been a kid when the crap hit the fan there. Been to Sarajevo?”

“Same, no.”

“Slovenia? Laibach, Lyubanya they call it there?”

“Sure. Maybe a dozen times since I was a kid.”

“Family trips? Dad driving, like?”

“Most of them.”

“You went on a bash or two though, surely. Come on the student drinking weekends? Really, now.”

“I don’t get this,” said Felix. “Is this some kind of a test?”

“No, no. Why, do you have a problem chatting with colleagues?”

Felix said nothing.

“Sure we’re from the big Zentrale and all that. But we’re on the same team. You remember provincial headquarters?”

“Of course,” said Felix.

“Ah, those were the days, for me too. Soccer, training, the firing range. All that.”

Felix nodded.

“But what a day yesterday, no? I don’t remember getting any training for that. Do you?”

“No. It was bad, all right.”

Speckbauer nodded sympathetically.

“Bet you never saw things like that before. Upsetting, no?”

Felix nodded. He wondered if it was a hint about him puking.

Speckbauer got up.

“So tell me, Felix. Are you good on faces?”

“It’s hard to say. We did the points of comparison training and things of that nature. But it takes practice, I would think. Or experience.”

“Indeed. And how well you put it.”

Speckbauer stretched.

“Okay then,” he said. “Franzi? Exhibit A?”

Franz made a final few slow dabs at his lips with the napkin.

“Remember I said that Franzi here is the thinker, Felix? And I am the talker? Franz doesn’t like to talk much. He likes to save his energy. Weird, uh?”

Felix watched Franzi drink more mineral water. He heard noisy gulps.

“He is not really the guy in The Matrix, Felix, I must confess.

It’s a story, a little spielerei we have. The shades are quite necessary.

Franz and daylight are not compatible. But he is not a vampire. Are you Franzi?”

Franz shook his head. His baby finger worked at a piece of food lodged in his front teeth. His other hand came up and pushed his sunglasses up off his nose. Felix took in the shiny white skin, the wandering lines that sometimes had pink edges. The eyes were from science fiction, but Franz let the glasses down again.

“Franz doesn’t cry. I suppose part of his job is to make others cry. But he cannot produce tears, or to be more accurate ‘express’ them. Is ‘express’ a doctor word, Franzi?”

“I believe it is.”

“Ah, so indeed. There was damage done there. The grafts cannot fix that apparently. And Franz has troubles putting out enough fluids there. Am I saying it right, Franzi?”