Bo Michaëlis - Copenhagen Noir

Where was he?

A girl came out of the laundromat and walked over to the African, one of the young kids from Skelbækgade, thin as a curtain rod. She stood freezing in a purple leather jacket with a fur collar, and he stuck a bag of brown h in her hand. The taxi arrived. Where the hell was he?

Then she heard him at the door.

Friday 4:57 p.m. Abel Cathrines Gade 5, Fifth Floor, 1654 Copenhagen V

Olek kicked the door in and rushed into the living room directly to Adina. She was standing there with the cigarette and Olek slapped her. He was half a head shorter than her, but he punched her in the stomach and she collapsed on the sofa, still holding the cigarette between her fingers. The glowing end fell off onto the cushions. Olek beat her systematically, first in the face, then the body, her breasts, arms, and stomach. She didn’t scream, but every breath had its sound. She moaned and groaned after each punch, and he continued punishing her. He worked with both hands and covered her body with blows. Only when he grabbed her by her short red hair and pulled her down on the coffee table did she begin to scream, and he threw her to the rug.

“Get your clothes off!”

Marek had screwed the silencer onto his Zastava CZ-99, 9mm pistol; now he stepped over to Adina.

“Goddamn, Olek. Your mother will go crazy if she finds out you came along.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.”

“You probably don’t. But get out anyway, let me do my job.”

Her one eye was closed and yellow, her ear and lips were bleeding. Olek spat in her face. She had stopped screaming and lay panting hysterically. Her lungs rattled, her wide-open eyes looked wild, green with bits of gray. Marek spread his legs, bent his knees a bit, took off the safety, and pressed the silencer between her lips. The metal clicked against her teeth. For some reason he changed his mind and aimed under her left breast. But then another click came from behind him. Another weapon, another safety off.

“Marek!”

“Yeah?”

“This is for my sister.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You think you can run from us? And take your little whore with you?”

Their eyes met. Marek stood awkwardly; he had to turn his knee and shoulder to swing around, then he threw himself backward at Olek and stretched his arm out straight. But he hung in the air when the shot boomed out in the emptiness. Marek felt a hard blow to his head, then everything turned red and faded out as the bullet snapped around inside his brain like a bear trap and blasted out through his neck and made a starshaped crack in a Christmas plate, 1972.

Adina crab-crawled backward on her elbows, over to the door, and put her hands in front of her eyes. Olek walked over to her nice and easy and kneeled down. Sat there pointing the gun at her.

“Here. Here… take it. Take it, goddamnit, take the gun.”

“What?”

“I’m giving you a ticket to your freedom. Take it.”

Friday 5:15 p.m. Abel Cathrines Gade 5, Fifth Floor, 1654 Copenhagen V

By an act of pure will she raised herself up on her elbows and scooted across the floor. She wanted to see her executioner. He was stocky, balding, his head was shaved. He lay with his mouth open and pale eyes staring out; he looked like an idiot. Drool seeped out of the corner of his mouth and his right cheek was slush.

Olek was gone.

She searched the man’s pockets and found a wallet with four twenty-euro bills, a Danish five-hundred kroner bill, and a set of car keys. She stuck everything in her clothes when she heard Henry letting himself in the apartment. Moments later he appeared at the door with a sack from Soul Made on Vesterbrogade. He sat it down on the bureau, but then everything began to blur for her. He walked over to her but it all happened very slowly. Everything sounded loud, and there was a shrill tone in her one ear, the day’s last rays of sunlight slashing through the apartment. He stood looking down at her. He had beautiful eyes, she thought, he was actually a very handsome man. There was a glow to him. She was no longer afraid.

“Adina.”

“Yes.”

His lips curled as he squatted down. Was he smiling? What was it about his eyes? He stroked her forehead and everything began flickering. He lifted her up, carried her over to the sofa.

“It was one of Olek’s men, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It was him or you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s good that you got him. I’m happy about that. But it’s best that you disappear now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need to get out of the country. I’ll take care of all this. Give me the gun.”

She had completely forgotten the pistol she was hugging to her breast, but he untangled it from her stiff fingers. He sat a moment looking at her, he hummed a little tune, the melody from the film, Do not forsake me…

Adina ran down to the taxi. But of course it was gone. A rusty Mazda 323 with Polish plates was parked in front of the gate. She tried the key. She would have said more to Henry, explained. But he just kept on. It was all going to be okay, he said. He also wanted to give her half the money. She would leave first, he would follow in a few weeks when everything had settled down. He would get through all this. Wouldn’t be charged. He kept his wits about him surprisingly well, considering there was a dead Polack on his living room floor, shot in the face. She ended up taking seven thousand.

The key turned in the lock, and suddenly she was behind the wheel of her executioner’s car. She started it and flipped on the blinker and drove off. But she didn’t head for the airport. She drove out of the city. She just wanted to get away! She didn’t know where, but it felt good tearing out into nowhere. She held the ticket, Copenhagen-Frankfurt-Melbourne, in her free hand, checked the rearview mirror, no one , she doubted she could get anything for it. She rolled the window down. Do not forsake me, oh my darling… Then she heard a pop, and the car began swerving. She threw the ticket on the passenger seat and steered off onto the shoulder. But when she turned to get out of the car she saw a girl in the backseat, asleep under an old gray windbreaker. She grabbed hold of the girl and shook her.

“Who are you?”

“Ludmilla… Where’s Marek?”

“Marek is dead. What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to school in Sweden. I have money. See?” Ludmilla took a crumpled brown envelope out of her jacket pocket and waved it around.

“No, you were going to work as a prostitute for a bastard called Olek.”

“I don’t believe you. My mother said I was going to school in Sweden.”

“All right, fine.”

“You’re lying,” Ludmilla persisted. “Who the hell are you anyway? Where is Marek?”

The spare tire was in the trunk. Adina dropped it, and it rolled onto the sidewalk; something rattled when she took hold of it again. She grabbed it with both hands and shook. There was something inside. She removed her pocketknife from her bag, made a slit in the tire, and stuck her hand in, and there she stood with a roll of hundred-euro notes! She sat back inside the car and cut the tire all the way around-it was filled with rolls. Ludmilla still sulked in the backseat. She began slitting the brown envelope open with her finger, turned it upside down. A birth certificate, a physician’s statement, a stack of tourist brochures about Copenhagen in Polish. The girl looked unhappy and started hammering her knuckles into the front seat. Then she let her head fall between her knees. Adina laid an arm around her neck, squeezed her, and then stuffed the money into the bag; she could count it later. Ludmilla sat crying with her head in her hands.