Bo Michaëlis - Copenhagen Noir

He sat on one of the two dining room chairs that were the sum total of the apartment’s furniture and turned his eyes to the window facing the courtyard. One good thing the peace had brought: it wasn’t necessary to lower the blinds, the blackouts were over, the view was open. No longer busy with anything else, Baldersen now permitted himself to enjoy the free entertainment from a distance. Being broke prevented him from enjoying the pleasures to which he’d had such ample access in the good old days, but he took a certain dogged pleasure in seeing how people made fools of themselves in the illuminated rooms above and below, arguing, fighting, or hunching listlessly over dining room tables, and the bitches, yes, there were bitches too, and when he discovered that he had a view of two dykes who weren’t ashamed of performing most of the stunts their kind dreamed up, and in full public view, it both aroused and enraged him. A pair of cows like them should have been shipped south with the other perverts, but anyway he wouldn’t want to have missed them.

He grabbed the half-bottle of schnapps he kept on the shelf beside the kitchen sink. Although he had only cold running water, it didn’t really matter, since he still went to the public baths at Helgoland in the summer, and the water did a fine job of cooling off the liquor if it got too warm. He poured schnapps into a coffee cup and sat down at the table. Maybe it wasn’t just the building that smelled sour, maybe it was him. He took a shot of schnapps and directed his sight to the entertainment on the other side of the street. But not much was going on, and should Aage Baldersen be completely honest he would have to admit that it was a poor show; like the circus, it wasn’t worth shelling out money for.

The schnapps warmed him up, and a bit later he fell asleep. Naturally he was unaware of it, but in that crooked position, his elbow on the table and head in his hands and arm hanging, Aage Baldersen looked like a sculpture that could easily be entitled: “Tired Man.” That was what he was, and when a while later someone knocked on the door and he opened his eyes and felt a shudder race through him, he thought: Uhh, I never want to wake up again! But of course he woke up-after all, he was still alive.

The man he let in was about his own age, wet only on the outside of his black, shiny oilskin coat. A military belt bound it in front. Without being invited, he sat down opposite Baldersen on the other dining room chair.

“Hey, Baldy,” he said after a short pause, “how you doin’?”

Aage Baldersen said nothing, but he straightened up in his chair. The weariness that he had felt before was gone, replaced by a disgust as thick as pudding.

“I’ve got nothing,” he said.

“Excuse me,” the man replied, “I didn’t quite hear what you said. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

The man laughed tersely. “So, that was what I heard.”

The silence lengthened between them, and only the faint reflection from the windows across the street created any sort of movement in the room.

“You know what you owe.” The man leaned forward. “You don’t walk off with that much money without there being certain… debts. Debts of honor, if you want to put it that way.”

“You want a schnapps?”

“No thanks, I don’t drink on the job.”

Aage Baldersen drained the coffee cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Debts? Debts of honor? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know goddamn well just like everybody else what happened to that money.”

“Half a million? You’re not going to goddamn sit there and tell me it’s gone?”

Baldersen shrugged. He turned his head and stared out the window. “Fuck you,” he said.

The man in the oilskin coat stood up, light reflected from the gloss. “Everybody trusted you, Baldy, it was a confidential deal. Everybody knew you had it under control.”

“You bought me out.”

“You’ve damn well never been worth half a million. You know that. Sure as hell you do, Baldy.”

Aage Baldersen didn’t even make an attempt at hunkering down. He just sat there.

“What you’ve done, how you’ve fixed it all up, I don’t care. I’ve just been sent to collect.”

“It was my money.”

“Your money? It was our money. Fair and square. You hear?”

The man had stepped behind Baldersen’s chair. A moment later he lifted his arm and hit Baldersen behind the ear with a small sandbag.

“Just a sample,” he said, “there’s more coming real soon. If you don’t start talking.”

Aage Baldersen rocked back and forth on the chair. That damn rain, the damn darkness. In fact, he was soaked.

“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” he said, “tired, tired, tired…”

Soon the man started pounding him. It was almost like a machine. It was as if he didn’t just want to beat Baldersen to the floor, he wanted to beat him into it. Slowly the figure melted and slid down off the chair.

“Night, Baldy, goodnight. And sleep tight,” the man whispered.

After a while the man stuck the sandbag in his pocket, opened the door to the hallway, closed it behind him, and began the long walk down to Parmagade. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind still blew, and the figure’s shadow moved uneasily over the walls of the buildings in the streetlights’ glow. There was no traffic, but the steady ding-ding from a small bell announced that a late trolley car was backing into the depot.

Despite a double gin-and-tonic and two of the small pink pills that she preferred to call “muscle relaxants,” her hands shook when she punched the number. And she held her breath while listening to the amorous voice: “You’ve reached City Sex and Luxury Massage. For telephone sex, press 1. For information about net-sex, press 2. For appointments, press 3. For personal service, press 4—”

She hung up as if she’d been burned, mixed a dry martini, and curled up in the well-preserved, original Arne Jacobsen Egg chair.

She looked out over the sound through the coast road villa’s picture window, waiting for the alcohol to relax and embolden her. Her Philippine au pair gave a friendly smile through the glass, which she was cleaning.

A half hour later Claire Winther felt she was ready. It was the only solution, the only way out of this situation, she told herself.

She punched the number again and pressed 4 for personal service.

“This is Bonnie. What can we do for you?”

“My name is Michelle Jensen, and I’m interested in hearing if there’s a possibility of working for you.”

“There’s a decent possibility if you look really good and know what you’re doing. How old are you, and how long have you been in the business? You specialize in anything?”

“I’m thirty-four but I can easily pass for twenty-six, definitely. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience, in fact I’m a beginner. But you know how it is, it’s tough out there right now, you need a little extra cash, so why not… if you have a natural talent?”

“We’ll take a look at you and talk about it. Come in around six if you can, and if you have some porny pictures of yourself, bring them along on CD.”

“I don’t.”

“No problem. We’ll figure it out. In fact, we could use a Danish girl right now, so if you’re okay…”

Claire felt calmer. Bonnie had sounded like a normal, everyday person. How hard could it be?

She chose a dark wig and large sunglasses. The oldest pair of jeans she owned, and a red lace top under the black leather jacket that hadn’t been outside the closet for five years. Given her exclusive wardrobe, this was the cheapest she could look, she decided, and she topped it off with crimson-red gloss lipstick and a shot of a much-too-heavy and sweet perfume, a shopping mistake.