Reginald Rosenfeldt - Battlefield Berlin

"Oh yes?"

"Please Kowalski! I must not tell you, that I begged Charley more then once, finally stop his thoughtless bragging. After a few glasses of vodka he shamed himself and his best friends, and for the correct sum, he was capable of almost any mess."

"Yeah, and the thirty pieces of silver were just paid out of petty cash." Kowalski's broad face twisted into a grimace of contempt and he pointed with a vague gesture into the room. “It`s about time, that we talk seriously!"

"No problem." Michael Herold turned around and looked briefly in the room: On both sides of the center aisle, were five rows of tables that were screwed just like the benches on the ground. Michael walked to the nearest bank, sat down and dug a Zippo from the jacket. Infuriatingly calm, he let the flame lick over the head of a menthol cigarette, and shut the Zippo with a loud click. "Well, what do you want to hear?"

"First, calm down!" Commissioner Kowalski sat down on the other side of the table and pulled thoughtfully a plastic calendar from his leather jacket. With pursed lips he leafed through it until the last third and then shows it Herald with a provocative smile. "Please look at the entry in the second line."

Herold leaned over and looked at the strange abbreviations next to Kowalski's thumb: "3.10.-23.00 clock, MH !!! 1000 S!" The terrible scrawl was without a doubt the handwriting of the old man.

"Twenty-three clock tonight! Yes, of course, that was Charley’s deadline!"

"Well, well, then at least, that’s finished! Otherwise, my congratulations, thousand whatever, that's quite an impressive sum for a lousy information."

"If you accept Austrian shillings, I will put you on my list."

"Save your strange humor for the next scribbling." Kowalski gave Herold the caricature of a warm-acting grin, that has been intimidated so many tough guys. "The ominous meeting! Have you any idea what Charley wanted to sell?"

"Not definitely. He called me last night and promised me once again the moon and the stars. Very flowery and pathetic, without anything really palpable..."

"You waste your precious time for the senseless ramblings of an old man?"

"Even hollow phrases often contain a grain of truth." Michael Herold leaned back and stared through the glass window next to his shoulder into the night. On the other shore shone the yellowish light points of two windows like distant fixed stars and above them moves restlessly Kowalski mirror image. The Commissioner clarified loudly his throat, and Michael turned around again.

"I research in the moment for a serial about transit-smuggling. It's work that would not been possible, without Charley's quite profound insider knowledge." Herold smiled challenging. "I guess, my revelations about the city cleaning are not gone completely unnoticed by you."

"Ah yes, the tiresome BSR affair. The front pages were not to be overlooked."

"The report gave the teams of three garbage trucks a significant fine and the entire executive-floor stands pretty in the rain!" Michael Herold laughed softly. "From today's point of view, I can only admire the audacity of the garbage men. The guys were members of a special squad, which once a month drove to the landfill in East Germany. They welded on their trucks unobtrusive metal boxes and disguised them as an additional dumpster. Then they went to the landfill as usual, took over from middleman duty-free American cigarettes, and smuggled them on the return trip through the checkpoint. The trick would probably never come out, if the gentlemen have not contacted a Polish receiver of stolen goods. The guy informed Charley and already I typed my first report."

"Good old Charley." Hans-Jürgen Kowalski grabbed once again the calendar and looked at the last entry on the side. "What`s about this night? Expected you actually similarly highly explosive material from your chatty friend?"

"Please Kowalski! Charley was basically nothing more than a tireless storyteller. In his very mysterious manner, he called me on yesterday, and named me the damn boat as meeting place. Of course, without the slightest hint about the upcoming topic; exact details I will learn tonight, that was his speech!"

"Too bad, that you missed this interview..."

"Be not so damn cynical! Maybe Charley needed only a little chat with a friend over a bottle of vodka.”

"How sad!" Irritated, Kowalski ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair. "Before I say something, that both of us do not like, we'd better come back to the topic. So, Charley noted: 23:00 clock; that was exactly two hours after his meeting with the Spree-Heinz."

"I know nothing about that. Charley has not mentioned to me another meeting."

"The Spree-Heinz is the honorable bartender of this ailing boat and a pretty smart fellow. According to his own testimony, he planned a cost-covering deal with Charley. Unfortunately, a rendezvous delayed the noble intentions, and the good Heinz left his lady not before 21:15 clock. But at this time, the mess was finished, and he could only stumble across Charley's corpse."

With an indefinable spark in his eyes, Kowalski turned his head to the side and looked gloomily over the crime scene. "Charley's unexpected departure saved him from a lot of trouble with the customs authorities."

"Your sarcasm is sometimes unbearable!"

"Life is unbearable. Look Herold: If the Spree-Heinz climbed from the lady only a little bit earlier, he would perhaps have prevented the murder. But no, he found not his pants, and already fate took its course."

"Yes, yes, life is hard and the Spree-Heinz has an alibi. Speaking of alibi, let's talk about my alibi!" Michael flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and pulled a notepad from the jacket pocket. Calmly he tore a side off, grabbed the pen from Charley’s calendar, and began to write down several names. "With these gentlemen I had a meeting at the Balkan-Grill and deserted them only twenty minutes ago. You should be able to verify this easily, especially, five of the persons are not entirely unknown for you."

"A working lunch with the Socialists! Probably even at the expense of the taxpayers." With a contemptuous snort Kowalski scanned the list and then leaned back. "Well! You are, despite all our dialectical differences, not on my list, although I've seen horses puke."

The creaking of the dark brown painted wooden planks interrupted Kowalski's already almost ended conversation. With a decidedly important expression walked the smaller of the two policemen to the table and announced: "Our colleagues from the crime scene are now finished with the front deck. We can move away, or do you need us for something special?"

"Not really, I finish that crap better alone and Mr. Herold is on his way." Kowalski's very red facial features twisted into a false smile, as he appraisingly looked over the reporter. "If you should still come up with something really new, please call. You know my number!”

"I know my duties."Michael Herold stubbed out his cigarette. Then he walked without looking back, thru the room, that smells now of a strong disinfectants. Behind him, the officer shook his head, and looked disapprovingly at his superior.

"Honestly, sometimes I do not understand you, Hans-Jürgen. Why do you let this wretched scribbler disappear so easily?"

"Do not worry; he will not get lost. We only need to follow our noses, if we need him. He stinks three miles upwind of fresh printer-ink."

Amused by his own joke, Kowalski strolled over to the bar. At the rough marking of the forensic team, he stopped and stared reluctantly down on the dried stain. Just a few hours ago laid here Charley's motionless body, twisted strangely, with a bloody temple. The lethal wound was almost unrecognizable, and if the deadly blow hits the head only ten centimeters higher, who knows?