Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“What do you want to bet they didn’t get permission from the copyright holders?” Kai whispers.

I say, “Shhhh!”

There are only a couple of cars in the gravel lot, which is also covered in puddles. A bouncer is standing under an aluminum awning. Next to him is a group of girls in miniskirts and little leather jackets, huddled together. I ask myself what kind of ho you have to be to wear a miniskirt in this weather. There’s a broad window in the wall behind the bouncer that’s covered from the inside.

“They must already be inside,” Kai whispered when we rolled past Lucky Luke, and the wall of a warehouse pushes into our field of vision. The weakly illuminated street opens onto a three-way stop. I turn the bus around and park on the side of the street. Luckily, the streetlamps overhead don’t work, and we’re sitting fairly safe in the dark.

“I feel like one of those private eyes from a black-and-white movie,” Jojo says and pokes his head into the front.

“What now?” Kai asks and tosses his phone in the air. It does a few flips and he casually catches it. The next time he throws it, I grab it out of the air.

“Hey!”

“Wait a sec. Let me look at the post again.”

He reaches over and fingers the Braunschweig profile on the display. I set the brightness to the lowest level.

The fucker had posted: “Pre-game waaaarm-up at Lucky Luke!!!” Then linked a couple of names that told me nothing.

“You wanna take a look inside?”

“Shut it, please.”

There’s even a link to Lucky Luke. I tap on it and the bar’s profile appears. I scroll down through stupid party pictures from random theme nights, ladies’ nights, and all-you-can-drink vodka parties. Then I find what I was looking for: in one of the posts the owner announces a separate smoking lounge.

“Aha,” I say triumphantly and not entirely unsatisfied with myself and show the post to Kai and Jojo.

“What’s that supposed to tell us?” Jojo asks.

“It tells us, dear Joachim, that the curmudgeon to my left is a damn Columbo,” Kai replies.

“Sure, but why exactly?”

“They have a smoking lounge, Jojo. That meeeeans: the only chance we have to catch those sons of bitches is when they come out from their pre-game”—I point over the bar—“to go to some random club. But that could take some time because the post from that guy is only two hours old.”

“I get it, because there’s a smoking lounge they won’t come outside to smoke.”

I tap the tip of my nose and grin at Jojo and Kai.

“Shit, fuck. If only I’d brought along my hemorrhoid cushion,” Kai jokes.

“Naw, you know what? I have better things to do than hang out here in the dark the whole night.” I quickly brush aside the thought of how I sat all night in my car in front of Yvonne’s apartment. “Much less in Braunschweig. Here, I’ve got an idea.”

“You’re full of surprises, buddy,” Kai says and flashes his pearl-white teeth.

I pull two thin rubber gloves out of the driver-side door that Tomek and I had stuffed in there at some point. Kai’s facial expression vanishes and his mouth became a straight line.

“Let me rephrase that: you’re full of shit!” he yells at me. “What do you need those for? You want to tell me? You want to do a prostate on the motherfucker?”

“With the tip of my shoe at most. Kidding aside, buddy. There’s a smoking lounge.”

I nod at him encouragingly.

“Yeah,” he says and nods along.

“And we can’t hang out here in the van for hours on end. At some point someone will notice the black rape van. Not an option. So…”

“So?”

“So the only chance for us to catch those fags is if they come out to take a piss.”

Kai nods, attempting to follow my line of thinking. I continue: “Which won’t happen if the toilets in there are in working order. Understand now?”

A grin slowly slides over his face, becoming wider and wider.

“Yeah, fucking hell, look at you, you old mastermind!”

I hiss at him and look around, but there’s no one close to the vehicle that could have heard anything.

“You don’t really want to march in there and clog the toilets, right? What if they recognize you?” Jojo asks skeptically.

“Bullshit, they’re sitting around at some random table and drinking themselves blind. It’ll take five minutes tops. Maybe ten. In, stuff ’em, and out.”

“Guerilla style.”

I don’t know if Kai’s comparison really fits, but I let it slide because it sounds damn cool to me.

“It’s their turn, boys. When they come out and they’re holding their tiny dicks in their hands, then they’ll catch it.”

I stuff the gloves in my jacket pockets and place my hand on the door handle. And because Kai can be convincing with his nonsense, I add: “If I don’t come back in twenty, call Steven Seagal.”

“He’s not available, but Michael fucking Dudikoff is on call,” Kai says, pushing his hand against my back as I get out. I close the door and flip him off through the window. Then I put on a poker face, stuff my hands in my pocket, and walk away. Hundreds of questions shoot through my brain, slam against the sides of my skull, and wedge against each other. What if he recognizes me after all? If he just happens to be in the restroom when I come in? What if the bouncer doesn’t even let me into the bar because I don’t fit the desired dress code with black windbreaker, black jogging pants, and jogging shoes to top it off? What if there’s someone in the restroom the whole time, so I don’t have a chance to carry out my plan?

I take a first step onto the gravel in front of Lucky Luke and suddenly all those questions vanish. My hands calmly remain in their pockets, the thin rubber of the gloves between my fingers. The nervous eye twitch feeling I’d just had has disappeared. Peace and calm descend over my face like a Buddha mask. The group of bitches just walks past the bouncer, who holds the door open with a smile. Then he sees me coming and the corners of his mouth head south. A wide puddle blocks my path. Plywood has been placed over it as a makeshift gangplank. I walk carefully over it. Water seeps over the boards on the sides.

“Evening,” I say as I approach the entrance. The bouncer had the typical standard black rain jacket, with security probably printed on the back. His carefully shaved boxer cut rises toward his forehead like the peak of a roof. He has a slim face and chubby, coarse-pored cheeks. Lousy roids, I’m guessing. He holds his hands in front of his nads. Rocks his shoulders slightly back and forth.

“Evening,” he answers.

I ask if things had been calm this evening. He’s still busy checking me out. Come on, pal, you’re not guarding an exclusive club here, just wave the jogging shoes and sweatpants through!

“Yep. Till now,” he says.

His voice is oddly high pitched. His nose squeaks a little when he talks. Just get outta my way, you asshole! But he doesn’t move. So plan B. Buddy strategy. I pull out my cigarettes and stand next to him. Shoulder to shoulder. As if I were a colleague who’d just gotten back from his rounds. I offer him one. He hesitates briefly and I tap the bottom of the pack so that a couple of cigarettes slide up. He takes one and thanks me.

“Light?” he says.

I pull out my Zippo, work the wheel, and hold out the gas-scented flame. He bends over with the cig in his mouth, takes a drag, and thanks me again. I light one up and am just about to put the lighter away again when he says, “Wait a sec.”

“Huh?”

“What kinda lighter you got? Show it to me.”

Fuck! I’m such a damn idiot.

“Why?” I ask, and he says I should just show him.

There’s a skyline engraved on the Zippo and “Hannover” in old German script underneath. I’m a fucking idiot!