Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

Right now, I’m checking the protective covers in the corners of the boxing ring and tightening them as needed. We have a regulation-size ring and two smaller ones for sparring.

“Mornin’, Heiko.”

Gaul sticks his head, ponytail, and full beard through the ropes. His hands, holding tight to the ropes, are covered with skulls. Did it himself. With whichever hand was free. Gaul is a biker and part of the Hannover chapter of the Angels, the biggest in all of Germany. He’s the Angels’ tattoo artist. But we still all go to him. Of course, he doesn’t do our tattoos at their clubhouse, keeping to his kitchen table at home instead. But he’s used the needle on me in the gym’s locker-room, too. He doesn’t have outside customers because he works at the gym, in a manner of speaking. As well as several other clubs and bars. His main job is hustling stuff for the motorcycle gang. Anabolic steroids aren’t for me personally, but I’d be the last to dictate what others can or can’t do.

I pull the knots tight, slip through the ropes, and sit down on the edge of the ring. We shake hands. I like Gaul because he’s a straight shooter through and through. And he’s not a big mouth. But I wouldn’t want to owe him anything. Not after one or two involuntary tattoo sessions I’ve heard about him giving people who couldn’t or didn’t want to fork over something.

“How you doin’?” I ask.

“Draggin’ along.” I nod. “Hey, you already talk to your uncle today?”

“Nope, why?”

“We need the locker-room a little bit later for a couple minutes. Axel’s busy but said you could open up for us.”

“Sure.”

“I’d need you to stand in front of it and make sure no one disturbs us when we’re inside. Shouldn’t take too long. Quarter hour. We’ll come in through the back, you’ll lock up after us and then go up front so no one tries to get into the locker-room from the hall.”

“No problem.”

“Good man. Then I’ll just pop out and make some calls.”

In the meantime, I’m scrolling through my Facebook news feed, even get so bored I sweep the entryway, and I chain-smoke at the back entrance. Axel’s office door is closed the whole time, and he doesn’t come out once.

At some point I’m out back again, puffing away, and Gaul and two other guys from the gang roll up on choppers. They’re trailed by an unmarked delivery vehicle that expels four Turks or Arabs with faces that look like bulldogs. One of them is lugging two chunky black leather bags.

Gaul and his colleagues nod to me. One of the Rabs stops in front of me when I get up from the folding chair and grind out my cig with my foot.

“Who’s he?”

I’d like to tell him it shouldn’t interest him a flying fuck, but Gaul says, “Works here. A friend.”

I walk ahead of them, into the hallway with four doors along the walls. Axel’s office on the right, on the left the storage closet, service entrance to the locker-room, and straight ahead at the end of the corridor, the entrance to the gym. I unlock the door to the locker-room, hold it open for them, and lock it behind them. Then I go up front to the gym. I again check the door to the locker-room I’d just locked and remain standing in front of it.

I can’t understand what’s being discussed in there. Don’t want to know either. Should have brought a chair in case this takes a while.

Tall-boy Töller came in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Came to the hooligans the same time as my uncle. He’s even a little taller than Ulf but more of a beanpole. Not a wall of granite like Ulf. I can’t completely get behind Töller. Everything he says sounds like a provocation. It can really get on your nerves long-term. But we actually do have similar points of view. Regarding keeping your political views to yourself on the field, for instance. He has just as little patience as I do for the brown diarrhea a lot of guys spew. And Töller knows his football. His general knowledge doesn’t stop in the midnineties. He’s still a true Hannover 96 supporter. Of course, all of us are, but with a lot of our boys—and this isn’t just the case in Hannover—sometimes you hardly know it’s about football and representing your hometown, so to speak. But what he pulled against the boys from Cologne recently, that’s one of the reasons I can’t really stand him.

I step to the side and block his way because he wants to slip past me. Hold up my hands.

“Sorry, can’t go in there right now.”

“Huh, what? Why not?”

“Just can’t do it right now. Have to wait a couple minutes.”

“Kolbe, I have to be back at work in an hour. So let me get changed now so I can pump a little.”

“Can’t. Just. Right. Now.”

“Why not?”

“Töller, I said you just can’t right now. Closed. You just have to wait a minute.”

He runs his free hand through his dark blond hair and groans in annoyance. Then he pushes past me and turns the knob on the locker-room door. Nothing happens.

“Fuck this shit!” Then he tried the knob once more and spoke toward the door: “Who’s in there? Open up.”

Fucking idiot, I think, and push him aside. I can hear some kind of metallic click behind the door. Then Gaul’s voice: “Heiko? Heiko, what’s going on out there?”

Töller looks at me. His forehead is wrinkled and his nostrils, big as boreholes, flared.

“Nothing! Everything’s okay!” I call back. Then to Töller: “Now get lost. Go smoke a cigarette. I’ll let you know.”

He finally seemed to have caught on that he’d better knock it off with the macho act. He shoves the front door open as hard as he can and steps out for a smoke. But doesn’t take his eyes off of me and the locker-room.

A couple minutes later someone knocks on the door. I say I got the message and go around to the back door. I open the door. The Mulachos leave without a word and walk past me without a single glance, climbing into their van and revving around the curve.

Gaul and the other two, whose names I might know but can’t think of right now, come out with backpacks that hang low and heavy. Gaul keeps standing by me while the others are already in the back.

“What was that all about?!” Gaul hissed through tightly clenched teeth. I can actually feel how he’s pulling himself together so he stays peaceful.

“I’m sorry. To—” I just barely manage to shift it. “Someone came in and wanted to go into the locker-room.”

“That’s exactly why you were supposed to be standing there, so something like that doesn’t happen. The thing almost went to shit.”

“I’m really sorry, Gaul. Didn’t take my hands off the wheel.”

He stares deep into my eyes. Probably is trying to find out if I’m serious or if it happened because I didn’t give a fuck.

“All right, we’re good. After all, nothing happened.” He pats me on the shoulder. Then they drive out of the yard, machines producing a deep base gurgle. His hand left a faint sweaty palm print on my T-shirt.

I go into the locker-room and look around. Everything back to normal. I unlock the door to the gym and wave at Töller, who’s still standing outside, that he should come in. Then I go back to the back door. Ask myself if Axel’s even there or if he was sleeping the whole time in his big boss leather chair. I knock twice and push the door open. He is, in fact, sitting on his massive office chair made of black leather. The surface of the oak desk is cleared in the middle. Three lines of blow are lined up in a row.

“What’s up, Heiko?” he asks in a sharp tone of voice. The two skinheads with hollow faces turn in their chairs in front of his desk and toward me. A third is leaned over the desk, straw in hand. At the sight of me, he straightens up and interrupts his sniffing session.