Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“ Life Is a Circus ,” said Vécsey.

“Well, then you’ll be rich and famous.”

“Or not.”

“Did you get a lot of money?”

“Not so much that I don’t have to work.”

“And what are you writing now?”

“A poetry collection.”

“What’s the title?”

“ The Exiled Heart .”

“Does it say whose heart has been exiled, and why?”

“Now that you say so . . .” Vécsey smiled. “Do you want a coffee?”

Gordon nodded. Vécsey signaled to the waiter, then crossed his arms. “You didn’t drop in by chance.”

“No,” Gordon acknowledged. “Something happened that outdoes the usual doings of the Downtown Association of Amateur Evildoers.”

“I’m listening.”

“A dead Jewish girl was found on . . .”

“Nagy Diófa Street,” said Vécsey, finishing Gordon’s sentence. “One of Csuli’s men filled me in.”

“Then you’ve heard of Skublics, too.”

“Of course,” said Vécsey, leaning back in his chair. He unbuttoned the coat of his superbly tailored suit and reached for his coffee with a sinewy hand. “He disappeared so fast that he left everything in his studio. As if he just went up in smoke.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Gordon.

“I get you. But there’s one question, Zsigmond. What do you want to do? You can’t write an article about it.”

“I know that perfectly well,” said Gordon, raising the cup of coffee to his mouth and putting it back down at once. The hot liquid nearly burned his mouth. “But I do have a plan.”

“That’s helpful,” said Vécsey approvingly. “A plan is always useful. Just don’t go telling me this is where I come into the picture. Because I’m not interested in any sort of plan. Especially not this sort.”

“I need information. Nothing else, Leo. Information.”

“That, you can ask for. Maybe I can serve up a bit.”

Gordon took out a cigarette. He’d quite gotten the hang of using his left hand. Vécsey gave him a light. “What sort of information?” he asked as his brow darkened.

“Politicians and prostitutes.”

Leo raised a hand with dramatic flair and gave a soft whistle. “Both have a price.”

“Leo, I’m asking seriously.”

“I know you asked seriously, but I don’t want to answer seriously. You won’t write an article, anyway. There’s just no way you can write this.”

“We’ve already agreed on that. There’s a flat on Báthory Street, which is where the girls are. And there’s a book, or let’s call it a catalog, from which the politicians can pick and choose. Skublics took the pictures of the girls. The whole thing is led by a woman called Red Margo, who works for a certain gentleman by the name of Zsámbéki.”

Vécsey watched Gordon through narrowed eyes. Again he crossed his arms, leaned back, and for a little while he rocked back and forth on the two rear legs of the chair. When he came to, he said, softly, “Not just them. Not just our politicians—members of the lower house and the upper house. But foreign politicians have also seen that . . . as you put it, catalog.”

“Are the police in on it, too?”

“Not actively,” said Vécsey. “Those who need to know, know, and of course they don’t do a thing.”

“I get it.”

“No, you don’t get it. You don’t get it at all. Not only can’t you write about it, but you can’t even talk about it with anyone. For example, we didn’t even meet today.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Leo.”

Vécsey leaned over the table.

“Have you heard about Schweinitzer’s state security commando unit?” he asked in a muffled voice.

Gordon shook his head.

“You don’t want to hear about them, either. And you certainly don’t want to meet up with them.”

“What is it they do?”

“You don’t want to know. Believe me, Zsigmond, it’s better if you don’t know. If you don’t keep that tongue of yours in check, Bárczy will give Schweinitzer the order.”

“That Bárczy? István Bárcziházi Bárczy?”

“How many do you know?”

“The undersecretary in the prime minister’s office?”

“That’s right, and don’t play dumb with me. What are you out for?”

Gordon pulled his bandaged hand from his pocket and placed it on the table. “At first the dead girl was a professional labor of love. Maybe it would make a nice little article, I figured. The story seemed interesting. But everywhere I turned, I ran up against brick walls. That just piqued my interest. On Saturday night I was all but beaten to death. Early this morning someone left a broken-necked chicken in front of Krisztina’s flat—with a note saying that if I don’t stop, they’ll wring her neck next. I can’t stop now.”

“But you should.”

“And where will I get doing that?”

Vécsey paused to reflect. “Nowhere,” he finally replied, and leaned back. “They won’t believe that you’ve quit. No matter who’s behind it all. You were right—this isn’t Budapest, it’s Chicago. Not every gangster needs a weapon.”

“So you see. Even if I could just get over them beating me up, threatening me, and setting their sights on Krisztina, and even if I could just wave a hand to get that dead girl off my mind, not even then could I just call it quits. But I haven’t gotten over it, and I haven’t waved that hand. I’ve got to do something, because if I don’t, then . . .”

“Don’t say any more,” Vécsey interjected. “I understand.”

“But there is one thing I still don’t understand,” said Gordon, crushing his cigarette. “The day before Gömbös’s funeral, I was there at the wake. I saw Interior Minister Kozma, and you know who he was talking with?”

“No.”

“Well, not with Schweinitzer. Not with the head of the state security police but with Vladimir Gellért.”

“It’s not that surprising,” replied Vécsey.

“No?”

“Both Kozma and Gellért are military academy graduates. They were in the same class.”

“Bárcziházi went there, too,” observed Gordon.

“That’s right, but he was several years ahead of them.”

Gordon nodded, stood, and threw a pengő on the table. “All the best with Hollywood. And thanks.”

“No thanks needed.”

“Tell me just one more thing,” said Gordon, leaning against the chair.

“What would that be?”

“What do you know about Szőllősy, the coffee merchant?”

“The owner of Arabia Coffee?”

“Him.”

Vécsey scrutinized Gordon’s eyes. “Aside from the fact that in 1933 he bought himself an official certificate giving him the title of Valiant Knight?”

“Does that sort of thing cost a lot?”

“Why, do you want to buy one, too?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“Well, if you ask me, the title of Valiant Knight is worth every cent to a Jew who converted to Christianity.”

Gordon got back to the newsroom well after eleven. Gyula Turcsányi was sitting in his office, a red pencil in his hand, with which he was struggling to edit a small pile of articles.

“I’ll say!” he shouted on casting a furious glance at Gordon. “Eleven o’clock, and you’ve seen fit to show up at work. Maybe back in America this was in vogue, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re working in Budapest. We’re fussy about work hours, you see. A reporter is at his desk by nine and writing an article, or else he’s rolling the article out of his typewriter one moment and delivering it to my desk the next. Or haven’t I told you this before? Well?”

Only now did Turcsányi finally look up and see Gordon’s unshaven face, wounded lips, the bandage sticking out from under his hat, and his limp right hand just hanging there.