Arjouni One Man, One Murder

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-84243-832-9
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 192 Seiten

Reihe: Kemal Kayankaya Series

Winner of the German Crime Fiction Prize A Kemal Kayankaya Mystery A distressed artist comes to Kayankaya for help. His Thai girlfriend has been kidnapped. Kayankaya's raised eyebrow brings protestations of love. He confronts obstructive racist officials, corrupt cops and some of Germany's most depraved and dangerous criminals in his trawl through the immigration offices and brothels of Frankfurt where it seems young women fugitives and asylum seekers are disappearing into the Frankfurt night.

Jakob Arjouni is the author of the celebrated Kayankaya novels featuring a Turkish detective in Frankfurt. Titles include Happy Birthday Turk, More Beer, One Man One Murder and Kismet. Magic Hoffmann, a standalone novel was shortlisted for the IMPAC Award. His last novel, Brother Kemal, was published by No Exit Press in August 2013.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Arjouni, Jakob

Leseproben

2
Frankfurt was covered by a blanket of rumbling darkness. The first raindrops started falling. I managed to more or less squeeze my Opel between two convertibles from Offenbach and ran up the steps to the Eros-Centre Elbestrasse. Two grey plastic flaps marked the entrance. They looked as if every visitor had stopped to puke on them before leaving the establishment. I pushed them aside and entered the ground floor. Tiled walls and floor, pink lighting. The walls decorated with bosomy plaster busts and joke paintings of the genre “Hunter Pursues Stag While Stag Mounts Hunter’s Wife.” Invisible speakers played “Amore, amore” sung by a swoony Italian voice. The air was dense and sweet and seemed to move in waves as one walked through it. It was a depraved, gigantic pissoir de luxe in which the female attendants wore garter belts and colourful panties. Not far from the entrance, rows of doors stretched down half-dark hallways. Every few feet another door, and behind each door a room that smelled of sweat: a towel on the bed, porno pictures on the walls, a sink, a pack of Kleenex. Most of the doors were closed. In front of those that were open women sat on stools, bored and heavily made up, their legs stretched out into the hallway, their smiles as fake as glass pearls. This time of day, no one worked unless they had to. There were no clients except for a couple of weirdos who toured the hallways three or four times pretending that they had just wandered in by accident. Tucked away in a corner was the establishment’s own refreshment stand. Soft drinks and small sandwiches for the personnel. On the counter three flies were fraternising with the sandwiches under a glass bell. A small man wrapped in a blanket huddled next to the cash register contemplating a jigsaw puzzle, the unlit butt of a hand-rolled cigarette in a corner of his mouth. The puzzle seemed to represent the German Chancellor in fifty pieces. Next to the man stood a full glass of vermouth; at his feet lay a sleeping dachshund sporting a knitted vest. The shelf behind them held a row of dusty cans of lemonade. “Slibulsky here?” He shook his head without looking up. I watched him compose Herr Kohl’s chin. “Having fun?” He shook his head again. Droplets of sweat were trickling down my neck. My palms were damp, the collar of my coat felt scratchy in the stifling heat. I was being boiled alive, slowly, and I found it astonishing that he had wrapped himself in that blanket. “It’s an easy one, just fifty pieces.” He set the piece he was holding aside and turned to me. “It’s a freebie. From the party. I don’t care for politics, but it’s a freebie. Capish?” He sneered. “Normally I do the ones with three thousand pieces. At least.” The cigarette butt stayed stuck to his lip and wagged up and down as he spoke. He looked at me a while longer as if to say “and if you’d like to be punched in the mouth, I’ll be glad to oblige.” Then he turned his attention back to the puzzle. I smoked, he did his jigsaw puzzle. I checked the time. Quarter past eleven. I had agreed to meet Slibulsky at eleven sharp. I had known Ernst Slibulsky for two years. We were almost friends. He fixed my car, I advised him on the choice of presents for his girlfriend, and whenever he’d had a fight with her, he came and crashed on my couch. Once a week we played billiards, had a couple of beers, talked about football. Sometimes we had too many beers, tried to discuss other subjects, and didn’t agree about anything. Three months ago, Slibulsky had started working for “Ibiza” Charlie. He bounced the johns when they got out of hand, he collected the money from the ladies. It was the first time he’d done this kind of work. The small man sighed. The puzzle was done. He reached for the glass of vermouth but did not remove the cigarette butt while he drank. When he put the glass down, it was empty. He frowned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe this is so easy because it’s designed for Herr Kohl? So he can have a little relaxation when he’s all worn out from governing the land.” I yawned. He squinted up at me. “Guess you’re not easily amused?” “Not when I haven’t had enough sleep.” Without averting his eyes, he lit the cigarette butt and leaned back in his chair. “You a john?” I shook my head. The tip of his cigarette glowed. He looked up at the ceiling. “In the old days, I wouldn’t have asked you that. In the old days, this was a decent establishment with decent girls. We had a sign on the door that said ‘No Tourists.’ Funny, huh?” “A scream.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But now? Nothing but kaffirs and perverts. But it’s no wonder, what with all the new diseases they’re inventing in America.” I dropped my cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “ ‘No Tourists’ … Those were the days. You’re a kaffir, too, aren’t you?” “One who’s ready to rub these little sandwiches all over your ugly mug if you don’t watch your mouth.” That seemed to amuse him. “Better not do that. You see, I’m Charlie’s big brother. A little retarded, but his brother.” “You don’t seem all that retarded to me.” “I don’t?” He pulled the blanket off his lap. His legs were two short stumps. “What do you say now?” “I’d say you’re pedestrianly challenged.” “You would, would you?” His laugh sounded more like a cough. It was ugly and maliciously gleeful. He picked up a bottle of white Cinzano from behind his chair and poured himself a refill. “Yeah, I used to be a big shot. But then, one day—shazam! Both legs sliced off—like sausages. After that, Charlie got me this gig. Making little sandwiches for whores. Nice, eh? In this dump.” “That’s family loyalty for you.” A draft of air. Slibulsky came tearing round the corner. Short dark curls, hamster cheeks, boozer’s nose. He was wearing a turquoise jogging outfit with sequins and carried a box of plastic “surprise” eggs for kids under his left arm. His right arm was in a plaster cast. “Morning, guys.” The box landed on the counter. “On special today. One mark apiece. So the girls have something to laugh about. Charlie had a brainstorm yesterday. He thinks this bordello needs a ‘friendlier ambiance.’ ” The man in the chair growled contemptuously. Slibulsky smiled at him. “What’s the matter, Heinz? Having a bad day?” The cigarette butt, dead again, landed on the floor. “Got out of bed on the wrong leg.” Slibulsky grimaced noncommittally, turned to me, punched my shoulder with his left: “So, Kayankaya, you’ve gotten over your defeat last Sunday?” I nodded at his cast. “Doesn’t look like your victory did you much good.” “Yeah, well … I fell down a flight of stairs. Forgot to tell you that when you called.” “Is it bad?” “Hardly worth mentioning.” “What about the tournament?” He shrugged. “Maybe you can practise left-handed shots? We can carve a groove in your cast, for the cue.” “Figure-pissing is about all I can do with my left.” We grinned. “That would be something, wouldn’t it: the tournament begins, Bierich and Glatkow and all those hotshots take their ivory cues out of their cases, and you get up and say ‘Look here, folks, billiards isn’t everything’ and piss a nice sunset on the rug.” Slibulsky flashed a smile. Then he mimed a bow and said in a loud voice: “Thank you, gentlemen. Five pilseners on the house, and I’ll sign for them.” From under the counter came a drawn-out creaking sound. Then the dachshund started barking. “Now you assholes woke up the dog! Shut up, Howard! I’m telling you, shut up! Goddamn dog—Howard!” Barks and roars crescendoed to unbearable decibels. Slibulsky signalled to me, shouted “Later, Heinz” at the battle scene, and we left the refreshment stand. The Eros-Centre Elbestrasse had four floors, and on each floor there were twenty to twenty-five rooms, one shower, and one toilet. The first and second floor were swept every day; firmly in German hands, they were the busiest. Going up, the hallways grew darker, the women less expensive and more colourful. On the third floor, Asiatics, on the fourth, Africans; the cleaning woman came once a week. A separate street entrance led to Lady Bump in the interior courtyard, a dingy little bar with corduroy armchairs and a strip-tease stage. It was designed to give an impression of class, but except for the privilege of drinking champagne with the ladies and seeing one of them dance naked under coloured lightbulbs every half hour, conditions, prices, and rooms were the same as in the Centre. Above all this, in a refurbished penthouse, were the quarters of Ibiza Charlie, one of the Schmitz brothers’ managers. In addition to the Eros-Centre and the Lady Bump, Charlie also supervised a small porno movie house next door. As long as the monthly accounts satisfied the Schmitz brothers, Charlie was free to manage the three enterprises as he pleased. He was able to hire his brother to work the refreshment concession, to hire Slibulsky for the scheiss-work and two assistant managers for the bar and the movie house, and to spend his days riding around in his convertible, getting drunk, and going to the races. But if, one day, the accounts shouldn’t please the Schmitz brothers, Charlie would be out, on his ass pronto, or laid up in hospital, or—in the worst case—neither of the above, and nevermore. The brothers knew their business. Their business consisted primarily of their...