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 practice 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 signaled to me, shouted “Later, Heinz” at the battle scene, and we left the refreshment stand.
The Eros Center 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 colorful. 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 colored lightbulbs every half hour, conditions, prices, and rooms were the same as in the Center.
Above all this, in a refurbished penthouse, were the quarters of Ibiza Charlie, one of the Schmitz brothers’ managers. In addition to the Eros Center 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 ability to impress everybody else with how well they knew it. They owned three other brothels in the district around the railway station, a dozen bars, several game arcades, and two furrier’s shops. They were two big fish in that pond, and their connections to City Hall enabled them to walk over dead bodies. Eberhard Schmitz was the honorary president of the SPCA, brother Georg the director of the Mardi Gras Society Sachsenhauser Narren Helau.
As we walked upstairs I asked Slibulsky:
“Howard, after Howard Carpendale. He’s the favorite singer of Heinz’s wife. Heinz hates the guy, so that’s what he calls the dog.”
“His wife calls him Howard, too?”
“No. She calls him Heinz.”
We sidled past two johns who stood leaning against a railing. They were staring at a closed door.
“Which name does the dog recognize?”
“Neither one. He’s deaf.”
“Doesn’t seem like they love him a lot.”
“Oh, they love the dog, all right.”
On the third floor, two Thai women retreated quickly into their rooms as soon as they saw Slibulsky. We walked up the next flight of stairs in silence.
“They seemed to be scared of you.”
Slibulsky stopped. His cheerfulness had evaporated.
“Don’t we have an agreement?”
He was right. We had discussed the matter. Slibulsky was able to earn some fast money here, as he himself put it, and it was his intention to quit after a year to open his own car repair shop. An old dream. I hadn’t really cared; the world would be none the worse for Slibulsky’s working in a brothel. On the contrary, its employees probably benefited from his working there. Then again, when we had discussed this I had not yet seen women disappear behind closed doors when they caught sight of him.
“You used to be a dealer. Strikes me that was a more decent job.”
“More decent, eh? The last time they put me away for a decent year in jail.”
I kicked a crumpled handkerchief down the stairs. “What happened to that inheritance?”
Slibulsky looked at me reluctantly. “Come again?”
