to remember your reasons. We don’t have to rush things, but with a little effort we may be done by lunchtime.”
Charlie stared at me as if I were a creature from another planet. Slowly he straightened his kimono and tightened the sash. Then he strode calmly toward me. Too calmly. Just as Slibulsky stuttered, “Hey, Charlie, he didn’t really-,” his hairy paw landed on my shoulder. We scrutinized each other. Two tough guys in a tough world. One unable to make the rent, the other upset about dirt on his rug. There was a hint of a smile in the corners of Charlie’s mouth, and the paw slapped my neck.
“I like you, snoop. Whenever you run out of suckers who need a detective because they can’t do anything for themselves, you can always start working for me.”
I took the paw and handed it back to him. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I don’t think that would work. I’ve got sensitive ears, and I’m not flat enough to use as a doormat.”
“Mouth as big as a barn door, eh?” He turned.
“Slibulsky-three eggnogs, and then you guys get outta here.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember what eggnog tasted like and whether it agreed with my stomach.
We walked down the stifling staircase. A nubile voice was singing something about “bodies in action”. The eggnog stuck to my ribs like glue. It also gave me the burps. The perfect drink for getting rid of people. It was invented by a host who wanted to let his undesirable guests know what he thought of them; he was probably the same guy who had come up with applejack, cherry liqueur, and Amselfelder Spatlese.
Slibulsky was leaping rather than walking, taking two steps at a time and well ahead of me.
“I told you it wouldn’t be much use.”
“You tell Charlie that if I don’t get the name of Sri Dao Hakdee’s pimp, I’ll call the cops on him.”
In mid-stumble, Slibulsky grabbed the banister and swung back to face me: “What did you say?”
“I’ll tell them to shut the place down. Illegal personnel, drugs, dead bodies-I’ll think of something.”
“Have you lost your marbles? I’ll be out of a job.”
“If you don’t want that to happen, you better come up with another idea. Ask around in the quarter. You know people who know these things.”
“Wait a minute! I never agreed to impersonate Dr. Watson.”
“And I never agreed to come here to watch some half-crazed guy get out of bed.”
“You wanted to talk to Charlie, and you got to talk to him.”
Sparks flew between our eyes. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the flaking and faded black paneling that adorned the stairs and hallways. We could hear Howard Carpendale barking on the ground floor.
“And I wanted to call the cops if I didn’t get that name by tonight. I still want to do it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“A lot of things aren’t. For instance, I knew from the start that Charlie wouldn’t tell me anything. Why should he? He’s a red-light district boss. I’m just a lowly private eye. Nothing in it for him.”
“Then why did he agree to meet you?”
“That’s just it.”
Slibulsky frowned. He shook his head, looked down at the floor. “You had too much to drink last night.”
Before I was able to respond, a Mr. Supercharged approached us. A mountain draped in blue jeans, leather jacket, and black cowboy boots of a size my feet would disappear in. He was more than six feet tall, and his face consisted of nothing but hair: his beard, nose and head hair was a continuous dark brown rug. In the middle of the rug sat a pair of round mirror shades decorated with naked girlie stickers. His voice made the stairwell vibrate.
“Hey, man, Slibulsky, at long last! Everything’s hunky dory, all I have to-”
Slibulsky coughed, loudly and drily. After he stopped coughing, he pointed at me and said: “This is Kemal Kayankaya. He’s a private investigator.”
Mr. Supercharged raised his shades and checked me out without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Then he offered me his hand. It had a ring on every finger, including the thumb. Taken singly, those rings were just tasteless jewelry, but as a combo they served as a knuckle duster.
“Name’s Axel. Ernst has told me about you …”
We shook hands. It was a bit like grabbing hold of a bazooka.
Slibulsky wiggled his feet. “I’m just taking him down to his car. See you upstairs.”
Axel pushed the shades back into his rug-face, took his leave with a resounding “All right,” and pursued his clanking ascent.
“Playmate of Charlie’s?” I asked Slibulsky when we reached the sidewalk.
“Uh-hunh. He’s all right, though. That’s just his style.”
“Does he always stop talking when you cough?”
Slibulsky pretended to be watching an exciting pair of legs. They were exciting only if one favored the kind encased in tight jeans and ending in basketball shoes, moseying along to indicate years of hiking experience.
“I asked you a question.”
“There are things it’s better not to know.”
I opened my mouth but did not say anything. Then I tapped my forehead and walked to the Opel. Slibulsky reappeared next to me as I was unlocking the door.
“Is it my fault that you are a kind of cop? What happens if someone wants you to snoop on me?”
I opened the door, stepped inside of it, and shrugged. A wave of stale air escaped from the car and enveloped us.
“O.K., O.K. Why not. Axel deals in stolen motorbikes. Sometimes I help him with the paint jobs.”
He looked at me. His jogging suit glittered in the sun. I got behind the wheel, closed the door, and wound down the window.
“I am not a cop. Don’t worry about that pimp’s name. Forget it, I’ll find him some other way.”
I turned the key in the ignition. Slibulsky was chewing his lip. Then he turned and walked away, lost in thought. In the rearview mirror I saw him collide with a parking meter.
3
TURKISH PIGS A PLAGUE-I’M PROUD TO BE A GERMAN! I opened the door of the phone booth whose glass panes were covered, inside and out, with more of the same sort of drawings and statements, making it look like a favorite hangout of the juvenile delinquent SS, I lit a cigarette, took Weidenbusch’s card out of my pocket and jammed the receiver under my chin. While I dialed, I read a spidery legend: “Alf is German.”
Before the phone had rung even once, there came a breathless whine: “Sweetheart?”
“No. Kayankaya.”
I could hear him gulp. “Have you found her?”
“I may have a lead. Tell me, for whom did Mrs. Rakdee work before she was employed at the Lady Bump?”
“You mean in Thailand?”
“No, here in Frankfurt.”
I told him about my visit with Charlie, and he seemed genuinely surprised. Sri Dao had indicated to him that she had arrived at the Lady Bump directly from Bangkok, via Frankfurt Airport. He said he didn’t know anything about a pimp.
“Was it her idea to come to Germany, or was she hired by an organization?”
“She didn’t want to talk about that. She said those were just bad memories.”
“So all you know is that she came here the end of December?”
“Why December? June.”
“June …?” I counted on my fingers. “That’s nine months A normal visa is good for three.”
There was a moment’s silence. He was probably torturing his necktie. “You have to ask Koberle about that. He took Sri Dao’s passport after she arrived and only handed it back to her in my presence.”
