“Hauke,” he greets me, rubbing the dry skin on his face. He coughs. Then, he gets all teary-eyed and sentimental. “Do you remember how we last met on Strausberger? Back then, when I got married.”
“To your third wife?”
“Yeah.”
“I delivered a hefty amount of dope that day.”
“So you did. My old lady must have popped half of it on her own.”
“How’s she doing these days?”
Bashir quickly performs a swiveling motion with his head, glancing at the guard standing next to him. “Beata.” He turns back to me, whispering through the holes in the pane that separates us. “I cut up the ugly bitch’s mug.” For a moment his wrinkled face brightens with sadistic glee. Then, Bashir tells me about his ungrateful son who prevents his grandchildren from seeing him. He complains about the lousy conditions in jail and about the fact that Vasily—he calls the Chancellor by his first name—the rat has refused to grant him pardon. Solitary confinement either shuts people up or makes them loquacious. Bashir belongs to the second group. He just wants to see his grandson one last time, he says between bouts of coughing. And then the man actually breaks out in tears right in front of me. I don’t feel sorry for him in the least. Because I’m thinking of all the people he has killed. The fifteen-year-old whose throat he cut in front of my very eyes, even though the kid was desperately pleading for his life. Bitter old man, now you get what you’ve asked for, I think. The little visitors’ area wouldn’t offer enough room to assemble all of the old Tsar’s victims. I can see their ghosts, silently looming behind him. Patiently, they wait for him to take his last breath. And then he’ll burn in hell.
“Maybe I can help you,” I lie, my face a picture of sympathy as if I gave a shit about him. Even though it’s nothing I’m proud of, I’d always do it again. “I can get you out of here,” I offer. I don’t hate myself for it.
Bashir’s face lights up. Hope has been kindled.
“I really want to help you,” I continue my dirty game.
“What do you want to know?”
“You play poker once in a while?” I ask.
The old Tsar frowns. “You crazy, man?”
“I was just thinking. What’s the name of the game, where the ace of clubs is the second highest card?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“About the new player in the Ghetto who operates under the symbol of the crucifix.”
“Crucifix?” Bashir seems to be confused. “You mean the kuffars from Nigeria? The pigs who finished off Boko Haram?” he shoots back. He then starts ranting about modern times in the Ghetto and how they still had a sense of honor in the old days. Rules. I let him carry on. The usual wisdom of the streets. “You know what these Soul Brothers are like,” he rages. “One moment they cheer, the next they’re yelping like lap dogs because their pretty little noses got broken. You wouldn’t expect it from guys who’re six feet tall and pumped up with anabolic steroids like a man bit by a snake.”
I realize that Bashir doesn’t know anything.
“You going already?” he asks confused when I get up.
“The tip with the Nigerians was good,” I claim. Before I leave I assure him that he’ll be out of there soon. Or see his grandson, at least. Dirty game.
I don’t tell Natasha that the old Tsar is slowly losing it. “I need more time,” I plead. But I feel her disappointment. As it’s late already we spend the night at a motel on Berliner Ring autobahn. Natasha takes a separate room. When I try to kiss her forehead to tell her goodnight, she shrinks back, keeping me at arm’s length like she always does.
5
Natasha drops me off at “Checkpoint Ring” east of the Ghetto. She shows her ID to the guards, ordering them to let me pass. Grudgingly, the uniforms comply. Through the fence, I watch Natasha leave. She backs up her car and drives away. I simply don’t understand this woman. Does she see me as just a subordinate or does she have feelings for me? Soon I’m accosted by a few small-time dealers, wanting to buy dope. “Can’t you see that I don’t have my briefcase on me?” I wave them off, walk away, and continue on for another two blocks until I have reached the “Furuncle”, which is where the bikers of Aryan Motorcircle gather. Eight bikes, guarded by a Member with a shotgun, are parked in front of the bar. His bandana is soaked with sweat and he’s wearing his leather vest with badges even in the heat of the summer. His helmet sits next to the chair he has pushed onto the pavement. The club’s insignia are steel helmets, adorned with white plumes. Once a week, the bikers parade down Jessnerstrasse. Fifty to sixty bikes in a narrow street, led by their blond president, who has a sculpted body and sports a winged helmet. Only the hammer is missing, otherwise he’d be mistaken for Thor from the comic books.
An
