Magic Hoffmann (9 page)

Café Budapest was opposite Zoo station. It was a large room, divided into smaller sitting areas with sturdy wooden tables and green upholstered benches. Yellow lampshades hung above the tables. Techno hits boomed out of a juke box and mingled with clinking glasses, the murmur of conversation and the rattle of slot machines. People came and went. Street smells and the whiff of junk food followed them into the café. Through the rain-drenched windows, travellers could be seen rushing to the station by the light of neon advertisements and car headlights. At the tables there were many people with suitcases and rucksacks.

It was shortly after nine, and Fred was sitting in front of his third beer. He was bent over his glass, ruminating and staring into the white foam.

 

 

‘…the robbery can only be described as fiendishly sadistic. Several innocent bystanders sustained severe hand injuries. Fragments of the bank counter had to be surgically removed in hospital. There is a reward of ten thousand D-Mark for information leading 
to the arrest of the perpetrators.'

‘Laughable!' Fred rolled from the television to the case of champagne. ‘Ten thousand. We could take out an advert offering twenty thousand for no information!'

Nickel was waving his empty glass about. ‘Do you know how much land we could buy for that money in Canada?'

‘No idea.'

‘Certainly a few hundred acres. And all that goes with it: lakes, animals, forest. We'll build a house and buy a small seaplane. That's all we'll need.'

‘Well then…' Fred popped the cork, ‘…to Canada!'

 

 

Fred took a slug and wiped the foam from his mouth. Nickel would come along. He hadn't forgotten Canada, you could depend on him. That's why he had also looked after Fred's share. Annette would have invested it in some film, given half a chance. ‘Fred, you'll be thrilled. Carlo has made a fabulous movie about nothing at all.' No wonder Nickel moved out. He wasn't impressed by such garbage. No, he didn't need to worry, Nickel had principles. He was a man of his word.

For the fourth or fifth time he went to the telephone kiosk and dialled Nickel's number. Again no one answered.

Back at the table he ordered another beer and stared out of the window. The rain continued to fall heavily. He watched the car tyres sending up spray. Pedestrians leapt aside. The city had one advantage: in Dieburg he could barely have risked going out on the street, let alone into a shop. ‘Hey, have you seen Fred? What a sad bastard!
' And next day the whole place would have known.

‘Here's to Bolle. Cheers.'

Glasses clinked. Fred turned around. At the next table sat a cheerful party, their ages ranging from twenty to fifty. A whole lot of bull necks, lipstick, polo shirts, gold chains, colourful glasses and patent leather handbags. They were all wearing red and white check baseball caps with the motto: ‘My Beautiful Supermarket'.

A bronzed young man, the only one wearing a suit and tie, put his glass down and said: ‘Dear colleagues, I would like to congratulate you all on the twelve per cent increase in turnover during the last quarter. I believe our concept, ‘I'm proud to be a Bolle worker,' has been a big success.

A handful clapped, others knocked on the table.

‘Of course this evening is on expenses. Beer and sausages, as much as you want.'

Further clapping and knocking, several yelled: ‘Bravo!'

‘But don't forget,' the young man raised his index finger and smiled roguishly, ‘you're almost treating yourselves, because our motto is…' and they all yelled: ‘Sausages, milk, products for hair, I must work hard to protect my share!'

The door opened and Fred turned his head. He raised his eyebrows in surprise: Cool Rudi with a sodden young couple carrying sea bags in tow. Rudi had hit on a right pair. The young man with medium length bright blond hair and a naïve plump face looked like a puffed up angel; the girl wore a curtain of decorated plaits, from behind which peeped a nose festooned with rings and a round innocent chin. Both of them wore heavy walking boots and plaid jackets with embroidered hearts. Clumsily they followed Rudi to a table in the corner and ordered beer.

‘His partner had a look at our money belt and then disappeared suddenly. 
That's all that was left in the belt.' She tore off a piece of toilet paper and threw it in Fred's face. Slowly, he began to panic.

‘Why his partner?' asked the man's voice.

‘They waved to each other secretly.'

The blond youngster nodded at everything the girl said, as if he were following a speech at a party conference.

Fred moved his head back and forth until he had freed his throat somewhat, and gasped: ‘Why did I stay here then?'

‘So as to appear innocent,' she hissed at him. ‘That's what's so clever!'

‘Yes, reasonably clever. But it might have been even cleverer to have scarpered.'

The pressure on his neck intensified.

‘Don't get cute, young man.'

Fred, who could clearly envisage the cancellation of his probation complete with a prison cell, broke into a sweat.

Just then the waiter arrived. His gruff question as to what had happened took the attention briefly away from Fred. He broke free in one movement and slammed his elbow between the legs of his assailant. There was a scream. Fred dived down and headed for a gap between pairs of legs. He was almost clean through and needing only to get up and run , when suddenly he could feel metal boring into his ribs. He turned his head just in time to see the rubber tyre rolling towards his neck. His skin felt like it was tearing under the heavy tread, and a vast weight bore down on the back of his neck. His face pressed down into the worn carpet, Fred gathered all his strength in his neck. At any minute he expected to hear a soft crack.

‘A wog, a thief, a spic…' scanned the young man in a suit, giving a thumbs up sign as he lorded it over Fred in his slightly tilted wheelchair, ‘… at Bolle we catch 'em quick!'