More Beer (2 page)

“Please forgive me, Mr. Kayankaya. You know, in a trial of this importance … One has to humor the press. I’m sure you understand.”

Dr. Anastas was small and sturdy. Everything about him was brown: the curls around his balding pate, the frame of the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his snub nose, his suit, his fingernails. His tie drooped like a wet towel.

“Why did you ask me to come here at nine o’clock?” He frowned.

“I did? I thought we agreed on ten. I’m sorry.”

He stared pensively into the courtroom, which was emptying out. Even the cops were picking up their things and leaving.

“You wanted to see me.” He gave a start.

“Forgive me, I have to keep track of so many things. Maybe …”

“Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee?”

He deliberated, then raised a hand to his forehead.

“Excellent idea. Let’s. I agreed to meet someone in a restaurant just around the comer. What’s it called? Something with an O in it. I’m sure we can find it. After all, you’re a detective.”

He laughed and patted my shoulder, bounded to his
feet, and trotted off. I pulled my damp coat around my shoulders and followed.

“That’s it, over there! Chez Jules. No O in that. Doesn’t matter. We found it.”

He parked, and we went inside. It was one of those nouveau joints where you’re afraid the table might collapse if you set down a decent glass of beer on it. You sit on tiny chairs, munch on tidbits, drink out of little glasses. Everything has dainty legs—the furniture, the ladies, the candlesticks. You say “pardon” when you sit down at a table and “ciao” when you get up again. The habitués call out things like, “Jules, are the crabs fresh today?”

The place was packed with a lunchtime crowd. Anastas hurried through it, his neck stretched like a chicken’s, looking for his date. Sipping white wine and nibbling on slices of roasted garlic, the stylish ladies and gentlemen cast pitying glances at the little lawyer. I could hear them whispering to each other. Anastas waved to me and shouted, “Over here, Mr. Kayankaya!” It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the patrons fall off their chairs. As I joined Anastas, I recognized my pretty inquisitor from the courthouse. She looked at me and laughed.

“Oh, it’s the private eye. Now I understand.”

“You do?”

Anastas looked astounded.

“You’ve met before?”

“Just briefly. Not long enough to exchange names.”

“Carla Reedermann of the
Rundhlick
. Kemal Kayankaya.”

We nodded and slid onto chairs. Carla Reedermann smiled.

“What a coincidence.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

I lit a cigarette and hid behind the menu. Anastas slid his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and perused the offerings three times over. A waiter, bouncy in white tennis shoes, ambled over, stopped casually by our table, and asked for our orders. Anastas ordered two cheese baguettes and two tomato salads. Then he removed his glasses, folded his hands, and smiled at me. “So here we are, Mr. Kayankaya.”

“Here we are.”

Contentedly he stroked his balding pate. I stared at his round head and pondered why I had been up and about since eight o’ clock. The waiter returned with our plates. With a broad grin, Anastas wished us
bon appetit
and attacked his first baguette.

I stirred milk and sugar into my coffee, poured my shot of Scotch into it, and took a long sip. My egg on toast was lukewarm and tasted like a fried egg wrapped in brown paper, but the little lawyer was really enjoying his food. His tongue was angling for the threads of cheese that had strayed onto his face, his teeth mashing the greasy white bread. He washed it all down with black coffee. A thick slice of tomato slid off his fork—he sucked it right off his tie. When he asked me if my toast was all right, I pushed it
aside and lit a cigarette. Carla Reedermann was working on her order of mussels. I wondered about her connection to this gluttonous little fellow. Her brown eyes kept glancing provocatively at me. I ordered another coffee and Scotch. The two of them chewed their food in silence. I constructed houses out of beer coasters. Five minutes later, the waiter brought my coffee. Anastas reached for the menu to place another order. I slammed the beer coasters onto the table. “Now, wait a minute! I didn’t get up at that ungodly hour just to watch you have lunch.”

The waiter made himself scarce. Anastas put the menu down, wiped his lips, and put his glasses back on.

“I’m sorry.”

“And I don’t want any reporters.”

I pointed at the newspaper woman. After a moment’s silence, she pushed the plate of mussels aside, put a twenty-mark note on the table, and went to get her coat.

Anastas followed her with his eyes.

“Mr. Kayankaya, Miss Reedermann is on my side. I’m sure she won’t write anything that …”

“You can do as you please. I prefer working alone.”

She returned, picked up her purse, and left. She was furious.

“So. What’s the story?”

Anastas adjusted his glasses and murmured, “You must have read about the Ecological Front’s act of sabotage?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“As you know, I am defending the four people involved. I have been working on the case for months. I still haven’t found a concept that would enable me to mount a successful
defense. My clients pretty much refuse to make statements. They treat me kindly, but they won’t tell me more than they’re willing to tell the prosecutor. They openly admit that they did blow up the waste pipe of the Böllig chemical plant in Doddelbach. The firm is about forty years old, a medium-sized family enterprise. Twenty years ago, Friedrich Böllig inherited it from his father, who died relatively young. Six months ago, at the time of the explosion, Friedrich Böllig was killed. His body was found with four bullets in his chest and head, on the grounds of the plant, not far from the detonated waste pipe. My clients deny that they even set eyes on him, much less shot him. I believe them. First of all, they had no motive, and second, these four are as far removed from killer commandos as a delegation of allotment holders would be.”

“You don’t know those allotment holders …”

“They only wanted to destroy one of Böllig’s waste pipes. Material damage, nothing else.”

“What kind of waste did the pipes dispose of?”

“Chemical waste products, just like everywhere else. But some kids in the region developed strange skin problems, and the matter had been taken up with the Böllig firm. These children had been bathing in the lake into which those waste products were discharged. There were all kinds of initiatives, but none of them led to any change. My clients wanted to do something to get the debate going again.”

“And they were successful.”

“Yes … But it seems like they themselves don’t really know what to think about the whole thing.” He chewed
pensively on a tomato slice. “It must be a strange feeling. You go and blow up a concrete pipe, and the next day’s papers tell you that someone has been shot and killed.”

“Did they find the gun?”

“No.”

“Let me see if I got this straight. In the middle of the night, four people detonate a waste pipe belonging to the Böllig plant, and a few steps away, and at the same time, the head of that enterprise is shot and killed. And just because your clients look so pitiful when you visit them in their cells, you can’t see a connection … But how to convince the court of that? Good luck, is all I can say. What do you need me for?”

“The fifth man is missing. According to witnesses,
five
people participated in the action.”

“Witnesses?”

“A fellow was camping by the lakeshore, not far from the plant. With his girlfriend. The explosion woke him up, and as he rushed out of his tent, he saw
five
people running away.”

“What do your clients have to say about that?”

“Nothing. They don’t want to betray their comrade. But I believe that he is the key to this case, and that is why I want to hire you. Today I asked for a postponement of the trial date, to give you time to find the man. One week, exactly.”

I ground my cigarette into the ashtray.

“So you need a private investigator. Why me? I’m a Turk.”

His stubby fingers scratched the back of his other hand. “I read about your last case. I think you’re pretty incorruptible.”

“Depends on the size of the bribe …”

“What I mean is that you’re not easily swayed by public opinion. If you take this on, you have to be incorruptible in that sense.”

Pause. It took him at least three minutes to come out with his next question.

“How did you end up in this profession? Being a Turk, I mean …”

“I’m a citizen of the Federal Republic.”

“Oh, I see.”

He nodded, and as he leaned forward, there was a glint of solidarity in his eyes.

“Not so easy to acquire, that damn citizenship, is it?”

“No problem. I mow my lawn, I laugh a lot during the carnival season, and I manage to drink beer and play skat at the same time. Somewhere past Munich lies Africa, that’s where the Negroes live. I hate interruptions during sportscasts. My living-room set has been paid for. And I’m really a dancing Silesian at heart.”

For a moment he seemed on the verge of the inevitable “You must be kidding,” but he restrained himself and only gave an affected laugh.

“Seriously, Mr. Kayankaya—how long have you been living in Germany?”

“My mother died after she gave birth to me. My father took me to Germany. He didn’t last very long, and I was
adopted by a German family. I’ve lived in this country for as long as I can remember.”

He nodded.

“Forgive me. That’s quite a story.”

I lit a cigarette.

“It is?”

I took a drag.

“You should have heard the one I told my last client.”

I blew smoke rings.

“How did they find your defendants?”

“That
is one of many dubious aspects in the case.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that the police simply stormed their apartment three days after the explosion. There had been no search to speak of.”

“Maybe someone squealed.”

“Yes …”

“Could have been that fifth man.”

“Maybe …”

“The police didn’t say how they managed to find the suspects so quickly?”

“The man in charge, Detective Superintendent Kessler, was quite reticent about it. He merely said that the suspects had been arrested at the end of a quickly organized investigation.”

“Not a word about the fifth man?”

“Not a word.”

“Are they looking for him now?”

“I assume they are.”

“On what grounds?”

“Well, he’s just as suspect as my clients are.”

“What if he made a little deal with the cops? His freedom for the address of your clients?”

“I don’t think so. Not in a case that has attracted so much political attention. The police can’t afford it.”

“All right. So the cops are after him—but you think you need a P.I. to chase him too. Who do you think I am? If the guy has half a brain, he’s made tracks, and not just from Sachsenhausen to the North End or the other way round, but much farther. If you like, I’ll take your money and drive around. But it’s a bit out of my league.”

“In my opinion, a discreet loner may be more effective. Naturally I’ll take care of your expenses …”

He hesitated.

“If I didn’t think you were a good detective—I would have got up and left long ago.”

“I’ve been sitting around in these wet rags for three hours. I can’t stand it when people smack their lips while eating. And I would have preferred to meet your friend alone, on a night with a full moon.”

“You were none too kind to Miss Reedermann.”

“There was no full moon, either.”

“Furthermore, in this case … I don’t know your political views, but …”

“I’m just supposed to find this guy, right?”

“Yes, of course, but political views do come into play. People want to see my clients convicted. So-called Green terrorists are grist to the mill for the Right. They’re the best thing that could have happened, from the Rightists’ point
of view. Considering the business with the Rhein Main Farben plant, and …”

“All right. To set your mind at rest, I really believe that hand-knitted socks, free-range chickens, and argumentative women are terrific. I don’t look good in seal fur. But don’t ask me for the next paper recycling date.”

“Well, then.” He sighed. “So you accept?”

“Two hundred marks a day plus expenses.”

“No reduced rates for a good cause?”

“It’s included.
I
am the good cause.”

He nodded, looking a little sour. “How do you intend to start?”

“First I’ll have a word with your clients. Then I’ll drive to Doppenburg.”

“My clients? But that’s out of the question. They refuse to talk to anyone but me.”

“In that case, I need official reports, background information, and so on.” I considered this for a moment.

“The Böllig plant doesn’t employ a night watchman?”

“He was knocked out.”

“And?”

“He saw the person. At a lineup, he didn’t recognize a single one of my clients.”

“The fifth man?”

I stood up and pocketed my pack of cigarettes. “When can I see you in your office?”

“Tonight.”

“Around eight, then. Where is Doppenburg?”

“On the Frankfurt-Heidelberg freeway, past Darmstadt. It has its own exit.”

“I’ll see you tonight. See if you can make that lakeside camper be there too.”

I left. The sky had lightened and the rain had slackened to a drizzle. A couple of small clouds stuck to the tall downtown buildings like dirty cottonballs. I turned up my coat collar and hurried to the nearest subway station.

I pushed the front door and turned on the light in the entrance hall. Almost instantly the greengrocer popped out of his ground-floor apartment. In his corduroy slippers, turned-up jeans, and green nylon pullover, he barred my way, his shiny blond hair combed severely to the right. He was waving an empty cigarette pack excitedly.

“What is this? Tell me, what is this?”

His head bounced forward and back, as if pummeled from behind by an invisible fist.