The Bone Man (15 page)

He was familiar with these, too, from even further back in his past. When the butchers didn’t have the high-grade synthetics yet. They’d cut the meat on wooden tables—you need to picture it more like a square chopping block. Now, over the course of the years—the butchers chopping and chopping all the while—the surface of the wooden tables would grow uneven. Like water running over a stone for a thousand years. And, over time, hilly landscapes formed out of the butcher blocks.

And you see, Horvath had bought up all these butcher blocks and declared them his works of art. Because that’s allowed in art these days, you can just go and pass off anything you find. That wouldn’t have been allowed before, but nowadays, reforms everywhere, church reforms, and art reforms, too. Now the reforms allow Horvath’s butcher blocks.

Other than the five butcher blocks, the only other thing in the workshop was an electric bandsaw that was so big, it practically hit the ceiling.

“When I was seventeen years old, I got my first boyfriend. He was nearly forty.”

As the devil would have it, Udo Jürgens immediately sprang into Brenner’s mind again. Because Horvath had blond hair, too, though more of a mousy blond.

“The photo in the Fiesta?” Brenner asked.

“We fell in love when I was thirteen. But, needless to say, impossible, so he went to Saudi Arabia for four years to work. Came back and then—really in love. But still impossible, of course. We would meet every night, right here in this workshop. Those people practically beat him to death when word of it got out. Somehow he managed to get away and hide out.

A few days later, he returned to the workshop. On a Sunday while we were all at church. He turned on the bandsaw. It made so much noise that the entire house shook. Terrible noise.”

Horvath had to smile a little at his own mention of the noise, and then he said, “So he could prepare himself. Because you don’t get into heaven when you slit your own throat.”

Horvath had to smile a little again now when he saw Brenner’s face. Then he continued, “As we were coming back from mass, we could hear the bandsaw running from far away.”

Horvath walked over to the bandsaw now and reached for the black power switch on the back of it. Brenner instinctively ducked his neck a little out of fear of the noise. But the switch only made a
clack
.

“No power,” Horvath said and laughed.

When later they wheeled Brenner into the intensive care unit, he could still hear Horvath’s laughter in his unconscious.

Nice and slowly now, one at a time.

By the time Brenner and Horvath climbed back into the Fiesta, it was already getting dark. Horvath drove through the twilight, and the two of them talked so much that you might have thought it was no regular Fiesta, but an especially strict Fiesta with a vow of silence.

Then, the Fiesta didn’t take the turn-off for Klöch, but, no, the opposite direction.

“Heard anything from Marko?” Brenner asked.

“Why?”

“Because he’s disappeared.”

“He hasn’t disappeared. I just saw him yesterday at the restaurant.”

“What was he looking for there?”

“I’ll give you three guesses. You know, you made him nervous, showing up at the opening like that.”

“Why would that make him nervous?”

“Marko’s facing bankruptcy. The banks are already on him about the rubber factory.”

“Rubber’s back in style now,” Brenner said.

“That can’t save Marko anymore, either. Not even enough rubber to make a rubber.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of style,” Brenner said. “I’m talking about rubber tires being in style down Yugo-ways.”

“Then you know about the ban on imports, too. That he’s stuck sitting on a pile of his own tires.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him,” Brenner said. It struck him that Horvath and Palfinger presented their stories in the same exact way. But just because two people don’t contradict each other doesn’t mean that something hasn’t been lied about. You’ve got to be careful not to over-analyze.

“I don’t feel sorry for him, either. When things were going better for him, he bought up almost all of my work. He must have at least fifty butcher blocks.”

“What did they cost him?”

“Twenty, thirty thousand schillings at the time. But ten times that since I disappeared.”

“Two, three hundred thousand?”

“I’ve always thought you were good with numbers.”

“Wanted to line his pockets with the millions from the butcher blocks.”

“But then a little problem got in his way. You’re not a cop anymore, so I can tell you. And it won’t make a difference to Jacky, either.”

“Do you think Jacky’s dead?”

“I get that feeling. Although for him I do feel sorry. Not just because he’s my dealer. But because, when I disappeared as Horvath because I finally wanted to be myself, I wasn’t all that interested in grass anymore. Because it doesn’t really go with being a chicken waitress, and I wanted to be a completely regular waitress. But then, when the stress picked up, first with the bones and then with Ortovic, I bought a little off of Jacky.”

“To ease the stress,” Brenner nodded.

“At first he was surprised that a waitress wanted to place an order with him. But when I gave him my order, he recognized me right away, of course. Because everyone’s got their special order, a dealer can recognize you even in his sleep. But he didn’t let on. I like Jacky for that. And a handsome man, too. But he’s a stray mutt. Went straight to Marko and blackmailed him: said he’d let it slip that I was still alive—before the exhibit.”

“Send prices plummeting, naturally.”

“It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Jacky in some time. Yesterday, though, Marko shows up all of a sudden. He’d known where I was hiding for a few days already, thanks to Jacky. But when you showed up at the opening, he nearly lost it. He thought that I was behind the whole thing—that right before the big exhibition that was going to restore all his finances, I was going to let it all fly. He would’ve liked to beat me to death with his own hands—just so it would be true, finally, that I was dead. He started threatening me that he’d pin the murder on me, and started screaming like a lunatic:
‘I know whose bones are in the basement. I know, and I’ll testify if you turn up before the exhibition.’
He was completely beside himself. He practically ripped off my breasts. But, at that moment, the old man intervened and threw him out.”

“So, whose bones are they?”

“You’d have to ask Marko.”

They were driving into Bad Gleichenberg now, a sleepy resort town, where just driving through gives you the creeps. But they weren’t just driving through, no—Horvath pulled into the parking lot of Little Joe’s Disco.

“What are we doing here?” Brenner asked. He couldn’t
quite make the whole story jibe, and he was so tired from trying that he could have fallen asleep right there on the spot. And going to a disco was the absolute last thing Brenner wanted to do right now.

“I’m driving back home. But you should go to Little Joe’s,” Horvath said and pointed at the silver Porsche that was parked out in front of the place.

“How’d you know that Pauli would be here?”

“Because he’s here every day.”

“Does he own the place?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“What’s he doing here, then?”

“Where do you think his whiskey hangovers come from?” It seemed strange to Brenner that Horvath felt such aggression toward Löschenkohl junior. You’d like to think that one low-life might have a little sympathy for another. But, needless to say, completely the other way around. Basically, it’s the same exact thing with dogs. A poodle only needs to catch a glimpse of a smaller pinscher to get worked up into a savage frenzy. Whereas a Rottweiler is humanity personified.

“And ask him where that twenty million walked off to that was still in Löschenkohl’s account a year ago. I know about it from his wife,” Horvath yelled out the open Fiesta window.

Once in Little Joe’s, though, Brenner was wide awake all over again. Because one thing you can’t forget. Disco today isn’t the same old disco. There’s disco and there’s disco. But a disco like the one in Gleichenberg you’re not apt to find anywhere else. A disco architect really came up with something here. The entire disco was outfitted like a barn, you know those nests
where the animals are penned up. And the feed troughs, the hoses for watering—it was all there.

The men were leaning against the troughs, bored, and watching the only three girls who were actually dancing. Because it’s the same the whole world over, Bad Gleichenberg or Manhattan, doesn’t matter: the women like to dance, the men prefer to watch like idiots.

When Brenner took the pig ramp up to the next floor, though, he was relieved. Upstairs, no barn, just a totally normal bar setup. He went right over to Paul Löschenkohl’s table, and without even saying hello, Pauli asked him: “Found anything out yet?”

“Not directly.”

“And indirectly?”

“Just like with a free kick,” Brenner said.

Löschenkohl junior looked a little dim.

“And you never know which is more dangerous,” Brenner said.

“So you like soccer?”

“I like the twenty million that Ortovic slandered you over with that bribery story of his.”

Löschenkohl junior gestured to the waiter to bring him another round. Even though his whiskey glass was still almost full. His face was as bloated as if he hadn’t been near anything else in years. When the waiter brought the fresh whiskey, Paul quickly threw back the one he had as though he was only doing it for the waiter’s sake—a big help, as it were—so that he could clear the glass away.

Brenner didn’t quite know what he should order, then he got a coke.

“Rum and coke?”

The server’s hair glistened like it was smeared with chicken grease.

“Coke, no rum.”

Because Brenner was just glad he wasn’t feeling the schnapps from that afternoon anymore. Although he was just imagining things, of course, because you think you don’t feel it anymore, but of course, you still feel it for some time after, it’s been proven.

“You just want to bluff me.”

Löschenkohl junior, Pronunciation Master of the World once again. Not just “bangalow” but “blaff” now, too—at least he was consistent. But then, as inconsistent as an old drunk again. Because he only fought it for a few seconds, and then he began.

He told his story very slowly. Slow as someone who’s concentrating on every single word. But not what you’re thinking: he was concentrating because he was lying. No, when you’ve been lying your whole life long, it overrides your flesh and blood. And then you have to concentrate when you’re telling the truth.

“My father built his chicken place back in the forties, out of a small bar where the local wines used to be sold. When we were first starting out, we’d often only sell a few glasses of white wine. Hundred schillings, that was on a good day. Over time, though, better and better. Then we expanded, and even more people. And a few years later, expanded again. And then again. I don’t know how often.”

Paul had taken his beer coaster and was scribbling nervously on it with his pen.

“It wasn’t long before my mother took off, because my father only had money on his mind. She married a Yugoslavian. My father didn’t fully realize that she was even gone. And he expanded again. Eventually we had the feeling that, on any given weekend, we were feeding half of Styria.”

This whole time, he didn’t look at Brenner once, just kept scribbling on his beer coaster while he talked.

“Then I got married. My father liked my wife a great deal. She had business smarts, and soon, she’d taken over the finances. I became less and less interested in the business. My wife, less and less, too. It was my mistake, bringing her into the restaurant. The more she had to do with the chickens, the less interested I was in her.”

On the red beer coaster were white letters that spelled out:
LITTLE JOE
’
S DISCO
,
BAD GLEICHENBERG
. And Paul was slowly making the word
LITTLE
disappear with his red pen.

“Nevertheless, she came to me this one time with a problem. Father had spent a million schillings in a single week. She said I should talk to him. But he didn’t want to hear anything about it. Over the next few months he spent five million. I followed him once and saw that he’d been going to a prostitute.”

In the meantime, Paul had colored over the next word on the beer coaster, too, so that only
DISCO BAD GLEICHENBERG
remained.

“You know that my father hasn’t been a real man ever since the war. That’s why, just a few years after it ended, he married my mother, because she already had a child. She left me with him so that I’d inherit something. And now, my father, who hasn’t looked at a woman in fifty years, gives six million to a prostitute? I’ve followed him over and over again
and he’s only ever gone to see Jurasic, Helene, Ortovic’s girlfriend.”

Now only
BAD GLEICHENBERG
was still legible on the coaster.

“Then, ten million were gone. My wife said, ‘That’s half of what he’s earned in his entire life.’ And I had to get him declared legally incompetent or else the entire business would be gone. So I went to the courthouse with all the documents that I needed to prove it, but in addition to the bank records, I needed at least one witness, too. Then, in the time it took me to track down a witness, another two million disappeared.”

Only
GLEICHENBERG
was still gleaming white now on Paul’s ever-reddening beer coaster.

“And then Ortovic found out that I was trying to get the old man declared legally incompetent. And he got the idea that he needed to get me declared incompetent before I could get my father legally declared. Well, a public declaration—made me look ridiculous so that no one would believe me. He came up with the bribery story. Making it impossible for me just about everywhere in Styria.”

LEICHENBERG
. When Paul was done with his story, he looked at Brenner inquiringly.

“And you expect me to believe your story?” Brenner said. Because although we know today that every last word of Paul’s was true, at that moment, Brenner didn’t want to believe him.