Budapest Noir (7 page)

“We’re not open yet,” she told Gordon.

“I know,” he replied, pointing to Samu, “it’s just that that fellow over there is ready to die of thirst.”

“I don’t serve drinks on credit.”

“I’m not asking you to,” said Gordon, throwing forty fillérs on the counter. “Let’s have whatever this will buy,” he continued, “and make it decent pear brandy, not that poison.”

The woman wanted to reply but had second thoughts. She wiped her nose, took out a bottle from under the bar, and filled two shot glasses. “Keep the change,” said Gordon as he sat down beside a snoring Samu, whose head drooped on his chest. Gordon held one of the shots under the signalman’s nose. Samu snorted and jerked up his head. Blinking, he locked his cloudy eyes first on the glass, then on Gordon, who put the pear brandy down before him.

Samu didn’t reflect for long. He reached for the shot glass with a trembling hand and all at once downed its contents. He shuddered, and Gordon watched intently as the life returned to his eyes.

“What do you want from me, sir?” he asked in a deep voice similar to the creaking of a carriage wheel.

“Take me to Csuli, Samu.”

“To Csuli?”

“To him.”

“But Csuli won’t be happy about that.”

“He won’t be happy, Samu, to hear that you didn’t take me to him when it was important.”

“How important?”

“Very,” replied Gordon, standing up. “Come on, we can’t waste time.”

Samu fretted a bit, but decided he’d probably be worse off not taking Gordon along. Adjusting his scarf and buttoning up his blazer, he rose unsteadily to his feet and headed toward the door.

“Shall I send this one back?” asked Gordon, pointing to the other shot glass. With surprising nimbleness, Samu stepped back to the table, downed the pear brandy, and gave a nod. “Believe me, sir, a man doesn’t need a heartier breakfast than this.”

“If you say so.”

From the restaurant they headed toward Rákóczi Square, Samu in front. Along the way the signalman kept gesturing to associates of his who were mostly invisible to Gordon:
It’s okay, no need to worry, I know him, he’s with me.
Gordon had to keep an eye out to see who Samu was communicating with in this singular language of thieves. A woman in a window watched as Samu ran his left hand along his blazer; a man leaning up against a wall observed him scratch his left earlobe with his right hand; and a teenage kid flashed his eyes toward them from inside a building doorway as Samu adjusted the visor of his cap. Gordon had to admit that Vogel had done an exceptional job with his series of articles. Everything was just as he’d described. The gang really did keep the neighborhood under surveillance every minute of the day.

Tisza Kálmán Square was lined by sullen, tired-looking buildings. Even the trees looked haggard, and the lawn—if you could call it that—was sparse and gray, with solitary clumps of grass visible here and there. A carriage was rumbling over the cobblestone, its insistent creaking echoed from all directions by the silent buildings. Gordon turned to see the signalman gesticulating dramatically: all at once Samu squatted down, tied his shoes, slowly stood back up, ran a hand over his lapel, and blew a puff of air onto the nails of his left hand before finally wiping that hand on his pants. Gordon didn’t understand a single wordless action, and he couldn’t even see to whom Samu was “speaking” so vivaciously.

“There, he lives in that one,” said Samu, pointing. “The first door on the right on the third floor.” He turned around and took off with unusually quick steps in the direction of Baross Square. Gordon looked around but saw no one. He walked carefully toward the building Samu had pointed out, avoiding dog droppings on the grass of the square, horse manure on the cobblestone. As soon as he reached the building, the front door opened. Whoever opened it was hidden in the interior’s darkness even as Gordon entered. Gordon went up to the third floor and rang Csuli’s doorbell. After a minute or so, he heard someone rummaging about. Then the door opened. When Csuli saw who it was, he immediately slammed the door shut.

“Come now, Csuli, even you know there’s no use. You heard me coming,” said Gordon loudly, “so just let me in.” Csuli didn’t answer. “You live in a lovely building,” Gordon continued. “Much nicer on the inside than the outside. But why am I telling you this, seeing how it’s not by chance you moved here. No doubt the neighbors also know how you earn your bread. The fact is, Csuli, my boy, that I could use a girl.” Gordon was beginning to enjoy the situation. “A top-notch village tramp. A fiery one, mind you, not some sluggish slut, but the sort who—”

The door now opened, and a brawny hand reached out and yanked Gordon inside. Csuli slammed the door shut behind them and with booming steps went into the living room. Gordon followed. He’d seen a lot of flats, but he hadn’t expected one like this, here. It was as if he’d wound up in one of the elegant, bourgeois flats near Szervita Square. Izsó Skublics’s home was furnished poorly by comparison. In the corner stood a three-door Neo-Baroque hutch; the wooden door in the middle was adorned by a carving of the three Graces, and expensive china filled the shelves behind the glass door on each side. The writing desk had a castle carved right into its façade—which Gordon thought he recognized as the legendary castle of Sümeg—and a thronelike chair was behind the desk. Armchairs sank here and there into the plush Persian carpet, as did a round table with carved lion legs. In jarring contrast, however, the walls were replete with paintings and illustrations by modern artists. A heavy brocade curtain hung in front of the window, and in front of that was a sofa where Csuli himself now sat, wearing a taut, unwrinkled suit and immaculately polished shoes. Gordon could not decide if the man had woken up early or not yet gone to sleep. He’d heard that Csuli resembled the great Hungarian comic actor Szőke Szakáll, and upon seeing him now in person for the first time, Gordon had to agree.

For a moment Gordon just stood there in the doorway, taken aback. Szőke Szakáll himself could have been sitting on the sofa. The same plump frame, the same blond hair, the same double chin, and the same voluptuous smile he’d seen in the movies—only the glasses were different. Instead of Szakáll’s tortoiseshell glasses, Csuli’s were wire-frame and oblong, somehow transfiguring his smile. Csuli’s expression was cold, calculating, menacing.

“I know you’ve made a name for yourself, but I know lots of people, and I demand that—”

“Demand?” snapped Gordon, plopping down in one of the lion-legged chairs beside the round table. He lit a cigarette and took a leisurely drag. “Demand? Now that’s something. What do you demand? In the best-case scenario, you can demand a lawyer. Because this is the end of your little business, Csuli. We’ll see how demanding you are when the cops take you in. Because this time you’ve overshot the mark.”

“What are you talking about?” replied Csuli, rising to his feet with surprising speed, given his proportions and the early hour.

“The Jewish girl found dead Tuesday night on Nagy Diófa Street.”

“I don’t know about any girl.”

“In your shoes,” said Gordon, “I wouldn’t, either. The only problem is that everyone else knows the girl was part of your racket.” From behind the cigarette smoke, Gordon watched to see if his ruse would pay off.

“Who are you talking about, you wretch?”

“Oh, I see that you really don’t know her then.” Gordon stood up. “I beg your pardon. My mistake.”

“You’re damn right you got it wrong. You have the nerve to come by here at this hour, you practically break the door down, shout in the hallway, and spout all sorts of lies.”

“I must again beg your pardon. I only figured that I’d check with you before writing my article. I knew you’d deny it, but I had to try. So I’ll write that you deny it.”

“Deny? Me? What are you planning to write?”

“I was thinking something like, ‘Csuli, the gang leader based out of Hársfa Street, denies that the girl found dead was working for him.’ ”

“You can’t write that, because it’s not true.”

“Look, I wasn’t seriously hoping you’d admit it. The point is, I was here and you denied it, and that I can write. After all, it’s your girl they killed.” Gordon turned around and headed toward the door. Now or never. He turned back. “And what’s the worst that can happen to you? The cops can cart you off to the lockup for a couple of weeks. But the business will go on in the meantime, right?”

Beads of sweat appeared on Csuli’s forehead.

“Even you know that would be the end of me.”

“I know, I know, but there’s nothing I can do. If she’d been a village girl-turned-whore, I’d say this sort of thing happens. But this was a Jewish girl from a good family. Only the general public will be more upset than the police have been at the news that she was pregnant. To send an expecting mother to the streets? Hell, Csuli, are you human? A pregnant woman’s death is scandalous—even if she was a hooker—but socked so hard in the belly that she died? According to the coroner, death wasn’t immediate, and was all the more painful on account of that. For both the girl and her fetus.”

From Csuli’s face it was obvious what was going through his head. He did some quick calculations—the dividing and multiplying—that led him to conclude there was no winning. Gordon meanwhile started off toward the apartment door again, but he hadn’t yet reached it when Csuli called out, “She wasn’t working for me anymore.”

Gordon turned back, stuck his hands in his pockets, and listened to Csuli without a word.

“The girl had been recruited by Józsi Laboráns. It must have been a good two months back. She never did say her name. But she was a viciously pretty one; I just don’t get it how Józsi Laboráns could have picked her up. He’s always got such ladies . . .” Csuli waved a hand in annoyance. “We had no idea what her name was or where she’d come from. Nothing. Just that she was pretty, young, and Jewish.” By now, Csuli was seated once again on the sofa, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “The customers liked her so much that she got quite the reputation. And one day a gentleman showed up in a fur coat, a hat, and cane, and he said we should talk. So we talked. You can’t say no to such a gentleman. Then, the next day, the girl disappeared.”

“Just like that. Like smoke.”

“Well,” Csuli faltered, “not so easily, though.”

“How much did he pay you?”

The fat man raised his eyes to Gordon.

“You can’t write that.”

“Do you see a notebook in my hand? A pen?”

“You won’t write it?”

“That’s up to you. If you tell me what I want to know, then no. But you’d be well advised to know a lot, because it’s been a while since I’ve had a front-page story. I’m listening.”

“Five hundred pengős,” Csuli finally replied.

“Five hundred pengős?”

“Yes. Gordon, right? You know gentlemen, too. Not that I’m complaining, because he could have had me carted off to the lockup instead. You think I drove a hard bargain? On the one hand, five hundred pengős; on the other, the lockup.”

“Talk, Csuli,” said Gordon, sitting down, “and start at the beginning.” He looked at his watch. It was just past eight. He had plenty of time.

“But you know exactly how this sort of thing happens.”

“I know. But do be so kind as to remind me. Or you know what? I’ll look up Józsi Laboráns, and he’ll tell me.”

“You can look for him if you want. But you won’t find him. He died a month ago of TB.”

“A great loss,” said Gordon. “Then there’s no one left to tell it but you.”

Csuli reluctantly began. One of Józsi Laboráns’s girls, Teca, was caught by the detectives and sent to the lockup for two weeks. Józsi Laboráns felt the need to go in search of fresh labor. He looked around the “market,” which is to say, along the Grand Boulevard and on Rákóczi Street. He couldn’t help but notice this ebony-haired girl in front of a store window display. He hit on her, invited her to supper, and found her suitable. But he encountered unexpected resistance—the girl didn’t want to go along with him. It was time for his tried-and-true “breaking in” routine. Józsi stepped away from the girl and over to a cop. He asked the cop if he was going in the right direction if he wanted to get to Andrássy Street, pointing toward the thoroughfare, which was just beyond the girl. The cop naturally looked in that direction, nodded, then told Józsi to keep going the same way. Of course the girl saw the scene, and because she thought this was about her, she got scared. Then Józsi went back to her and said he’d shown her to the cop, who now knew who she was, and if he saw her again, he’d arrest her. But if she stayed with him, continued Józsi, he’d protect her; he knew cops well, and it would take only a word from him to smooth things out. The girl believed him, and so she had to join Józsi, who told her what she had to do and how to behave on the street. He entrusted her to a friend of his called Dezső, who was a full-time signalman along the Grand Boulevard and accepted other “discreet” jobs as well. The girl moved in to Józsi’s flat, where she was registered as a servant. She made good money for her services, and soon word of her spread among Józsi’s clients.

When Csuli finished, Gordon looked at him incredulously. “You’re telling me there are women who fall for this?”

Csuli gave a snorting laugh. “They all do, Gordon. You’ve seen lockups on the inside, right? Well, what woman wants to wind up there for even a week? She’ll leave the place with syphilis so bad she’ll be a stiff in no time, and even if she does avoid that or gonorrhea, she’ll no doubt pick up a few nice little chancre sores.”

“But why didn’t she just leave Józsi?” asked Gordon.

“You see there, that you’d have to ask her.”

“She’s dead.”

“This is what happens to these girls, Gordon,” said Csuli, leaning back. “Or, if not, and they can stand it for three or four years, they end up in the provinces for a couple of years, and then it’s off to Belgrade. You’ve been there, too; you know what they do to Hungarian girls there.”

Gordon nodded. “And not just Hungarians.”

“But that’s most of them there. Before the war they got their hands on almost ten thousand Hungarian girls. Back then, Dušan Ranko led the business, now it’s his son. A couple hundred Hungarian girls wind up there every year even nowadays, and then they take them east, to Sofia, Constantinople, Baghdad.”