More Beer (7 page)

He pulled my coat collar up while the other three hung on to my sleeves. They wrapped me around the post like a rubber band. Then one of them said, “He’s a Turk, right?”

“But he’s a cop, nevertheless.”

He put his fist under my chin. “Still acting cool, hey, pig?”

“Tell your kiddies I don’t need longer arms.”

He swung and slapped me in the face with his open palm.

“You’re just an asshole. Just like us. But the difference is that you’ve sold yourself to the pigs. You understand?”

“No.”

“You’re a Turk, all right, that’s a bonus. A dago … But if you try to sell us to the cops, we won’t be so tolerant anymore. Is that clear?”

“Listen, man, I’m too old for your party.”

He slapped me again, then held his index finger under my nose. “For the last time: I don’t know anything about the Böllig affair, and I don’t know the fifth man. And something else: you won’t come snooping around again. Got it?”

The three were hanging off of me like shopping bags. I had had enough.

“If the fifth man isn’t an informer, I’ll buy you a soft drink.”

His fist flew through the air, a white lightning bolt flashed through my skull, then everything turned gray. I tried to defend myself, but they hung on and pummeled me.

“Fucking traitor!” Then I was down on the sidewalk, and I stopped trying to ward off their blows. It was pointless. I saw their faces whirl above me like a carousel. A punch in the stomach, a kick to the head, fireworks, and curtains.

I woke to stinging pain. I opened my eyes and saw a crumpled Coke can. They had left me lying in the gutter. My head throbbed wildly. My tongue tasted blood. Something tugged on my pants leg, then crawled over it, and then there was that vicious sting again, in my arm. I rolled sideways and felt the wet fur, heard it squeak. A rat was hanging on to my arm and staring at me with its pinpoint eyes. I scrambled to my feet and pounded the rat, shouting, but it only tightened its jaws harder on my broken skin and flesh. Crazed with pain and revulsion, I made it to the next streetlight and slammed my arm and the rat against the pole. If the beast hadn’t borne the brunt of the blow, I would have broken my arm. I banged it against the lamp post one more time and it let go, slid to the sidewalk, and ran squealing into the nearest storm drain. I leaned against the post, totally confused. The rat had torn my jacket and shirt, and I could see a mess of blood and broken skin. I was in urgent need of a doctor. Behind me, a front door opened, footsteps approached. “Good God! What happened to you?”

“Call an ambulance! Please!”

Then I blacked out again. When I came to, a man in a white coat was supporting me. We were still by the streetlight, but a crowd had gathered. Someone wanted to know what had happened. He was attacked by a rat, someone said. People giggled.

“Wow, that’s wild, a Turk chewed up by a rat!”

Boom, boom, boom. That was my arm. A distant murmur reached my ears. My mouth tasted as if I had been sucking on a rotten herring. The murmur came closer and turned into a voice right next to me. It hurt my head.

“God, I hate the emergency room! Stabbings, alcohol poisoning, broken noses—it’s always the same. This one’s lucky to keep his arm. God, the garbage we have to deal with here at night! I used to feel pity, but now it’s simply disgusting. When he wakes up, send him home to bed, and tell him how many of these pills he should take. If he doesn’t understand, draw a picture.”

“All right, doctor.”

I squinted into the blinding white light. Slowly the white coats acquired outlines. I dragged myself up onto my right elbow. My left arm dangled lifelessly. Two men stood watching me the way anglers look at a poisoned fish.

“See you later, Heckler.”

I raised my hand and croaked, “Doctor—”

He didn’t turn around, just kept on going. Heckler was studying papers. I touched my damaged arm, moved its elbow and fingers a little. It was far from functional. It had always been the weaker arm.

“Heckler.”

He didn’t look up but indicated that I had his attention, growling, “Yes?”

“How is my arm?”

He put the papers aside and came to the cot. A young paramedic, clean-shaven, impeccably manicured, white clogs on his feet. Legs apart, knees straight, he stood before me.

“Not so hot.” He clicked his tongue. “You should take better care next time.”

“I want to know how my arm is.”

He crossed his arms and rocked back on the wooden sales of his clogs.

“You have light to medium contusions allover your body and a laceration on your right leg. Your left arm is badly infected. We sewed it up as well as we could.”

As he was speaking, he was performing a kind of mime.

“What do you mean, as well as you could?” I asked, after explaining to him that the laceration was on my leg and not in my brain.

“You’ll have a scar, but,” he smiled, “you won’t think that’s such a tragedy, will you?”

Was he implying that I wasn’t photographic model material, anyway? I told him to go to hell and tried to get off the cot. I slid and dragged myself over to the chair with my clothes on it. They reeked of alcohol.

“Why does everything smell like that?” I asked.

“We disinfected everything.”

I put on my shoes and reeled into the hall. Heckler clip-clopped along by my side. “Come back in two days, or have your own doctor take over.”

I gave him my doctor’s address and said goodbye. It was two o’clock in the morning. The silent hallway was lit by yellow emergency lights. I fired up a cigarette, shuffled through the reception area, and flagged a taxi. The rain had stopped. You could even see the moon. But I was already fast asleep.

A huge rat in a pair of briefs sat on the edge of the bed, making a fiery speech about the forests of Germany as it kept grabbing one of my feet—I had at least ten—and nibbling on it. Then I was crawling on my stumps down an endless tunnel, past men in white coats who were hooting and pointing at me. From the other end of the tunnel a fat woman approached carrying a ringing telephone. She set it down in front of me, I picked up the receiver and said “Hello?” but no one answered. But it kept ringing and getting louder and louder, and I kept picking up the receiver. Finally I woke up, bathed in cold sweat. Someone was leaning on my apartment door bell like a madman. I threw off the covers and dragged myself over to the closet. The Beretta felt comfortable in my hand. According to my watch, it was twenty past five. Who the devil could this be? I touched my left arm. It hardly hurt anymore. The doorbell started ringing again, and now they were banging on the door as well.

“Open up! Police!”

I switched on the light, turned the key, took the safety off the Beretta, and opened the door. It was, indeed, the
cops. Four of them. They faced me in a half-circle. One of them saluted casually and asked, “You’re Kemal Kayankaya?”

“As it says on the door.”

“Come with us.”

I stuck the gun in the pocket of my robe and told him what time it was.

“I have a warrant to place you under temporary arrest,” he rumbled, and showed me a piece of paper. “If you resist, I have to put the cuffs on you.”

The fingers of the three others hovered nervously above their pistols. I surrendered, and half an hour later we were at the precinct.

The cell was no more than three square meters, with a light green plastic toilet in a corner. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti. Above me to the right a small ventilation fan whirred. There were no windows. It was a little after seven by my watch. Outside, the sun must have risen.

I lay on a narrow cot, humming popular tunes to myself. They had turned the lights on half an hour ago—bright lights, which penetrated closed eyelids. A cop had brought me a jug of tap water and told me that the superintendent was still busy. The light became unbearable, and I pulled the gray blanket over my head. My cigarettes were in my overcoat, and the cop who from time to time stuck his head through the door refused to get me any. When one of the clowns pulled me out of the squad car, my arm had started bleeding again. I turned to the wall and tried to sleep, but with no success. I could feel the throbbing of the wound in my brain. So I got up and walked two steps forward and two steps back, back and forth, back and forth.
Then I started kicking the toilet at one end and banging the peephole window at the other. Less than two minutes later a head appeared.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to stop smoking.”

“Come again?”

“You see a cigarette anywhere?”

He closed the hatch. I heard him say, “Willi, the Turk is freaking out.” I stepped up on the toilet seat and held the blanket up to the ventilation fan. Instantly the stiff fabric jammed the blades. I banged the window again. “What’s the matter now?”

I pointed at the fan. “I’m suffocating.”

He pushed past me and saw the blanket. “Listen here, you asshole, there’s a bunch of buddies back there who aren’t feeling so good because it’s been a fucking long night, and they’d like nothing better than to work you over! So shut up and lie down, you won’t regret it.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

He gave me a pitying look. Then he roared, “You don’t understand what I’m saying! You don’t even know what a lawyer is, for God’s sake, you goddamn camel driver!”

I grabbed his green uniform collar and pushed him up against the wall. “Now it’s your turn to listen to me. I got out of the hospital at two o’clock this morning, and three hours later you guys pull me out of bed, rip the stitches out of my arm, and throw me in a cell that would make any normal person sick! I want to call my lawyer!”

I let him go and sat down on the cot. He took a deep breath. “Very well, dago. I’ll tell the superintendent that
you’re ready for questioning.” He checked the time. “We’ll save the raiding party for another time. I’m off duty.”

I growled something about how I didn’t give a shit, I’d fight all the fucking cops, let them just come by, including the superintendent. He was gone. I ripped the blanket out of the fan and it started whirring again. Then I heard footsteps, and the door opened. Two of them came in, handcuffed me, and took me out of the cell without a word. Our footsteps echoed in the long hallway. They stopped by a wooden bench and told me to sit down. After an eternity of ten minutes, they pulled me to the door facing the bench and into an office.

Behind the desk sat a nice little man with big ears. He looked at me as if he were in the market for a nice red balloon. I was planted in a chair facing him. The two uniformed cops left, and I was alone with the nice little man. He looked down at a piece of paper and read: “Kemal Kayankaya, private investigator. Born in Turkey. German citizen.”

I nodded. He set the piece of paper aside and folded his hands.

“Four years ago I spent a week in Istanbul. An enchanting city. Truly enchanting. And the architecture! Of course,” he lifted his palms in regret, “a little run-down. Not that you don’t see that here too.”

He scrutinized me kindly, fastened his gaze on the handcuffs, and exclaimed with feigned indignation, “These officers! Always so pedantic. They insisted on putting handcuffs on you. But I told them to treat you considerately.” He shook his head. “Please, Mr. Kayankaya, you must forgive us. My staff is still so inexperienced.”

Instead of removing the cuffs, he turned to look out the window, still smiling.

“I gather you have been complaining about the way they’ve been treating you?”

“I just wanted to speak to my lawyer.”

“But you threatened an officer, didn’t you? Do you realize you could be charged for that?” When he turned his eyes back to me, they were cold. “It’s always the really clever ones who demand to speak to their lawyers right away. Are you a really clever one?”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed one of his big ears.

“You’re not answering me. Maybe you’re a really stupid one?”

He chuckled, and laugh lines appeared around his eyes without softening them.

“Well, all right, let that go. You are presently investigating the Böllig case. That does not please me. I want you to resign from the job. If you refuse to do so, I’ll ask for a warrant for complicity with the culprit and endangerment of our investigation. I don’t want you to interfere in this case. It gives us the opportunity to uncover certain connections and organizations which we haven’t been able to investigate until now. These things require delicacy and time. The police force does not consist only of idiots. We have been weaving a fine web, and you are about to tear it up, in all sorts of ways.”

I rattled my handcuffs.

“Please take these off.” He got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly around the desk.

“I’ve gathered some data on you, Kayankaya. You think you’re a tough guy who can stick his nose into whatever he feels like.”

“Is that all you found out?”

He sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his hands over his soccer-ball stomach.

“You’re a boozer.”

“Does that worry you?”

He picked up a metal ruler and pointed it at me. “What do folks drink in your parts? Raki, right? Would you like a shot?”

“No, thanks. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“A cigarette?”

I didn’t reply. He reached across the desk and took a pack of Rothmans from a drawer. Unwrapping it, he asked, “So? You’ll resign from the case?”

“I don’t think so.”

Furious, he tossed the pack in the wastebasket and came closer. I had had enough. I tried to get up, but he pushed me back into my seat.

“You stay where you are until we’ve settled this,” he hissed at me through his teeth. Then he switched back to balloon man, smiled, and said in a low voice, like someone explaining the advantages of an account with their savings and loan association, “Listen carefully, Kayankaya …”

He clasped his hands behind his back and strode slowly back and forth in the room.

“In here, I can beat you within an inch of your life, and no one gives a rat’s ass. On the contrary, I may even get a pat on the back.”

He studied his fingernails.