Before It Breaks (19 page)

So are you from around here? And she mentions Broome and he goes you're kidding and then realises she's the daughter of Nick Menop, one of the big pearl guys, and his confidence is cracked and he's worried the old Dan Clement, the real Dan Clement might burst out of the bottle, shattering it. But he's not going to lie, the lie he's propagating isn't about who he was but how he feels about who he was, and when he mentions the caravan park she's not even aware of it, she was down here at boarding school, and it's as if she's the one who is slightly embarrassed. Like girls at parties do, some
girl keeps cueing the same Kylie track over and over and normally he hates this but it's so appropriate because he can't get her out of his head. Not on the way back to his flat after he'd left her with a lingering kiss, not the next day when he called her, fighting himself to make it stretch till four in the afternoon because the new Daniel Clement realised there was science to the art of courting just like there was to boxing.

And here he was reliving that moment, that song. He couldn't get her out of his head even now in this pokey ‘apartment' but he could mask her for a while. Superimposed over Marilyn and the pink dress came an image of Phoebe climbing out of bed just a few hours from now, ready to head off on her adventure. He soaked himself in regret for just a few more moments, scolded himself for his lies and thanked them for what they had delivered, despite the impermanence of its beauty, and the pain of its loss.

And then he slept.

The car was an icebox. Chill bit through his scarred leather jacket and gnawed on his bones. Eleven minutes had passed since Wallen skulked down the laneway, knocked on the rear door and entered the tacky sex shop which covered for a heroin distribution hub, right here in the heart of the Reeperbahn. Talk about hiding in plain sight. It was so obvious, the drug squad hadn't given it a second thought. And it was extremely convenient for the dealers who could load up with supplies and slip straight out to their ever-eager customers, the hookers of Hamburg. Tempting as the thought of being indoors was, he decided to wait. After sixteen long months, nearly an entire year of that in deep cover, a few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

He had passed on his intelligence to his controller. This would be his next to last buy. He just needed to act as he always did, not give them any grounds for suspicion.

He sat back enveloped in tobacco smoke and let the moody sounds of Elvis Costello dance around him. ‘Watching The Detectives'. Ironic. One of the few side-benefits of this job had been his introduction to this British New Wave music, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury. His colleagues hadn't a clue about this kind of music. The Stones were as adventurous as they got but he'd found himself dealing with a different class of person in his role.

He'd always thought he had pretty good English but maybe there was something he was missing in this weird song. A girl files her nails as she watches the detectives dragging a lake. So has somebody been murdered? Was she part of it? Or is she just an observer, maybe even watching TV? There was a sense of unease in the song, of a truth obscured to the listener. For the briefest instant he allowed his mind to drift forward to what life might be like in a week when the operation was complete. He would lie on
the bed that was far too big for the little boy and read stories about lost bears and princes and woodcutters, and his son would have no idea that his father was a modern-day woodcutter out in the forest slaying wolves. Since going under deep cover he'd barely seen his wife or boy. Two days per month, that was all that could be allowed.

The song finished. He ejected the cassette. He preferred vinyl but you couldn't fight technology. He climbed out. The Elbe's breath lashed him. He huddled into his jacket, walked briskly down the lane past rotting garbage to the door and knocked. It swung open on an iron security grill. A huge man looked him up and down, checked he was alone and opened it without a word. There was no heating in here either but it was preferable to the car.

As he headed down the narrow uneven passageway the tall, skinny Wallen was coming the other way, no doubt loaded up with his week's supply. When he started this assignment he had despised Wallen and those like him. They had waited together for their ‘stuff' barely exchanging a word, mutually mistrustful. Then one night some skinheads had jumped him near the Hauptbahnhof. He was taking a hammering until Wallen had appeared. The two of them had quickly turned the tide. Most of his assailants fled but they caught one, and punched and kicked the skinhead into a bleeding pulp. Afterwards they had beer and sausage and Wallen talked about his two small children with a father's pride before heading to the lavatory to shoot up. From then on, he could only pity Wallen. They became friends despite everything, for no longer could he deny the man's humanity.

He stopped by a tall pile of videos, the cover showing a blonde with enhanced breasts spilling from a nurse's uniform, her mouth wrapped around a thick black penis. He asked Wallen how he was doing.

‘Rolf has bronchitis and his mother is working tonight. I have to do my rounds and get back to him as soon as I can.'

The dealer couldn't complete his rounds till the early hours of the morning and the guilt played over Wallen's face as clear as a slide show on a white wall.

‘You should go on a holiday for a week or two, somewhere sunny, sooner the better.'

He hoped Wallen might take his advice though he knew it was unlikely. He was a user, how would he prise himself away from his supply? But he hoped he did. He didn't want Wallen banged up and his kids suffering. He'd left Wallen's name out of his reports but if
he was caught in the raid there would be nothing he could do for him. Wallen gave him a thoughtful look.

‘I might do that. We should have a beer later.'

‘Sure.'

Then he was gone. Gruen advanced to what they called the vault. Behind that door would be the Emperor, whose real name even now remained unknown. Tonight it was the crew-cut one, Klaus, on sentry duty. Gruen raised his arms for the search as a matter of course. Nobody got into the vault with a weapon.

‘You're eating too much strudel,' joked Klaus patting him down. Wallen had told him Klaus had been a mercenary in Africa in the 60s. Klaus had proudly talked about burying enemies alive up to their necks and then driving armoured carriers over them one by one until a prisoner talked and gave them the intelligence they needed. Just as Klaus was down at his ankles, Gruen looked up and saw resting on a high box, momentarily forgotten, the Emperor's cigarette lighter. On impulse Gruen snatched the lighter. Satisfied he was clean, Klaus pressed a buzzer. There was a click as the inside lock was released and the thick steel door swung open.

It didn't matter how many times he'd done it, his sphincter tightened every time, but especially now. He was already cursing his impetuosity. This time next week the Emperor would be in custody, they would know his identity, getting his fingerprints off the lighter would be a waste of time. And he may not even have a record. There was no choice now though, he buried his fear, strode in and the door shut behind him, courtesy of the two interior guards. One bright electric bulb burned over his head. The heroin was packed in bags on a trestle table, already cut to the specific percentage the operation had gauged as optimum. It could have been icing sugar at the supermarket. The Emperor sat behind it as always and handed him his weekly stock.

‘Sometimes dealers think they'll make a little extra, cut the product down a little further. That ever occur to you, Pieter?'

He'd heard the stories of such dealers being sliced apart live by a chainsaw wielded by the seemingly mild man currently sitting in front of him.

‘No.'

‘You're one of my only distributors who is not a hopeless junkie. Never tempted?'

‘Never. I want to make my money and get out.'

‘You have ambition?'

‘Yes. I suppose so.'

The Emperor sighed. ‘In most occupations, ambition is good. But I always get a little worried about ambitious men working below me.' The warning was clear. Don't ever think about crossing me. The Emperor stuck a thin cigar between his lips and looked for his lighter. ‘Go. Make us a good profit.'

Gruen headed for the door.

‘Wait.'

The blood in Wallen's veins froze solid. He turned and forced himself to look into the Emperor's eyes.

‘You've been doing a good job. You keep this up, I can expand your territory.'

He did not answer, probably his tongue would not have worked, instead he inclined his head respectfully and got out.

He always felt relieved when he stepped back out into the bitter cold but never so much as tonight. The slicing freeze over your cheeks confirmed you were still alive. The job he was doing was grubby, feeding addicts the drugs that would destroy their lives; but he never had second thoughts. If he wasn't giving them smack someone else would be. Sure he could arrest them instead, some might even be rehabilitated but wasn't it much better to cut off the snake's head and save all those as yet untainted bodies? When medical researchers were trying out a potential lifesaving drug, there had to be a control group, the ones who only got a placebo. His clients were the control group, sacrificed for the benefit of others.

In the movie world, undercover cops could just present themselves as big heroin players, buyers with a heap of cash. That happened sometimes but with the Emperor and his crew, you had to live it. No going to the quartermaster with your smack and having it bought by the government to be destroyed. The Emperor was always checking up. Your clients could be real or traps. You took nothing for granted.

The ignition took several times to catch but eventually it did. He drove off into a quiet street, carefully pulled the lighter from his pocket, sealed it in an evidence bag and placed it in his glove box. Tomorrow morning he would drop it in the locker at the swimming pool, the collection point.

He drove to the back of the train station, found a park in a lane, did a quick run, selling to a few regular customers and walked through
the cold air to a basement bar where he knew he'd find Wallen. Freiheit was once a small bar of dark furniture, low light, a man in a suit playing ‘Danke Schoen' on a piano, catering to travelling businessmen and sailors. The piano had gone, along with the sailors and businessmen, the furniture was still dark, the light low but now it was a mecca for the New Wave, with their stovepipe trousers, leather jackets, spiked hair. The band tonight veered towards punk, the singer in a red vinyl nappy, the songs little more than shouting. Not surprisingly, the crowd was thinner than usual, some girls in short skirts, vinyl or tartan held together with big safety pins, ripped stockings, razor blade earrings, stood up the front making a lot of noise. Probably the band's girlfriends, guessed Gruen. Wallen was leaning against the bar. He used his finger to order a beer for Gruen and indicated they should move to the furthest reaches away from the stage. They relocated to a small table behind the staircase.

‘Not your taste?'

‘Too angry,' said Wallen draining his pilsener. ‘Smackheads don't get angry, you know that. We mellow out.'

‘Except when a new batch hits the streets.'

Wallen was happy to contradict his statement of a moment before.

‘It's like a stampede out there. Jesus, I could have sold half my stuff already but I like to look after the regulars. You?'

‘Same. There was a big bust, some Turkish outfit so there's no competition: supply and demand.'

‘It's all fucking economics. I studied that, you know?'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. I did six months at university but I dropped out. It wasn't for me. You know what I really wanted to be?'

‘Musician?'

‘Can't sing a note. Archaeologist, that's what I wanted to do; pharaohs' tombs surrounded by hot desert, away from this cold fucking place. You?'

‘I wanted to be a tennis player.'

‘All those good-looking women?'

They laughed. Wallen sipped his beer and regarded him with the same thoughtful look he had earlier at the porn shop.

‘I got to ask you something, man. You a pig?'

It was so direct it rattled Gruen. He could have lied. He should have. ‘Yes.'

Wallen took a deep breath, pulled a cigarette from his jacket and
lit it. He inhaled fast and deep and blew a stream of smoke to the side. His eyes were cobalt-blue beams boring out of him. ‘You're really a fucking cop?'

‘Yeah.'

Now Wallen looked anxious. ‘You didn't have to tell me.'

‘I know, but I don't want to lie to you, we're friends.'

Wallen regarded him suspiciously like this might be a ploy to make him say or do something he would later regret. He shook his head. ‘We can't be friends. You lied to me.'

‘I had to.'