Rosa (19 page)

Since November the real intrigue had been taking place elsewhere—at the offices of the Social Democrats’
Vorwrts
a few blocks away, and at the ever-relocating rooms of
Die Rote Fahne,
Luxemburg’s “authentic” rag of the people. Ullstein’s
Die Berliner Zeitung am Mittag
(the
BZ
) and its
Morgenpost,
on the other hand, had chugged along quite nicely, and had left the rabble-rousing, and all its attendant mayhem, to the less stable publications. The
Morgenpost
had continued to report on the life of Berlin in full detail; the
BZ
had offered her up in little vignettes.

For fifteen years now, the
BZ
had been the city’s boulevard paper—to be picked up, read, and discarded—with stories that had just enough meat on them to keep the reader hooked for a tram ride or a morning coffee. It gave a snapshot of the city: eclectic, pulsating, and immediate. The only in-depth reporting the
BZ
ever did was the Monday sports section—horse races, motorcycle rallies, sailing, boxing, football, handball: the pages were always thick with the sweat of the middle class. It also liked to titillate and shock—murder was its biggest seller—which was why most of the men of the Kripo were familiar with its offices.

Hoffner pushed his way through the swinging doors and into the
BZ
’s editorial department. The sound of typewriter keys striking metal cylinders, and the constant clatter of the newswire machines, gave the impression that the fourth floor was under attack from a legion of angry, pellet-throwing elves. Even the ringing of the telephones took on a sirenlike wail, as if a miniature ambulance corps were shuttling unseen from one side of the room to the other. The
BZ
staff seemed oblivious to the noise; they remained focused on the news. The one or two who did look over as Hoffner made his way through knew exactly where he was heading. When the Kripo came, they came looking for Gottlob Kvatsch. It was probably why Kvatsch insisted that his desk remain on the back wall: he liked the view it presented. He also liked to keep his distance. Ullstein was beginning to hire too many of its own kind. Kvatsch might not have been able to avoid working
for
Jews; he just had no desire to work side by side
with
them. He had moved his desk three times during the last year. None of his co-workers had shown the least concern.

Kvatsch saw Hoffner long before Hoffner had made his way past the “cooking tips” and “affordable fashions” desks. Kvatsch quickly began to fold up the few notebooks that were spread out in front of him, and was placing the last of them inside a drawer when Hoffner pulled up. Keeping his gaze on the desk, Kvatsch found something to busy himself with: he began to rearrange the pens on his blotter. Hoffner stood quietly for a few moments and enjoyed the performance.

Kvatsch was wearing a weathered suit, the kind found on any of those Saturday wagons in the Rosenthaler Platz or near the Hackescher-Markt. The tie was also secondhand. The shirt, however, was crisp and white: Kvatsch chose his creature comforts carefully. To the men of the Kripo, he had always reminded them of a slightly bedraggled detective sergeant, one whose time had never come, yet who continued to wear the once-impressive suit in the hopes of being noticed. There was the story that Kvatsch had actually applied to the Kripo and been dismissed years ago, but Hoffner guessed it was more of a cautionary tale for young recruits than the reason for Kvatsch’s persistent choice in attire. Even so, they all knew what Kvatsch liked to be called around the
BZ:
he was “the Detective.” Maybe, then, the clothes were a deliberate choice, thought Hoffner, even as the word “pathetic” ran through his mind.

“Hello, Kvatsch.” Hoffner spoke with just the right tinge of contempt.

“Herr Detective Inspector.” Kvatsch was still intent on his pens. “What a surprise.”

“‘Sources in the Kripo.’ That’s very impressive. I’d like to know which ones.”

Kvatsch looked up. His face always had a nice sheen to it, as if his wide pores were the source of the oil used to comb back his hair. And he was always pursing his thick lips, afraid, perhaps, that his teeth might slip out without constant supervision. Kvatsch reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pack of very expensive cigarettes: he was making clear his own connections. He took one and laid the pack on the desk. “I’d offer you one, Herr Inspector, but I know you don’t smoke.” Kvatsch lit up and settled back comfortably into his chair. His lips continued to purse around the butt of the cigarette.

“Let’s save ourselves some time, Kvatsch. Just tell me where you got it.”

“Please, Inspector. Have a seat.” He indicated a space in front of his desk, then took in a long drag. There was no chair in front of his desk. “Are you confirming the story?”

Hoffner smiled. “I’m just trying to find out who’s been passing false information on to our friends in the press.”

“False information?” echoed Kvatsch. “Is that why you’re here? It worries you that much that someone might be misleading me?”

Hoffner kept his smile. “The name, Kvatsch. I’d hate to have to bring you down to the Alex.”

Kvatsch nodded slowly, as if he were about to submit. His eyes, however, had the look of a little boy’s with a secret. “Haven’t you heard, Inspector? The socialists have introduced something quite wonderful. It’s called “freedom of the press.” The Americans have been doing it for years.”

“Really?” Hoffner gently moved the pens out of the way so that he could take a seat on the lip of the desk. His proximity seemed to straighten Kvatsch up in his chair. “They also have libel laws. Little things like that. We don’t, so we get to use other methods.” Without the least bit of threat, Hoffner reached over and pulled a cigarette from Kvatsch’s pack. He took Kvatsch’s cigarette and lit his own.

Kvatsch showed no reaction. “Would you like a cigarette, Detective Inspector?”

“No thanks.” Hoffner took a drag on his own, and then crushed out Kvatsch’s in the ashtray. “You know, Kvatsch, I don’t think the socialists had you in mind when they started parading out all of these freedoms.”

“Must be up to four or five by now, if you’re this keen for my source, Inspector. And here I thought it was just your run-of-the-mill little murder. Not even front-page material. Tell me, is it true about the knife markings? I think that’s the part that’s going to sell the most papers.”

“We both know it’s going to take me no time to find this out. You can either do yourself a favor, or you can do what you always do. End up a few steps behind, kicking yourself for having been so stupid.” Hoffner enjoyed the momentary flash in Kvatsch’s eyes. “These socialists are an unpredictable bunch. It’s another week before the Assembly votes get tabulated. Who knows where we might be then? Between you and me, Kvatsch, I don’t think this is the time not to have a friend in the Kripo, do you?” Hoffner stood. He crushed out his cigarette. “Just something to think about.”

“I’ll do that,” Kvatsch said icily.

“Good.” Hoffner reached over and took the pack from the desk. He was turning to go when he stopped and said, “Oh, by the way. Nice suit. Just your style, Detective.” Hoffner pocketed the cigarettes and headed for the door.

F
ichte had vomited twice, once during a barrel roll, the other just after they had touched down in a field on the outskirts of Kln. To be fair, that last one had been due more to relief than to motion; still, it had brought Fichte in under the limit. Mueller had been banking on at least three such episodes, but Fichte had survived the nosedive and the spinout without so much as a burp. Mueller had been duly impressed. Tonight the drinks were on him.

“You see,” said Mueller as he watched Fichte dry-heave a last string of saliva onto the ground. “I told you you’d get used to it.” He rapped him on the back. “We just need to get you something to settle that stomach.”

Fichte nodded as he stared, hunched over, into his own spew. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. Oddly enough, he had never felt more exhilarated. He spat, stood, and peered up into the dusking sky.

It was all so unreal, he thought. Thirty kilometers out of Berlin, and the clouds had lifted; the sky had opened, and Fichte had known what it was to be in flight. Mueller had tried explaining it to him over the din of the engine and wind, but Fichte had heard only pieces—nondimensional coefficients, lift-drag ratios—none of which had made even the slightest bit of sense to him. For Fichte, flight was a matter of faith, and with it had come a feeling of such profound solitude—stripped of any hint of loneliness—as to make it completely serene. He could still feel the wind slapping at his face, his hand as he had held it out, its enormity stretching out over houses and fields and rivers, all of them cradled in the thickness of his fingers and palm. There was a vastness to the world at those speeds and at that height, a totality that could easily have provoked a feeling of utter insignificance, but Fichte had felt no less vast. Up there, he had known why Mueller had continued to take to the sky: not for the thrill or for the ego, but for the connection with that totality, a sensation of perfect wholeness only imagined from the ground looking up. At two thousand feet—in an open box made of metal and wood—it was forever in his grasp.

Fichte spat again and placed the handkerchief in his pocket. “A couple of shots of whiskey should do it,” he said.

Mueller laughed. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”

Mueller knew most of the best spots in and around Kln. In fact, Mueller knew most of the best spots anywhere west of Berlin. He was also not averse to using his disabilities to his advantage. The girls in Kln were known to drop their prices, and various other bits, for a cripple, now and then. Mueller told Fichte he would see what they could do for a cripple’s friend. Fichte thought about mentioning his lungs, but he reckoned the trade-off wasn’t worth the few marks he would save: better to have Mueller thinking him a robust young detective than the jackass who had sucked in on the gas at the wrong time. Of course, it never occurred to Fichte that Mueller might already be wondering why his passenger had managed to miss out on all the fun at the trenches. Mueller was praying that Fichte’s quick departure from the Kaiser’s service had had nothing to do with a certain very delicate area: that was a wound no one liked to talk about. Fichte’s hesitation over the girls had gotten Mueller thinking that maybe the prices were not going to be the real problem tonight.

All such concerns, however, were quickly put to rest five hours later, when Mueller, Fichte, and two willing young ladies stepped into the attic loft that Mueller had found for them over one of the seedier bars in town. It was one room, but Fichte hardly seemed to mind. He had been sustaining a very nice drunk since his third beer, and immediately pulled down his pants the moment the four of them were alone. Mueller laughed at the sudden appearance of Fichte’s shortish but exceptionally thick erection. Mueller tossed his own girl onto the room’s one bed and dove in after her. He then turned to Fichte as the bedded girl began to pull off his clothes.

“What is it with you cops and instant nudity?” said Mueller, slapping at the girl’s hands as she tried to undress him. “Pants down. Service, please. Where’s the romance?” Mueller howled with laughter as the girl found what she had been searching for.

Fichte stood there, chortling quietly to himself as his girl took hold of her prize.

Mueller said, “Nikolai’s the same way, you know. No shame, no patience.”

Hoffner’s name seemed to slap some life into Fichte. He turned to Mueller as he pushed the girl’s face from his crotch. “The
Kriminal-Kommissar
?” said Fichte, tripping over the last few syllables. He immediately snapped his head back at the girl, who was trying to reacquire her target. “Hey there!” he said. “Hold on a bit.” She laughed and continued to probe. Fichte shrugged and looked back at Mueller. “Herr Hoffner?”

Mueller was having his own trouble concentrating on the conversation. “I could tell you stories,” he said in a throaty tone.

“Really?” said Fichte, teetering as he spoke. “Like what?”

The girl had mounted Mueller and was now riding him with vigor. When he spoke, his words issued in a tom-tom cadence. “Ask him about the pact.”

“About the what?” said Fichte. Fichte’s girl pushed him down onto a chair. She took his hands and strapped them onto her thighs. She, too, began to drive down onto him.

“The pact,” said Mueller, becoming winded. “Just ask.”

The girl on top of Fichte grabbed his face, focused it on her own, and said, “You want to talk, or you want to fuck?”

It took Fichte a moment to find her eyes. She was really quite pretty, he thought. And she had nice big tits. Bigger than Lina’s.

“Fuck, please,” he said.

She grabbed his head and thrust it into her chest. She then began to ride him with even greater abandon. Fichte was glad he had brought his inhaler. He would need a few good sucks before round two.

CHUCHYA