Out of the Line of Fire (24 page)

2000 marks.

God, for a moment there I thought you were going to say 10,000 marks.

Yeah, well it might as well be. I have until six o’clock tomorrow. With these guys that could be literally if I don’t come up with all or most of it.

What about your fat-man suit. A couple of watches, three or four fur coats.

Very funny.

Why not?

I’ve tried. I think they’re on to me at the KDW. I nearly blew it completely yesterday. They’re suspicious as hell. That’s why I need your help.

I’m sorry Karl. I just don’t have access to that sort of money.

No, no. I’m not asking you to lend it to me but to help me get it.

How?

Ever notice how many young kids hang around the Zoo Station loos at lunch time.

No, not really, but go on.

A lot of business gets done at lunch time in those loos.

What sort of business?

Businessmen’s quickies. What the kids call ‘cracking’ it.

Cracking it?

Yeah, you know, having their butts fucked.

No way Karl. I couldn’t. Not for you or anyone else. I’m not interes…

Karl’s laughter cut me short as he realized what I was saying. I felt like a complete fool. I could just see him imagining me heroically bent, anxiously lowering my pants to expose my still virginal white bum, uttering a tentative plea to be gentle, and then squeezing my eyes shut as I waited for the first exploratory prod.

I started to laugh myself.

You’re incredible Wolfi, you know that. Wait till I tell Marianne. Greater love than this hath no man than that he pull down his pants for his friend…God, that’s a relief. What if you’d said yes?

He began laughing again.

No, what I had in mind was to roll one of these rich arseholes.

How do you mean?

You know, threaten to beat the shit out of him if he doesn’t hand over his wallet. Take his cash and credit cards and work on from there.

Sounds risky to me.

Not if you’re careful. I’ve done it once or twice before. They’re usually so shit scared you don’t even have to ask. Besides, there’s not much choice, is there.

So what do you want me to do?

Just keep an eye out. I know the routine pretty well. The kids who are cracking it have a territory. There’s usually about half a dozen of them and no one else operates their beat. Most of the customers are regulars who barely disguise what they want in any case. Occasionally there’s a new-comer, so to speak. These kids have a sixth sense about a likely mark. It’s uncanny really. The regulars are easy to pick, and sometimes even I can spot someone new, but these kids are amazing.

Karl’s plan was for us simply to sit in the plaza and watch for one of the boys to be picked up by someone who looked loaded. We would then follow them down the stairs into the U-bahn station. I was supposed to keep watch outside the loos in case one of the railway cops came along.

What if someone turns up who wants to use the loo?

Would you? Look Wolfi, the only people who use them these days are homosexuals and junkies and now that the boys are working the place there are even fewer of these. And paradoxically, they’re safer now. Hardly anybody gets beaten up anymore—it’s bad for business. From time to time the authorities go on a blitz but for the most part they just turn a blind eye; who are they to stand in the way of ah, private enter-prize. That’s what some of the kids call it you know, turning a blind eye. If someone should happen along, he’s probably on the make. You should be able to stall him for thirty seconds by haggling over the price, or by asking him for money. Tell him the loos are closed, or just suggest it’s not in the interest of his health to want to crap just at that very moment.

What about the kid?

Don’t worry about him. I can be
very
persuasive when I need to be.

In the plaza the sun was shining and the air was warm. There were a lot of people about—singly, in pairs or small groups: business-suited men hurrying for lunch dates or business appointments, absorbed in speculation; lovers strolling arm in arm, just enjoying the sunshine; smart-looking women in sunglasses and, of course, groups of street-wise kids.

Our boys were doing a brisk trade, so much so that Karl was worried. At times, two of them were gone at once.

Remember how I said these kids are amazing, how they have a sixth sense for spotting someone new. See that kid over there, the blond one. Karl pointed to a good-looking boy with blond hair who reminded me of Tadzio in Visconti’s
Death in Venice
. One day I was watching them, you know, studying how they went about their business when this blond-headed kid suddenly gets up from the edge of the fountain where he had been sitting and walks quickly across the plaza, across the street and hurries along it for about fifty metres. Then he doubles back and begins casually walking towards a guy strolling arm in arm with what must have been his wife. The kid was looking in the other direction until the instant they passed. I swear there must have only been a microsecond’s eye contact between them. He walks back to his friends without turning around. The guy walks on for a few metres, then glances quickly back over his shoulder. I watched his arm disengage itself from his wife’s and they stopped and faced one another. You could see him talking to her and her nodding. He pointed to his watch and then to some destination further up the street. She nodded again. His right arm reached up to her shoulder and he bent slightly to kiss her on the forehead. She turned to go. His hand seemed to linger for a moment on her retreating shoulder, as though it preferred to go with her rather than be part of his betrayal. But his head had already turned towards the group of boys and his impatient eyes began searching for the object of his obviously undisclosed passion. He stood for some seconds like this, his hand half-beckoning, half-waving to a wife already lost in the crowd. At last he found what he was looking for and would have. He glanced in the direction his wife had taken while his body began hesitantly to move in the opposite direction, half aware it might run into someone walking across its path. Then he turned and made his way towards where this little blond god was seated. I got up myself and inconspicuously circled around to where their little group was gathered to try to hear what was said. You know, the guy wasn’t even German. He was an English tourist! I tell you, these kids are amazing.

As I looked around at what was going on in the plaza it struck me that each instant seemed to imply a random cross-section in time, something completely patternless, but that if one could have photographed the plaza from high overhead with a time-lapse camera then, in the speeded-up film that resulted, a pattern would emerge. Tiny loci would appear, like microscopic encounters. Invisible scenarios were being enacted, the impact and significance of which might eventually be revealed by a frame-by-frame analysis of this constant flux. Perhaps even our own role in this complex drama would eventually have been unravelled from such a film, that is, of course, unless we had suddenly vanished in one of those crucial interstitial moments between frames.

A high-pitched girlish giggle a short distance away reminded me for a moment of Klaus Brambach’s poem.

I had never registered the obvious sexual content of these lines, but now as I watched the three young girls opposite us and heard their peals of obscene laughter I realized they could not be interpreted in any other way.

Here we go, Karl said, clutching my arm.

I felt my heart skip a beat. He was already standing. I got to my feet and looked across the plaza. There, by the group of boys, was a tall, well-dressed, dignified-looking man in his early sixties. He was grey-haired and wore a lightweight overcoat. From where we were he seemed almost jovial. Somehow I had expected that Karl would roll someone sleazier, someone less conspicuous. The terms of the transaction seemed to have been completed and one of the boys got up. It was only when the old guy turned to follow him that I realized he was leaning heavily on a walking stick.

For Christ’s sake Karl, he’s got a gammy leg. He’s probably a bloody war veteran. You’re going to mug someone who was an air ace in the Luftwaffe.

Shut up Wolfi. I’m not going to mug anyone.

We started to make our way slowly across the plaza.

I recognize this guy. He comes here two, maybe three times a week. Sometimes he just gets his chauffeur to pull up at the kerb and signals one of the boys to come over. Half an hour later he’ll drop him back. Other times, like today, he’ll send the driver on. If we were to stick around in half an hour you’d see him hopping into a blue chauffeur-driven Merc.

Yeah, hopping would be right.

Already I felt uneasy. Karl didn’t bother replying. We watched as their heads disappeared down the stairs about twenty metres in front of us.

Besides, the fact that he’s got a limp will give us more time to milk a few auto-tellers before he can call his bank to put a stop on his account.

Feeling guilty?

You just look after your end and I’ll look after mine.

We headed down the stairs. In the pale fluorescent light of the platform there were fewer people about than I had anticipated but still too many to make me feel comfortable. In fact, now that we were down here I felt more nervous than ever. We walked quickly along the middle of the platform towards the long corridor which led to the men’s toilets. As we had agreed I stopped in front of the entrance and got out my U-bahn plan. Karl stood in front of me, apparently talking to me but all the time watching our quarry over my shoulder as they made their way up the passageway.

Anybody there? I said, unable to suppress a tremor in my voice.

He spoke quickly, emphatically.

No, they’re just about to reach the door. There’s a bench two-thirds the way along the corridor. Sit there as if you’re going through your timetable. I won’t be more than thirty seconds. They’re in.

I turned to go.

No, not yet. Give him a minute to get his pants down.

We stood there waiting. Time seemed to slow to a stop. Karl was incredibly calm, smiling, appearing to talk to me all the time he was analysing what was going on around him, calculating. I felt dazed. I could feel the cool dampness of my shirt clinging to my back. Karl smiled at me again.

You okay?

Sure.

Okay then, let’s get this show on the road. Just walk slowly, don’t hurry.

At the corridor seat he lightly touched my arm.

Well, here goes. Won’t be long.

I watched him disappear through the door, saw it close noiselessly. I looked at my watch and sat down. One of the fluorescent lights overhead kept blinking on and off. Suddenly I felt sick. I couldn’t believe that what we had talked about and what had seemed so unreal was actually happening. The reality of the nightmare was that I now felt trapped. It was as if by going through that door Karl had entered another world and would never return. And yet, at the same time, I could never leave because in some irrational way I was forever bound by my agreement to wait for him. I felt like a character in a novel written by myself who runs into a character in a novel written by himself. I would have to sit here for all eternity tortured by my fear that at any instant someone would come along the corridor and Karl would be caught. I looked down the narrow shaft, transforming each person who walked by its entrance into a railway cop. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead as I tried to suppress the urge to surrender to some catastrophic hallucination.

I looked down at my watch. Nearly a minute had passed. I could now see two men talking on the platform as Karl and I had done. One, who had a briefcase beside his right foot, gestured with a newspaper as he made some point. The other nodded. I looked at my watch again. A minute and a half. He had said thirty seconds! I watched as the second hand moved inexorably towards two minutes. My sickening feeling began to grow worse. Something must have gone wrong. What if Karl was in trouble? He had said nothing about what to do if he didn’t come back. Two minutes! Jesus, what to do…Two minutes fifteen! I got up and half ran to the door and pushed it open. The graffiti covered white-tiled washroom was empty. I ran to the other door, shoved it open with a crash. I looked down the row of cubicle doors. The one at the end was open. The old man’s cane lay in the middle of the floor together with his coat. I could hear a young voice counting: One hundred and forty-six, one hundred and forty-seven…

Suddenly a blurred form shot out from the open cubicle, crouched, both arms raised. My hands went up in a reflex action. He straightened.

Fuck Karl, what are you doing with a
gun
? You didn’t mention anything about a gun! Fucking hell.

I ran down towards him. The boy in the next cubicle had stopped counting and had begun to whimper like an animal. Karl tried to stop me reaching him, pushing me roughly in the chest. I fended him off and looked in. The old guy was slumped back against the toilet cistern. His trousers were down around his knees, his flaccid penis obliviously content as it nestled against the creped sack of his scrotum. But his face was a mess. Blood was trickling down his cheek from a nasty gash across his temple.