Free Rosa by Jonathan Rabb

that sort of thing.”
    Hoffner knew the name well, a top boy with one of the larger syndicates: fencing, pimping. Gerda needed a friend like that, although she should have been a bit better with her geography. Pimm’s terrain was back near the Landsberger Allee. East. This was more Sass brothers’ territory. Still, he appreciated the effort. Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge. He placed it on the table. Gerda’s expression changed instantly. “You tell Pimm I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
    Gerda looked as if she might say something. Instead, she turned and quickly moved off. Hoffner waited until she was a few more tables on before turning back. He kept his profile to Lina. “Not much of a dancer,” he said.
    “No,” said Lina quietly.
    Hoffner knew there would be nothing more by way of explanation, not that he needed one. He placed his hat on his head and retrieved the badge from the table. He then peered down at Fichte. “Probably best to take your walk a little early tonight, Hans. You could use the air.”
    Fichte looked up. His eyes were anything but focused. He did his best with a nod.
    Finally, Hoffner looked at Lina. He knew he would see nothing in the girl’s eyes to hint at what had prompted the sudden entertainment. She was, at that moment, completely unknowable. Hoffner nodded once. “Frulein,” he said.
    She swayed slightly to stop him from going “We should do this right, sometime,” she said. She then placed a hand on Fichte’s shoulder. “You, me, and Hans.”
    Hoffner held her gaze. “Good night, Frulein.” He then slapped a hand at Fichte’s arm. “Tomorrow morning at eight, Hans. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the KD.”
    The ice cream arrived; Hoffner was already off in the crowd.
             
    B y eight, he was back at the block of flats on Friesen Strasse, following the echo of his own steps across the vast and empty stone courtyard and into the entryway marked D . He still had to remind himself it was D: they had lived in F for almost twelve years, up until a year ago when the larger place had come available. Martha had insisted he use his position as a Kripo detective to make sure they got it. Who was he to argue? Two or three families on the floor still refused to talk to him, though Martha seemed to find a kind of vindication in their bitterness. He had preferred F. Nicer carpeting on the stairs up.
    The long walk south to Kreuzberg had done little to make sense of the minor drama at Josty’s. Hoffner wondered how much of it he had provoked himself: he knew entirely, but his ego was allowing him a little leeway. Why shouldn’t she want to impress him? The problem was, why was he so desperate to be impressed? He had managed to keep himself in check since Victor’s death, a poor attempt at gallantry in the name of a fallen comrade, but even Hoffner was having trouble these days convincing himself that lethargy was particularly noble. As he passed the third floor, he realized the point was moot. Fichte was probably off somewhere staking his claim, right now. It had been that kind of an evening. Then again, Hoffner remembered the tobacco. She might just be putting up a good fight. He made his way up to the fourth floor and let himself in.
    The smell of boiled cabbage and some distant relative of meat greeted him at the door. It would taste better than it smelled; it always did with Martha. His youngest, Georgi—Georg to his friends, now that he had reached the advanced age of seven—was waiting for him in the front hall, his slippered feet dangling above the carpet, his long nightshirt lapping at his shins. His head, drooped to his chest, sprang instantly to life as Hoffner stepped through the doorway. Georgi held a piece of paper in his hands. He raced over and hugged his father around the waist. Just as quickly, he held the paper up to Hoffner’s face. “It’s two weeks from Sunday,” he said. “And the tickets are very