Free The Bone Man by Wolf Haas

Löschenkohl?”
    “Kicked straight out of the club. Made a nice, high arc, too. What else were we supposed to do?”
    “But he didn’t admit it.”
    “Nobody ever does. But it was obvious. I knew Ortovic personally. And I have to say, a pity, such a nice guy. And a good striker. And a favorite with the ladies, of course, because Orto, he was a real character—not very big, but a little devil, and strong as a steer.”
    Ferdl had a look of outright pleasure on his face as he described Ortovic. But don’t get any ideas—because it’s true: you often hear that about coaches, all that about the smaller boys, it’s not purely athletic interest that motivates them. But a certain something else, too.
    But Ferdl—never. On that I’d lay my hand in the fire. Because he was a real lady-killer himself, and frankly, when he was describing Ortovic, he saw himself in it a little, too. And if you look at it that way, it was truly from an honest heart that he said, for a second time: “A real pity about that guy.”
    “And so it was because of Ortovic’s testimony that you threw Löschenkohl junior out of the club?”
    “We had to distance ourselves from the management, of course. So that everyone would see: it was only the tip of, of, of—”
    “Of the iceberg?”
    “No, of—of the club, I mean. Of the management. Only the president. Just Löschenkohl.”
    They were driving up to the border now. No drawn-out formalities, though, because Ferdl knew the customs officer. I don’t want this to come out the wrong way but—certain agreements were in place. Anyway, they waved the bus right through, and then, once they were across, the driver said, “They’re always lined up here at night. Yugo-whores. Just like the soccer players who play for us, the whores earn a little foreign money, too.”
    All this about the foreign currency really seemed to bother Ferdl. As a chauffeur, you probably have a certain relationship to it. Really not a bad profession, and one where you can get to know a lot over time. It goes without saying, Ferdl had a good general knowledge: “The Yugo-whores are cheaper and better than the ones at home.”
    “Just like the soccer players,” Brenner said.
    “Yeah, exactly. Like the soccer players,” Ferdl laughed. And then he nodded his head toward the side of the road and said, “First one’s already standing there. Especially on the weekends, though, it’s just teeming with them. Ortovic’s girlfriend always used to stand there, too. Before she disappeared.”
    “Did she run out on Ortovic?”
    But, now—and you see, that’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time! Follow-up question at the wrong moment, and just like that—it’s all over.
    Because it was now that Ferdl realized: Brenner wasn’t a sports reporter. If he didn’t even know that Yugo-striker Ortovic and his girlfriend had disappeared a few days after the bribery scandal broke. From one day to the next, as if swallowed up by the earth.
    Ferdl lapsed into an icy silence from behind his steering wheel. Brenner could follow up or not follow up, and the only answer he’d get: icy Ferdl-silence. Until Brenner tickled him with the miracle blanket. That got the chauffeur finding a few choice words again.
    In the end, though, he didn’t know anything else, except that Ortovic, the Feldbach striker, had popped back up again two days ago. In FC Klöch’s ball bag. Roughly three days after Klöch’s goalkeeper Milovanovic disappeared without a trace.

CHAPTER 6
    Now, this is where the story gets a little uncomfortable, of course. Because Brenner’s thinking,
Ortovic’s girlfriend, the missing prostitute, maybe I’ll go to Radkersburg, say, to the Borderline, maybe there I’ll find something out
.
    Now, you’re going to say, that’s a good excuse. And I can just hear folks talking already: Brenner certainly didn’t go unwillingly to the Borderline. And you can’t hold it against anybody for thinking that. Just between