Free More Beer by Jakob Arjouni Page A

that he is in favor of free elections in South Africa.”
    I lit a cigarette, drank champagne.
    “How come he’s defending those four?”
    “So he can sleep at night.”
    “And why are you looking for the fifth man?”
    “Probably for the same reason.”
    Next door, the señora’s chamois squeaked against the windowpanes. Max sipped his champagne. “What happens if I find a bug?”
    “Good question.”
    “Or if I don’t?”
    “If you don’t, one of the people I met yesterday must have told the cops that I’ve entered the Böllig game. Someone known to Kessler. An informer.”
    Half an hour later, we were done. We were back in the car, and Max cranked the engine. Dense and heavy raindrops were falling from the sky and rattling on the roof. The window wiper on my side was out of commission. I couldn’t see anything. Entering the traffic with caution, Max recapitulated. “So, as I told you, unless they’ve come up with something completely new, there are no bugs in that office. Maybe your attorney talked about it with someone in court, and the prosecutor’s office passed it on to the cops? They’re hand in glove, aren’t they?”
    “Maybe.”
    We stopped at a light. I looked at the window displays.
    “Tell me, Max, do you know a joint called Lina’s Cellar?”
    “Leftist sort of place, with a touch of
bella Italia
. I’ve been there. Terrible wine, and the waitress wasn’t so hot either.”
    “A buxom blonde?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Anything else you know about it?”
    “They used to deal hash there. Now it’s more the kind of place where male professors take their female students.”
    We stopped by my office, made a date to shoot some pool, and said goodbye.
    “And how is Anna?”
    He made a face.
    “She’s going into detox the day after tomorrow. So she’s been really hitting the bottle for a week.”
    He turned and drove off. I entered the building and checked my mailbox. The Bilka store wished me a “good morning” and provided me with a lot of wonderful ideas to get shit-faced. Corn schnapps for seven marks, gin for twice that, and if nothing else worked, there was always the liter bottle of methylated spirits to really fry your liver. My office was on the third floor. It was cold and smelled of stale smoke. I turned up the heat and sat down at the desk. There was a dentist’s office on the floor below me. For a while I listened to the faint hum of his drill. Then I picked up the phone book and found the number of
Rundblick
magazine. After three rings someone answered, and I asked to speak to Carla Reedermann.
    “Reedermann speaking.”
    “Kayankaya. Could you please tell me exactly what you did yesterday?”
    “Why—?”
    “This morning the cops worked me over. Because of the Böllig case. I would like to know how they found out about me so quickly. Someone must have tipped them off.”
    “Are you implying that—?”
    “I’m just wondering. First you show up at Anastas’s, then you drive to Doppenburg, then there’s all that talk about the female and cultural perspective … Not too convincing. But look at it this way: You suggest to Anastas that I might provide a lead for the cops, and then you could keep tabs on me. Then, of course, the cops want to know what I have to do with the case.”
    Her breathing sounded labored. Typewriters were clattering in the background.
    “So what now? You won’t believe anything I tell you.”
    “Doesn’t matter anyway. I promised Kessler to drop the case. In return, he told me who tipped him off.”
    “Wha-at?”
    While she damned both me and the detective superintendent to the lowest pit of hell, and shouted that this was the worst swindle she’d ever been involved in, I retrieved my half-empty bottle of Chivas from a drawer, jammed the receiver between ear and shoulder, rinsed a coffee cup, and poured myself a drink. When she turned down the volume and her imprecations became more sporadic, I growled, “All right. Calm down.