couldn’t remember the last time that Peter had looked truly happy. ‘A client kept me – you know what it’s like.’
Not really, Max thought.
‘Endless arguments over irrelevant details,’ Behle grumbled, ‘chiselling away at my profit margin.’ Undoing the top button of his shirt, he pulled off his tie and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. Compared to Max and the rest of Littbarski's clientele, however, he still looked rather overdressed in his expensive pin striped suit and highly polished black Oxfords.
You’ve been coming to here for the best part of thirty years, Max thought, but you still look like you don’t belong. The fifty-something, bourgeois geschäftsmann look doesn’t work here.
Exasperated, Behle waved a hand in the air. ‘People think they can ask for more and more all the time and somehow, as if by magic, nothing gets added to the bill.’
Mumbling something suitably soothing Max stubbed out his latest cigarette. In truth, he found it impossible to be too sympathetic. Peter Behle was one of the most successful architects in Berlin. And, with the need to rebuild the reunified city, a long-term boom in business seemed assured.
‘These days, I am 90% accountant, a lowly bean counter, trying to make sure we don’t get robbed blind.’
To Max’s relief, the latest beers arrived quickly. For several moments they drank in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.
‘So?’ Behle asked finally, placing his bottle carefully on the table.
Here we go. Max signalled to a passing waiter for two more beers. Catching Peter’s eye, he smiled sadly and shook his head.
A stony look fell across Behle’s face. ‘It was that little English hustler you fucked, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Max shrugged. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’
Nostrils flaring, Behle raised his voice a notch. ‘You selfish bastard.’
Max looked around the nearby tables. ‘These things happen.’
‘You stupid , selfish bastard.’ The voice went up another notch; Max was conscious that those around them were beginning to tune into their conversation. The approaching waiter, sensing a major domestic brewing, placed the beers on the table, along with the latest bill, grabbed the empties and beat a hasty retreat.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ Behle demanded. He was beginning to play to the gallery now and Max had to resist the urge to reach over and punch him on the mouth.
Counting to ten, he forced his temper under control. ‘I say that you need to get tested as well,’ he said finally, before starting on his latest beer.
‘Fuck you,’ Behle hissed.
Eyes lowered, Max focused on keeping his voice even. ‘Up to you, but I would go to Charité.’
Pushing back his chair, Behle got to his feet. ‘You are a fucking asshole.’ Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a crumpled 20DM note and dropped it on the table. ‘As well as a total idiot.’
Ignoring the grins of the gawkers around him, Max watched as the angry middle-aged man in the pinstripe suit shuffled on to the sidewalk and disappeared into the late evening crowd.
All in all, that went as well as could reasonably have been expected. Reaching for the cigarette packet on the table, he retrieved another HB, lit it and let it dangle from his bottom lip. One thing would never change: the world always looked better through the haze of cigarette smoke.
Slowly, the Kriminalinspektor’s thoughts turned to the four children that had been murdered less than twenty-four hours earlier, little more than a stone’s throw away from where he was sitting. ‘Now that,’ he said to himself, ‘is the work of a real asshole.’
Kaspar Wuffli staggered out of the Sugar Lounge some time before three a.m., pausing on the street to light up a smoke before zipping up his jacket and heading south down Hans-Otto- Straße. In his more than slightly intoxicated state, Kaspar would have preferred to take a cab home. At this time of
Not really, Max thought.
‘Endless arguments over irrelevant details,’ Behle grumbled, ‘chiselling away at my profit margin.’ Undoing the top button of his shirt, he pulled off his tie and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. Compared to Max and the rest of Littbarski's clientele, however, he still looked rather overdressed in his expensive pin striped suit and highly polished black Oxfords.
You’ve been coming to here for the best part of thirty years, Max thought, but you still look like you don’t belong. The fifty-something, bourgeois geschäftsmann look doesn’t work here.
Exasperated, Behle waved a hand in the air. ‘People think they can ask for more and more all the time and somehow, as if by magic, nothing gets added to the bill.’
Mumbling something suitably soothing Max stubbed out his latest cigarette. In truth, he found it impossible to be too sympathetic. Peter Behle was one of the most successful architects in Berlin. And, with the need to rebuild the reunified city, a long-term boom in business seemed assured.
‘These days, I am 90% accountant, a lowly bean counter, trying to make sure we don’t get robbed blind.’
To Max’s relief, the latest beers arrived quickly. For several moments they drank in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.
‘So?’ Behle asked finally, placing his bottle carefully on the table.
Here we go. Max signalled to a passing waiter for two more beers. Catching Peter’s eye, he smiled sadly and shook his head.
A stony look fell across Behle’s face. ‘It was that little English hustler you fucked, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Max shrugged. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’
Nostrils flaring, Behle raised his voice a notch. ‘You selfish bastard.’
Max looked around the nearby tables. ‘These things happen.’
‘You stupid , selfish bastard.’ The voice went up another notch; Max was conscious that those around them were beginning to tune into their conversation. The approaching waiter, sensing a major domestic brewing, placed the beers on the table, along with the latest bill, grabbed the empties and beat a hasty retreat.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ Behle demanded. He was beginning to play to the gallery now and Max had to resist the urge to reach over and punch him on the mouth.
Counting to ten, he forced his temper under control. ‘I say that you need to get tested as well,’ he said finally, before starting on his latest beer.
‘Fuck you,’ Behle hissed.
Eyes lowered, Max focused on keeping his voice even. ‘Up to you, but I would go to Charité.’
Pushing back his chair, Behle got to his feet. ‘You are a fucking asshole.’ Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a crumpled 20DM note and dropped it on the table. ‘As well as a total idiot.’
Ignoring the grins of the gawkers around him, Max watched as the angry middle-aged man in the pinstripe suit shuffled on to the sidewalk and disappeared into the late evening crowd.
All in all, that went as well as could reasonably have been expected. Reaching for the cigarette packet on the table, he retrieved another HB, lit it and let it dangle from his bottom lip. One thing would never change: the world always looked better through the haze of cigarette smoke.
Slowly, the Kriminalinspektor’s thoughts turned to the four children that had been murdered less than twenty-four hours earlier, little more than a stone’s throw away from where he was sitting. ‘Now that,’ he said to himself, ‘is the work of a real asshole.’
Kaspar Wuffli staggered out of the Sugar Lounge some time before three a.m., pausing on the street to light up a smoke before zipping up his jacket and heading south down Hans-Otto- Straße. In his more than slightly intoxicated state, Kaspar would have preferred to take a cab home. At this time of
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