They had forced him into a corner.
Goldstein who, as a child, had been told never to walk through McCarren Park after dark, had no idea what the man was thinking. Perhaps the trees reminded him of the Galician forests, or he hoped simply to hide among the bushes. He disappeared between two box trees and, for a brief moment, the brownshirts looked around idiotically, before stalking after him.
Goldstein had to let three or four cars pass before he could cross too. The old man had struck out for the undergrowth, and his pursuers had followed. He decided on a gravel path. At least the way here was lit.
32
The man was smoking behind the wheel of his car.
Rath hadn’t learned much in the pub, but at least they had stood him a beer. The landlord, obviously briefed by Marlow, showed him to a spacious room behind the lounge and toilets, with three tables that could be pushed together for conferences or large dinners, but would better suit games of skat. The most noticeable thing was the desk with the telephone, by which Rath knew straightaway that he was in one of Johann Marlow’s many offices. This was where Red Hugo Lenz should have appeared yesterday evening, having last been seen at lunchtime. According to the landlord Lenz didn’t have any quirks, only a passion for the horses, and regularly visited the racetrack at Karlshorst. Rath’s theory that the Nordpiraten had taken him from outside Amor-Diele was rejected out of hand. The landlord claimed the Pirates were too cowardly to set foot in Friedrichshain, but it looked like he might be mistaken there.
Rath crossed the street, opened the passenger door and sat inside. The man stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a taxi.’
Rath pulled out his identification. The man made to open the door but froze when he felt the barrel of Rath’s Walther against his temple.
‘Stay where you are, and close the door.’ The man obeyed. ‘Back on the streets, Johnny?’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘It was a long time ago. Vice squad. Bruno Wolter.’ A light came on in Johnny’s head. ‘You were a doorman, weren’t you? You’ve risen in the world.’
‘Is this allowed?’
‘Does it matter?’ Rath pressed the Walther a little harder against the man’s temple. ‘You’re from the Nordpiraten, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘And you’re a cop coming out of a Berolina dive. What am I supposed to make of that?’
‘Nothing. You’re here to answer questions, not me. Hugo Lenz has disappeared, and the majority of people in there think the Nordpiraten had something to do with it. How many evenings have you been sitting here now? Was it you who kept an eye on Red Hugo before giving him up?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Why break a drug-dealer’s spine? Why make a bonfire out of a newspaper kiosk?’
‘We’re taking back what’s rightfully ours.’
‘No matter how many people are killed in the process?’
‘That’s rich. Do you know why I’m sitting here, Inspector? It’s because Rudi Höller has disappeared. Lapke thinks Berolina bumped him off.’
‘Rudi the Rat?’
‘We deal with these things ourselves. No cops.’
‘What makes you think Berolina are behind it? They don’t go about killing people. They stick to the code of honour.’
‘Well, maybe Red Hugo and his men don’t get their own hands dirty, but if you knew who just landed in Berlin…’
‘Explain!’
‘Don’t you know anything? You haven’t heard there’s an American killer in town? Now, who has the money to send for someone like that? Not the Pirates! You should spend some time probing the good men of Berolina.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing?’ Rath gestured towards the pub. ‘The things they’re saying about your lot, you’d want to be careful hanging around like this.’ He opened the door. ‘Tell your boss that we don’t want a gangland war here in Berlin. Tell him to keep the peace, or he’ll be straight back in the can.’
33
Away from the streetlamps it was pitch black. Wind rattled the trees and gravel crunched underfoot. Goldstein had started to believe he was the only person in this nocturnal wilderness when he heard a cry, but the juddering of a passing train drowned all other sound, even the rustle of leaves in the trees.
He moved in the direction of the cry until he saw the four brownshirts gathered in a little clearing around the old man. Silhouetted by the light of a streetlamp, their long shadows were thrown across the grass. The black hat was pulling himself up from the ground. ‘You Shkotzim, why don’t you let an old man go about his business in peace?’
‘Speak German. This is Germany!’
One of the brownshirts launched a kick at the old man’s solar plexus, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A second kick struck him under the chin and he toppled forward, his hat rolling across the grass.
Goldstein stepped silently onto the soft grass, but they were too preoccupied to notice. The fat one fumbled around with his fly. ‘Make a bit of room. I’m desperate here.’
The others laughed and stepped aside. The old man groaned but didn’t move. The fat man had his dick in his hands when Goldstein shouted. ‘Who shat on your uniforms?’
All four turned, and the one holding his dick said: ‘I don’t believe it. Someone must have a death wish.’
‘It’s the big mouth from just now!’
‘Must be a foreigner who doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Needs teaching a lesson.’
‘I’ll tell you who I’m dealing with,’ said Goldstein. ‘A group of cowardly mamzerim going at an old man, one with a fat belly and a tiny schmock. Put that thing away before it drops off. You won’t find it in the dark.’
The fat brownshirt stuffed his penis back in his fly and fumbled frantically at the buttons. The other three turned their attentions to Abraham Goldstein.
‘The way you’re talking you must be a Jew too?’
‘It doesn’t fucking matter what he is, Stefan,’ the ringleader said, still buttoning his fly, ‘either way he needs a good slap.’
Stefan planted himself in front of Goldstein and looked him over. ‘You don’t look Jewish to me, so don’t butt in. You’ll regret it.’
Goldstein flung his cigarette onto the grass. ‘Fuck you,’ he said in English, putting his hands in his coat pocket.
‘We’re in Germany,’ Stefan said, ‘and in Germany we speak German. Time for your first lesson.’
He lifted his right hand but Goldstein rammed his forehead against the bridge of his nose before he could move. Stefan’s eyes rolled and he fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. One down, three to go.
‘Did you understand that?’ Goldstein asked. ‘Or do you need me to translate?’
The fat ringleader found his voice. ‘Now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Show him, Gerd!’
Gerd put on a knuckleduster. ‘You won’t get me like that,’ he said. ‘Not so much as a warning, you cowardly piece of shit.’
‘Consider yourself forewarned.’ Goldstein pulled the Remington out of his coat pocket. ‘One more step, and there’ll be a hole in that nice uniform.’
Gerd stared uncertainly into the barrel and looked to his leader. ‘He’s got a piece, Günter. He must think we haven’t seen it all before.’