So Martin stopped at the ATM first, withdrew cash up to his limit, and then parked his trash can on an inconspicuous residential street near our hunting ground.
Brothel I, Scene 1—lights, camera, action: The door opens, the doorman waves Martin in. Red ultraplush. Lots of loud people of presumably Eastern European origin wearing lots of gold on their wrists, necks, fingers, and teeth.
Martin approaches the bar, orders a beer. Looks around. Much too conspicuously, and I tell him so.
“How else am I supposed to look around?” he asks.
“Inconspicuously,” I say.
“With my eyes shut, or what?” he grumbles.
We haven’t even been working for ten minutes, and already Martin’s getting cantankerous. I think we’re in for some fun and games.
I don’t want to bore you with every last detail of our procession through the big-city cathouses, because most of them were neither exciting nor stimulating, just sucky and boring. The interior designers in this industry tend toward a surprisingly uniform ultraplush décor, varying only in the shade—lighter or darker red, with an occasional foray into purple or orange. Martin always sat at the bar, he always ordered a beer that he hardly drank, he always waited for a woman to sit next to him, and he always steered the conversation toward Semira.
“You can call me Semira if you’d like,” was the standard response, cooed and not spoken.
“I’m looking for a specific Semira,” Martin answered with equal consistency. “This one here.”
The business with the drawing was an extremely delicate matter, because the operators of such houses keep a watchful eye on men who behave oddly and give the impression they’re looking to buy something other than love. Martin got kicked out on his ass twice after showing the drawing; after that he got more careful.
Nonetheless, most of the reactions were not the one we were hoping for. No recognition, no additional information. Not to mention that lots of the ladies Martin spoke to had only very limited command of the German language.
Including the tiny blonde who looked like the reason she hadn’t made the cut for the latest James Bond casting call was probably her size: on screen she’d have looked like a hot face on a stick next to any of the hunks who’d had the honor of playing the cocky British spy. She was at least six centimeters shorter than even average height, but she dominated the bar the moment she entered it. She had not only a smoking-hot body that you could clearly see in several places through the outfit she had on. But she also had the whitest, nicest teeth that ever achieved fame in any toothpaste ad and the brightest violet eyes that have ever shone upon a male. If I’d been Martin’s cardiologist, I’d have been extremely concerned about his chances of survival at this moment. His pulse ceased briefly, only to start thundering against his ribs again so hard that I thought I could make out the collar of his coat thumping with each heartbeat.
She sat down on the barstool next to Martin, looked at his glass of beer that had gone flat, and then looked at Martin.
“Two champagnes,” he ordered without missing even a single beat.
Meanwhile I found my seat in the curve of the B-girl’s neck, enjoying the view down her neckline toward her lap, which was only unsubstantially covered by a tiny little sheer skirt.
“What wish can I make come true for you today?” the angelic being asked.
Martin swallowed the half glass of bubbles in one gulp after clinking glasses with her.
“I have an obscure wish,” he stammered. He had to start again twice before getting the sentence out fully and error-free.
“You’re in luck,” she said, laying her hand on Martin’s. “Today I’m making even obscure wishes come true.”
She smiled warmly. Not all frumpy, like lots of others, not with euro signs in her eyes, not tired—no, she smiled warmly. Cheerfully. Radiantly.
Martin was taking his time. Maybe he was unable to do it any other way. Maybe he was just in another dimension, caught in an unearthly plane not subject to time reckoning. Anyways, he didn’t say anything for a long time, sipping on the champagne he had left and staring at this delightful creature.
“What does your obscure wish look like, then?” she asked at some point. “Or would you prefer to tell me tête-à-tête?”
I could see an unambiguous YES starting to materialize in Martin’s brain, so I yelled, “Stop!”
“What?” he asked me gruffly.
“If you say yes now, it’ll be very, very expensive,” I said.
“Hmm,” Martin mumbled.
“And think of Birgit,” I hastened to add.
“Birgit…”
I realized that Martin wasn’t actually thinking of having sex with this vision of a woman at all; he just wanted to keep staring into her eyes and talking with her.
“Dude, that little charmer sitting on the stool in front of you is a whore,” I said. “She wants to blow you off or…whatever else.”
Martin swallowed and suddenly found his feet back on the ground, briefly wondered how expensive the champagne he’d ordered was, and then he said his line: “I’m looking for a friend.”
He nonchalantly held the drawing out to the angel so she could see it.
“Semira!” She almost yelled it, but she quickly put her hand over her mouth, opened her blue eyes wide, and stared at Martin, taken aback. “What’s happened to her? She and I had plans to go out, but she stood me up, and that’s not like her at all.”
Martin’s heart, which had only just started easing its pace, started pounding harder again.
“Did she work here?” he asked.
The blonde shook her head. “You’re—not a customer of hers?”
Now Martin shook his head, but of course not half as gracefully.
“Is it OK if we keep talking here?” he asked carefully, looking around. Several sinister-looking guys were watching the two of them.
“Oh,” the angel said, sliding down from her stool. “For us it’s OK, but it’s bad for business. Come with me.”
So Martin slid down off his stool, too, and the bartender subtly reminded him it was fine for him to leave—but his sixty euros for the beer and two glasses of champagne should stay behind. Martin paid and followed the blonde outside.
“So, where do you know Semira from?” she asked. “And what do you want from her?”
“I don’t want anything from her,” Martin said. “She’s dead.”
“No!” she gasped, tears filling her enormous eyes. “How?”
“Anaphylactic shock,” Martin said. “That means…”
“I know what it is,” the blonde hissed. Uh-oh, the kitty cat was extending her claws. “And who are you?” she asked.
“Martin Gänsewein. Coroner.”
He offered his hand, and she reflexively shook it and whispered, “Yvonne Kleinewefers.”
Honestly, I couldn’t make head or tail of what was happening here. I was slowly starting to wonder how the blonde fit into this story. She wasn’t your typical lady of the night at a Russian tochka. If she were, she wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the establishment with a customer during working hours. Martin was having similar thoughts, plus he was starting to get cold, so he suggested the nearest place.
“There’s a café over there. Why don’t we get something warm to drink?”
She nodded and followed him.
Martin ordered a chamomile tea, which they didn’t have, a peppermint tea, which they also didn’t have, and before he could further display his in-depth knowledge of other monastery-grown teas and tisanes, Ms. Kleinewefers ordered two coffees. Basta.