‘We warned you. You can’t use money here. A note’s too small to wipe your bum on, tastes foul as fag-paper and won’t buy a bloody thing.’ Burke took delight in pointing out to Dooley that he’d dropped a boot fifty yards back. ‘For a tin of sardines you could have your own sodding harem for a day, but for money, not a hope.’
The St Pauli district gave the impression of having received less attention from the Russian bombers and gunners than many other parts of the city. Perhaps it was an illusion, fostered by the generally different character of the buildings in the quarter, or perhaps it really had. Rumour said that no Russian soldier ever got leave; that alone would have given them good reason for doing what they could to preserve the facilities and, more importantly, the inhabitants of that famous red-light district.
Star shells kept the area perpetually bathed in harsh white light that was somewhat softened by the great piles of multi-coloured broken glass every few yards. It was as if whole buildings made of it had disintegrated and been swept up. Coming from the thousands of imploded neon signs it was every garish shade imaginable, and still huge quantities remained suspended in the thousands of broken signs and shop fronts.
At the concussion from any distant explosion, more small pieces would tinkle to the ground without seeming in any way to diminish the apparently inexhaustible supply.
‘What’s that address the colonel gave us?’ Burke accepted the scrap of paper from Hyde. ‘Bloody expensive bit of paper. It’s going to cost us fucking half of whatever we manage to get hold of.’
‘He could have stopped us coming, and without this we would never have found anything anyway.’ Patiently Clarence waited for a star shell to dip lower so that it would shine on a street sign currently in deep shadow. ‘Grosse Freiheit, this is the one.’
‘I sure would have liked to visit this place before the Reds got to remodelling it.’ Picking up the silver end cap from a neon tube, Ripper shied it into an alleyway. From the darkness came the angry spitting of a cat.
A scruffy figure huddled in a doorway threw aside the overcoat he was using as a blanket and with astounding speed dived into the alley to the accompaniment of clattering and crashing bins.
‘Looks kinda like he fancies pussy for supper…’ ‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I don’t mean that kind, Dooley… Aw, what the hell! Back home I knew a guy who ate a skunk, don’t see why this bunch shouldn’t finish off the stock of the local pet store.’
‘They probably have. I haven’t seen one dog since we arrived.’ As they passed, and while the thrashing and crashing was still coming from the alley, Hyde saw a young boy dart into the doorway, grab the temporarily abandoned coat and run off with it.
They would have missed the address but for Boris. He’d put on his wire-framed bifocals and was peering intently at every building they passed. The place they wanted was trying hard to be anonymous. From the wall beside the doorway the number had been removed, but over the years it had been there it had preserved the natural colour of the brickwork beneath it and that ghostly shadow now betrayed the location.
‘Do we knock?’ Incautiously, Boris pushed his head into the gloom. The others saw him reappear faster, the barrel of a pump-action shotgun just an inch from the end of his nose.
‘Geschlossen!’
It was an ugly guttural voice and Hyde decided that the owner likely matched it and was not about to be persuaded by sweet reason or the offer of a modest bribe. Taking a grenade from his belt he wrenched out its pin and held it towards the invisible guardian of the entrance. ‘You just reopened.’
The barrel withdrew and there came the sounds of someone hesitantly shuffling backwards.
‘Have to remember that stunt, Sarge, worked a treat.’
‘Stop trying to butter me up, Burke. You’ll be getting the same share as everyone else, and anyway it wasn’t all that fucking clever. I’ve dropped the pin. Have a look for it before my fingers get tired.’
Understanding of what was going on as the squad scrambled about on its collective hands and knees must have been the last straw for the not too strong nerve of the shotgun carrier. They heard running, then a distant door being frantically unbolted and finally slammed as the man made his escape.
Chrome and shiny red plastic were the dominant materials in the cellar bar. A small stage at the far end of the room was still flanked by a set of drums and an electric organ on one side and an easel holding a show card proclaiming ‘Freda, the Naughty Schoolgirl’ on the other.
‘If you really are buyers, then I can give you a little drinkies before we, shall we say, dicker?’
The figure that appeared through the curtains behind the small candlelit bar was grotesque. Wearing a sequin-scattered fluffy pink sweater whose plunging neckline revealed no cleavage, only a carefully shaved chest, heavy makeup that failed entirely to conceal shadow and a wig that was just too elaborate, too perfect to be anything else, the proprietor draped himself across the shining Formica surface and fluttered long false lashes caked with mascara.
‘Now what would you like?’
‘Somewhere to throw up would be nice.’ Burke would have added more, but Hyde signalled for silence.
Again the eyelashes performed their semaphore. ‘Naughty, mustn’t do that in here, especially as you have frightened off my dear little helper.’
‘You mean your bum-chum with the shotgun? I was wondering why he needed a weapon with such a long barrel, I suppose he uses it to…’
The sergeant’s hint was less subtle this time, and Burke shut up while he concentrated on extracting his foot from under Hyde’s steel-shod boot.
‘Thank you, I do find that sort of talk so uncouth. Now, eh, oh, you’re a sergeant, how nice… what would you like to drink?’
‘Nothing. We’re told you can supply food, at a price.’ The transvestite’s honeyed tones were grating on Hyde, but he tried not to let it show.
‘My dear, even now, anything is available in Hamburg at a price. I’ll get the list for you.’ Coming out from behind the bar, the proprietor revealed himself to be wearing a short clinging skirt, split to past mid-thigh and calf-length boots with five-inch heels that made him teeter at every step. With an exaggerated hip action that wouldn’t have disgraced any main-street hooker or bump and grind stripper he crossed to a cigarette machine on the wall and pulled a scrawled list from behind it.
‘Here. Getting just a little low now, but most of those are in stock. Go on, feast your eyes on it. Some real goodies aren’t there?’
‘Seems kinda heavy on prunes and bean sprouts.’
When Hyde’s elbow made contact with his gut, Ripper backed off and ceased trying to read over his shoulder.
While the inventory was being examined the proprietor brought out glasses and poured each of them a nip of milky white liquid from an unlabelled bottle, giving the NCO a double measure. ‘This will put a twinkle in your… well, hope you enjoy it.’ Taking a tiny sip, he winked at Ripper.
It was that as much as the alcohol biting into his throat that made Ripper choke, until Dooley pounded him back into a normal respiratory pattern. ‘Heck, I’ve drunk everything, from ‘shine that were still warm through to my Aunt Emmie’s home brewed turnip gin, but I never come across anything like this afore.’
‘It’s an acquired taste. Like a little more?’ Ripper joined their driver in silence when he realised he was drawing the faggot’s attention.
‘There’s no prices.’ Hyde laid the paper on a table.
‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? Inflation you know, wicked, but I can hardly give it away can I? And it does rather depend on what you’ve got to offer.’ Again he caught Ripper’s eye and flirted, and was a little put out when the young American deliberately wandered away and feigned interest in an old telephone directory hanging on the wall by a pay-phone.