With two experienced handles, Bill collected the empty whiskey glasses, and looked on the hands of the big wall clock. "It is now just before ten. If you hurry a little bit, you still can see the big man personally."
"Sometimes you're talking fucking obscure."
"Glaser and his crew play, almost every night, snooker, in a barrel house, called “Siedlereck”. This is her favorite pub and is located just around the corner. With a little luck, you can meet them there tonight."
"Sounds quite interesting; and where can I find the friendly pub?"
"I'll call a cab."
"That's not necessary. Only a last drive to the “Settlers corner”; trust my word."
"You should not underestimate the malt" The Scotsman put the phone back on the fork and shook his head disapprovingly. "All right, you have to know for yourself, what you're doing. So then, you cannot miss the pub. Bending simply left in the Johanna-Street and cross the next two intersections; then you see the “Settlers corner” already. Drive possible no faster than thirty, the streets are still paved with the old pre-war cobblestones. And Michael, visited me not first in four weeks. I want to experience your adventure with Glaser as soon as possible!”
"No problem, I call you." Michael Herold gave the waitress a harmless smile and strolled out into the street. Not quite sober, sat he in his car, started the engine, and drove a few minutes later into the sleepy Johanna-Street. A cat scurried through the headlights, and Michael narrowed his tired eyes for a moment. A little bit blurred, recognized he a red neon sign at the facades of a two-story house and a faint light illuminated the irresistible offer: "FOOD AS GOOD AS BY MOTHER."
The delicious message seems to be accepted, because before the building stood even too this time five cars. Herold rolled slowly past them and parked in the gleam of the next gas lantern. With a brief gesture, he turned the ignition key, and looked critically at the nocturnal street. Dark detached houses loomed like silhouettes against the cloudy sky and right next to him blocked a high wall the view. PAUL'S COAL BUNKER stood on the crumbling plaster and the faded letters remind Michael at his long past childhood.
Involuntarily, he saw the rickety horse-drawn carriages before his inner eye, where he interchanged potato peelings for firewood. Soot was on the crusted snow and the air smelled of the smoke from the millions of chimneys. Even for a moment felt Herold under his hands the warm tiles of the parental furnace, and returned then slowly back into the present time.
Pedantic, he completed his car, and walked along the stone wall to the “Settlers corner”. From the half opened windows echoed a mélange of hysterical laughter and German pop, and suddenly pulsated again the old, familiar hunting fever through Michael veins. Now there was no turning back, with both hands he ruffled his hair, and opened with the tried-friendly face of a professional drinker, the door.
Immediately, enveloped him a cloud of tobacco smoke and stale air, which was so narcotic, that he stopped a moment astride on the threshold. Desperately fighting for his balance, he looked like a reveler, who had run into the wrong pub. Slightly confused, he stared into the long room, and probed unobtrusively the terrain.
"Really fantastic; a dilapidated, and for years no longer renovated tavern." The “Settlers corner” had like the overdriven music, experiencing her best time in the late sixties. On the walls pasted flower-patterned wallpapers, and several dusted glass slides presented the proud faces of a cone team. Between the photographs dangled two rat medals and on a poster smiled a child out a foamy beer mug.
"Cheers, old boy!" Michael crossed the room and stood then in front of the counter. "A beer and a schnapps!"
Behind the bar, the host slowly lowered a motorcycle newspaper, and Michael grinned him cheekily in the face. "A half pint, of course!"
Slowly pushed the man with the greasy leather vest a glass under the beer tap and put a nondescript bottle on the table.
"No big business today?" Michael regarded the unintelligible growl as an answer and nodded sagely. "Well, is just not every day Sunday. That’s the way, life goes."
Further conversation did not seem to be necessarily desirable, and so Michael leaned against the counter, and stared unabashedly at the shabby surroundings. To his right, led a round archway in a dimly lit side room, and right by the window perched the guests, which he had heard in the street. The four old people babbled their incomprehensible disputes in such a volume, that Michael almost had ignored the sound of billiard balls. Click, click, click, came it like a distant Morse signal from the next room, and Michael smiled grimly. The secret message had reached him, but this was not the right moment, to follow the siren call.
"So Chief, a little blonde, and brandy. Cheers! "Herold turned around and dumped the contents of the small glass in a gulp. The cheap alcohol tastes as disgusting, as he had expected, and the beer has not enough carbonation.
"A second couple?"
"Rather not. I still must drive back to the other side of Berlin, and that was not the first beer on this beautiful day."
Michael grinned sheepishly and looked again to the table at the window. The heated debate apparently had just reached its peak, because the older of the two men shoved back his chair. Visibly upset, he pulled the waistband of his worn corduroy trousers over the considerable paunch, and staggered to the blaring jukebox. Breathing heavily, he stopped at the illuminated menu, and studied the coins in his palm. What for a sight! Michael could almost read the thoughts of the drunkard. "Shit, what I just press? Rex or maybe Roy? Which, of the two German Pop-kings had the honor?"
Herold nodded sympathetically and put down his half-full glass. With a pained expression, he looked questioningly at the host.
"Straight through and then just the door to the right!" The man flipped his magazine, without a further look at Michael, and studied further the glossy photo of a Harley, including the obligatory blonde on the saddle.
"Very sharp shape!" Herold left open, whether he mean the motor bike or the naked model. Leaning slightly forward, he stalked toward the toilet, while he was eyeing the restless shadows behind the archway.
In the dim light, the men were not clearly visible, because the low hanging lamp illuminated only the pool table. On its soft green, waited colored balls like precious relics, and Michael strolled with the face of an avid drinker past them. A goofy grin played across his lips, as he watches the momentary player. The man paused in his movement and looked slowly up from his billiard queue. With a suspicious glance his eyes followed the passing man, and let him not out of focus. Herold shook his left hand in an annoying gesture, and was hoping he plays it right. Okay, he was nothing more than a harmless habitual drunkard, a flabby philistine that wants no big trouble.
Burping, Michael stumbled past the men that lurk in the shadows, and from the corners of his eyes, he registered now the close-cropped skulls and tight leather jackets. Heavy combat boots and black jeans completed the deliberately military looking clothes, and at this sight, his stomach clenched involuntarily.
"Tricked" he muttered in a burst of grim gallows humor, and decided now, to finish the research for the evening. For him, the boys exuded such a suspicious aura into the room that any normal conversation was out of mind. Michael scolds indistinctly to himself to emphasize his innocent appearance, and grabbed the toilet door, when they was violently opened. For a few seconds a muscular figure blocked his view, and before Michael could even react, a wide shoulder rammed him recklessly out of the way.
"Hey buddy, watch your manners!" By the protesting words the man immediately stopped his stride and slowly turned around. He probably wants only give a threatening look to the drunken fellow,