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“You really think so? I can’t think of anything. At most,bullshit.” She laughs. “Orpretty shitty. Do people even say that?”
“Sure. When you have reason to…?” I have to smile at her animated energy.
“I do.” All of a sudden, she shifts to seriousness. “So, what are we going to do now?”
“For now, we’re going home,” I decide, releasing the parking brake.
The silence in the truck on the way back helps me sort out my thoughts. The damage to Celine’s Fiat immediately made me realize we need assistance: Someone with low frustration tolerance, quick to lash out, and no exaggerated shyness about justice and law enforcement.
Unfortunately, even with careful thought, I can’t think of anyone. Contrary to popular prejudice, criminal elements are rarely found in modern, hygienic tattoo parlors dedicated to body art. Those among my clients who have contact with this subculture tend to be police officers or even lawyers.Yes, quite a few of them wear colorfully inked skin under white shirts, suit jackets, and court dress robes.
The most I could ask isBig Hammer.He had no fear of contact with the unlawful circles. On the contrary, he cultivated a close friendship with Gavriil Romanovich. This, in the end, brought me my new premises from Dayany. ButBig Hammerretired to a tropical island years ago. And Dayany and her permanent fiancé are known to be on the run from the Albanians.
Of course, I could get in touch with them. Not for nothing, some wisecrackers sprayed the signpost into the residential area situated over the federal highway withAlbanian’s lane 2-24.
But I’ll leave that until I’m desperate!
When I finally stop the Dodge in the parking lot in front of the parlor, the brainwave flashes like a premature New Year’s Eve rocket in my head:There was, after all, a group that had pestered me with low frustration tolerance, quick to lash out, and no exaggerated shyness about justice and law enforcement…
After wishing Celine a good night and watching her drift up the stairs, I boot up the computer.Hopefully, I wasn’t just pretending at the time to write down the contact information for the spokesman for these guys.
The next morning, I wake up early. After showering, I dress carefully. I want to come across as reputable for the meeting with the group in the afternoon. Dark cloth pants, the turtleneck Celine gave me, plus my jacket.
The young man looking back at me from the mirror radiates exactly what I want to achieve: smart, cool, and business minded.
My gaze falls on the two pieces of my silver-colored titanium ear tunnel on the shelf of the bathroom mirror. After Celine’s surprising appearance the day before yesterday, I completely forgot to put it back in. I’m about to reach out for it when I noticed the noticeably shrunken ear hole on my mirror image. Without time-consuming stretching, the jewelry won’t fit back in.
For a moment, I regret the loss. But the longer I look at myself in the mirror, the more I like what I see: In a totally weird way, the hole in my naked earlobe underlines my professional touch.
I walk over to Celine’s apartment, knocking on the door before I enter.
She is still asleep, curled up in the fetal position with her blonde hair fanned out across the pillow.
I have to activate all my self-control not to stroke her hair. Instead, I clear my throat loud enough for her to come to.
“Hmm-yes, mhm,” she mumbles and opens her eyes. Baby-blue astonishment pours onto me. “Philipp? Why are you here?” She turns her head, exploring her surroundings. “And, where… am I?”
Gently, I settle on the edge of the bed, placing my hand on the blanket at the level of her knee. “Good morning, Celine. Everything is fine, nothing to worry about. You’re here in your apart—”
“Oh my God!” she interrupts me, running a hand through her hair. “I’m being stupid! Of course! After all that mess with Kevin, I came to your place.” She sighs. “For a moment I was hoping,” she adds in a whisper, “that it was all just a dream.”
“Sorry.”She won’t realize that her words have the effect of a cold shower.“Unfortunately, that’s the reality. But I have a plan to better it. And for that, I need your support.”
“Bettered reality sounds tempting.” Celine gives me a hesitant smile. “That’s why I’m ready for any outrage—as soon as I get a cup of coffee.”
I laugh. “One, two, or three. Cappuccino, espresso, Americano, lingo. You may help yourself to anything you like from the fully automatic coffee machine downstairs at the front desk. The only condition is—” I hold out a pad and pen to her. “By 2:30, I need a list with as detailed a description as possible of everything you want to be taken out of your apartment.”
“And what time is it now?” She peers at the clock radio on the nightstand. “Twenty past ten? Whew. That’s going to be close.”
I’m already catching my breath for an apology when she beams at me from below.
“But don’t worry. I’ll make it. I’m always at my best under pressure.”
At two-thirty on the dot, I’m sitting behind the reception desk with Celine’s list. I send her up to her apartment. I don’t want those guys to see her with her injuries. I wouldn’t put it past such scum to get a kick out of her condition.
I take a deep breath in and out. I drink the rest of my latte in one go. For what feels like the hundred thousandth time, I run through the cover story I’ve come up with in my mind. I hope the white trash will buy it.
Surprisingly on time, the door opens. Led by their bone-thin leader, they pour single-file into the entrance hall.
