Read Online A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) by James Craig - Free Book Online
Authors: James Craig
Ads: Link
anyway. I hear they got all of ten marks from that poor bastard before he puked all over them.’
‘Serves them right. Where did they attack him?’
‘Near the Sugar Lounge.’
Max nodded. ‘They should have got him before he went in and spent all his cash in the hope of getting his dick sucked.’
Michael finally looked up from behind his paper. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘That’s the great thing about criminals,’ Max opined, ‘they tend to be thick as shit.’
‘Most of them.’
‘Most of them,’ Max agreed. ‘The problem is that there are so many of the buggers. The good thing about the 36Boys used to be that they only shat on their own doorstep. Now that they’ve started chasing queers around the city, they’re causing trouble all over the place. There just aren’t enough poofs around Kottbusser Tor.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Michael grinned.
‘Laugh all you like, but it is a problem for us. We don’t want those bastards fanning out across the city.’
‘No,’ Michael agreed. ‘Better to keep them in Kreuzberg.’
‘Maybe I’ll go and have a word with Volkan.’ Volkan Cin, head of the 36Boys was a self-proclaimed hard nut. ‘Ask him to keep his boys on a shorter leash.’
‘Why?’ Michael closed the paper, folded in half and tossed it onto the desk. ‘It won’t do much good.’
‘Gotta at least make the effort,’ Max responded. ‘Show the authority of the state. Tell him to keep his boys under control. Apart from anything else, it’s not good for the image of the city.’
‘What’s not good for the image of our great city?’ Sweating profusely from every pore, Kriminalkommissar Martin Marin stood, hands on hips, in the doorway of his office, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘What are you two fish wives gossiping about?’
‘Queer bashing, boss,’ Max replied, in a voice loud enough to elicit a few chortles from the assembled officers lounging around the room.
Marin muttered something that suggested that particular issue was not very high on his list of priorities. Moving swiftly on, he pointed at the clock on the wall. As always, it showed 3.55, having been broken long before Max had first arrived at Stresemannstraße.
‘What time do you call this?’
Trying not to yawn, Max made a show of looking at his watch. ‘According to my calculations, it’s just after ten thirty.’
Retreating further behind his desk, Michael Rahn suppressed a smirk as he shook his head.
‘I need you two in my office, right now,’ Marin hissed, turning away, scuttling back into the office, slamming the door behind him.
Max turned to his sergeant. ‘Is he having a tough morning?’
‘Nothing that unusual,’ Michael shrugged.
‘Then let me go and get a coffee and we’ll get on with it.’
Five minutes later, they were sitting in Marin’s office, waiting for the Kriminalkommissar to look up from his impressive pile of papers. In the lull before the expected storm, Max took a cautious sip of his drink and winced. The coffee was lousy, weak and oily, but it made him feel a little better. The previous evening had turned into a major bender and he knew that getting through the rest of the day was going to be a struggle, even with the help of the broadest possible range of stimulants at the disposal of a Berlin cop.
When Marin finally looked up, he seemed almost surprised to see the pair of them sitting there. For a moment, he let his gaze bounce from Max to Michael and back again while he tried to remember what precisely it was that he wanted to bollock them about. The Kriminalkommissar was a short, fat man in his mid-fifties, with a shock of silver hair, cut short. Dressed in a suit and tie, he looked like a middle-manager for Siemens, except for the unlit cigar stuck between his jaws. He had been off the streets, riding a desk in the Polizeipräsidium, for more than a decade now, and he gave every impression of liking the view over Stresemannstraße just fine. Marin
‘Serves them right. Where did they attack him?’
‘Near the Sugar Lounge.’
Max nodded. ‘They should have got him before he went in and spent all his cash in the hope of getting his dick sucked.’
Michael finally looked up from behind his paper. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘That’s the great thing about criminals,’ Max opined, ‘they tend to be thick as shit.’
‘Most of them.’
‘Most of them,’ Max agreed. ‘The problem is that there are so many of the buggers. The good thing about the 36Boys used to be that they only shat on their own doorstep. Now that they’ve started chasing queers around the city, they’re causing trouble all over the place. There just aren’t enough poofs around Kottbusser Tor.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Michael grinned.
‘Laugh all you like, but it is a problem for us. We don’t want those bastards fanning out across the city.’
‘No,’ Michael agreed. ‘Better to keep them in Kreuzberg.’
‘Maybe I’ll go and have a word with Volkan.’ Volkan Cin, head of the 36Boys was a self-proclaimed hard nut. ‘Ask him to keep his boys on a shorter leash.’
‘Why?’ Michael closed the paper, folded in half and tossed it onto the desk. ‘It won’t do much good.’
‘Gotta at least make the effort,’ Max responded. ‘Show the authority of the state. Tell him to keep his boys under control. Apart from anything else, it’s not good for the image of the city.’
‘What’s not good for the image of our great city?’ Sweating profusely from every pore, Kriminalkommissar Martin Marin stood, hands on hips, in the doorway of his office, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘What are you two fish wives gossiping about?’
‘Queer bashing, boss,’ Max replied, in a voice loud enough to elicit a few chortles from the assembled officers lounging around the room.
Marin muttered something that suggested that particular issue was not very high on his list of priorities. Moving swiftly on, he pointed at the clock on the wall. As always, it showed 3.55, having been broken long before Max had first arrived at Stresemannstraße.
‘What time do you call this?’
Trying not to yawn, Max made a show of looking at his watch. ‘According to my calculations, it’s just after ten thirty.’
Retreating further behind his desk, Michael Rahn suppressed a smirk as he shook his head.
‘I need you two in my office, right now,’ Marin hissed, turning away, scuttling back into the office, slamming the door behind him.
Max turned to his sergeant. ‘Is he having a tough morning?’
‘Nothing that unusual,’ Michael shrugged.
‘Then let me go and get a coffee and we’ll get on with it.’
Five minutes later, they were sitting in Marin’s office, waiting for the Kriminalkommissar to look up from his impressive pile of papers. In the lull before the expected storm, Max took a cautious sip of his drink and winced. The coffee was lousy, weak and oily, but it made him feel a little better. The previous evening had turned into a major bender and he knew that getting through the rest of the day was going to be a struggle, even with the help of the broadest possible range of stimulants at the disposal of a Berlin cop.
When Marin finally looked up, he seemed almost surprised to see the pair of them sitting there. For a moment, he let his gaze bounce from Max to Michael and back again while he tried to remember what precisely it was that he wanted to bollock them about. The Kriminalkommissar was a short, fat man in his mid-fifties, with a shock of silver hair, cut short. Dressed in a suit and tie, he looked like a middle-manager for Siemens, except for the unlit cigar stuck between his jaws. He had been off the streets, riding a desk in the Polizeipräsidium, for more than a decade now, and he gave every impression of liking the view over Stresemannstraße just fine. Marin
Similar Books
