ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 12

The Eros Center was packed with an early evening crowd. Men queued before the hotels with their choices. Kali stood at his office window. SS Tommy sat at his desk. They needed to talk and Kali turned to his enforcer.

"Last night."

"Yes, last night."

"I do not want you to seek revenge."

"I have a reputation." Killers do not thrive on mercy.

"I know." Kali added nothing.

SS Tommy understood the silence and said, "

"So I will not kill your American."

"Or maim him." Cali poured his associate a Scotch and coke.

Johnny Walker Black.

"Normally if someone crossed someone our gang, they pay a pound or two of flesh."

"Not even a gram? He doesn't understand life in Hamburg. Leave him alone."

"You would have never forgiven him. Ignorant or not ignorant."

"You are right. but your one punch nearly killed him. Nobody is better with a right than you."

Other men had not been as lucky as Sean.

"It's nice to know I have not lost it. Some people do as they get older." SS Tommy cracked his knuckles, while staring at Cali. Until now he had thought the baron was making up a story about Cali and Kurt being involved in a big score, but their inordinate concern for this American's safety proved that they were planning something. They thought they were so smart, these two old friends. SS Tommy had someone smart on his side too.

"So you will do nothing?"

It was a hypothetical question. No one could control the blonde bodybuilder, not even SS Tommy himself.

"If that is what you want, then that is what I will do, but if you change your mind, then let me know." SS Tommy sipped the glass, thinking about his killing the American and then broadened his grin in anticipation of putting a gun to Nigger Cali's head.

"That won't be necessary."

"If you say so." SS Tommy had special plans for Kurt too. "But you owe me."

"I know I do and so will the American. You will have no trouble with him from now on."

"Good, then we are all friends again." SS Tommy slapped the desk, then shouted for the redhead from Hannover. She hurried into the room.

"So this is the treasure you won last night." Cali drew her closer and she sat on his lap without a struggle, as he asked, "So what do they call you, darling?"

"Vella," the redhead answered, raising her eyebrow as if she had studied the films of Fassbinder.

"So are you ready for work, my dear?"

"Yes." Vella threw her arm around Cali, as he squeezed her thigh.

"I am not here for fun and games. I am here to make money. For you and for me."

"Are her papers in order?" Cali kneaded the fleshy part of the palm. It was soft, denoting between her thighs would be as well.

"Yes, she is of age and passed the blood test." SS Tommy had faked the papers. 16 year-olds were a goldmine for at least the first six months.

"So then, put her to work."

"Do you want the first stab?"

"She's beautiful, but better she should be broken in by a stranger. I will pick out your fist customer."

SS Tommy said nothing, because Vella was a working girl now and it didn't matter who her first customer was as long as he paid.

Cali smiled at the young girl and went to the office window, scanning the men wandering through the ErosCenter's perpetual night, He called over a young sailor and explained the situation. The sailor peered over the window sash at the redhead.

"Ich hab' kein Pulver."

"No money. Go to the toilet and Onanieren," yelled SS Tommy.

"You were young once. Young like this boy." Cali motioned for SS Tommy to sit down and asked, "How much you want for her?"

"I thought you were not interested."

"How much?" Cali asked without audible interest.

"One thousand marks."

Cali handed the girl ten one-hundred DMs from a roll of bills and she held the money in her hand like a wilted fan. He led the redhead from the office and pointed the sailor to a hotel on the other side of the Eroscenter. When the couple left, SS Tommy said, "I hope you let him pay for the room."

"I may be sentimental, but I am far from stupid." Cali sat down wearily, for the night had lasted several hours longer than necessary to achieve this temporary truce. The schedule for their scheme would have to be sped up, for SS Tommy's revenge could only be forestalled so long and then he would kill Sean.

Of this Cali was certain, but that didn't prevent him from smiling at the blonde pimp to portray a mask of everything being as they always had been in the Eroscenter.

None of it fooled SS Tommy, for he had been waiting ages for a shot at Cali and he thought about how good it would be to have them both begging for their lives. As good as that dream feel, nothing would be better than being the King of the Reeperbahn. Once he achieved that goal, he would be on top of the world and no one was kicking him off the mountain.

Certainly men soon to be dead.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 13

Herr Egard's wife spent Sunday morning preparing a traditional Swiss dinner; Rhine Sauerbraten, roast beef sliced and served in a sweet sauce with roasted potatoes and dumplings on the side. While unable to remember when his wife had last cooked the dish, he immensely enjoyed the meal, for they had been living under a cloud ever since their only son's arrest in Thailand.

He had been a bad boy and even worse teenager and young man, but Herr Egard had loved him since birth as would any father.

The Swiss government viewed his son as a hardened deviant deserving of prison. The bank had been no help at all. Herr Egard had even traveled to Chiang Mai to bribe different prison officials. Despite their smiling promises, his son remained in jail.

60 men to a cell.

Beatings, murders, no food.

Two days ago he had received a phone call from their son. He said that he was awaiting a change in sentence and hoped to be freed within the month. His wife had declared that her prayers had been answered, though Herr Egard understood that this miracle was owed to a mortal man and not God.

When two large amounts of money were transferred into the account set up at his bank for the Kurt Oster, Herr Egard had examined the source of this money several times and discovered they were from various Telex companies around Germany, just as stated by Herr Oster.

Everything seemed in order, but the German could have gone to any bank in Switzerland and received the same service provided by Herr Egard's bank and he understood that there is always a price to pay for the kindness of strangers.

After the Kaffee of the Sunday meal, Herr Egard went into the living room. He was content for the first time in months. His son was safe and he found himself looking forward to watching the World Cup final this afternoon. The warm sun and full stomach acted as powerful somnifers. He slept for more than hour in his favorite chair.

The telephone's ringing woke him from a delightful slumber. Normally he would have let his wife answer it, but today he was on his feet before the second ring.

'Is it him?" His wife looked at him with glee. No one called on Sunday during the Ruhezeit and he waved his wife back into the kitchen, signaling it was business.

"No, it's nine at night in Thailand."

He picked up the phone. "Egard residence."

"It must have been good to hear from your son," Kurt Oster said on the other end.

"Yes, it was." Herr Egard had no urge to exchange pleasantries with the German. He would have loved to tell the man from Hamburg to never call him again, either at home or the bank, but instead he had to ask, "What can I do for you?"

"Sorry to disturb you, but has everything arrived into the account?"

"Your funds are in the bank and all is in order."

"Good, because I have an American, Herr Coll, coming to pick up the money on Monday. He will give you the number for the account. Please give him this money in thousand Swiss franc bills."

"As you wish." Herr Egard was eager to ask about his son's future, but these questions were inappropriate over the telephone.

"Another sum of money should reach the account on Tuesday. Herr Coll will be there following Monday as well."

"So I can expect him every week from now on?"

"Is that a problem?"

No, we are prepared to service this account as best as we can."

"In that case, have a good Sunday. Your son will be with you soon."

Herr Egard hung up the phone. His wife peered at her husband from the kitchen. Upon seeing his face, she asked, "Was ist los?"

"Just business, that is all, just business." Herr Egard kissed her on the forehead, then picked up a towel to dry the dishes.

In all the years they had been together, her husband had never received a single business call on a Sunday. He was lying. She was not angry, but concerned, since she believed this phone call could help her son. She said a prayer for her husband and son, beseeching God to keep them safe. Seeing her lips moving, Herr Egard said, "Everything will be fine."

"I believe you."

"Good." Herr Egard only wished he could do the same.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 14

Snow blanketed the nuked city and the icy sleet glowed with radioactivity. Sean sheltered in a dugout with attack survivors from the howling wind. No one spoke in the cold darkness, but someone was speaking a foreign language and he recognized the words as German.

Sean opened his eyes and sharp sunlight charred his retina. He sat up in bed and nearly swooned back into the pillow. This was no simple hangover.

Someone handed him a glass of water, then two tablets, which he hoped hoping they were painkillers.

"Thanks."

Petra sat on the edge of his bed. She wore the same clothing from last night.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like my brain is out of place."

In his youth he had been a brawler, but last night had once more taught him no one wins all their fights. Sean hoped that wouldn't need any more schooling on that subject.

"SS Tommy is famous for his knock-out punch."

"Now I know why."

"You were dreaming. A bad one."

I haven't had a good one for a long time." Sean had purchased Jung's DREAM INTEPRETATION to analyze these Armageddon reveries, but a quick scan of the material shed light on the source of these atomic destruction dreams, then again Jung had lived way before Hiroshima.

Her own sleep was plagued by the visitations of her beating, but she shared none of that horror with anyone, especially not a stranger. She stood up and went to the door.

"Are you leaving?"

"Just to get some food. I'm hungry, you must be too."

"I don't know for what."

I'll surprise you." Petra sensed his eyes on her and covered the distorted side of her face with her hand. "I will be back soon"

Ich bliebe hier." Sean said and added, "Thanks, Petra, for last night."

"Gar nichts. Kurt asked me to take care of you and we Germans are very good at following orders." She exited from the room and after the door shut, Sean rose to his feet, only to have the room spin like an LP at 78rpm. He held onto the bed, till the vertigo dissipated, then walked onto the terrace.

It was a lovely afternoon and the air was perfumed with the scent of cut grass, but something was not right, for the usual mumble of the cars on Mittelweg had been replaced by a padded marching of a ghost army. The street was filled by thousands of people, protesting the deployment of strategic nuclear missile on German soil. The Pershings were capable of reaching Berlin in seconds and Moscow within minutes. President Reagan was playing hardball with the USSR, betting the lives of millions of European to force Russia to abandon the Cold War.

The bells of St. Johannis tolled eleven times and Sean hoped his dreams were a harbinger of global destruction and then returned inside.

He returned off the TV and lay on the bed to smell the sheets.

There was no trace of Petra's scent. He had slept alone last night. s Nothing had changed between them, then again he had no reason or hope to think they ever would. He was only killing time here no matter how much he wanted his stay here to become something else.

Sean went into the bathroom and inspected his face in the mirror. By summer's end the thin scar would fade to a white line. He stripped for a shower. The doorbell rang. Thinking it was Petra, he went to the entrance with a towel wrapped around his waist. Sean opened the door and Kurt Oster entered the apartment, carrying a suit.

Ah, mein Freund. How was your night with Petra?"

"I was in a coma most of it. Petra played night nurse, that's all and nothing more. She's gone out to get food for breakfast." Sean tightened the knot holding up the towel and walked into the living room.

"Well, you never know where this might lead." Kurt clapped him on the shoulder, sending a shock up to Sean's head. He slouched into the wall. The German asked, "Still not 100%"

"More like 17%, which is better than last night." Sean straightened up with Kurt's help.

"You'll lived." The German inspected the scabbed cut on the American's forehead.

Yeah, I'm a lucky man," Sean commented caustically, for the big favors required a change in life. He sat on the sofa and studied his guest.

Kurt's eyes were the color of deviled ham and his skin was pale as ashes. He was amazingly alert and a sniffle convicted Kurt of cocaine use. It seemed like everyone in the Malchek was living on something other than what was good for them, but he was in no position to throw stones.

"I am very sorry about last night, but I warned you about those people."

"It's hard to ignore the pimps' trafficking in women."

"I didn't know you were such a saint."

"I'm not, but I've never been around pimps. It's not like they're poets."

"Some are bad and others are worse, but there will always be pimps in Hamburg," Kurt announced, as if this was written in stone.

"Yes, you're right, but that doesn't mean they have the run on the Malchek."

"I will do what I can to keep most of them out, but there will be those we can not refuse entrance."

"Like SS Tommy?"

"He is Cali's man."

"And we can't upset Cali?"

"Correct, does that create a problem?" Kurt hoped the American would say no, for it was a little too late to pull a Plan B out of his sleeve.

"For better or worse I am stuck with this arrangement."

"Good, I knew I could count on you." Kurt threw a Lufthansa ticket packet on the bed. "Remember I told you about picking up money in Geneva. After last night you deserve a trip."

"You want me to go down and pick up some money, right?" Sean recollected their conversation from the first night in the nightclub.

"You fly down, stay in a hotel. In the morning my accountant will drive you to and from the bank. You fly back to Hamburg and I pick you up on this end. One, two, three," explained Kurt.

If it's so easy, why don't you do it yourself? Sean was uncomfortable with being entrusted with so much by someone he knew for such a short time.

"If I were to be caught with the money, it might be trouble, but you can legally carry whatever amount of money between here and Switzerland," Kurt replied with the facility of a veteran liar.

"I checked the currency laws."

"And?"

"What you say is true, but New York taught me, if it sounds too good to be true than it usually is too good to be true."

"Switzerland is a land of cheese and chocolate. Nothing bad happens there. You will get a thousand marks a trip. All expenses paid, plus if you have to miss a night of work, you will get paid for that as well. Think of yourself as being a top-class courier."

"Like an extra in a James Bond movie."

There was something else to this trafficking with money. Something that involved getting people in trouble, but Sean's rapid calculation of the next four weeks' earnings from these trips translated into an accelerated departure date from Hamburg, so he said, "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good." Kurt pointed to the packet on the bed. "The ticket for the 16:45 flight is inside. You transfer in Frankfurt. The next flight gets you into Geneva around Eight O'clock."

"I'm flying to Geneva today?" Sean looked at the clock on the night table. His flight was leaving in less than four hours.

"The only direct flight to Geneva from Hamburg leaves at 6:10am. You think you can wake up that early?"

"I'm not really a morning person. Tonight's fine."

You will be staying at the Hotel Beau-Rivage. Very Old World. Tomorrow you go to this bank and speak with Herr Egard and him alone. He will take care of you." Kurt dropped the suit on the sofa, saying, "This should be the perfect disguise for your trip. You can buy a shirt and tie in Geneva. After your pick-up, my accountant will take you to the airport and I will meet you at this end."

"I bet you will."

"Then I see you tomorrow." Kurt started for the door, but Sean stopped him by saying, "Not so fast, Kurt."

"What?"

"My money. I get paid before not after."

"You don't trust me."

"First rule in New York. Trust no one, not even yourself."

"As you like." Kurt took out a wad of bills, all 500 Mark notes, from his jacket. He handed two to Sean and said, "One more thing do not tell anyone what you are doing. Not Petra, not anyone else. The best secret is the one you never tell. Guten Reisen."

The door shut behind Kurt.

Sean's main reason for having come to Germany had been to avoid the mess into which he'd got in New York and now he was on the verge of stepping into a very gray area of criminality. He should have had plenty of other choices, but couldn't think of any this morning.

Sean went into the bathroom and showered for several minutes, trying to make sense of everything that had happened over the last few days. There was no A to B to explain to anyone had they been interested in listening, so he simply washed off the nightclub's tobacco stench and razored level every pinprick of stubble to the pore. The very simplicity of cleanliness made him feel better, even if it was an illusion, showing him how easy it was to be happy in this world.

Upon exiting from the bathroom, he spotted flowers in a vase. The smell of eggs frying and coffee brewing filled his nostrils. . THE SEVEN SAMURAI played on the television. The suit had been hung in the closet. He nearly called out for Petra, but he knew where she would be.

Within the kitchenette Petra was preparing a classic German Fruhstuck. If they were lovers, this would be the time to kiss her, instead he said, "I think I died and went to heaven."

"I thought you almost died last night."

"Not even close."

"You are tougher than you look."

"I have a thick skull."

"Lucky for you."

Petra emptied scrambled eggs onto two plates crowded with wurst, then motioned for him to back away, as she picked up a heavily laden tray.

"We will eat on the terrace."

Sean followed her outside to the terrace on which she had set up a small table and two chairs on the terrace. The air was softer than a caress. After Petra lowered an awning, she asked, "Is that better?"

"Very much so. What did I do to deserve this treatment?"

"After your evening I thought I could prove not all Germans are bad." She poured coffee into their two cups and passed him the sugar and milk.

"People are people to me, until they prove differently. Just because I fought one person doesn't mean all Germans are bad. I mean, how many Americans have you met."

"Soldiers, businessmen at the Eroscenter, and you."

"Then you can't have such a high opinion of my countrymen."

"You are right. I do not think much of Americans or any men."

"People being good or bad isn’t a matter of sex or nationality.”

"You really believe that?"

Yes, but that doesn't keep me from feeling like the only person in this town or any other." Sean saw her eyes moisten around the edges. He was getting too close to her heart and his own as well.

"I have felt the same way too," Petra admitted against her wishes, wondering whether this man had bucked the impossible odds of there being someone for her. She didn't dare hope for such a gift that hope, but found herself fingering with a shank of hair at the back of her neck like a nervous schoolgirl, as he said, "Plato or one of the Greek philosophers said that there was a finite number of souls. I think it was a round number, say 25,000. After that everyone was soulless and could be used as slaves."

"There are billions of people of Earth. Not all of them are slaves."

"That’s because the devil and God have emptied people from Hell and Heaven."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's a crazy idea, but God and the devil got tired of watching everyone all the time and wanted someone to take over. So had the Vatican approached the credit card companies and banks. They agreed to take over the duties of the after-life and had their agents offer people in heaven and hell a once in eternity chance to go back to earth. Everyone in hell agreed quickly, though the people in heaven were a much harder sell. This theory explains why there is so much evil in the world and so many people."

"You are mad."

"I didn't say I believed in this."

"Dank Himmel. Now eat before the eggs get cold," Petra ordered and watched, as the American ate with his knife and fork like a European unlike the rest of his compatriots who ate with a one-hand technique like they had their left arm amputated at birth.

She warned herself that he was no different from any man and that he was a 'mark'. Her caring for a man was a mortal sin, but she found herself saying, "You should eat slower."

"Eating fast comes from living in a big family," he explained and then told her about his life to give her a picture of who he had been, was, and might be. No German, male or female, would have been so open. Time seemed to have stopped or he wanted it to keep repeating the moment, but she rose from the table and he asked, "Where are you going?"

"I have someplace to go." She had to get out of here before she did something stupid.

"Lukas?" Sean immediately regretted his query.

Petra wheeled on him and said, "You are not my pimp?"

"I never said I was."

The barb had hit its mark hard, then again she was unaccustomed to being gentle with men.

Petra had no intentions of even saying good-bye, but before she could reach the door, Sean spun her around and kissed her. The seconds became an eternity, as her heart beat with his. She told herself this was not supposed to be happening and pushed him away.

"Never do that." She slapped him in the face.

"Sorry.” Sean stepped away from the door and Petra glared at him, saying, "Sorry is not enough. That will cost you."

"Whatever the price, I'm willing to pay it."

"Don't be so sure of that."

The door slammed shut, leaving him alone and dizzy from her open palm.

He could do without any more head rattling in the near future and sat on the bed. All in all today was working out to be a better day than yesterday and there was no telling about tomorrow or the days to follow.

He was more dead than alive for the first time in months and he sensed that there was more to come, especially on a sunny day.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - CHAPTER 15

A quiet house greeted Petra that evening and she locked the doors to insure no one could enter Ein Kaiserringstrasse. A quick shower was followed by a quicker dinner through which she kept wondering what Sean was doing on Mittelweg. This morning the American’s helplessness had rekindled a long-forgotten spark of empathy for a man. This weakness had to be exorcised or else her revenge might be jeopardized in an unforeseen manner. He should have meant nothing to her. The American was merely a Sonderboch for Kurt's scheme. but she picked out MIDNIGHT COWBOY, TAXI DRIVER, and MEAN STREETS from Lukas' videos to watch these films of New York.

Several hours later she threw the tapes in the trash. New York was only a bigger version of Hamburg and the American the same as any man in Germany.

A man and the derelict house on Kaiserringstrasse seemed emptier than usual, as Petra lay in the giant bed upstairs.

With sunrise only a few minutes away she was no closer to sleep than when she had first put her head to the pillow, but she was glad to see the light of dawn. The day was always much easier to get through than the night, then she heard a noise downstairs.

Petra reached for the wartime Luger in the bed table. She could have purchased a lighter and more modern weapon, except the old automatic looked, as if it had killed someone before.

Petra put on her robe and descended the stairway.

She held the gun before her with the safety off.

The studio was lit and a window was open. Lukas was sleeping in a chair, his head on a table. At least he had been decent enough to leave her alone and she would do the same, however as she tiptoed out of the studio, Lukas sat up and blinked his eyes several times before saying, "A vision of beauty, that is what you are, my dear."

"What are you doing here?"

"Finishing this painting." The aristocrat rose to his feet and walked over to the painting. It faced away from her. "I didn't think you would be here."

"And why not? This is my home." His secretiveness puzzled her, as he had never hidden anything from her before, but her anger swiftly overwhelmed any urge to fathom his purpose.

"I thought you might be with your new boyfriend, Herr Coll. I heard the American was a real hero last night."

"Getting beat up by SS Tommy is hardly heroic." Petra lowered the pistol to her side.

"My dear, everyone was talking about it as well as you two going home together. You stayed at his place, yes?" Lukas played his hand over the painting.

"I did, because he had a concussion." Petra was unsure why she was making excuses to her slave, then again in Sado-masochistic relationships there is a continuous exchange of roles.

"And did you two fuck?"

"That is none of your business."

"Oh, yes, it is."

"How so?"

"Who pays your bills? Me, so that means I have a business interest in whatever you do. Did you or did you not sleep with him? You can tell me the truth."

Anytime a man had said that, they usually meant the opposite. Even if she did tell him the truth, he would think she was lying. She was a whore and whores are supposed to lie, if only to make their customers feel better.

"We made love several times this morning."

"You did?"

"Yes." Petra hoped he could not see through her lie.

"You know I love you?"

"Lukas, you can't love anything. Not even yourself."

"That's not true. I love you because you are more like me than anyone else in Hamburg. Someone who can't love anyone. Almost like two negatives making a positive. That is our chemistry. The Physics of our beings. This American is nothing and you know that too."

"Maybe all that is true for you, but not for me." Petra grasped the pistol tighter. "I haven't felt anything for anyone in a long time."

"And you do for this American?"

Petra said nothing.

"So why aren't you with him now?"

"I don't know." The gun trembled in her hand.

"Maybe to meet an old girlfriend." Lukas hobbled over to the Sony SL-F1 Betamax camera in the corner and focused the lens on Petra. "Damned leg has gone to sleep."

"Leave."

"Leave just when we're having fun." Lukas observed the TV, while he massaged his left leg. "Oh, that is the look I love. Fury in the flesh."

"I am not up for this, Lukas." Petra placed the gun on the fireplace mantle, not trusting herself with the Luger anymore. It would be so easy to kill him or any man, but his death would do nothing to blunt her thirst for revenge.

"I just want to put the final touches on this painting and I'll go."

"No." Petra didn't trust Lukas. He wanted more than a painting.

"It'll only take a few minutes. Promise." Lukas picked out a brush, daubing a streak of white on the hidden painting. "I'm your slave. I'll do whatever you say as long as you give me this."

"Three minutes."

"Thank you, please, take your place, Petra." Lukas motioned for her to approach the platform matching that of the tableau. "You want me to get on my knees and beg?"

"No, you like that too much."

"A few stroke are all I need to capture the real you on canvas." Lukas pleaded like a spoiled boy desperate for an ice cream cone. "Just stand there and be you, while I will be me."

Instead she picked up the pistol and walked to the hallway. "Lukas, go."

"If not for Art, do it for the money." Lukas threw several thousand Marks at her feet.

"No." Petra had never refused him before and she felt a glow of rebellion.

"What happened to that bitter woman I worshipped?" Lukas grabbed the money from the floor and trailed Petra down the hallway. "This is not you. You love money. You want revenge. You took revenge on me. Now one night with an American and that woman is gone. I can't believe it."

"And why not?" Petra stopped at the foot of the stairs.

"People don't change. Not at our age. This is just a phase for a day or two, then you'll revert to your old self."

Lukas posed the Sony SL-F1 Betamax video camera on his shoulder. It was connected to the TV. The wire was at its limit.

"Please just three more minutes. 5000 marks for 180 seconds."

The smell of rancid liquor was on his breath, which was another reason to get Lukas out of this house. Lukas rarely drank, but when he did, he could get violent.

"You can’t buy me." It would be so easy to shoot him.

"No one can, my dear Ziege."

Petra ignored the vulgar nickname.

"Five minutes and you go?" Petra understood that holding Lukas to a promise was as elusive as catching the wind, but she wouldn't get any peace he was finished his painting.

"Three minutes is all," Lukas reinforced his offer by holding out the money.

Petra took the money before letting the bathrobe drop off her shoulders to the floor. "If we do it, let us do it."

"Thank you, my dear. I will remember this always."

Three minutes later Lukas stepped away from the painting and inspected his handiwork.

The portrait of a woman tortured once.

Every little scar sculpted into her flesh was recorded in oil.

One more stroke, a little cobalt under the eye.

It was Petra.

His Blue Angel.

"You may look now, Ziege." Lukas waved her over to the easel.

Petra dropped her arms from their posed position. The blood returned to the starved capillaries, stinging her nerves' endings. She didn't like the look in his eyes, but couldn't stop from wanting to see he had painted.

Photos and paintings can lie, but this portrait flawlessly captured the cruelty in her eyes and the damage to her face as well. He had also revealed her soul to be a charred husk forged through fucking men for money.

The horror of this painting was not that this was how Lukas saw her, but that she recognized this monster as herself. Tears ran down her cheeks and fell on her breasts. She wiped them away with the back on her hand, seeing the scars portrayed in the painting. Petra turned to Lukas and asked, "Why?"

"And 'cut'." Lukas shut off the video camera and took out the cassette. "I knew you would come up with the classic line. Only a star could do that."

"What are you talking about? What about the painting?"

"The painting is yours. You can destroy it, if you want."

Petra stared at him without comprehension.

"I was only after the video. After this much time together you should know I worship the moving image." Lukas collected the other cassettes scattered on the table and put them in a leather bag. "There are hundreds of hours on these tapes. I will edit them into a masterpiece."

"The painting means nothing to you?" Petra examined at the bizarre image of her swimming within the brushstrokes and her throat tightened, as if someone was throttling her neck.

"That painting is the mirror image of your soul. Destroying you is more difficult than destroying the painting. Believe me, I have tried to erase myself, but it was impossible. I am who I am. The same goes for you, my dear. You should remember that the next time you see your American." Lukas Von Hausen stepped out of the overalls. He appeared regal in his immaculate tuxedo. The drunkenness had been an act to capture her priceless expression upon seeing herself the way others saw her. "You think you can live without me, Petra. You think this American will fall in love with someone as ugly and evil as you. You are mistaken. You are a whore."

She covered her breasts with her arms and crumpled to the floor in tears.

"Remember that. When you do, I will come crawling back to you." Lukas straightened his tie and left the house in a good mood, because he was back from the dead and soon so would be the Von Hausens.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - CHAPTER 16

After his shower Sean stood at the open window of the hotel room. The morning sun struggled to burn through the overcast and a ferry appeared out of the mist floating atop the surface of Lake Leman. The traffic was light along the quai and a few people walked dogs in the lakeside park. Nearby church bells pealed out the hour and the telephone rang. The desk clerk announced that a Herr Murah was downstairs.

"I'll be right down."

Sean stripped off the thick cotton bathrobe and put on a newly purchased white shirt and silver silk tie. Sean dressed slowly in the fine wool suit, then inspected himself in the full-length mirror. The black suit transformed him from a nightclub manager to a respectable businessman. He bought the illusion for several seconds, then wiped every surface in the room for fingerprints. All he was leaving behind in the 4-star suite was a slept-in bed, two used towels, and 10-Swiss francs tip for the maid. He opened the door with a hand towel and walked down the stairs rather than take the elevator. Upon entering the lobby dripping with 19th Century elegance Sean easily recognized his contact.

Kurt's accountant was proof that Neanderthals still roamed the Earth and the black-haired man in the red jogging suit sported a ear-to-ear scar across his neck. Someone had once failed to chop off the squat man's head. He greeted Sean with a grunt, "Herr Coll?"

"I guess you're Murah."

"That's right. You are on time."

"I woke up early. Just a minute. I have to drop off the room key."

Kurt had pre-paid the room, so Sean signed the bill. There were another fifteen minutes until the rendezvous with the banker and he said, "I want to walk to the bank."

"The meeting is at 9:30."

The Swiss and Germans shared a profound appreciation for punctuality and would forgive most any social transgression other than lateness.

"If I leave right now, I will be five minutes early."

"I will wait outside the bank in the car. It is better that way," the unlikely accountant said taking Sean's bag. When they exited from the hotel, Murah followed Sean at a distance, so no one would have thought they were together.

Halfway down the block, he got into a brand-new Volvo.

Sean crossed the street to the park. He stood at the edge of the quai for a minute. A church bell rang once, signaling fifteen minutes past the hour, and Sean headed toward the bank.

The man in the black suit was invisible to the people to work. The two bank guards watched him climb the stairs and held open the door. The bank appeared to be empty at first, as he crossed and the polished marble floor.

A bald man wearing glasses sat at a large mahogany desk, his skin pale from spending too much time inside. Kurt's description was right on the money

"Herr Egard?"

"Herr Coll." The banker greeted Sean and glanced over his shoulder, as if to assure he was not being scrutinized a higher-up. The grim smile slitted the banker's thin lips and he nervously motioned for Sean to sit.

"Your passport, please."

"Most certainly." Sean handed the banker his American passport.

Herr Egard examined the blue-jacketed document, then gave it back to Sean. "Your papers seem to be in order. I will go get the money."

The stoop-shouldered banker went over to the nearest teller and spoke in hushed tones. The teller handed over a small manila envelope and Herr Egard returned to the desk, placing the envelope and a single piece of paper before Sean.

"It is all there. One hundred thousand Swiss francs. You can sign for it and go."

Sean thought one hundred Swiss Francs would have made a bigger package.

"You don't mind if I count it first?"

"Not at all." Sean withdrew ten packets of one-thousand Franc notes from the envelope. It was all there and he signed the release form, saying, "Thank you very much."

"Have a good trip back to Hamburg." The banker shook the American's hand weakly, then sat back down at his desk to resumed his normal routine of balance sheets and numbers.

The pick-up had gone as smoothly as Kurt had predicted.

Sean exited from the bank.

The money barely dented the line of his new suit, but these ten stacks of Swiss Francs were the most money Sean had ever had on his person.

More than a year's wage at the Malchek, though not enough to warrant a runner, especially if you had Murah on your trail from the jump.

The Volvo Sedan pulled up and Sean got in the car. The Yugoslavian asked, "No problems?"

"Got the money right here." Sean patted the packet.

"Good." Murah drove to the airport without saying a word, which was fine by Sean, for he could do without hearing what was going on behind those beady black eyes. At the airport, Sean passed through the security checks without a hitch, then asked Murah what time the return flight was. He was shocked to hear the return flight was for 6:20pm.

"What are we going to do for ten hours."

"Wait."

"Can we wait in Geneva?"

Kurt wanted us to wait here."

Sean understood why, since the 6:20pm departure was the only direct flight to Hamburg.

Kurt might trust him, but not enough to change planes with $70,000.

Sean killed the hours, drinking beer.

He read every English newspaper in the airport and then Walter Abish's HOW GERMAN IT IS, Sean studied the faces of the arrivals and departees. He couldn't help, but notice how glum everyone getting off flights from Germany was.

Why was answered, when he read the Herald Tribune and discovered that Germany had lost to Italy in the World Cup. Being a Red Sox fan, he had dealt with defeat all his life, although losing a World Cup to Italy was not the same as an October defeat by the Yankees.

Nothing was.

Thankfully the plane took off time and, as promised Kurt waited on the other side of the arrival gate. He passed the money packet to the German and Kurt said, "Amazing what a suit will do. You are a new man. No surprises in Geneva, right?"

"None at all." The sensation of being watched crawled up Sean's spine. He inspected the terminal. The security cameras were pointed away from the, and the uniformed police were involved in harassing a Turkish 'Gastarbeiter', for his work permit did not guarantee him the freedom to travel as a native.

Sean searched for another set of eyes, but lit on no one he would suspect of being undercover.

Kurt also picked up on his agitation and asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I feel someone watching us."

"Really?"

Kurt knew better than to turn his head and Sean said, "I saw no one. Maybe it was simple paranoia."

"Always better to be careful."

The two men exited from the terminal into the midsummer night.

The air was perfumed from the oxygen generated from the city's millions of trees, then a Lufthansa 727 roared down the runway and kerosene overwhelmed his sense of smell. Kurt shouted, "Do you want a ride?"

"No, I have my car." Sean answered once the 727 had taken off.

Kurt's T-Bird pulled up to the curb, driven by Vanessa Von Hausen. Her shirt was unbuttoned, so her small breasts were visible down to the brownish arc of her aureoles.

"You had a long day. Go to sleep, Sean. I will see you at the club tomorrow." Kurt glanced over to the driver. They were more than friends and Sean reflected on how dangerous taking another man's wife might be, especially since he himself was involved with the man's mistress. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

The car door thunked shut and the T-bird hauled off with tires screeching around the curve, leaving the tang of exhaust fumes burnt by a big V-8 to mingle with the scorched aviation fuel.

His car was where he'd left it in the parking lot. He put in a cassette of Van Halen's ATOMIC PUNK and surveyed the map. The blue expanse to the west of the Elbe beckoned him to the North Sea. He wanted to see the ocean in the worse way, though not alone.

Driving to Petra's house seemed to take forever.

Sean had been thinking about her most of the night and day. He had called from Geneva without anyone picking up the phone. He had imagined her letting the phone ring, while Lukas painted her naked body and he half-expected to see this image brought to life with his arrival to Kaiserringstrasse.

The door through the high wall was open. He stepped into the yard. Her car was parked next to the house. He called out her name.

No one answered.

Entering the house he told himself, "This is crazy."

And the sense of being an intruder grew with each step, until he reached the studio.

A storm of rage had devastated the room. The paint cans had been kicked over or thrown against the wall, creating a mad man's avant-garde painting. The TV and VCR had been hammered to oblivion by the champagne bottles, which in turn had been smashed to pieces. The room stank of turpentine and oil-based mixtures and green glass crunched under foot.

The most savage attack had been reserved for the painting on the easel. The canvas had been slashed to limp ribbons by a knife or razor. Suddenly Sean was frightened for what might have happened to Petra and searched for signs of blood without detecting any in the pools of sticky paint.

Upon leaving the shattered studio, Sean spotted the paint-stained footprints on the floor. How a bare foot could have escaped the carnage in the next room without slashing the sole was an unfathomable miracle. He followed the trail upstairs, calling out Petra's name, till he pushed open the bedroom door.

With the shades and curtain drawn, Sean could barely see the figure on the bed.

He reached over and touched her. Her skin was cold and for a second he thought she was dead.

"Go away," Petra told him emphatically, though with a voice as feeble as a cloistered nun breaking her vow of silence.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing, but no one asked you to come here." Her voice wavered on the border of cracking.

After having destroyed the downstairs, she had come to the bedroom, planning on spending the rest of her life in self-pity. Petra had remained in a near-catatonic state for hours, reflecting only how the world would be like without her there. She now wondered whether she had just been waiting for Sean to show up and was angered by this possibility. "Go away and I will be happy."

"I'm not leaving you. You didn't the other night."

"Well, consider us even." Petra buried her head under the pillow.

Deep down she realized, if she had really desired to be alone, she would have locked the front door, and she slid over to the other side, muttering "If you want a friend, then get a dog."

"I've been where you have." Sean sat on the bed, prepared to be told to shut up, but Petra remained silent and he continued, "Earlier this year I've wanted to kill myself. The reasons are unimportant. I was down the South of France, visiting friends. They had the house, kids, dog, car, and swimming pool. Their happiness reminded me of how meaningless my life was. There was a cliff behind the house. One day after lunch I take a walk. I kissed my friend's wife and kids good-bye. My friend asked, if I wanted company. He must have seen the desperation in my eyes. I told him I was okay and that I needed to be alone. I waved good-bye, then headed up the hill. I could see the entire valley spread from east to west. A beautiful sight, more so when I reached the top. The Alps were in the far distance and the Rhone River a silver ribbon in the sunlight some twenty miles away. I walked toward the cliff without any intention of stopping."

Petra sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her wanting to hear what this American had to say was a small step back from the abyss.

"The hilltop was flat and covered with brush as high as my waist. I was committed and shut my eyes. I was only ten paces from my doom, when I heard a snort. First one, then another. I opened my eyes. Two wild pigs stood before the cliff, blocking my way. Their tusks were curved yellow crescents, their bodies long torpedoes of sinewy muscles. A few baby boars were behind them. The mother lowered her head and charged. I ran for my life. There were no trees, but I scrambled up a pile of rocks to safety."

"And so you are saying that you are my wild pig." Petra couldn't believe she laughed.

"Oink, oink." Sean mimicked a pig without being sure, if the Germans used the same animal noise.

"You have missed your calling in life."

"What? I should be a philosopher?"

"No, a comic. That is the most stupid story I have heard."

"But true, I swear it." Sean could tell she thought he was lying.

Sometimes he wondered whether it ever had happened, but he could remember the wind on his face, as he approached the cliff so clearly that it had to be true and he asked Petra, "You still want me to go?"

"No, I could use help cleaning up the downstairs." She pulled the sheet over her nakedness, then reached over to touch his face and asked, "And you? Are you okay?"

"Fine for now."

"Same for me."

The big question was where they went from here.

Petra had been on her own, ever since leaving her parents' house. Ten years without a lover or friend had brought her to the edge and the opposite might remedy her loneliness. It was worth a try. She lowered her head to say, "I said before that I did not want a friend. I think I might have changed my mind."

"I can be your friend."

"Thank you. Perhaps there is hope for you after all, Herr Coll." Petra left the bed and coyly covered herself with the sheet, sensing his disappointment. Each of them understood that stage of their relationship would have to wait for some later date. Neither of them had a real friend in this city and Petra was willing to institute a temporary truce in her war with men to accept Sean as one.

It wasn't much, but both of them would have to live with that little for now.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - CHAPTER 17

When the European summer vacation began in earnest, the Reeperbahn swelled with tourists. Beatles fans on the pilgrimage thronged to the Star Club twenty years too late and couples visited the acrobatic sex shows at the 'Colibri' or 'Salambo'. More importantly buses from all over Western Europe stopped on the wide boulevard and disgorged scores of male passengers to be sucked into the ErosCenter’s maelstrom of commercial sex.

The prostitutes barely lasted five minutes on the concrete floor before a customer dragged them upstairs. The small cubicles within the St. Pauli hotels were turning over rooms every thirty minutes. Money and fluids were being exchanged at a record pace and no one could be happier than the pimps and few women were working harder than SS Tommy's new girl. The crimson light accented the long red hair and painted her pale skin a lurid tone to allure men like moths to a fire. Only several days into the game she was every inch the whore, but having been transformed into a star she was picking her customers with disdain for them all and this haughty behavior was infuriating SS Tommy.

When the redhead refused to accompany an obese fisherman upstairs, SS Tommy rushed over and asked, "What was wrong with him? Too fat?"

"I've been with more fat men in the last week than I can count and as long as they are on the bottom I have no problem with them"

"Then what is it this time?" SS Tommy demanded.

"He smells like he bathed in herring before he came here." Vella regarded the man with disgust, while the other whores of SS Tommy's string snickered at what she had said. The blonde pimp seized her arm. His fingers sank through her flesh and she cringed in pain, as he warned, "I don't want to hear you ever say, "No." again. Do you understand me?"

Having heard what happened to bad girls, she nodded her surrender and SS Tommy told the fisherman, if he wanted Vella that he would have to pay three times the going rate.

"Three times?"

The blonde pimp lifted the redhead's silver nightie and said, "Where will find a girl like this. Just feel her skin. Soft as a peach and tight as a baby. She has only been here two nights."

"But she said I stink."

"My friend, you do stink." SS Tommy ridiculed him, saying, "I thought two things smell like fish and one of them is fish, but you make three. Next time you come to the Eroscenter, take a bath and use soap. An industrial one."

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You upset my girl and now you are upsetting me."

"Sorry." He agreed to SS Tommy's price.

The pimp patted the redhead on the rear end, as the fisherman dragged her upstairs. "You keep this up and you will be the number one earner tonight."

Two hours later Vella was dead on her feet. The garters holding up the sheer stockings bit into her thighs like bear traps and the sky-high stiletto heels crushed her toes like a vise. Her lips were bruised from seven blowjobs and after the eight fucks her vagina felt like it had been pummeled by sandpaper cocks.

Most of her clients had been quick, though the last one had taken forever to get off. Thankfully the old veteran, Sulka, had taught the novice the old trick of stroking the man's skin between the base of his cock and anus, so when Vella had reached down and scrapped her nails on this region with a milk maiden's gentleness, the trick had cried out and came instantly inside his condom.

Afterwards he had said she was the best and given her a big tip.

She had told him anytime and asked his name, which she had forgotten before it was out of his mouth. The money was all she could remember about these men, although their dank musty smell seemed to be indelibly permeate her flesh.

Vella leaned against the wall and prayed for the night to end.

A whistle shrilled from the corner, which was SS Tommy's way of telling the women another busload of men was entering the sex den.

"So how do you like it here." Sulka asked, massaging the redhead's knotted shoulders.

Vella leaned back against the older woman's breasts.

Sulka exhaled the smoke of a cigarette, then nuzzled the young girl's neck.

"The fucking I can handle, but the blowjobs." Vella grimaced, then trembled, as the old whore expertly struck a vein of sensitivity. Sulka smiled, thinking soon she would have her way with the newcomer, but for tonight it was all work and no play.

"I would love to say you get a taste for them, but those uncircumcised penises are like hundred year-old pieces of cheese. And men joke about the way our pussies smell. Sorry, Schartzie, I see an old friend."

Sulka blew her a kiss and strutted over to a well-dressed businessman.

"I will see you later." It was good to have a friend here, then Vella spotted several men floating closer and sagged against the wall. It had only been five minutes since her last trip upstairs.

Before anyone could proposition her, Vella went over to SS Tommy, who was counseling several new fish about their choices. Upon seeing the redhead, SS Tommy put his arm around her and announced, "Vella is the best. No one is softer.

She blushed, hearing about her most intimate parts described in such a fashion before these men. The rest of SS Tommy's stable were glad the new girl was in the dubious position of his favorite girl and bet how many men the new girl could take during an evening. She had already beaten most of their expectations.

"Who will take her now?" SS Tommy demanded, recognizing several faces in the crowd as long-time customers with a preference for new girls. There was nothing he liked better than an auction to the highest bidder.

"Tommy," Vella whispered in the pimp's ear.

"What?" He was annoyed she had interrupted his spiel.

"I'm not saying no. If you want me to go, I will, but I could use a couple of minutes' rest," Vella said, licking at her chapped lips.

"You need a break?" SS Tommy told the men to hold on and he would be right back, then hauled Vella over to the corner. The pimp harshly explained that her rest came, when no one wanted her, then saw the exhaustion on her face. "Maybe I have been running you too hard. I have to teat you with care. You are new. Not like Sulka. She can handle anything. Normally I never let anyone rest during a shift, but you have been very good tonight. Already you have eleven men and the night is still young. Did you know the record is thirty-three?"

SS Tommy caressed her cheek like he would a girlfriend.

"No, I didn't." Vella groaned inwardly.

SS Tommy glanced at the thinning circle of men. He spotted two regulars, who liked to split a girl between them. He indicated they were next, but would have to wait. A good businessman had to be aware of his clientele's tastes as well as the limits of his workers. The blonde Zuhalter gave a key to Vella and said," I tell you what. You go up to my special room and rest for fifteen minutes."

Vella's heart lightened to think she had a little time off.

SS Tommy kissed her on the lips, then went over the brothers to finalize the deal fort the ménage-a-trois, so Vella could make up for whatever time she had been off the floor.

SS Tommy watched the redhead wearily walk up the stairs. The short-time double date would be a surprise, but one to which Vella would have to become accustomed. He would later take her out to the Schlacterei, the all-night steak house next to the city's slaughterhouse, then bring her to the Hotel Atlantic. It would pass for a romantic evening, except the bill would come from her evening's earnings.

Several minutes later SS Tommy remarked to himself that he hadn't seen Cali all evening. He scanned the floor of the Eroscenter for the black man. 'Nigger' Cali was nowhere in sight and his stable of girls were taking advantage of this uncustomary lapse in vigilance by gathering in clumps to gossip about the evening. He could not have left the Eroscenter on such a busy night, so he had to be in his office. SS Tommy could have taken matters into his own hands, but their laziness was a good excuse to find Cali.

SS Tommy crossed the floor of the Eroscenter. The blinds of Cali's office were drawn and the door was shut. Someone was inside with Cali and SS Tommy decided to find out the identity of the visitor.

Five minutes later he smiled upon seeing Stivan Klein exit from the office. The Jew only made business calls. SS Tommy sneered a greeting to Hamburg's biggest moneylender, then pondered why Cali required the Jew's services.

Something was up and Cali had not spoken about expansion against Hamburg's other pimps in Hamburg. This meeting with the Jew had to be connected with Kurt Oster's and Nigger Cali's secret deal. There was only one way to discover, if his hunch was right, and he entered the office without knocking.

The black hole of an automatic pistol muzzle greeted him and Cali's left arm protectively encircled several hundred thousand Deutschmarks on the table. SS Tommy lifted his hands and said, "And I thought I was having a good night."

"It's been all right," Cali answered defensively. The blonde pimp had been snooping around too much lately and his barging into the office was no accident and Cali demanded brusquely, "What do you want?"

"Your girls are taking a break." SS Tommy estimated the money to be three hundred thousand DMs. To pay that off, Cali's two-hundred girls would have to work full shifts three nights in a row without ever being idle or any of the other partners getting their share. "I thought you might want to know."

"Thank you very much." Cali put the money into the safe. "I will be out in a few minutes. Tell those lazy sluts that for me."

"No problem." SS Tommy backed out of the room.

Cali locked the door, then sat on the edge of his desk. If it had been anyone else, then he would have been concerned that they might say he was skimming their profits, but with SS Tommy it was worse

Cali was blocking the blonde Zuhalter's further progress within the organization. His five-year reign over the Reeperbahn had been longer than most heavyweights retained their belt. He admired few men more than Rocky Marciano. The heavyweight champ had quit before anyone could dethrone him. Cali wished he could be so lucky, for none of his predecessors had retired alive, but Cali intended on being the first.

He shut the safe and swung the dial. The gun was returned to the desk drawer. The way his right-hand man had stared at the money reminded Cali of someone planning a robbery. He would have to keep a closer eye on SS Tommy. Eventually someone would stumble on the trail of their activities and either want in or take it all for themselves, which was right up SS Tommy's alley.

Opening the curtains he surveyed the floor of the Eroscenter and calculated the night's intake with an interest bordering on obsession. While the pimp understood having to deposit larger and larger sums in the Swiss bank account, the launching of Kurt's scheme had siphoned off every pfennig he could afford and more. As good a friend as Kurt was, this could all be a scam and one that would cost him dearly. In his business it was always better to trust no one, if you wanted to stay alive.

Poking his head out the window, Cali saw that SS Tommy was right. His women were loafing. While he had much more important matters on his mind, Cali motioned for two loitering whores to come over to him.

They both stubbed out their cigarettes on the hard pavement and sauntered lewdly to the window, hoping a customer would drag them away from this impromptu conference with the 'King of the Reeperbahn'.

Unfortunately the Eroscenter was experiencing a temporary lull in the evening. Everyone within earshot cringed, as Cali harangued the two slackers. Cali was angry and all the women knew what that meant. He warned them that this had better be the last time they shirked their duties. To make a point, he slapped one girl on her ass, then ordered them to get back to work.

It was time to redouble their 'looking busy' and they approached every loose men under the tent. Soon business was back to normal. The eager customers and curiosity-seekers were being steered to the whores by the pimps. The men and women went upstairs and money came back down. Several women shrieked with glee, as a screaming prostitute chased a naked man from the hotel. Cali had spent thousands of nights like this in the Eroscenter and had seen it all too many times before .

Most of them passed without a problem.

Other times he had to break an arm, protect a girl from a drunken soldier, or beat her for stealing money. When he first started this business, he loved the sex, the money, and the power, since they were the epitome of most men's fantasies. Now all he wanted was to be as far away as possible.

Maybe if Petra had not been beaten, he would feel the same as before. Cali had told Kurt to warn Petra, but she had been too headstrong to give up her crusade to organize the whores. When the rest of his organization voted to teach her a lesson, Cali had to go along with his associates. Any sign of weakness towards women on his part would have meant his doom as well.

One night Petra had gone to speak with the women down at the Fischmarkt and she had wandered the fish market until three men in ski masks had stepped out of the shadows.

Cali had watched, as SS Tommy and Maserati Klaus stomped Petra. For Maserati Klaus it had been a job, but SS Tommy prided himself for beating Petra Wessel to a bloody pulp. Only his intercession prevented her death. After Mack Die Alte and SS Tommy left the scene, Cali called the police on his mobile phone and reported a Strafanzeige, telling the police of a woman being beaten. When they asked his name, he hung up.

Tears had blinded him, as he had driven away. It had been years, since he had cried and afterwards that his career as a pimp was nearly over, though on the Reeperbahn, they only retire you with a bullet or a knife. Somehow he had to get out of this, in order to become an old man. The older the better and the only way he could achieve that his burying 'Nigger Cali', since his enemies would want his next reincarnation just as dead as his present one and everyone here like the dead better than the living.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 19

TWENTY-TWO

That Sunday a fierce rainstorm pummeled Lac Leman and Sean imagined that the Russians and USA were waging meteorological war over Europe. Rather than leave the hotel room's comfort, Sean ordered club sandwich from room service and read Heinrich Boll's BILLIARDS AT HALF PAST NINE, figuring the day to be a dead loss. He fell asleep halfway through the book.

In the morning the bells of Emanuel Church tolled eight times. Sean rose from the bed and went to the window. The rain was still falling through a misty fog onto Geneva's lakeside park,

At 8:15am the bellboy entered the room with the pre-ordered continental breakfast. Sean ate, then dressed in the black suit, which he wore on these trips to Geneva. By 9:05am he checked out of the hotel.

Rain splashed off the sidewalk and he sat in the Volvo.

"No walking today." asked Murah.

"A little too wet for my taste."

The big man was unusually tanned and Sean complimented the Yugoslavian saying, "Nice color."

Murah bobbed his head like a tendon had been cut in his neck.

"Yes, I was in Thailand one week and girls big fun. Little brown fucking machine. A man's Disneyworld."

The Yugoslav put the car in drive and the Volvo pulled away from the hotel.

During the short drive Sean studied the driver's profile. Murah's brow had been battered by fists and his ears flattened by a thousand punches. The flutter of his right eyelid indicated nerve damage. Sean had been hundreds of fights throughout his life, but Murah had been in countless life-and-death battles. The flattened knuckles on the steering wheel were a proof that the driver gave worse than he received.

They arrived at the bank on Rue du Fosse Vert. Sean checked his watch. 9:30am. He got out of the car, saying, "I'll be a minute."

"Take this." Murah handed him a chrome suitcase, similar to those photographers used to transport cameras. Sean opened the case. It was empty, but its addition jarred him into understanding what he was for Kurt.

A bagman.

Someone who picked up cash for someone else.

The same as Johnny Fats, who ended up dead in New York.

The marrow in his spine gelled into ice, as he entered the bank. The guards were in place. The tellers were at the tills. Herr Egard sat at his desk and nodded a greeting. Everything about the routine had the feeling of sameness. Sean approached the desk and the banker handed him a packet, saying, "Four hundred thousand Swiss Marks."

"Four hundred thousand francs?"

"Swiss."

Sean signed a document authorizing the transfer of funds. The amount was twice as much as the previous pick-up.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, I just want to count the money in private."

"As you wish, please come this way." Herr Egard brought him to a thick-walled room and said, "Buzz me, when you are through."

The door shut behind him and Sean suspected these walls would protect him from an atomic blast. Nothing bad could happen to him in here, only outside, so he took his time counting each packet of ten thousand-franc bills, while going over every moment of his trip back to Hamburg.

When he was finished counting, Sean repacked the case, then buzzed the door.

"Alles in Ordnung?" asked Herr Egard.

"Alles ist klar." Sean was envious of the banker's well-ordered world. Except for a few wrong turns early in his life Sean could be leading the same life, but he had no idea how to get back onto that path. He was who he was and nothing was going to change that.

He walked toward the exit and a guard opening the door for him proved that, but once he stood on the steps, a crazy urge to run away came over him.

Sean looked at Murah behind the wheel of the Volvo. The Yugoslav was certainly packing a piece, but his hands were not on the steering wheel. It would take him a couple of seconds to get out of the car. Sean could outrun the big man and melt into the city. He could be in Paris by nightfall and anywhere in the world the next day, but something kept him from robbing Kurt.

Actually someone.

Sean got in the car and the Yugoslav asked, "Is there anything wrong?"

"No, I was just taking a breath of air before I get stuck in the airport all day," Sean lied, not caring whether Murah believed him or not.

"All part of the job," Murah commented, as the Volvo pulled away from the curb. The driver said nothing else on the way to the airport and by the time Sean arrived at the airport, he had settled down to being strictly a courier, instead of a thief.

He walked into the terminal with his travel bag over his shoulder and the aluminum case in his left hand. Murah seemed to be on edge, as he escorted Sean through the terminal.

"Was ist los?" Remembering Kurt's mention of armed robbery, Sean clasped the case, though he could imagine anyone so stupid as to attempt a hold-up it in an airport.

"Nichts ist los?" Murah answered, though his eyes swiveled like a lizard hunting for a fly.

"Who are you looking for? The police?"

"Die Polizei sind da." Murah motioned secretively at the two uniformed officers against the wall. His porcine eyes shifted from left to right, then he smiled dully. "I'm more worried about the taxman."

"The taxman?"

"What do they do the taxman look like?"

"Like saints. Very evil saints." Obviously Murah did hold any love for the government revenue collectors and as they sat down, Murah announced, "As you Americans say, "The coat is clear."

Sean didn't bother to correct the Yugoslav's mutilation of the phrase and remained quiet, as they sat through the long hours till his departure. When he finally passed through the gate, Sean said, "See you next week."

Murah waved back, glad for this trip to be over, for he could have sworn that the American was planning a runner at the bank and had anticipated him to attempt the same in the airport. He would have hated to shoot him, but a job is a job. He waited for the plane to take off, then Murah returned to his Volvo, ready for another week of work at his car repair shop.

During the Lufthansa flight #3671 to Hamburg the 727 rose through innumerable pockets of turbulence, as a capricious cross-streams buffeted the plane. The aircraft yeed and yawed like a ship at sea. Every passenger on the flight was scared and Sean was no exception. He picked up a Stern Magazine and buried his face in the pages praying for the plane to land. His prayer went unanswered and for the first time in his life he reached for the airsick bag, though he successfully fought back the nausea. They did not clear the overcast, until they were a few hundred feet from the ground. The wind tugged on the plane from all directions and, when the pilot expertly landed on all three points, everyone on board responded with applause.

The quick taxi to the terminal undernoted how little air traffic Fuhlsbuttel handled.

When the airplane's outer door opened, Sean was first out of the plane and swiftly proceeded across the windy tarmac to the terminal. Inside he spotted Kurt behind the separating glass, but when he waved, the German strangely retreated into the crowd.

"Herr Tempo?" a man asked behind him. A stranger using your last name is always a bad sign, whether in person or on the phone. Sean turned around to face a young man sporting a trim goatee and longish blond hair. There was no denying what he was.

"Are you Herr Tempo?" asked the plainclothes policeman.

"Depends on who's doing the asking." Sean noticed that the other travelers gave the two men a wide berth and their whispering glances confirmed that they had already convicted him without an accusation.

"Inspector Brucken." A badge further identified the blonde man as a police officer. "I am with the Hamburg Kriminalpolizei. Would you please come with me?"

It was more a command than a request. A pair of uniformed policemen stood by the arrival gate in a back-up position. Sean had no choice, but obeyed the command and entered the office before the inspector. The walls were painted institutional green. A table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. A two-way mirror was screwed into the wall and Sean recognized he was in an interrogation room.

"What's this all about?"

"You are familiar with Cali Nordstrom or Tommy Letier, also called SS Tommy?" The police inspector's crumpled suit bore the stress of having spent too many hours in a car.

"Maybe I do." The next best thing to saying nothing was to repeat the negative of what you had just said, so he added, "Maybe I don't."

"I know you do, so could you open that case?"

As far as he knew, transporting money was not illegal, though ignorance was no guarantor of innocence, still Sean took a risk and opened the case. It wasn't his money. The policeman's eyes widened at seeing so much cash. Sean had probably responded in the same manner at the bank.

Alex Brucken read from a notebook for a few seconds, then said in clipped English, "You have been taking trips to Geneva every Monday for the last three weeks."

"Am I a hobby of yours?" Sean asked, refusing to be rattled.

"More or less." The plainclothed officer folded the notebook inside his jacket, so it might have been mistaken for a gun in a shoulder holster. "You take this money to Kurt Oster, a business associate of Cali Nordstrum."

"I haven't robbed any banks. All I did was pick up some money from Switzerland and bring it here. As far as I know that is not against the law."

"No, but maybe what happens to the money afterwards is."

"Is this an official investigation?" Sean started for the door.

"What is the difference?" Inspector Brucken grabbed Sean's wrist.

"It's the difference between telling you the truth or telling you to go fuck yourself." He had used the line before in New York and practice makes perfect.

"Consider it unofficial interest." The policeman released his hold.

"Then consider me 'gone', I'll save the 'fuck yourself' for later." Sean saluted the inspector.

"That is very funny, but excuse me, if I do not laugh," the inspector said, as he opened the office's door. "We will stay in touch."

"I'm sure I can bet on that," Sean replied like some tough guy in a movie, but he was relieved to be freed. As he walked through the terminal, Sean thought about what he was going to say to Kurt. Nothing nice, for he didn't have to wonder why he was being rousted. Kurt and Cali were criminals just like the officer said they were. All that talk about this being legal was bullshit, but then Sean had always known that.

Stepping outside he pulled up his collar against the cold the drizzling wind. Summer was almost gone and he was not even close to getting out of town.

A brand-new BMW pulled up to the curb. Kurt was behind the wheel. Sean slid in and they sped from the airport. Kurt's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

"What was that all about?"

"Some policeman sticking his nose where he should not." Kurt answered, which Sean could tell wasn’t the truth.

"He knew about my transporting your money." To Sean's way of thinking Inspector Brucken could have only discovered what he was doing by someone snitching him out. The list of those people aware of his trip was small; Petra, Kurt, Herr Egard, and Murah. None of them would have talked, meaning someone else was taking an interest in what he was doing for Kurt.

"There is nothing illegal about that. If there was, then you would have been arrested, yes?" Kurt's telling him the same thing again had a more false ring to it after his encounter with the police. "That policeman, he is guessing. That is all."

"Then why did he mention Cali's and your names?" Sean was too angry to buy the excuse. He had come three thousand miles to avoid a problem with the police only to find himself getting in deep here. Inspector Brucken might be shooting in the dark, but eventually the policeman would find something, because there was more than likely something to find.

"He is simply fishing for information."

"Then why did you hide?" Sean turned around in his seat. The road was empty, but that didn't make him feel any better.

"It was better that way." Kurt stepped on the gas. The thrust of the car forced them against the leather seats. He nervously drummed on the steering wheel, indicating the gravity of the confrontation. "All that money came from my liquidation of my telex holdings throughout Germany. They send people to jail for tax evasion, so I have been protecting myself. To be truthful, I will be leaving Germany soon. I am tired of this shitty weather. Once I settle my affairs, we can both leave."

"I want to go now." Sean was spooked. Anytime you speak to a cop means things are heading in the direction of jail. While a German prison might be better than Riker's Island, Sean had no desire to be a penal guest of any nation.

As the BMW rushed down Mittelweg, the streetlights came on one by one. The few people on the street were wearing more clothes than the weather required, as if they were anticipating an early winter. Sean fingered the door handle, when they neared Milchstrasse.

"If you want to go, I cannot stop you." Kurt braked sharply, and the big car swerved to a halt. He was angry, because something had fucked up. Even worse was Sean's wanting to bail out. He had to stop the American from going and said, "But I can't pay your percentage from the club right this instance."

"Just pay me from what you have in the case?" Kurt owed him approximately five thousand Marks, which converted to around $3000.

"I have to give it all to Cali."

"Why not me?"

"You will not kill me and Cali would. All I'm asking is for one month more."

"From where I'm sitting one month seems like forever."

"I can use you here. At the club."

Sean looked up at his apartment. The lights were on. Petra was upstairs. She had kept him from running in Geneva. Her and her alone. It was Petra who also made him cave into Kurt by saying, "Okay, I'll stay, but I'm through with the trips to Geneva."

"Thank you, Sean. Thank you very much." Kurt was profoundly grateful, and tears formed in his eyes. Sean was fairly certain it was all an act, but asked, "What is wrong?"

"Well," Kurt hesitated, as he weighed opening up his mind to the American, then he said, "It is Vanessa. She's gone."

"How many days has she been gone?"

"Two."

"Stop worrying. I can tell by the way she looks at you, that this is no fly-by-night affair," Sean assured the driver, though he had never given Kurt anything, but long odds with the platinum beauty. Their worlds were too far apart.

"I'm glad someone sees it that way," Kurt said, as his passenger left the car.

He watched the American cross the street to the apartment building. Sean had a right to be rattled. Someone had talked. Not Cali, not himself, and the banker had too much to lose to blurt out his guts. Kurt thumped the dashboard with his fist. This policeman was a warning from someone other than the police saying they knew exactly what Cali and Kurt were doing.

If Cali found out about this policeman, he would back out of the project. Without the money from the swindle, Kurt would remain a front for Cali and, as much as his friend would take care of him, Kurt had to be his own man.

Cali and Kurt had pledged at the beginning of this project, that no one could stop them. Neither of them had ever said anything about that person being one of them and nothing was going to change that either. Nothing and he drove away into the rain

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 20

Rain splattered on the Opel's windscreen and the steering wheel wobbled each time the tires struck a pothole on the rutted road off the 404. The new woods had been planted in orderly rows to either side. Alex Brucken shook his head. He should not be here, however the baron had insisted on the police officer coming to his mansion to report about his confrontation with the American at the airport. He should have refused the deviation from the usual rendezvous by the Alstersee, except the police officer was also curious to see how the top .00001% lived.

He had first seen little reason for following the American. His working papers out of order was a problem for immigration and his seeing Herr Von Hausen's mistress didn’t not involve the baron's wife's infidelities with Kurt Oster. The money in the case changed everything, but this last chore had seriously overstepped the boundaries of police procedure and endangered his position with Stupo. He was calling it quits, but his honor required his telling that to Lukas Von Hausen face to face.

Alex Brucken swung the wheel to the right too late to avoid a deep puddle. The front end dipped underwater and the ventilation pumped in a gaseous vapor. With the money from this job, he would buy a good second-hand family car. The rest would finance for a down payment on a house out in Wedel, so his children could grow up away from the influences of the Turks and Palestinians crowding the inner city school.

A kilometer from the main road the Opel turned onto a dirt driveway and passed the estate's unoccupied gatehouse. Alex Brucken was disappointed by finding a decaying mansion instead of a fairy tale castle, then the rich lived in another world than people like himself.

Despite what the baron had told him, he was not born yesterday. His name might have protected him from being arrested before, though not from being noted in the police files. Herr Von Hausen had been a junkie, a homosexual, a leftist sympathizer, and was now a member of a banned right-wing organization. It was only a matter of time, till the baron moved from the files to prison.

The Opel braked before the portico. The front door was open. Alex walked inside the mansion, then came to a halt in the darkness. Two sputtering candles let the entrance. The hallway was devoid of any furniture. The faint chords of classical music filtered from upstairs. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, Alex spotted a man in the corner and reached for his 9mm automatic.

"Alex, Alex, there's no need for a gun. It's only me." The baron stepped from the shadows. His hands were mockingly half-raised, as if surrendering himself into custody. "Sorry to startle you."

"I am tired. That's all," Alex said, though was angry for admitting any weakness to this man. He reported about rousting the American at the airport and the case of money. The baron listened silently and at the end said, "It must have been a long day, but I thank you for this work. It meant a lot to me."

Lukas had been worried about the police officer ever since hearing his voice on the telephone. He was obviously having serious misgivings about having performed these extracurricular activities. He could easily become another certainly another problem. During the Seventies Lukas could have shot him dead and dumped the body, claiming the murder to be an act of the Baader-Meinhof Gang or the Red Army. Nowadays a policeman's death would spur a major investigation and that would mean a knock at his door.

"You are wondering why you followed this American and anyone involved with Kurt Oster. As I told you, my wife is involved with the nightclub owner. I love her and hope one day she will see the error of her ways. You have seen my wife. She is beautiful, yes?"

Alex Brucken nodded, though the baron's wife was out of his class. His more immediate concern was both whether Herr Von Hausen's would pay the remainder of his fee.

Lukas turned on a single light, illuminating the desolate hallway.

"You can see to what I have been reduce. My last money was spent to protect the honor of my wife, but it is too late. What you had told me has convinced me of that."

The words 'Last money' assured him that this job was over, but he still had to say, "I can not work for you anymore, Herr Von Hausen."

"And I can not pay you for anymore. I am broke. Not a pfennig left of the Von Hausen fortune. You have no idea what it is to lose the woman you love."

"I am sorry," Alex said blankly, certain the baron was about to stiff him.

"It is not your fault and it is not like a Von Hausen to leave a debt of honor unpaid." The baron handed the police officer a packet of money. "No, do not pity me. I will find a job, maybe a rich heiress. My kind always does."

Alex wanted to check that the money was all there, but this was neither the time nor the place. The sight of a grown man crying, especially a complete stranger, sickened him and he backed down the hallway, saying, "Good luck, sir."

"Yes, I need that," Lukas replied before lowering his face into his hands.

Once the Opel left the yard, Lukas lifted his head and broke into a broad smile. The expression of revulsion on the policeman's face had been priceless. Few Germans could handle another person's emotion and the policeman had been no exception.

Alex Brucken's last information about the American had solved the jigsaw puzzle. Cali had been borrowing large sums of money, which he gave to Kurt, who wired it to a bank in Geneva, where the American picked it up and brought it back to Hamburg. None of the pieces mattered, until you considered the transvestite banker in Hamburg, who was in charge of international wire transfers.

Kurt and Cali had forced the banker in Hamburg misdirect funds to Geneva and the recent sums entering the Swiss account would lull the Geneva bank into a complacency about large amounts of money entering the account.

Once the money wire transfer had been placed into Kurt's account, there remained the last problem of picking up such a large sum of money. Normally the thieves would have pushed the funds through several offshore accounts, till it hit the Bahamas or Cayman Islands, then waited several years before moving the money to another account elsewhere for distribution.

Lukas was counting on impatience.

Kurt and Cali would pick up the money the same day they stole it, which had to mean at the Swiss bank in Geneva. Lukas knew exactly who to call to erect an unexpected detour for the two friends.

The policeman might be a problem later on, though nothing compared to his partner in crime. Eliminating SS Tommy would be difficult, but hardly an impossibility and Lukas laughed, for it would be a pleasure, but then almost everything he did would be soon, because now he possessed a reason to live and no one could take that away from him.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 21

Everyday thousands of business transactions occurred with millions and millions of Deutschmarks being transferred to various banks around Europe. Most were small, but together, they coalesced into huge sums, and he had been searching for the right amount that could be sent on a Friday and remain undetected till Monday morning, when he would be long gone from Hamburg.

Entering the post office, Hans descended to a row of telephone cabins, and dialed Cali's number from memory. Hans Roth tightened his tie, while the phone rang. A man answered the phone. Hans had altered his voice to a smoky rasp, suitable for a woman in trouble.

"It is Greta. Willi's friend."

"This better be business, Greta," demanded Cali.

"It is, it is."

"I hope you are not calling from your office."

"No, no, I am outside."

So what is the problem?"

"I am getting very nervous. The bank managers have been talking about an audit and, if they do, I will go to prison. What about doing the wire transfer now? Several large sums have passed by my desk." Hans had to admit that the planning of this crime was a thousand times more scintillating than his small misdirections of cash and he had been dying to tell Willi about his 'project'. Only the memory of Cali's tug on his ear prevented him from spilling everything to his lover.

"How big?"

"One for three million Deutschmarks and another for five."

"We want the biggest, Greta. Think of Thailand under a starry sky. As a woman. I have seen the results and you are the ideal material for the operation. You will be a woman. This is why you are doing this, right?"

"Of course, it is." Hans was momentarily transported to the paradise Cali had painted and breathed easy, knowing his reward was not far off.

"And don't worry about an audit. Your superiors will not want to spoil anyone's summer holiday and remember you are with a team of professionals."

"Is there anything else I should be doing," Hans exclaimed, daydreaming about the aftermath of his operation.

"For a start stop being a woman, until you are one," Cali barked, then hung up the mobile phone in his Turbo 500, as he drove down the Autoroute from Kiel. He hated leaving town now, but his presence had been required to insure a small-time pimp paid his debt. He had only broken the young Zuhalter’s thumb to demonstrate his grip on the business was as firm as ever, but the pressure was getting to him, for the knuckle of the thumb coming out of the socket had sounded a lobster shell being cracked and nearly turned his stomach.

He flicked the high beams at a camper, nearly ramming into the rear end before the slower vehicles gave way. The driver was shocked to see a black man driving such a car. Cali gave him the finger, as Sean had taught him, then stamped his foot on the accelerator, wanting to go somewhere he would be another black man among many.

There had to be thousands of places like that far away from here. He recited their names; Brixton, Harlem, Watts, Africa. Together they became a siren song. One he could no longer resist. It was time to go back home and home no longer meant Hamburg.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 22

The rain relented its hold on Northern Germany and the sun lit up the forest, but not the gloom in Kurt Oster's heart, as he tried every door of the Von Hausen Mansion finding each one locked. He peered through the double-paned windows. The mansion's interior had been denuded of furniture and only the family portraits hanging on the wall were the only signs of occupation.

Kurt thought he heard a voice calling him, but no one appeared from the yard and the forest. He listened hard only to hear the baffling wind hauntingly speaking its indecipherable language of syllables snatched from distant conversations.

Coming out here had been a mistake, but he could not imagine Vanessa being with her husband, who was also missing. The tightness in his heart expanded across his chest, as he returned to his car and drove away in the direction of Hamburg.

A man watched the departure of his wife's lover and snickered, "A slave to love."

Lukas had said the words 'I love you' to many women and various languages without meaning it. He envied Kurt for this emotion, but with love came weakness and he had spent too many years being weak. Being cruel would be the only way he could regain a foothold in this world.

The last days editing the videos of Petra had burnt out his eyes, Lukas decided to have a break.

He pulled shut the attic curtains and went downstairs to Vanessa's bedroom. He knocked once with any response from the other side and cursed himself for not having set up a video camera in Vanessa's room to watch the last five days. The inaction of the starvation process would have bored most people, but he had been mesmerized by Yoko Ono's FLY.

While the police and papers might prosecute him for locking up his wife, no jury in this nation would convict him, once they saw the pictures of Vanessa and Kurt. It might be the Twentieth Century, buy adultery was still a mortal sin in Germany.

Lukas put an ear to the bedroom door, but heard nothing. His wife's pleas for release had stopped the first day and for food a day later. Being a light eater, Vanessa had no reservoir of fat, so four days without food must have exacted an effect on his wife that could not be called pretty. Another two days of hunger and her body would begin eating the muscles. Some of the IRA hunger strikers had lasted over fifty days before dying of starvation, so she could easily handle another two weeks, if necessary. Lukas rapped at the door and called out, "Vanessa, it is me. Your loving husband."

Nothing.

Vanessa was too Christian to kill herself, though as a safety precaution he had stripped her rooms of razors and glass bottles to slice her wrists, clothing, wires and belts with which to hang herself, plus any pills and medicine on which she could overdose.

While the police and papers might prosecute him for locking up his wife, no jury in this nation would convict him, once they saw the pictures of Vanessa and Kurt. It might be the Twentieth Century, buy adultery was still a mortal sin in Germany. He called her name twice more then opened the door.

The rooms had its curtains drawn and in the half-light a female form lay under the sheets of the bed.

Something odd about the body on the bed stopped him in the middle of the floor. A rustle of fabric warned him too late that this was a trap. An unusually hard object struck him in the head and a clarion note similar to the bell at the end of in Tchaikovsky’s 1812 OVERTURE rang in his skull. The second time it was off-tune and his vision telescoped into a tunnel.

Vanessa dropped the bag filled with soap and broke for the doorway. A hand seized her ankle and fingers dug into the flesh around her Achilles' tendon. She kicked at Lukas' head, but his forearm blocked her foot. A quick jerk of his hand swept Vanessa off her feet. She crashed to the floor and the wind whooshed from her lungs. Lukas scrambled on top of her.

"Very good, Vanessa." He straddled her arms with his knees. She was much stronger than he would have thought for several days without eating. "You must be sorry about not knocking me out."

"You bastard." Her head tossed back and forth, while her feet kicked at his head. "I wish I had killed you."

"You speaking that way to your loving husband hurts." One slap across her face stopped her wiggling effort to escape. Twice more squashed any further resistance. His tongue checked his mouth. No teeth were loose, but he would have a black eye.

"Me, a bastard. No, you are mistaken. It is your boyfriend, who is a bastard. He was here. Looking for you, but I didn't answer the door."

Vanessa turned her head. The past few days she had continually fantasized about Kurt rescuing her and his having come reassured her of that possibility. Eventually he would come again.

"You must be hungry. What about some bread? It would be a nice addition to the water."

When Vanessa chose not to respond, he slapped again.

"I asked you a question. Do you want to eat?"

Vanessa glared at him with hatred.

Denied the gratification of seeing her cry, he got off her.

"Suit yourself and starve. No one, but you, will suffer for that."

She lay on the floor, expecting the worse, but Lukas Von Hausen walked out of the room and locked the door. Almost any other man in the world would have died to have at woman like Vanessa at his mercy.

So beautiful, so fragile, so helpless, but then plenty of women had been at his mercy before.

Whimpering in tears begging for salvation.

The first time had been a turn-on, but once he had been on the other side, being dominant paled beneath the pleasure of pain and humiliation. Having explored every thrill possible, only masochism held a pleasure for him beyond all others. He had no interest in sex for the sensation of orgasm and rarely achieved an erection anymore.

Petra.

She was the answer and he had to get her back and, if that meant getting rid of the American, then so be it. The problem was that Kurt and Cali needed him to pick up the cash in Geneva and he needed them to think that was exactly what he would do. This alone was keeping the American alive.

After he stole their money this interloper was dust in the wind and Petra would be his again. He vowed this with all the hate in his heart and hell had no fury like a man unscourged by sin.