The dream transported the dreamer to Moscow. Sirens sent crowds into the Metro and they exited at another station in an orderly fashion. This was the end. A flash took everyone away with a white strobe.
Sean woke with a start.
A woman screamed in German.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the subtle boreal light pouring through the window and he was at a loss where he was, until he saw Petra seated in a chair.
"You were having a bad dream. I thought it better not to disturb you."
"I have these recurring dreams about getting killed by an atomic bomb. Once was in my old hometown, Boston, another time in New York, and now is Moscow."
"You are not supposed to die in dreams."
"I died in all of these. Atomic dust."
"The missiles are just across the border. There are missiles here too. We Germans don't want them, but who can say no to an American, but who cares about death and destruction? Get up, we have to go." Petra drew back the curtains and pulled the American to his feet. She was stronger than she looked. "Hurry up. My friend has a customer."
"Just a second." Sean went to the window.
The sun's reflection off the distant North Sea tinted the western sky. The rooms on the opposite side of Hafenstrasse had no curtains and revealed several sordid tableaux of sex.
"This place would make millions in New York."
"Hafenstrasse makes millions here, but mostly for men. They own everything, but not this place." Petra grabbed his arm, saying, "You can admire the view someplace else."
She dragged him out of the room past a white-uniformed sailor and a naked blonde Amazon in bondage gear impatiently tapping her foot on the floor. Petra elbowed him in the ribs.
"Didn't your mother tell you it was bad manners to stare?"
"Not in cases like that," he answered and the blonde winked at Sean before shutting the door. Petra commented wearily, "That's Big Bertha. Can you guess her specialty?"
"Holding hands."
"Nothing so gentle."
She pulled him down the stairs and Sean asked, "What's the rush anyway?"
"You wanted to see Kurt and Bertram. Well, they are at the nightclub." Petra said, stepping onto the sidewalk.
The dozy late afternoon had been replaced by a circus sideshow and hordes of men wandered from house to house to search of the right destination to satisfy their specific lust. Several accosted Petra, who pushed them away with a sneer. They squeezed past a stream of men filing through the barrier.
Outside Herbertstrasse more men packed the sidewalks before the small hotels seconding as brothels. Uniformed police on the streets signified that the flesh trade was both legitimate and big business. Petra tugged Sean onward, "You can come down here on your own later.”
“I guess the Reeperbahn is not a couples' date."
"Sometimes, but we're not a couple.” Petra sat in the Porsche. “Just get in the car."
Petra drove through the city at autobahn speeds. The flat-6 whined, as she downshifted through corners and accelerated out of them to finally stop before the entrance of a modern hotel. Sean was thrown forward and raised his hands up in time to prevent his face from smashing into the dashboard.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Mit mich, nothing, but I won once and now I want to know how lucky you are inside a casino."
The brunette unbuckled her seatbelt to get out of the car.
"Here?" Sean regarded the carefully attired guests waiting for taxis and felt out of place in his jeans.
"What? Are you are scared of what people think? You win. People will love you. You love and the casino loves you." Petra pulled him out of the car through the revolving doors into the lobby, but he stopped before the front desk.
The gold jangled on her wrists and ankles and Petra asked, "What is wrong now?"
"All I have is two-hundred Marks."
"Nichts mehr?"
Nothing."
So now you have cold feet?" Petra sounded audibly disappointed in his lack of adventure, but he explained dry-mouthed, "On my twenty-first birthday I gambled across Nevada. By the time I reached Reno, I was up $500 and should have called it a day, except I went into a casino in the biggest little town in the world, thinking I could break the bank at the craps table. I wasn't doing too bad, until I had a drink."
"And you found out that drinking and gambling don't mix. I never drink anything, but water while playing anything."
"The next morning I woke up by the Truckee River with a hang-over. The sun in my eyes. I had lost it all. Since then I've stayed away from gambling." This was only partially true, since people bet all day long on small things like running a red light or telling a lie.
"Before you asked what it would take to get me into bed. I told you five thousand Marks. You have two hundred. Five turns of the roulette wheel and you will have over six thousand Marks. So I have to ask you. Do you feel lucky tonight?"
If the woman in the brothel had been test number one, then this had to be test number two. Willpower had helped him in the first and luck might be on his side, so he said, “I feel luckier than most.”
"Gut, then let's see if you are blessed by the gods tonight." The brunette's sharp nails dug into his palm and they walked hand in hand into the Spielhalle. All the croupiers greeted Petra and Sean said, "Looks like you're popular here too."
"I win. I lose. I always play." Petra stopped before the roulette table and regarded the bets on the felt cloth. "In every game there is a system to win and one to lose."
"Yes, the house wins and we lose."
"You win five thousand and I am yours."
"For?"
"An hour or two."
"Then let's play. Sean took out his stake and Petra regarded the small wad of bills.
"You were not lying, when you said you only had two hundred?"
"Yes, I'm too lazy to lie." Sean held out the money.
"I'll keep that in mind." Petra handed his stake to the croupier, who returned an insignificant number of chips. "Your play."
Sean divided the chips and placed one on red and the other on black. The croupier spun the wheel and released the steel ball. It bounced into a red slot. The croupier scrapped away the black chips and Petra squeezed his arm.
"This is not winning."
"It's not losing either."
"Unless you hit 'zero'."
The gangster Meyer Lansky had added double-zero in America and Cuba.
"Not much of an edge."
"Any edge is better than none. You want to stop?"
"No, let it ride on red." The double or nothing odds agreed with Sean. "If I win, you and I have a date."
"Not a date. One hour," Petra retorted cruelly, though the malicious smile lessened when the ball dropped into a red slot.
"Sixty never-ending minutes." Sean signaled to the dealer that he was standing pat.
Red came up again.
"You are lucky with red. Maybe you should switch to black." Petra tugged on his arm.
“Are you worried my wish might come true." He pulled her closer to him. Red popped again and his original two hundred marks multiplied into sixteen-hundred. His nod indicated to let the bet ride and was rewarded with another win. Thirty-two hundred Marks. "Once more time and you and I go upstairs. Nervous?"
"Why would I be nervous? I am a whore." Petra slyly distracted his attention, as the croupier flung the ball around the wheel. It was too late to pull back his wager, which would have paid for an idyllic summer in Maine. All for the chance for an hour with a woman he barely knew. Sean prayed for the ball to stop on red, but the steel orb ball dropped into 21.
Black.
The croupier gathered the chips with a rake.
“Someday I show you how to gamble." Petra held his hand.
"Why didn't you do it now?" He'd been so close.
"Because you had too little to lose to make the lesson worthwhile."
"Now I have nothing." This woman had cost him.
"Yes, and I bet that's someplace you have been before."
"Which is why I'm in Hamburg." Petra guided him from the Spielhalle. Her car was out front like the valets never expected for her to be more than a few minutes and Sean recriminated himself for falling into Petra's trap on the drive to the nightclub.
Sean shouldn’t be here with this woman and he was glad to pull up in front of the Malchek.
"Thanks for the tour and the ride."
"It was my pleasure, but please stop being so sad. That two hundred marks was only money. There's plenty more where that goes."
"Don't I know it." Sean looked across the street to the nightclub.
A throng of young people, mostly blonde, pressed against a velvet rope to gain entry. It was all very small time in comparison to New York or Paris, except the kids were better dressed indicating the wealth in Hamburg.
"Will your boyfriend be here?"
"I have no boyfriend."
"Only customers, right?"
“Yes.”
"What about friends?"
"Maybe me.”
"You?"
“I’m more loyal than a dog."
"I don't need friends."
"You want to bet on it?"
"With what?"
"You have nothing to bet with."
Petra dragged him across the street.
The bouncers barked for the people to step aside. They were big and strong. Sean would be working here within a couple of days. He introduced himself in German and they grunted a curt greeting. Their nervousness puzzled Sean, until realizing that he was their new boss, and he decided to show them he was here to stay.
“Let them in.” Sean introduced himself to them and pointed to three beautiful girls.
The bouncers obeyed him without question and he headed inside with Petra.
Diabolical neon illuminated the club and the furniture was a direct knock-off of the Alan Jones’ kneeling female tables and plastic molded chairs from CLOCKWORK ORANGE. The deafening electronic bass beat of Front 242 boomed against the cold blue walls before segueing to the opening beeps of Depeche Mode's 'TAINTED LOVE.
Willowy blondes in summery mini-skirts danced with tall boys with razored haircuts. A three-deep crowd at the bar ordered drinks. Along the raised lounge older men poured champagne for languid women in harsh make-up. The cash registers rang constantly, proving Kurt had not been lying about the club’s profitability. This was all beginning to look too good to be true.
Petra identified various members of Hamburg's scene
"The Schickerai are the power players with Stern and Deutschegrammaphon. A few movie stars come from time to time along with Schlager rockers, but they are the light bulbs of Hamburg's neon night life."
"Who are the bright lights?"
"You will meet them soon, maybe too soon. Excuse me for a second."
“Take your time.” Sean watched her greet an elegantly dressed man with silver hair. It was the man from this morning. They appeared to be neither friends nor lovers and Sean doubted their relationship was as simple as her explanation. He was about to look for Bertram and Kurt, when two arms bearhugged Sean. The people laughed, but his ribs were buckling inward and crunched his booted heel on his assailant's instep. A scream of pain accompanied his release.
The crowd stepped back for a full-out fight and Sean wheeled to punch out whoever had attacked him, except Kurt Oster held out his hand and said through a grimace, "Enschuligen, I took you off-guard."
"You did.” Sean shook the German's hand. “Sorry, I reacted that way."
"No apologies necessary, it shows you are ready for action."
"I waited for you at the airport."
"I thought you would be happier with Petra,"
"I would use a different word than 'happy'." Sean examined the German.
They were about the same height and weight, but Kurt Oster had this club, money, women, whatever he wanted when he wanted, while Sean simply had a broken-down motorcycle to his name. Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest was rammed right down his throat and it tasted like refried crow.
"But you're happy to be here." Kurt tested his foot.
"Out of New York? Yes."
"So what do you think of the club?"
"It looks like it's making money."
"You think I would fly you over here to waste your time or my money. No, we will all have a good time." Kurt ordered a bottle of champagne and led them to a table, where Bertram sat with a trio of thin blonde women in filmy dresses. Kurt hissed, “B-grade models from Paris working the catalogues. Bertram fell in love with one. A junkie from Frankfurt."
"Trouble?"
"For Bertram, but Bertram likes trouble."
"Better him than us. Here he comes now."
The unkempt Frenchman rose from the seats and greeted Sean with a kiss for both cheeks. Kurt ordered more champagne and a few more people arrived at the table, Petra and her ‘friend’ among them. His gray-blonde hair swept back over his scalp lent his face a predatory mien and he said, "So this must be the famous Sean Coll."
"This is Lukas Von Hausen," Kurt said, as though the last name meant something.
"We met briefly without a proper introduction."
"Herr Coll, your accent says you're from Boston, maybe Maine."
"Across the harbor from Portland. My father's family has been there in the 1600s."
"Ah, the extermination of the Indians. We Germans have so much in common with America. Petra told me about your visit to the Herbertstrasse. Most educational, yes?"
"It depends on what you call educational?" Hamburg was obviously a town where nobody kept a secret, unless its disclosure threatened them personally and Sean vowed to avoid Petra during his stay in Hamburg.
"Do not be so mad.” The German laughed at Sean's discomfort and Petra left the lounge. “She just thought an American’s first day in Hamburg was an amusing story."
"I'm sure it was a good laugh." He noticed a dazzling blonde in a mini-skirt on the dancer floor. Lukas followed his gaze and excused himself. “Duty calls.”
When he joined the blonde, she stopped dancing and Sean stepped closer to Kurt.
"So who's your friend?"
"Not a friend or even an acquaintance. Lukas is an aristocratic artist and thinks himself a great director, despite having only shot home movies. Most people deemed him a failure, but he is the last of the Von Hausens." Kurt re-empathized importance of the last name, though Sean’s fascination was relegated strictly to princesses in distress. Petra re-appeared from the crowd, then motioned for Kurt to join her. The German excused himself. Sean took a sip of the champagne, wincing with displeasure. "What is this?"
"It is the merde they like to call champagne. You’ll get used to sekt. I have."
Bertram lit a Gitane in the manner of a very young Yves Montand.
"So mon ami, what do you think of Hamburg?”
"It's not New York or Paris." Sean toasted the city with a glass of ersatz champagne. "But I can handle it for a couple of months."
"My sentiments exactly." Bertram slowly inhaled his cigarette, as if it might be his last breath. His pinned pupils were hooded by heavy lids lowered by heroin, showing how things had worsened since they had last see each other in Paris. Deep in Sean's veins the old urge to forget everything hummed a few bars of the drug’s siren song and he inadvertently scratched the inside of his arm.
"So I hear you're in love."
"Not in love, but Hanna is exciting. Very radical. Very anarchistic."
"Good for you." Sean had had his fill on girls like Hanna in Paris. Bertram was less concerned with the collateral damage attributed to drugged-out beauties. "Why aren't you spinning?"
"My assistant took over." Bertram indicated the young boy at the turntables. “He’s sixteen.”
"A bit young, no?"
"When you were that old what were you doing?"
"Pretty much the same."
"The drinking age in Hamburg is eighteen, but if someone has money, then it’s an open-arms policy. Anyway Johnny only drinks juice. He loves spinning records and his mother will pick him up at midnight.”
Bertram fought off a nod and went to the turntables, cueing up 1999, Prince's homage of Sly Stone and Chic. Sean surveyed the crowd of the young girls and boys, until being drawn to the platinum blonde woman to whom Lukas had been speaking.
She danced in a world apart from everything and everyone around her. Prisms of light sparkled from her diamond studs and engagement ring. The skin of her lean boyish body was honeyed from the sun. She wore a simple white shirt and jeans with flat sandals, so she was only as tall as she had to be. When her sapphire eyes swung his way, Sean could have sworn she was looking at him. Almost every other man seemed to share the same notion.
Sean rose to his feet and matched her movement. She reached out a hand. Sean stepped forward to join her on the dance floor, but she pulled Kurt from the crowd. The German tried to move away, but Vanessa danced closer to Kurt.
“Let everyone talk. We are only dancing. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"I want more than just a dance someplace far away from all these people.” Kurt had been dreaming about that day from the first time he had seen Vanessa. “Come away with me. For an afternoon. Just you and me. We can go to Sylt. Say you will."
"I am not a free woman." Vanessa couldn’t believe she was even contemplating such a sin and broke away, gyrating to Captain Sensible's SAY WHAT for a few seconds before backing into Kurt with her long hair trailing down his chest.
Up in the lounge Sean wished he could have been the club owner, for the blonde belonged on the stage or in a painting not real earth. Petra stood next to him and explained matter-of-factly, "One of the few weapons a woman has against a man is her beauty, but this one’s her main weapon is her innocence."
"If she is so innocent, what is she doing with Kurt?"
"Some say she is still is a virgin. No one can say for sure other than Lukas or the Ice Queen herself, but our friend, Kurt, would like to find out in the worst way.” Petra melted into the crowd at the song's end the song ended. The blonde enigma went to over to a small group of young people. Kurt joined Sean at the bar and asked in a low voice, barely audible over the music, "What do you think of her?"
"She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen." Lisa hadn’t been as beautiful, but he had loved her all the same, because of the glow she shared with Vanessa. Falling in love with Vanessa was dangerous and not just because of Lukas.
Kurt lit up a cigarette and his lungs rejected the smoke. He coughed like he was losing a lung, but he did not stub out his cigarette.
“She’s very different from all the other women I have been with; smart, a good heart, and she didn’t go to bed with me the first time we met. I keep thinking, "Tonight is the night.", but tonight never comes. A woman who says, "No.", when she wants to say, "Yes." can drive a man crazy."
"She is also married." Vanessa was no Reeperbahn whore or Paris model.
"She doesn't love him." Kurt nervously fidgeted with his shirt like an awkward teenager asking a girl to be his first date.
"Her being married might not matter to you, but maybe it does to her." Sean thought it was unlikely that any woman would leave a titled baron for a nightclub owner.
"How would you make her fall in love with you?"
"My luck in love has ruined my belief in happily ever-after." Sean hated giving romantic advice, since if anyone adopts your suggestion and it blows up in his or her face, then you are to blame.
"Then we learn through failure and you can tell me what not to do."
Sean examined the young woman and offered, "My advice is, when in doubt, do nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing." Sean took a sip of sekt, then looked up to find himself facing Lukas' wife.
She squeezed around Sean and kissed Kurt's cheek. The club owner fought off an expression of disappointment and a wave of pubescent yearning surged over Sean, when the woman extended her hand.
He shook her hand and paused for Kurt to introduce her, however the German had left to greet some people by the entrance.
"I'm Vanessa Von Hausen and you are the famous Mr. Coll." The blonde smiled like a goddess holidaying on Earth.
"Infamous, yes, famous I don't know."
"No, you are being modest." She put her arm around Kurt's waist and he shone with satisfaction, as if this embrace was a giant leap forward in his romance. "Kurt told me how you destroyed a Deux-Cheveaux single-handedly in Paris."
"Oh, that. I really only kicked in the windows after the driver threw a bucket of paint on me. When he took off, a taxi totaled the car." Sean could live without this dubious celebrity, but he had learned long ago how hard it is to outrun the tales of the past.
"Oh, you are is so precious." She clapped her hands with delight. "You must have many such stories from New York."
"Probably too many," Sean was slightly nervous to have turned his back to the door, then again no one in Hamburg could possibly have it in for him yet.
"What you two talking about?" Kurt was visibly displeased at her attention to Sean.
"New York and destroying cars with a single blow."
"A good story. Let's join the rest of our party." The nightclub owner led the way to the rear of the club, where they joined Petra, Lukas, and three couples.
As they sat down at the table, the strangers suspiciously eyed Sean before resuming their conversation in German. He scrambled to grasp a thread of what they were saying and grinned, while the rest of the table tittered about a man who had been caught with his ex-wife. Noticing the American's unease, Kurt pulled him out of his seat.
"I want you to meet the day manager."
The two men went to the small, but tidy back office. The bass from the sound system thudded against the wall. A slight man with an impish face grunted a greeting and stuffed a stack of Deustchmarks into a brown manila envelope.
"This is Jonny Werth. Now you are here, he will become the day manager."
“I never thought I would ever dream about being in bed at a reasonable hour, but boredom has become a paradise with the passage of age," Jonny lisped through a grin of gold caps on his lower bridge.
"You are getting old.” Kurt shook his head.
"We all get old one day, sometimes sooner than we think." Jonny grabbed a cane from the corner and hobbled out of the office, saying to Sean, "If I can be of any help, let me know."
Once the door shut, Kurt took out a vial and poured cocaine onto the desk. Kurt offered Sean some. He refused, since most the cocaine in Europe was heavily laced with speed designed to explode your heart.
"Jonny is a good man." Kurt cut himself a thick line.
"What happened to his leg?"
"You should be careful with questions in Hamburg.” Kurt huffed a line of cocaine with a frown, then said, "Jonny was a Zuhalter or pimp. A few years ago the police arrest in Spain, for what is unimportant. He was sentenced to prison in the Canary Islands, where Jonny discovers he is a homosexual. The boys from the Reeperbahn find out this and they break his legs upon his release. One didn’t heal so good."
Sean's younger brother was gay and Sean had defended him through high school. His best friend in New York, Johnny Darling, had been a hustler and died of this new sickness, AIDS. Many more in the East Village had joined him, though he didn’t think this plague was a curse from God like the Bible-thumpers. Just a bad thing happening to people, giving straight people another reason to fear gays and Sean said half-seriously, "I thought homosexuality earned the death sentence from gangsters."
"Cali stopped them,” Kurt replied, rolling up a Milla bill and huffing a line thick as a 100mm cigarette.
"Who's Cali?" Sean ignored the warning about questions.
“A long-time friend, who protects the club no matter what. Don’t worry about nothing.”
Those words always had a tendency to bite you on the ass and Sean changed the subject by asking, "What about working papers?"
"If you want to go through the hell of the Behorde, be my guest. First stop is the Bureau of Order, then Immigration, where you apply for a residence permit. You have an Irish passport, but any German could do your job, so they will tell you that you can't get a Resident Permit, till you have a Work Permit and you can't get one without the other."
"Sounds like a ping-pong."
"More like shuffleboard at which the German bureaucracy wins gold medals." Kurt mimicked the old German phrase, "'Papers, please.' No, it is better I pay you cash."
"I'm cool with avoiding taxes."
"Better the money in your pocket than the coffers of the State."
I agree." Every extra DM would shorten his stay, though his next destination was a mystery.
"When do I start?"
"Whenever you want." Kurt clapped him on the shoulder a little too hard. Germans obviously enjoyed playing rough and Sean responded by pushing the German off-balance with a simple shove. Regaining his balance, Kurt said, "Tomorrow I will get you a car. Sounds good, no?"
"Almost too good to be true. Why you really hiring me? I mean you could have found a German, who could do this job."
"I do not want anyone in Hamburg knowing my business," Kurt spoke in a low voice.
"Why?” Sean’s bad feeling blossomed into a mushroom cloud. “Are we laundering money?"
"No, this club is legitimate, but I have a second job for you.”
"I won't do anything illegal." Sean wished that last turn of the roulette wheel had come up in his favor, then he could have left Hamburg tomorrow morning or even tonight if there was a late train.
"I'm not asking you to commit any crimes. You want to just work the club, then that is fine, but I’m in the process of selling off my telex businesses across Europe. The money comes into a bank in Geneva. I need someone to bring them these deposits to Hamburg. Nothing illegal other than keeping this liquidation from the tax people. You will stay at a nice hotel, fly first-class and get a break from the club. Believe me, Hamburg can get very small."
"How can you be so sure I won't steal your money?"
"Because you’re not the type.”
"I'm not?"
"You are violent, you do drugs, and you have robbed a bank, but I don't see you as someone who steals from friends."
"No?"
"I know thieves when I see them, but I’d hate to be proven wrong."
"I never break any Commandments with friends.”
"Good."
"One more thing. I'd like to stay someplace other than Petra's."
Sean's afternoon with Petra had not achieved the desired effect, but few women could manipulate men better than Petra and he would have to trust in her methods.
"I understand. Petra lives alone. Last night was a favor to me, tonight I will put you up in the Atlantic Hotel. A touch of luxury, then you can move into a penthouse apartment. Anything else?
All these proposals were coming fast, but then again so little had been happening for such a long time, so any movement would seem rapid. New York was a great city for walking. Hamburg was more like a suburb and he asked, "Do I need a car?"
"No one walks in Germany. I will deduct your rent and your car payments from your percentage.”
Kurt blew away the cocaine residue and opened the door. Jonny re-entered the office, while Kurt and Sean went to the bar to order drinks over Grandmaster Flash's THE MESSAGE. “Of course you will have to check the numbers, since you should trust no one with your money."
“Least of all myself.” Money never lasted long in his hands.
Petra came up behind him and slipped a cool hand up his back, sending a chill through his bones. "Alles roger?"
"Warum nicht?" Sean was out of New York, away from the police, had a new job, and was surrounded by an entirely new cast of characters. The club-goers looked at him, as if he were an upcoming attraction and he was extremely grateful to the anonymous author, who had rewritten his life. He could only hope that he would never use an eraser.
The threesome was filled out by Vanessa, who embraced Kurt with unexpected warmth.
Everyone else in the club disappeared from his sight, when she told Kurt, “I’ll go with you to Sylt.”
“You will?”
“I had a talk with Lukas. He said I could go wherever I wanted as long as he had the same right.”
She glanced over Kurt’s shoulder at Petra. Vanessa no longer suffered any delusion about her relationship with her husband. The Von Hausens never divorced, only disregarded their vows of marital chastity. In the past a woman would have stayed home, but Vanessa was too young to surrender her life to outdated morals. She was free again and announced, “I told him there was nothing between us. Just friends.”
"Even Adam and Eve had been friends in the beginning," said Kurt, but Lukas was not a man to give up something so easily and he asked, “Where is your husband now?”
“Gone painting.” Lukas had been her Prince Charming and now Kurt would be the Robin Hood. "And left you with me."
Comforting by this robbery from the rich to the poor, Vanessa curled around Kurt like a snake coiling on a hot rock, praying for the sun to never go down below the horizon and on the longest day of the year that was always around midnight in Hamburg.
