Until the Debt Is Paid by Alexander Hartung

Author:Alexander Hartung [Hartung, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, World Literature, European, German, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, International Mystery & Crime, Police Procedurals, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781477826072
Amazon: B00KHGWQO0
Publisher: AmazonCrossing
Published: 2014-11-04T06:00:00+00:00

Jan hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep after the dream. His head ached and he felt dizzy, the images on a recurring loop in his head. Even after the hour it took him to clean up the table, he still could hardly walk straight. Only when Chandu brought him a cup of coffee did he start to feel recovered.

On the way to the car they spoke little, and the trip passed in a shared silence. Judging by how many aspirin Chandu had taken with his morning brew, he wasn’t feeling great either. After an hour, they found the development. It stood in the middle of cleared land surrounded by trees on all sides. A rutted, trash-strewn road led to the site, where most of the houses were under construction. Some already had windows, but all were missing the exterior plaster. There were no vehicles apart from a crane and a backhoe. No lights were burning, no chimney smoke rising into the sky. No one had moved in yet.

“Who’d pay for a shack like this?” Chandu asked.

“There are worse places.”

“Guantánamo?”

Jan laughed but regretted it instantly. His head punished any sudden movements.

Chandu pointed to the last house. “There’s a few people over there.” He drove the Toyota up to the sidewalk, and they got out. The sandy earth was mushy, dotted with little puddles of muddy water filled with building debris. Jan looked for a path that wouldn’t ruin his shoes.

Chandu put on dark sunglasses. With his hair cut short and his broad back, he looked like the perfect bodyguard for a Bond villain. He motioned for Jan to go first.

Four workmen leaned against a delivery van, smoking and looking bored. Judging from the number of butts on the ground, they’d been at it awhile already.

“Morning, guys,” Jan said. None of the men reacted to him.

“You working for Michael Josseck?”

“Might be,” one of them grunted. He had a scrawny build and uncombed long, blond hair. His lower arm sported an indistinguishable tattoo. Possibly a lion’s head.

“Not to worry. We’re not building inspectors. We just have a little . . . job.”

That perked them up. “What’s it about?”

“Nothing big,” Jan said. “Restoring some old prewar in Charlottenburg. Twenty an hour.”

“Why come to us?” the scrawny one asked. He wasn’t looking convinced.

“Buddy of mine worked with Manuel Floer and was happy with it.”

“Manuel ain’t here.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Why’s it have to be Manuel? Guy ain’t even a super.”

“I only work with recommended guys. He brings you along to work? It’s all good by me.”

Scrawny eyed Jan, sizing him up.

“Fair enough.” He threw his butt on the ground. “You all ears? Here’s what you do . . .” He rattled off the way to an industrial building site.

“In Marzahn?” Jan asked.

Scrawny nodded. Jan sighed. From here, it was going to take forever to get there.

“You don’t got a phone number for us?”

“I don’t. You gotta go there personally.” Scrawny pulled a pack from his pocket and lit up another cigarette. “Manuel’s there till quitting time.

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