A Death in East Berlin (Peter Ritter thriller series Book 1) by Richard Wake

Author:Richard Wake [Wake, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Manor and State, LLC
Published: 2020-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

28

It wasn’t too late, so I took a shot at our regular spot. Franck’s was barely lit and offered neither ambiance nor music. The only things that recommended it were toilets that weren’t completely disgusting and bottles of Deutsches Pilsner for a mark, the same price as in the stores. There was also the location, right near the Dimitroffstrasse Station, less than a 10-minute walk from my apartment on Lychener Straße, maybe 15 minutes from Bernie’s place on Bernauer Straße.

As it turned out, Bernie was there, in his customary spot — the farthest table from the front door, the closest table to the toilets. When I tried to encourage a change, he wouldn’t hear of it. It was absurd. I mean, if you leaned back too far in your chair, you could be hit when the bathroom door swung open, not to mention the odors. But what Bernie always said was, “It’s where I feel I belong,” and so we sat.

I brought us each a Deutsches Pilsner, and we pretty much talked about nothing for the first few sips. When I started in, he said, “So not just a social visit, huh?”

“Look, there’s something you might be able to help me with. Something you might know.”

“Know what?”

“About the black market.”

“Asked the detective.”

“I’m not saying you’re involved,” I said.

“But you are saying that you don’t care if I am involved, right?”

“Well, are you?”

“Am I a sentient, breathing adult living in this socialist paradise?” Bernie said. “If the answer is yes, then I have indeed had occasion to dabble in the black market.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“Well, you’re a cop.”

“Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Both the big picture and the small picture,” I said. “You know the big picture, right? You’ve written stories about currency traders being arrested, haven’t you?”

“I have indeed. My overlords don’t want to publish a word about murder in our socialist paradise, but the evils of the black market? I can write about that all day if I want.”

“So, tell me.”

“What?”

“Start with the smallest thing, a transaction,” I said. “And take it from there.”

“You really don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Fucking baby,” he said.

“I think the first time you called me that, we were 12 or 13 — do you remember?”

Bernie shook his head. I said, “You were working a scheme — big shock there — to search for used shell casings in a bombed-out building. You were going to trade the shells for cigarettes, and I was afraid a pile of rubble was going to collapse on my head, you know, when I stuck it in to search.”

“And it didn’t collapse, did it?” he said. “Fucking baby.”

“Okay, tell me.”

Bernie told me the story of a simple transaction. I didn’t let on that I knew at least a bit of it from Elke. The rate was usually five East marks for one West mark. If you were getting less than five, you were getting screwed. More than, say, six, you had found a good deal. Maybe you were a regular customer. But that was if you were trading West marks for East marks.

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