Budapest Noir (15 page)

“Who do you want to call?” asked Krisztina in an icy voice.

“The Sztambul Coffeehouse.”

“And why?”

“Because I have to talk to someone.”

“Well, now. You’re kidding.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Krisztina stepped over to the telephone and Gordon dictated the number by heart. When it rang, Krisztina handed him the receiver.

“Is Jenő Strausz there?” asked Gordon. Having heard the reply, he put the receiver back on the phone, returned to the bedroom, and with difficulty began getting dressed. Arms crossed, Krisztina just stood there and watched.

“Where are you off to?”

“I’ve got business.”

“Business. After getting beaten to a pulp, you just have some business to tend to. May I ask what?”

“You may ask. I’ve got to talk to Jenő Strausz.”

“And it can’t wait until tomorrow? Or until you’re once again in shape to go out in public?”

“It can’t wait,” he said, staring right back at Krisztina.

“Then maybe I can’t wait, either, Zsigmond,” said Krisztina, throwing down the gauntlet. “I’ll accept Penguin’s offer. And go to London.”

“First help me get dressed, will you?” Gordon had managed to slip on his trousers, but getting his shirt on by himself was impossible. After a moment’s hesitation, Krisztina helped him put it on. She tied his necktie, buttoned his blazer, and even put his coat on him. Gordon went out to the vestibule, where, with his left hand, he put on his hat. But the motion made him stagger, and he fell against the wall. His face winced in pain. Krisztina couldn’t take any more of this. She grabbed her own coat off the coat hanger and picked up her purse.

“And where are you off to?” asked Gordon.

“If you think I’m going to keep helping with this rubbish of yours, helping you destroy yourself, you’re sadly mistaken.” With that, she slammed the door behind her and stormed off.

I
t was a clammy, rotten morning. The sidewalk was slippery from the drizzling fog, forcing Gordon to give up his plan to walk to the Sztambul. It took him a good fifteen minutes to reach Berlin Square. There he boarded a tram, sat down, and stared out at the city in its autumn guise. Pretty young girls holding tennis rackets were strolling across the Margaret Bridge. But Gordon didn’t even try to crane his neck for a better look. Pulling himself to his feet, he signaled to the driver that he wanted to get off.

The Sztambul was a few yards from the stop. Despite the early hour, there was quite a crowd inside. One of the waiters opened the door for him, and he stepped into the smoky room, which smelled of coffee and fresh-baked rolls. The cashier was loudly pounding away at the register, waiters were zigzagging with full trays, and well-off young people from Buda, men and women alike, sat at the tables. Gordon glanced around. In the back he saw Strausz, in the company of Antal “Toni” Kocsis. He started toward them, but on the way a sharp pain shot through his side so intensely that, using his left hand, he had to lean against a table. The young dandy seated at the table cast a wide-eyed stare at the genteel young lady seated across from him, then gave an indignant snort followed by the words, “Can’t see because your eyes are in the way, my man? Drunk at this hour?” Gordon would gladly have knocked the young fellow’s cup of coffee right in his lap, but he had more important things to do. Strausz, too, looked up on hearing the dandy’s voice, and on seeing Gordon, he ran over to help. But Gordon gave a wave of the hand to let him know he could hobble on over to the table on his own. He did, however, let Kocsis pull out a chair for him.

“What happened to you, Gordon?” asked Strausz. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the main character of one of your articles knocked you upside the head. But I know most of those guys are either dead or in prison.”

“It’s not me they should be beating up if they have a problem with the verdict,” said Gordon, “but the judge.” Having caught the eye of one of the waiters, he pronounced his order, “Black, strong, large, and fast.” Then he told Strausz what had happened to him the previous night.

“And you don’t know why they attacked you?” asked the old fellow.

“No,” said Gordon, shaking his head.

“Zsigmond, guys don’t just come at you and knock you out for no good reason,” said Kocsis, with a befuddled stare.

“Unfortunately, they do,” said Strausz. “Toni, you left this country a good while ago. A few things have changed since then, and not just currency.” He shook his head. “Tell me, what did the guy look like?”

“He looked a bit shorter than me, average build, but I’m not quite sure. I didn’t get a look at his whole face, but I did see his mouth and his nose. On top he had only his canines, and nothing down below. His lip was curled downward, and his nose was brutally crooked.”

Strausz looked at Kocsis, who knit his brows. “Strausz, you think it’s him, too?” asked Kocsis.

“Without a doubt,” said the old fellow with a nod.

“Who?” asked Gordon, looking from one to the other. The waiter appeared with a mug full to the brim with black, steaming hot coffee. Gordon produced his cigarette case, pulled out a cigarette, and was grateful to the waiter for extending a lit match his way. He took a drag and a big gulp of the coffee, then looked at Strausz.

“His name is Pojva,” the old fellow began. “We know him. So does Toni.” Kocsis nodded sullenly. “A long time ago he started boxing on the amateur level, and he wasn’t bad. Not that he was too fast on his feet, but he didn’t have to be. His body was poured of bronze: they could hit him all they wanted, but he didn’t feel it. There was such power in those fists of his that when he managed to find his mark, the person at the receiving end was out cold. But he didn’t get far, since boxers with better technique had no problem dealing with him. Then, around 1925 or 1926, he was thrown out of the youth boxing league. He’d been winning more and more matches by breaking the rules, you see. He’d whack his opponents on the nape of the neck, lean into them, and he’d even use his elbows to beat them silly. That’s not to mention hitting below the belt, holding his opponents down, or locking them in his arms—he did whatever he wanted. He didn’t deserve to be called a boxer. What’s more, he was mean-spirited, petty, and money-hungry.”

“Not long before I left, I heard that he was working as a hired thug,” said Kocsis.

“And of course he’s still boxing,” added Strausz.

“Where?”

“Where? On the city outskirts, in all sorts of dives. Without gloves, until blood flows. That’s how he earns his bread. And of course he gets jobs as a hired thug, too, like Toni said.”

“The sharks hire him?”

“Anyone who can pay. But it’s not like it costs that much.”

“And where do they hold these illegal boxing matches?”

“I don’t know, Zsigmond,” said Strausz. “And I don’t want to know.”

“I can find out,” said Kocsis, leaning forward.

“Much appreciated,” replied Gordon.

Suddenly beset by dizziness, Gordon almost slipped off the chair. Strausz helped him sit up straight. After composing himself, Gordon asked the old fellow to call him a cab. Strausz signaled to the waiter.

While waiting for the cab to arrive, Kocsis filled him in on the city’s illegal boxing. “Zsigmond, you’ve got to forget everything you’ve learned up until now about boxing. They don’t use gloves, and there’s not always a ring. The ropes are a lot higher so they can’t fall out. There’s a referee—if you can call him that—but you can’t get disqualified, and usually there aren’t even rounds. The organizers toll a bell, then the two fighters go at each other for all they’re worth, hitting wherever they can. The only thing that’s not allowed is hitting below the belt. Punching the neck? Sure. Elbowing? Of course. The point is that someone ends up on the floor. The later the better—bets can be made as long as both men are still on their feet. Needless to say, the bookies rake in the dough. Sometimes it’s them who run the fighters. There’s no credit; you can put down only as much as you have on you. Some nights one of the bookies got his hands on almost two thousand pengős.”

“How is it you know so much about this, Toni?” asked Strausz, staring at him with a look of surprise.

“Well . . .” said Kocsis with a shrug. But then the waiter appeared with the news that the cab had arrived. Gordon stood, dug a pengő out of his pocket using his left hand, and threw the coin on the table.

“Thanks,” he said softly, then headed off, his eyes fixed on the door. Another waiter opened the door for him. Without looking his way, Gordon only nodded, then hobbled out into the foggy October morning.

As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the waiting cabbie hit the gas and drove right onto the Margaret Bridge. A black Citroën rolled into its spot in front of Gordon. He didn’t even have time to be incensed before a tall, mustachioed man stepped out of the Citroën. Gordon recognized him as Csomor, one of the detectives with Unit V.

“Good day,” came Csomor’s cheerless greeting. “Please get in, sir,” he said, opening the rear door for Gordon.

“Why should I get in?” asked Gordon angrily.

“Because I asked you to,” replied the detective, moving over to Gordon, taking his arm, and shoving him into the car.

Sitting in the backseat was Vladimir Gellért, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he read the contents of a file folder.

“What’s this all about?” demanded Gordon.

The chief inspector didn’t reply but kept reading without so much as looking up.

“I asked what this is all about!” Gordon repeated.

“What could it be about?” asked Gellért, looking up. “We’re taking you home. I see you’re tired. And it would have been foolish for you to spend money on a taxi.”

“I spend money on what I want.”

“Start it up, Csomor,” Gellért called out. The detective turned on the engine, then drove up onto the bridge. But at Crown Prince Rudolf Square, rather than staying on the Grand Boulevard, he took a right onto Falk Miksa Street. “This isn’t the way to my place,” Gordon loudly observed, and he wasn’t surprised not to receive a reply. Csomor slowed when passing by Red Margo’s building, and Gellért glanced up at the window. Finally, they came to a stop in front of the Parliament building. Csomor cut the engine.

“And now?” asked Gordon. “What are you up to?”

“The question, Gordon,” said Gellért, closing the file folder, “is what
you’re
up to. Are you snooping around?”

Gordon was so surprised that he couldn’t even reply.

“Snooping around? Asking questions? Maybe writing an article?” Gellért continued.

“And if I am, what business is it of yours? And anyway, how do you know what I’m working on?”

“Come, now, Gordon,” said Gellért, shaking his head. His face was paler than usual, and not even his glasses could conceal the dark bags under his eyes. The blazer practically hung from his lanky frame. “Don’t you remember? A girl died. You even asked what the deal was with her. Well, we’re on the case now. There you have it.”

“Yes?” asked Gordon scornfully. “And where have you gotten?”

In lieu of an answer, Gellért continued puffing on his cigarette.

“I asked where you’ve gotten.”

“You’re out of line, Gordon. You’re talking with a chief inspector of the Hungarian Royal State Security Police. You’re not the one asking questions. At least
I’m
not playing detective.”

Gordon slumped back in the seat, exhausted. His kidneys were throbbing with pain, his right hand smarted at every motion, and blood trickled from the wound on his mouth.

Gellért looked at him through a cloud of smoke. “What are you asking questions about a dead prostitute for? What are you up to visiting the medical examiner?”

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but the detective continued. “Why did you hasten the autopsy? Maybe it was you who got her pregnant? You were scared word would get out? And as long as we’re on the subject, what are you up to scheming with Csuli?”

It took just a moment for Gordon to forget his pain. He sat up and listened attentively to Gellért.

“So you got a little beating,” said Gellért. “Such things have been known to happen. You could have come away worse. Pojva is usually much more determined.”

Gordon wasn’t even surprised to hear this. He’d practically been waiting for Gellért to bring it up.

“Everyone’s scared to death of him out in that slum he lives in, those ramshackle wooden barracks out in eastern Pest that used to be a POW hospital—you know, the Mária Valéria Colony. Looking at you, I’m not surprised they’re scared. No matter. But if you’re thinking you can just slip him some cash and he’ll spill the beans on who hired him, well, forget it.” Gellért rolled the window down a bit, blew out the smoke, and looked at the Parliament building, the flag at half-mast, the guards. Without turning toward Gordon, he went on: “Leave your little investigation be, huh? If you listen to me, you won’t go digging into the affairs of respectable Budapest businessmen. Don’t go snooping around the villas up on Rose Hill. It’s nothing but honest folks who live up there. If you’re looking for trouble, you’ll find it, too, except no one’s going to help you.” Gellért now gestured to Csomor, who started the engine. Through narrowed eyes Gordon watched Gellért, who kept staring out the window. Csomor drove along Báthory Street to Kaiser Wilhelm Road, and from there to Nagymező Street, finally stopping at the corner of Lovag. Csomor got out from behind the wheel and opened the rear door. Gellért now looked at Gordon but didn’t say a thing. Csomor helped Gordon get out of the car before returning to the wheel and heading off.

Gordon pressed the doorbell and slumped against the building wall. In a matter of moments Iváncsik opened the door. “Good, you finally turned up, Mr. Editor,” he said excitedly, helping Gordon into the foyer. On the way up the stairs, he added, “The doctor is very angry that you disappeared.”

Mór did indeed look furious, but on looking twice at Gordon, the anger left his face. “Into the bedroom,” he said to Iváncsik, and after closing the door he helped the super get Gordon inside. They sat Gordon on the bed. Mór removed Gordon’s coat and handed it to the other man. “Put this on the coatrack, Iváncsik.” The super nodded and left the room. “Wait a second,” the old man called after him. “Take these two pengős and go get some sort of lunch from the Jolly Bar.”