Irene sat in the bunker swilling her coffee around. The Journalist scribbling desperately to describe any details she could get her hands on. As she went on to speak, gesturing with a stick of shortbread, she heard a loud knock.
THUD THUD.
She instinctively glanced at Ken and Ted, the journalist waved a hand. “Its a timer based lock. We have 48 hours. There’s no password to guess and nothing is getting through reinforced steel like that” she glanced. “Could we at least do something about the noise? That sounds like a battering ram” Irene gasped. Ken turned up the radio and picked up a pistol, heading into the other room.
Irene used this opportunity, leaning forward while her husband and their bodyguard went off to silence the intruder. Girl-to-girl. “So the phonecalls…”
BERLIN AIRPORT. 1986. That afternoon.
Irene was becoming sheepish. She was 22 and realising she was in above her head. The phone book had startled her into action, she’d seen known killers in that book. Proper killers. Killers for fun, disgusting people with wanted posters and hate crimes on their roster. It was the 80s, but she wasn’t naive.
“Officer Richards. I have some evidence for you. I believe the mob are working in Berlin” she told the ghost down the phone. The voice was static and scrambled, Even on a payphone in a big city. The voice confirmed they would be there as soon as possible. She’d have to shower. She’d have to deep clean the cocaine and the Jack Daniel’s from her pores. It was the only way forward.
Officer Richards was an old friend. He’d be understanding, right? He knew her parents. He could keep a secret. She mopped her brow with a flannel. She mopped her arms and her chest and her neck. She felt unclean, lady Macbeth style unclean. She was so stupid. GOD SHE WAS SO STUPID. An idealistic teenager promised she was on the right side of history. She scrubbed her skin and she mopped her pores, and she fidgeted. 22. Twenty two years old.
“You know, the best way to clean that stuff from your system is with rubbing alcohol, right?” proffered a voice from behind her at the payphone. Cold flashes ran down her spine. Oh Dear. FUCK. It was the bar guy. She squinted at him trying to remember his name fully. Ken? Keith? Karl? She’d only known him for a few hours.
He put the cigarette out against the wall the phone was tethered to. “I’m not scared of you, you know” she lied. First rule of bullies, never let them know they’re winning. Second rule of bullies, Aim for the throat. “You have my notebook” he grizzled at her. “I do, Ask nicely.” she taunted. He leaned forward, half power play, half flirt. She felt a hand enter her jacket pocket as he got closer.
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She had one option, she kissed him. Just enough to take him off guard and snatch back his notebook. If he got violent she could bite his tongue off. He pulled back and grimaced. “Nice try sweet cheeks” he responded, plucking his thin leather notebook out of her grip and knocking her back gently. “Next time I’ll play rough” He warned. Now if there’s one thing she couldn’t resist, Its a challenge.
She played possum until he left into the airport. Once he was out of range she restyled her hair a little, zshushing it up with a fingerless gloved hand and scuttling over to the security guard. “I think. I think. I think...” she stuttered, hyperventilating. “… that man with the motorbike is working for the communists. He had a load of drugs and I think he was armed. He arrived on a red Honda motorbike” she faux-grimaced in pain.
Method acting an injury was easier when your tights were already ripped and your hair was already messy from an ounce of hairspray.
What Kennedy Klein didn’t notice, was the addition of one more punctured red luftballoon on his person. This man was now a walking cocaine powersuit, but this was the 80s, people didn’t check a person’s outfit unless given good reason, Irene just gave them good reason to search him. His jacket pocket was now pissing out a trail of drugs onto the cold concrete. By the time he got to to security he’d be wearing more powder than Marie Antoinette.
Back in the bunker, Ted and Kennedy had just finished cleaning up.
Irene put her finger on her lips about that last bit, “Between us girls” she whispered coyly. The publisher nodded, aware that the secrets of a mobsteress could be quite costly in the wrong hands.
“Having fun?” the wife proffered, watched her husband and their employee/side-piece brush gunpowder off their blazers with the reluctance of an unscheduled zoom call. “They have weapons hatches – one way” Ted breathed. “Call it a warning shot” Ken chimed in, disarming and disassembling his pistol in the living room like it was lego. He was a mobster, but he certainly wasn’t rude.
A big rule of organized crime etiquette, only be as armed as the weakest person in the room, unless a murder is on the cards. Anything more would be impolite and unfair, people get jumpy and suddenly the butler is missing an ear, or an ounce of brain matter. On a particularly bad day, both.
The interviewer pivoted in her chair towards the boys. She craved nicotine, but she needed the story more. She tapped the yellow chip on the table habitually, trying to knock any bad mojo from it before she continued her thorough investigation.
“Now Mr Klein” she pivoted. Her underpainted black lips barely moving as she spoke. She tapped at the table with the chip rhythmically. “How did you end up in Berlin? You already worked in the field when you met Ms Klein, right?” the interviewer prompted.
He chuckled a hearty laugh. “Okay, I’ll play” he submitted. “But you might not want to be here when I tell it” he said to his wife.
Ted took the hint, and Irene’s hand. “This way, When we were snooping I found you an absolute treat” Ted ushered, leading her to the basement. She’d spend the next hour pawing through documents of accusations, conspiracies, affairs and security passwords sprayed out across pinboards and filing cabinets. The paranoid scribbles of a man mad were always as entertaining as they were useful.
***
Back in the interview lounge, Ken had helped himself to a set of military ration desserts, and was ready to start his case. “Berlin you say? Is that what she told you?” he squared up. The interviewer didn’t flinch. He’d have to play fair, he chewed onto the inside of his cheek and looked at the iron fortress he was perched in. “My story doesn’t start in Berlin. It starts in a ruin bar in Budapest. About five or six years earlier” he promised.