Copenhagen Noir

Aage Baldersen drained the coffee cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Debts? Debts of honor? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know goddamn well just like everybody else what happened to that money.”

“Half a million? You’re not going to goddamn sit there and tell me it’s gone?”

Baldersen shrugged. He turned his head and stared out the window. “Fuck you,” he said.

The man in the oilskin coat stood up, light reflected from the gloss. “Everybody trusted you, Baldy, it was a confidential deal. Everybody knew you had it under control.”

“You bought me out.”

“You’ve damn well never been worth half a million. You know that. Sure as hell you do, Baldy.”

Aage Baldersen didn’t even make an attempt at hunkering down. He just sat there.

“What you’ve done, how you’ve fixed it all up, I don’t care. I’ve just been sent to collect.”

“It was my money.”

“Your money? It was our money. Fair and square. You hear?”

The man had stepped behind Baldersen’s chair. A moment later he lifted his arm and hit Baldersen behind the ear with a small sandbag.

“Just a sample,” he said, “there’s more coming real soon. If you don’t start talking.”

Aage Baldersen rocked back and forth on the chair. That damn rain, the damn darkness. In fact, he was soaked.

“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” he said, “tired, tired, tired…”

Soon the man started pounding him. It was almost like a machine. It was as if he didn’t just want to beat Baldersen to the floor, he wanted to beat him into it. Slowly the figure melted and slid down off the chair.

“Night, Baldy, goodnight. And sleep tight,” the man whispered.

After a while the man stuck the sandbag in his pocket, opened the door to the hallway, closed it behind him, and began the long walk down to Parmagade. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind still blew, and the figure’s shadow moved uneasily over the walls of the buildings in the streetlights’ glow. There was no traffic, but the steady ding-ding from a small bell announced that a late trolley car was backing into the depot.

WHEN IT’S TOUGH OUT THERE BY GRETELISE HOLM

Istedgade

Despite a double gin-and-tonic and two of the small pink pills that she preferred to call “muscle relaxants,” her hands shook when she punched the number. And she held her breath while listening to the amorous voice: “You’ve reached City Sex and Luxury Massage. For telephone sex, press 1. For information about net-sex, press 2. For appointments, press 3. For personal service, press 4-”

She hung up as if she’d been burned, mixed a dry martini, and curled up in the well-preserved, original Arne Jacobsen Egg chair.

She looked out over the sound through the coast road villa’s picture window, waiting for the alcohol to relax and embolden her. Her Philippine au pair gave a friendly smile through the glass, which she was cleaning.

A half hour later Claire Winther felt she was ready. It was the only solution, the only way out of this situation, she told herself.

She punched the number again and pressed 4 for personal service.

“This is Bonnie. What can we do for you?”

“My name is Michelle Jensen, and I’m interested in hearing if there’s a possibility of working for you.”

“There’s a decent possibility if you look really good and know what you’re doing. How old are you, and how long have you been in the business? You specialize in anything?”

“I’m thirty-four but I can easily pass for twenty-six, definitely. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience, in fact I’m a beginner. But you know how it is, it’s tough out there right now, you need a little extra cash, so why not… if you have a natural talent?”

“We’ll take a look at you and talk about it. Come in around six if you can, and if you have some porny pictures of yourself, bring them along on CD.”

“I don’t.”

“No problem. We’ll figure it out. In fact, we could use a Danish girl right now, so if you’re okay…”

Claire felt calmer. Bonnie had sounded like a normal, everyday person. How hard could it be?

She chose a dark wig and large sunglasses. The oldest pair of jeans she owned, and a red lace top under the black leather jacket that hadn’t been outside the closet for five years. Given her exclusive wardrobe, this was the cheapest she could look, she decided, and she topped it off with crimson-red gloss lipstick and a shot of a much-too-heavy and sweet perfume, a shopping mistake.

Obviously she couldn’t arrive at the brothel in her Jaguar, so she called a cab and asked the driver to drop her off at the main station. It came to eight hundred kroner.

The November murk lay wet and heavy over the city, so she pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead as she walked down Istedgade, first past the row of hotels next to the station, then past all the porn and sex shops decorated for the Christmas season.