An overweight Gypsy man levered himself out of the driver’s seat and walked across to where they were sitting. He had slicked-back black hair and coffee-coloured skin, and wore a shiny black tracksuit over a white T-shirt and expensive trainers.
‘What the fuck happened?’ he asked Marika.
She looked at him with relief. ‘Vik. Thank God you’re here. They’ve taken Tazi.’
Tito Grill, 8.50 p.m.
Goran looked up as a loud hooting sounded again and again.
He watched through the window as a blue Maserati slammed to a halt at speed, parking illegally on the corner of Nemet Street, stopping just millimetres from the car in front.
For a moment he feared the restaurant was being targeted until he realised the vehicle was Gaspar’s car. Gaspar wasn’t a very careful driver but even by his standards this was truly terrible parking. And the hooting continued.
Goran understood. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and signalled to Biljana that she needed to clear the restaurant.
A couple of seconds later he was already at the door as Fat Vik and Gaspar strode in, each holding up Memed between them, Marika walking behind them, still explaining what she had seen.
The other customers turned to look at the sight of the two large Gypsy men bringing in another man who could not stand very well, holding up a couple of tissues to a bloody wound on the side of his face in a vain attempt to staunch the blood. Only three tables were occupied.
Biljana quickly moved between the groups of diners, asking them to leave, as she apologised and explained that their dinner and drinks were on the house. They all knew enough not to ask questions, quickly gathered their coats and left.
Goran ushered Fat Vik, Goran, Memed and Marika through the dining area into a small back room that served as office-cum-lounge. An old-fashioned monitor and keyboard stood on top of a wooden desk in the far corner, with a large grey cash box on the edge of the desk. Nearby stood a metal filing cabinet.
A blue sofa, its sagging cushions covered in a brown nylon blanket, took up most of the facing wall. Fat Vik and Gaspar carefully lowered Memed onto the sofa, then covered him with a blanket. He was still pale and he was trembling, his brown eyes wide open. Marika sat on the edge of the sofa and straightened out the blanket, reassuring Memed that he would be OK.
‘What happened?’ asked Goran.
Gaspar started ranting and raving that Balthazar had been kidnapped, every other word an oath, promise of violence and bloody vengeance on the kocsogok, the lofaszok, the horse pricks, who were responsible and kurva anyatok, fuck their mothers.
The sweat shone on his bald head and the veins in his neck looked like steel cables. His fury was about to overtake him and he started wheezing as he spoke, suddenly reduced to gesticulating.
Fat Vik laid his hand on Gaspar’s arm. ‘Take it easy, boss. We need you with us – not in hospital. Let Marika explain to Goran; she was there.’
Goran nodded, gestured at Gaspar to sit down at the desk and for Marika to speak. She gave a quick, incisive summary of what she had seen through the hole in the fence.
Goran was about to answer when Biljana walked inside, carrying two more chairs. She handed one to Fat Vik and one to Marika, who took it and sat by the edge of the sofa.
Biljana said, ‘We’re clear now. Everyone else has left. Go back to the restaurant, I will look after him and call the doctor.’ She smiled at Marika. ‘Don’t worry, the doctor will be here soon. Memed will be fine.’ She looked down at Memed. ‘Won’t you, draga?’
Memed smiled wanly, his hand clamped to the side of his face, where the bleeding was slowing. ‘Once my head stops hurting.’ He turned to Marika, took her hand in his. ‘Thanks. You were very brave.’
Marika looked at her hand in his with surprise, but left it there. ‘I wasn’t. I hid. But get better.’
Biljana laughed. ‘See, I told you he will be fine. He still has an eye for a pretty girl. Now get out of here and let me get on with things.’
Marika gave Memed’s hand a long squeeze, then walked back into the restaurant with the three men. Goran guided them back to the table where he had just eaten with Balthazar and they sat down.
Goran glanced at Gaspar, who still looked like he could explode at any moment. A sheen of sweat still coated his shaved head. He wore his trademark black silk shirt, with several buttons open to display a thick, solid-gold rope chain and three heavy rings on either hand, each displaying a ruby or emerald.
Gaspar was even more overweight than Fat Vik and his heavy jowls hung over the collar of his shirt. In Gypsy culture being obese was seen not as a source of shame, but pride. It showed a person able to afford to eat their fill, and much more, which was rarely the case in the history of Roma people.
Gaspar could be very generous but was also notorious for his temper, especially lately as rival gangs encroached on his territory. He poured each of them a glass of water from the jug on the table. The three men and Marika looked at each other for several moments, each processing what had just happened.
Marika took a sip and asked, ‘Will Memed be OK?’
Goran nodded. ‘I think so. But he’ll have a sore head for a couple of days.’ He shot her a knowing look. ‘You can drop by if you like, and see how he is.’
Marika smiled. ‘I’d like that. Meanwhile…’ She reached inside her coat, took out her iPhone and placed it on the table. ‘I filmed it. All of it.’
Gaspar stared at her. ‘You what? How?’
‘With my camera. I hid behind the fence. There are lots of holes in it. I just held the phone up behind one.’ For a moment she looked worried. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
Gaspar shook his head. ‘No, not at all. Smart girl, well done.’
Goran stood up, walked behind the bar, and returned with a laptop and a cable. He looked at Marika then at the iPhone. She nodded.
He plugged the iPhone into his laptop, dragged the video file from her handset onto the computer’s desktop. All four of them watched. The video was shaky, occasionally blurred, but it showed the sequence of events: the blue Mercedes stopping in front of Balthazar and Memed, the two men trying to take control of the guns, Memed being clubbed to the ground, Balthazar doubling over in pain as the gun butt slammed into his stomach, being forced down onto his knees, getting plasticuffed and hustled into the Mercedes.
Marika looked down at the table for a moment. ‘If I was really brave I would have gone out to help or screamed or something.’ Her eyes were moist and she was trembling. She swallowed and wiped her eyes with a napkin. ‘It’s horrible. Who were they? Why did they do this?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Goran, although remembering his conversation with Balthazar he had a quite good idea of the answer to her question.
He scrolled back through the file until the Mercedes slammed to a halt on Nemet Street. The gunmen jumped out and kept moving around in front of the rear of the vehicle. Goran pressed play again – Hungarian number plates had three letters and three numbers. He could not see all six letters and numbers but the first two were KZ and there was a number 7 as well.
Fat Vik watched as Goran started and stopped the file. ‘They will be false plates. There are hundreds of blue Mercedes in Budapest.’
Goran nodded. ‘I know. But that might not matter. Excuse me for a minute. I need to make a quick call.’ He walked out of the dining room, back towards the office. A couple of minutes later he was back and sat down again. ‘We’ll find him. Don’t worry.’
‘How?’ asked Gaspar. ‘How will we find him?’ He poured himself a shot of Goran’s slivovitz and knocked it back in one, then lit a cigarette from a gold lighter with a diamond embedded on the side. He took a deep drag then started coughing.
Fat Vik passed Gaspar a glass of water. He drank most of it in one go, took another drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray in front of him, which was already half full.
Goran rested his arm on Gaspar’s. ‘I don’t know yet, but we will.’ He paused and looked at Gaspar and Fat Vik. ‘Do you want to eat?’
‘Eat? How can I eat when my brother has just been kidnapped by gunmen?’ he answered, his voice rising.
Goran said, ‘Because we need to be calm, and to think. We won’t find him any faster if we sit here shouting at each other.’
Fat Vik nodded. ‘He’s right, boss. We are all worried sick and angry but we need to be smart here.’
Fat Vik was the only person outside the Kovacs family who could disagree with Gaspar in public. That was because he counted as family. He had grown up with Balthazar, Gaspar and their siblings, in a tiny one-room flat next door to them. His mother was a prostitute and a drug addict. She did not know who her son’s father was and Fat Vik had never tried to find out. At the age of six he had discovered his mother passed out from an overdose and run next door to the Kovacs family to call for help.
Fat Vik’s childhood had been spent in and out of children’s homes while his mother occasionally managed to go clean and find work as a supermarket cashier. One day he came home and found her pimp had beaten her unconscious. Vik found him laughing and drinking in a nearby bar. Soon afterwards the pimp was dead; Vik was arrested for manslaughter and sent to prison for five years. He had worked for Gaspar ever since.
Gaspar nodded. ‘OK. You’re right. It’s hard to think properly on an empty stomach.’ He looked around the room for a moment, a different kind of anxiety flitting across his face. He had never eaten at Goran’s place and only patronised a couple of restaurants where the owners always prepared the same dish for him: a large, rare steak topped with goose liver. ‘Give the menu to Vik. He’ll choose for me. He knows restaurants better than me.’
Goran instantly understood. ‘There’s no menu, Gaspar. Cevapcici or pljeskavica. Chips, ajvar, salad.’
