Rats, Smoke & Revenge E-Book

Tom Giesen

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Rats, Smoke & Revenge takes you into the dark underbelly of Frankfurt's Bahnhofsviertel district, where violence, greed, and betrayal collide in dingy alleys. At its center are a battered gangster boss, a ruthless dancer, a desperate petty criminal, and a sinister killer who strikes quietly and relentlessly. Between sweaty nights, illegal deals, and daring alliances, it quickly becomes clear: anyone who lingers too long in this swamp of blood and neon lights risks being swallowed up by the darkness themselves.

Leseprobe

Title:Rats, Smoke & Revenge

Author:Tom Giesen

Biography:

Tom Giesen was born in Hamburg in 1984 and grew up in a small coastal town. He discovered his passion for stories and the dark side of human nature at an early age. He worked in various jobs before deciding to put his own experiences and fantasies into words. Giesen is self-taught and never studied literature, but acquired his writing skills through years of intensive reading and his own writing experiences.

With a preference for psychological suspense and dark atmospheres, he began writing thrillers that deal with the depths of the human soul and sinister events.

Chapter 1: Bloody Introduction

Kevin "Knasti" Schönfeld strolled through the narrow alleyway on Taunusstrasse, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his faded leather jacket. It was one of those cold nights in Frankfurt's Bahnhofsviertel, when the wind whistled through the high-rise canyons and the pungent smell of urine, old frying oil, and stale air hung everywhere. The glaring light of the billboards mingled with the dirty yellow of the street lamps, giving the faces of passersby a pale, sickly glow. Kevin was in a bad mood, as he often was. He was hungry, had spent the last five euros on some damn slot machine, and now he didn't even feel like getting a kebab because the snack bar guy would yell at him like a schoolmaster that he wanted to charge me again. No money, no sympathy, no respect.

"Screw it," Kevin muttered, kicking an empty beer can in front of him. With every movement of his feet, a stale mix of puddle water and beer residue sloshed back and forth in his worn sneakers. The can scraped across the wet asphalt, made a clanging noise, and disappeared under a dented car, whose alarm gave a short, sharp whine before falling silent again. Kevin looked around. No one seemed to care that a petty crook was out late at night looking for a place to sleep that he couldn't afford. He was cold, he was pissed off, and most of all, he had one thing: debts that would soon break his neck.

He decided to at least go to the back entrance of this seedy bar near the train station. Usually, a few down-and-outs hung around there, maybeHe could scrounge a shot or at least gather a few cigarette butts. He tucked his hands deeper into his jacket, stepped around the next corner, and almost tripped over a shattered glass bottle. "Holy shit!" he gasped, balancing himself. At the same moment, he jumped because he heard a noise: a shuffling, a scratching on the wall, then a muffled groan, as if someone was trying not to make a sound. He peered attentively into the shadows.

It took a moment for him to recognize the scene: At the end of the alley, a broken neon tube flickered above an old, gray side door. Beneath it lay two bodies, one visibly motionless, the other crouched over it. Kevin's heart stopped for a moment, and he stood still, unable to look away. A hooded man with leather gloves was leaning over the inert body on the ground, shaking it or doing something Kevin didn't initially understand. And then Kevin saw the quick, accurate blow. A hand flew up, flashed, and the next moment a thin spray shot into the air. Blood. The metallic smell instantly filled Kevin's nose.

"Shit, man!" he blurted out, not loudly, but enough to make the hooded guy raise his head. Kevin didn't recognize much except a narrow face, haunted eyes, and what looked like a distinctive tattoo on the side of his neck, flashing briefly in the reddish neon light. The stranger remained motionless, as if considering whether to attack Kevin or flee. Kevin's breath raced. He wanted to scream, but his throat was constricted. Ice-cold fear crept up his spine. In a split secondIt occurred to him: If he runs now, he might be dead before he reaches the next corner. So he stood stock still. The murderer's eyes bored into him, and then, as if a signal had sounded, the man jumped up, scurried along the wall, and disappeared into the darkness.

For a moment, Kevin thought he was going to throw up. His legs felt like jelly, but after a few seconds, he slid down the cold brickwork, gasping for air. Finally, he regained his senses, stood up, and approached. In doing so, he almost slipped into a wide pool of blood in which the motionless body lay. It was a woman, no more than mid-twenties, slim, her short hair smeared with her own blood. Her eyes were half-open, as if she were about to get up and protest, but she didn't move. Kevin saw stab wounds, deep wounds in her chest and neck. The fluorescent light flickered one last time before going out completely, plunging the alley into almost total darkness.

“Fuck you, that's not true...” Kevin whispered in panic before digging out his cell phone. He hated the police; he'd had too many problems with them. But he knew he had no choice. “110... Oh, shit, they won't believe a word I say.” His fingers trembled, he dialed, and held the phone to his ear. For a moment, he forgot that he himself might be in grave danger. “There... uh, this is... This is an emergency call. In the alley... Taunusstrasse, there's a woman lying here. She's... dead, or almost dead. I think she's dead.” A whooshing sound, then the voice on the other end: “Stay on scene. The emergency services are on their way.” Kevin stared at the cell phone, about to stuff it in his pocket, but then dropped it because he felt a wave of nausea. He turned away from the body and gagged in a dark corner. When heWhen he looked up, his eyes burned.

Less than five minutes later, the first flashing lights appeared at the end of the alley. The scraping of heavy police boots, the flashlight beams refracting in the humid air. One of them shouted, "Stop, police!" Kevin threw up his hands as if he himself had killed someone. "Here, I called," he said, his voice trembling. Two officers grabbed him roughly and pushed him against the wall. "Slow down! We don't know what's going on."

"Holy shit, I didn't do anything!" Kevin protested. In the background, a tall man wearing a dark leather jacket and a nondescript suit jacket stepped under the police tape. At first glance, he seemed disillusioned, as if he'd been called to such crime scenes far too many times. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at the pool of blood. This was Inspector Oliver Brandt, in his mid-forties, somewhat grumpy and constantly on the move with the hint of a developing headache.

“What do we have?” Brandt asked his colleagues. Someone waved a hand toward the body. Brandt knelt down and briefly examined the wounds without moving the body much. “Clean cuts in several places. Looks like a strong, quick attack. Not nice. The time of death can't have been long ago. Someone must have seen something.” One of the uniformed officers nodded toward Kevin. “That guy called. Said he saw the murderer running away.” Brandt straightened up. His gaze fell on Kevin, who was nervously shifting from one foot to the other and would have preferred to run away if it hadn't been made clear to him that he had to stay. Brandt stepped closer. “Well, tell me,Buddy.”

Kevin cleared his throat and stared at the floor, not wanting to look the inspector in the eye. Brandt looked exhausted, had dark circles under his eyes, and his breath smelled of menthol cigarettes. "I... I didn't do anything, honestly. I just happened to be here and... there was this guy, hood up, skinny, tattoo on his neck. And the knife, he... he took her..." Kevin broke off, swallowing hard. He didn't want to have to give exact details; it was enough for him that the images danced in his head. Brandt studied him, then pointed to Kevin's jacket pocket. "Are you carrying anything that might be of interest to us, or is the sweat just breaking out on your forehead because you're scared?" Kevin wanted to protest vigorously: "I don't have anything, man! So... Inspector, I'm the victim here. Or a witness, or whatever. I'm not the murderer, damn it!" His tone rose, and at the same time, his voice almost failed at the end.

Brandt raised an eyebrow. "Quiet, or you'll get a defamation charge." Then he waved his hand. "Write down his personal details," he said to the officer next to him. "And then he shouldn't move from here until we've questioned him." Kevin saw more police officers cover the body. Then paramedics appeared, confirming that the woman was beyond help. Blue lights, red and white barrier tape, onlookers standing on tiptoe behind the trash cans at the end of the alley, curiously trying to make out some of the scene. An old woman with messy hair appeared and shrieked: "This is like a fucking crime thriller! It's always the same shit in the train station district!" A prostitute in high-heeled boots and a miniskirt, wearing moreoutside rather than in a permanent home, Kevin grinned crookedly. "Hey, kid, have you caused trouble again?" Kevin just rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Mandy, seriously," he hissed. He knew her slightly; they ran into each other occasionally. She didn't seem to have much sympathy for the victim, or she was simply too callous.

Brandt grumbled as he walked past Kevin, examining the wall. "There's graffiti everywhere, syringes, a few empty bottles." He cursed under his breath: "This could be a long night." Then he pulled a colleague aside. "What about the witness? 'Knasti' Schönfeld, his name? Never heard of him." The colleague leafed through a crumpled notebook. "Uh, Kevin Schönfeld, also known as 'Knasti,' has been caught several times for theft, drug possession, and... oh, you know the drill. One of the small fry, but permanently strapped for cash. He says he saw everything, the perpetrator has a tattoo on his neck." Brandt licked his lips and frowned. "Almost every second person here has a tattoo on their neck, that's the least of our problems. Still, every lead is good." Then he approached Kevin again. "Okay, Schönfeld, you're coming with me to the station. If you're lucky, you'll just be a witness. If not, you'll still be in custody tomorrow. Have I made myself clear enough?" Kevin swallowed, nodded, and let the officers lead him away. He wasn't stupid, but he had a feeling: If they take me with them, I'll be safer than out here, at least for the time being.

A few minutes later, he was sitting in a patrol car. As the tires rattled over the cobblestones, his thoughts raced: Who the hell was this murderer, and why did the victim have to die? Was she simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, like he is now? And what would the police do to him if theyfound out he had half a dozen delinquent creditors, at least two of whom were ready to break his legs? Kevin felt a cold fear coil around his gut like a snake. He knew this was just the beginning, and it wouldn't get better.

Meanwhile, Inspector Brandt lingered at the crime scene for a while. He walked around the body, tapping the asphalt with a ballpoint pen, as if he might find something that would explain the sequence of events. "Get the crime scene investigators involved," he ordered a colleague. "I want everything: fibers, hair, footprints, camera footage. We have these damn surveillance cameras everywhere. Someone must have seen or recorded something." The colleague nodded and took a note. Then a short hiss from Brandt's radio. He pressed the button. "Brandt here." A hoarse voice answered: "Chief, we have another problem. There was a fight over at Willy-Brandt-Platz. It's probably just a minor dispute, a drug dispute." Brandt rolled his eyes. "Good, then send someone else. I have a dead woman here." He sighed and lowered the radio. "Always the same."

He slowly stepped back into the alley, leaning against the damp wall as if he needed a moment's support. Sometimes he wondered when he had started to see only routine in all this misery. Perhaps it had happened years ago, when he first had to pull a horribly mutilated corpse from the Main River. A part of him had become numb, just wanted to put it all behind him. And yet, somewhere beneath his hard shell, a remnant of a sense of justice burned. He didn't want such a murder to go unpunished. "This shit is driving me crazy," he muttered. Then he pushed himself away and instructed the crime scene investigators to work thoroughly. He couldn'tThere's nothing left to do except talk to the pathologist later and hope that Kevin "Knasti" Schönfeld actually knew a little more than he was letting on.

A few meters away, a young couple, presumably coming from some club, stepped over the barrier. The man started filming with his smartphone. "Hey, guys, this place is closed, get out of here!" one of the police officers snapped. The girl giggled nervously and clung to the man. "Oh God, this is totally crazy!" she cried. Brandt snapped at them: "Are you crazy? Get the hell out of here!" He hated this sensationalism, this loitering public that feasted on dead bodies like some cheap attraction. It wasn't cannibalism, he thought sarcastically, but the lust for violence isn't really any better. The two left, and the police officer lowered his head. "That's just how it is, boss. Big city, big problems." Brandt just shrugged. "You're right. We'll see this through. I want everything wrapped up before sunrise."

Over the next few hours, the crime scene would be surveyed, evidence secured, and the body taken to the morgue. Exhausted officers would drink copious amounts of coffee. Then it would turn out that the camera on the corner was out of order again, or that all they could see was a dark shadow disappearing into a hood. Typical. Brandt already felt a nagging headache coming on. He knew he'd be sitting across from Kevin at police headquarters tomorrow morning at the latest. The guy had better spill whatever he knew. But he suspected that Kevin, who had enough dirt on his hands of his own, was by no means keen on tangling with a cold-blooded killer.

While the officers illuminated the alley and questioned the neighbors, Brandt, with a sullen expression, shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and walked toward the patrol car. He wondered who this woman was, who she knew, and who she was cross-stepping. There were so many shady characters in the train station district that a murder could just as easily have been an act of personal revenge as a simple robbery. Perhaps she had accidentally walked into the wrong deal. Sometimes the lines between perpetrator and victim were blurred here, especially at night, when all the shadows grew longer and more threatening.

Brandt rubbed his eyes. An overtired colleague handed him a paper cup of coffee. "Must have been a real hit, huh?" the policeman asked quietly. Brandt nodded. "Yes, it did. Such a mess." He took a sip, grimacing because the coffee was almost undrinkable, but he needed the caffeine right now. Then he looked up at the windows of the surrounding houses. Lights were on in some of them, silhouettes flitted past behind curtains. No doubt someone had noticed something, but probably hardly anyone would talk. The people in the train station district had their own laws. They feared the gangs, feared the police, or both equally. Maybe a lonely soul would call the criminal investigation department, anonymously, to try to squeeze some money out of the whole thing. But hardly anyone here let their mouths hang open unless they had to.

Brandt knew: This was reality. And for the woman lying there in her blood, any help had come too late. He was a police officer, and yet mostly his role was only that of the one who had to clean up afterward. In the end, it would be his job to find the perpetrator. Perhaps he would succeed, but more out of stubborn persistence than genuineConfidence. In his mind, he reached for a cigarette, then realized he didn't have one in his breast pocket and sighed. He thought of home, his empty apartment, the hours of sleep he'd missed. But what could he do? That was the business. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the cool night air, and took a step forward, past the forensic investigators, to take one last look around. At least now he had a witness: Kevin "Knasti" Schönfeld. And one thing was certain: This guy could be his best lead or a miserable blabbermouth. Either way, Brandt would find out.

Traffic roared in the background, a taxi honked somewhere as it scraped past a drunk, and two figures argued loudly on the other side of the street. The station district lived its own harsh life at all hours. Brandt finally got into the patrol car to follow the car containing the corpse. In the back seat, Kevin, handcuffed, had his head resting against the window, his eyes closed. Brandt looked at his witness, studying the young man's wrinkled features. That night, they were just two cogs in the machine of an endless, vicious cycle of violence, greed, and misery. Somewhere in the alleys, the murderer disappeared, while the rain began to fall, as if trying to erase the traces of that night's horrors. But Brandt was sure this was only the beginning of a much bigger story.

Chapter 2: New and old debts

Kevin "Knasti" Schönfeld sat with his arms crossed in a drafty office at Frankfurt Police Headquarters. Here, on the third floor, the air smelled of stale coffee and cold cigarette smoke, which still lingered in the walls despite the smoking ban. A nervous officer had ushered him in and gestured for him to take a seat. Now Kevin stared at the yellowed wallpaper, which was slightly peeling at the corners. He was still wearing his old leather jacket, which reeked of a mixture of beer, smoke, and street odor. He was cold, and his stomach was growling, but no one had offered him a glass of water or a sandwich. Actually, he wasn't even surprised. For someone like him, it was rare to receive an extra dose of kindness.

Just as he was considering scraping the chewing gum from under his chair because he was so bored, the door opened, and Inspector Oliver Brandt entered. Brandt didn't flinch, merely looked at Kevin briefly and sat down behind the desk. His face looked gray and bleary-eyed, and his hand immediately slid into the inside pocket of his jacket, as if searching for a pack of cigarettes he shouldn't have been lighting in this building. He took it out, paused briefly, and sighed before putting it back in his pocket. Then he started fiddling with the documents in front of him.

"So, Kevin Schönfeld, nicknamed 'Knasti'. Looking at your career, I'd like to keep you here until someone gives me a reason not to lock you up." His voice was dark, sounding both disillusioned and annoyed. Kevin chewed on his lower lip, but couldn't speak. Brandt pulled up a folder."Theft, receiving stolen goods, burglaries, drug possession, fraudulently obtaining benefits. Have you actually done anything proper in your 25 years of life?" Kevin shrugged. "I'm 27, and I've actually been trying to get a foothold, but..." He choked on the sentence. He knew it sounded ridiculous, given how many times he'd tried it. "The train station district isn't exactly a bed of roses, Inspector. You take what you can get."

Brandt cracked his knuckles, which made Kevin's ears hurt unpleasantly. "Tell me what you were doing in that alley last night and what exactly you saw. Maybe then I can believe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." Kevin felt a pang as his stomach lurched. He wanted to say something sensible, but the adrenaline was still burning in his veins from the horrific scene with the dead woman. "I... I didn't do anything, honestly. I was broke, didn't feel like going straight to a homeless shelter. I thought maybe I'd meet some people who'd lend me a few bucks. So I headed toward the back entrance of 'King's,' you know, that filthy joint where I occasionally... well, there are people hanging around there every now and then who I can get a cigarette from. And then I saw this... this woman on the ground and the guy crouching over her. He was stabbing like a madman, man, I immediately knew something was really bad. I just saw the tattoo, some... some kind of animal or symbol, I don't know. Then he ran away, and I was too shocked to do anything." He rubbed his temples, as if he could erase the images from his mind. "Then I called the cops, uh... the police. And then... well, the rest is well known."

Brandt looked at him silently for a few seconds. Then he noddedalmost imperceptible. "All right. We'll check it out. Maybe we can do something with what you saw. Tattoo on his neck, hood, slim guy. That applies to half of Frankfurt, but it could still be a lead. What else did you notice? Anything unusual, a smell, a noise, a name?" Kevin shook his head. "No, nothing. He took off without a sound, man. I'm glad he didn't stab me right away." Brandt pulled his papers closer. "Good, that's your statement. Not particularly helpful, but better than nothing. Give me your current address." Kevin laughed harshly and without any joy. "Address? I sleep here and there, if things go well, in a hotel with a friend, otherwise I find some other place. I don't even have proper ID anymore, man." Brandt grimaced. "I was almost afraid of something like that. Okay, then I'll explain to you what happens next. For now, you're a witness, but I'll keep an eye on you. If you leave town without letting me know, I'll issue an arrest warrant. Do we understand each other?" Kevin nodded wearily. He didn't have the strength to rebel against it. Better out, he thought, better out than stay in.

Brandt rapped twice on the table. "Good, then get out of here. But stay reachable. I mean it." Kevin stood up, hunched his shoulders, and trotted to the door. An officer escorted him out. In the hallway, a broken neon tube vibrated, bathing the old linoleum floors in an ugly, flickering light. As Kevin walked down the stairs, he thought that he would hate this building if he ever had any perspective. At the bottom, he bumped into a broad-shouldered man who scowled at him.He looked at him. Kevin recognized him – a cop who had once almost dislocated his arm during an arrest. "Hey, convict, on the move again?" he growled. Kevin backed away, raising his hands defensively. "It's okay, I'm just on my way out." The guy gave a throaty laugh. "Get out of here." Kevin hurried through the entrance hall and was soon standing in the forecourt of the police station. A drizzle began to fall, the thick veil of clouds over the skyline already darkening the afternoon, even though it wasn't that late yet.

Kevin pulled his jacket tighter around him. He was still hungry, and he wondered where he could get something to eat. Maybe he was actually forced to return to the train station district, even though he now knew there was someone there who would kill people without hesitation. Actually, he thought, that was nothing new. But this murder seemed particularly brutal to him. The memory of the spurting blood sent a chill down his spine. He shook his head, as if that would clear his mind, and set off. The tram was too expensive for him, so he walked toward the main station. Along the way, he picked up cigarette butts from the ground, hoping to maybe squeeze in a few more puffs from the leftovers. Disgusting, but that was his life. He was in debt, and no one trusted him. Least of all, he trusted himself.

Meanwhile, a few streets away, Tarek "Tiger" Öztürk pushed his way through the crowd. It was early evening, and the train station district was slowly awakening to its shady life. Neon signs for massage parlors, clubs, and gambling halls bathed the sidewalk in flickering colors. Tarek had his hands loosely in the pockets of his expensiveHe buried his designer anoraks and didn't wear a hood. He liked being recognized. He wasn't a small fry, but an up-and-coming henchman of a larger, but rarely visible, boss. In this neighborhood, Tarek made money from anything that came along: drugs, prostitution, protection rackets, and sometimes even organized fights when someone needed to learn their lesson. He wasn't a huge gangster, but he was working to become bigger. He had plans, ambitions, and wanted to rise in the hierarchy. The "Tiger" in his nickname wasn't just for show; he loved the quick bite, the attack, when it came to securing his position.

Tarek stopped in front of a smoky internet café. Inside, teenagers in hoodies were slumped around old computers, playing multiplayer games, or mingling in chat rooms. Tarek wondered if any of them wanted to act as couriers for him. But he didn't have time for that now. He continued walking, passing a group of prostitutes being closely eyed by two Albanian pimps. Tarek and the Albanians had a fragile truce, so he just nodded casually in their direction and let his gaze wander. Then he turned into a small side alley where one of his men's headquarters was located: a dingy back room in an Asian snack bar that hardly any tourist would have chosen voluntarily. He entered, greeted the owner briefly, who just nodded absently, then opened a door next to the deep fryer, behind which lay a narrow corridor. At the end, a narrow staircase led up, and Tarek entered a room that, contrary to his expectations, wasn't badly furnished. Two of his friends, both in their 20s, were sitting on an old sofa, smoking shisha and watching some rap videos on their phones.

"Hey, get up!" Tarek snapped at them. "Haven't you done anything all day but smoke and hang out?" One of the two—a skinny guy with countless tattoos on his arms—shrugged. "Nothing's going on, boss. I've been trying to sort things out here and there, but keep it simple. People are scared about the murder last night. Everyone says there's some psycho on the loose." Tarek threw his hands up in annoyance. "Screw any rumors! I want our stuff to keep selling, got it? We can't afford to panic. If our sales plummet, we're in trouble. Especially if I have to report it upstairs." He walked to the window, the pane fogged up from the inside. "The body was some woman. I bet there are worse things that have happened around here. But everyone's still talking about it. Damn, it's a distraction."

The second guy, a bit broader, groaned and ran his hand through his closely shaved beard. "Tarek, I really don't want to get stabbed outside just because some crazy guy is running around. Maybe we should relocate our business for a while, you know? Take it easy a bit." Tarek narrowed his eyes. "You've probably lost it. The boss wants money, and if we give up, he'll come over and rip our heads off. So pull yourselves together." He kicked the coffee table, rattling an old ashtray. "We'll be back on the streets tomorrow morning, okay? No discussion." The two nodded cautiously and then set about emptying their shisha. Tarek might be easygoing, but he wasn't squeamish when it came to giving orders. He knew that he only gained respect through pressure and toughness. The law of the jungle prevailed here.

While Tarek gave his little speech, Kevin hit himselfHe wandered hungry through the streets until he passed a bakery that was selling off its yesterday's display for a ridiculously low price. He bought himself a rock-hard roll and munched on it while he wondered who he could go to next. Maybe his friend Ronny was in some dive. Ronny was a jerk himself, but sometimes he let Kevin sleep on the sofa. At least as long as Kevin could contribute a few euros for a bottle of liquor. But Kevin had no money. And then there was the problem of his old debts. He knew that a certain Ercan, a moneylender he had known for some time, had recently given him a final deadline, which was now expiring. Ercan wasn't known for being a great negotiator. He had a few thugs who did their work thoroughly.

Kevin couldn't hide forever. If Ercan saw him on the street, he was guaranteed to get a beating. Still, Kevin knew he had to do something to get some money before his legs were broken. Maybe play poker in one of the illegal gambling dens, maybe beg from people he knew again. But he had no luck at gambling, and hardly anyone around him would give him money voluntarily. As he wondered if he could sneak into a cheap guesthouse where he sometimes stayed under a false name, a cold gust of wind tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. He turned around and saw two men walking some distance behind him. Was it paranoia, or were they really following him?

He quickened his pace. The men quickened as well. His heart pounded. He turned into a side street, hoping it was a coincidence, but the footsteps behind him grew louder. He had no knife, nothing to defend himself with. As he passed a gloomy hallway, he threw open the door andHe scurried inside. It was pitch black inside, smelling of old wood and damp. Kevin listened. The footsteps outside sounded hollow on the cobblestones, paused briefly, then moved away. He breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had only imagined the pursuit, but in the train station district, it's better to be cautious once too often than once too little. He leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. He realized he had to find a solution quickly, or he would completely lose himself in fear and despair.

Later that evening, as the neighborhood descended into its teenage party and nightlife, Kevin hung around a bar called "Golden Bridge," known for its lousy liquor and card players. He knew that occasionally there were people there who had money and were looking for a quick game. If he bluffed cleverly, he might be able to swindle a few euros, at least enough for a night in a tiny hotel room. Of course, he ran the risk of being ripped off by the other gamblers if they caught him cheating, but Kevin took the risk.

Inside, a blast of stale air greeted him. Three guys, who already looked half-drunk, were sitting at a round table, drawing cards. The dealer, a bearded, bald man, gave Kevin a suspicious look. "What do you want here, convict? Do you have any money?" Kevin pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket, which he had scrounged and gathered throughout the day. "Enough for a start." The bald man laughed harshly. "Fine, sit down. But if you cause trouble, you're out." Kevin slid onto a stool and grinned in pain. He knew he had no business being there, but desperation drove him on. The cards were dealt, and Kevin tried to breathe calmly. Sometimes he had a talent for bluffing, but henever knew when his nerves would get the better of him.

The first round went badly. The second round was a bit better. Then he got lucky; he drew two aces and another ace on the table, which made his hand pretty strong. He pretended to be confident and threw a few more bills into the pot. One of the other players cursed, folded, and the other called. Kevin figured his chances were good. Finally, he showed his hand, and the other player erupted in a tirade of abuse, since Kevin actually had the stronger hand. So Kevin accumulated a little money, just enough to keep playing. For a moment, he felt euphoric. That was the false hope that always got him into trouble. With his winnings, he might even be able to pay Ercan back some of it. Or at least finance a hotel room before he had to go back into hiding.

After a few more rounds, however, Kevin felt the mood at the table shift. The looks became harder, the comments more curt. People watched his hands very closely, probably to make sure he wasn't cheating. He decided to fold the next time he won. So he played cautiously, even deliberately missing a round so no one would suspect him. When he collected the pot, he quietly cleared his chips and said he had to go to the bathroom. As soon as he got up, he rushed out of the bar so he wouldn't lose all the money in his haste. Outside, he breathed in the cool night air. He counted the bills in his jacket pocket—something at least. Okay, it wasn't a large sum, but maybe it would be enough to get him out of the mess for a day or two.