he always imagined the Praterstern roundabout as something beautiful, almost a different planet. And it must’ve been that way for Helene Jurasic too, for her to name her Praterstern bar the Milky Way, of all things.
When the train let Brenner off directly on the Praterstern, first thing he did was walk over to the police trailer. Because he was feeling a little lost in the middle of the roundabout, which was supposed to be his starting point to look for the Milky Way bar. So, out of old habit perhaps, straight over to the police, this should’ve been a clue. Basically, they’d put this trailer there—you’ve definitely seen these at construction sites,the trailer where the masons go to drink at nine in the morning. No masons here, though, just police.
And once he was standing at the police trailer, he could see for himself that across the street next to the Nissan dealer, the red lights of a bar were blinking. Now he just had to cross the four, five, six lanes of traffic, direction Nissan dealer.
When Brenner got to the Nissan dealer, he was still alive, that’s the good news. The bad news, though: the bar wasn’t Helene Jurasic’s Milky Way. So he continued walking around the Praterstern: from the Nissan dealer, he crossed the Heinestraße to the Hansy Restaurant, crossed the Praterstraße, then the underpass at the Franzensbrückenstraße, then the metro underpass, Hauptalle, nothing, Ausstellungsstraße, nothing. Lassallestraße, nothing.
He saw it all: the Admiral Tegetthoff Monument, the Jamaica Sun Solarium, the Ferris wheel, the Avanti gas station, a fast-food place, and if he’d walked down the side streets, too, he would’ve even found some other bars: Rosi, Susi, the Black Cat. After forty-five minutes he was standing right back in front of the Nissan dealer, but not a Milky Way in sight.
Now, you really don’t want to be caught walking around the Praterstern for long. Because maybe there’s a brutal murderer afoot in Klöch, but what’s one murderer when you’ve got the whole Praterstern. And you can’t forget what bad drivers the Viennese are. Paris, not good, either. Nairobi, also not good. But Vienna—terrible. And when you’ve got six lanes of the worst drivers in the world driving around your ears, you can lose your cool pretty easily.
But it wasn’t the honking and braking and screeching that tugged on his nerves as he was making his second lap around.No, it was the white Mercedes that came out of nowhere, rumbling right up onto the sidewalk and narrowly grazing Brenner’s toes.
Now, who’s that sitting there gloating in his white Mercedes, you’re probably wondering.
“Hey, Brenner, what brings you to Vienna?” Vice Squad Head Winkler asked innocently.
He must have remembered that fifteen-year-old story with his wife after all.
“Very funny, Milky Way,” Brenner said.
“What, you’re looking for the Milk Way?” Winkler grinned. “You’re in the wrong place. This is just a roundabout. It doesn’t go anywhere near the Milk Way. It’s just a simple traffic circle down here on Earth.”
“You don’t say.”
Brenner was still as pale as a sheet. Because, first of all, a beer in the dining car on the train that morning, which he’s not used to. And then an hour and a half circling the Praterstern. And then going under the wheels of Frau Winkler’s husband’s Mercedes.
Brenner must’ve been feeling a little weak in the knees. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why he took Winkler up on his offer. Because he held the car door open to him and Brenner, knowing no pride, got in.
“No hard feelings, Brenner. It was just a joke.”
“Very funny.”
“That was always your motto, Brenner.”
“Yeah, yeah. Long time no see.”
“Get this: didn’t miss you at all.”
Winkler had put on at least thirty kilos since they’d lastseen each other. But Brenner didn’t say anything. He was glad to be sitting in a comfortable Mercedes and glad to be
When the train let Brenner off directly on the Praterstern, first thing he did was walk over to the police trailer. Because he was feeling a little lost in the middle of the roundabout, which was supposed to be his starting point to look for the Milky Way bar. So, out of old habit perhaps, straight over to the police, this should’ve been a clue. Basically, they’d put this trailer there—you’ve definitely seen these at construction sites,the trailer where the masons go to drink at nine in the morning. No masons here, though, just police.
And once he was standing at the police trailer, he could see for himself that across the street next to the Nissan dealer, the red lights of a bar were blinking. Now he just had to cross the four, five, six lanes of traffic, direction Nissan dealer.
When Brenner got to the Nissan dealer, he was still alive, that’s the good news. The bad news, though: the bar wasn’t Helene Jurasic’s Milky Way. So he continued walking around the Praterstern: from the Nissan dealer, he crossed the Heinestraße to the Hansy Restaurant, crossed the Praterstraße, then the underpass at the Franzensbrückenstraße, then the metro underpass, Hauptalle, nothing, Ausstellungsstraße, nothing. Lassallestraße, nothing.
He saw it all: the Admiral Tegetthoff Monument, the Jamaica Sun Solarium, the Ferris wheel, the Avanti gas station, a fast-food place, and if he’d walked down the side streets, too, he would’ve even found some other bars: Rosi, Susi, the Black Cat. After forty-five minutes he was standing right back in front of the Nissan dealer, but not a Milky Way in sight.
Now, you really don’t want to be caught walking around the Praterstern for long. Because maybe there’s a brutal murderer afoot in Klöch, but what’s one murderer when you’ve got the whole Praterstern. And you can’t forget what bad drivers the Viennese are. Paris, not good, either. Nairobi, also not good. But Vienna—terrible. And when you’ve got six lanes of the worst drivers in the world driving around your ears, you can lose your cool pretty easily.
But it wasn’t the honking and braking and screeching that tugged on his nerves as he was making his second lap around.No, it was the white Mercedes that came out of nowhere, rumbling right up onto the sidewalk and narrowly grazing Brenner’s toes.
Now, who’s that sitting there gloating in his white Mercedes, you’re probably wondering.
“Hey, Brenner, what brings you to Vienna?” Vice Squad Head Winkler asked innocently.
He must have remembered that fifteen-year-old story with his wife after all.
“Very funny, Milky Way,” Brenner said.
“What, you’re looking for the Milk Way?” Winkler grinned. “You’re in the wrong place. This is just a roundabout. It doesn’t go anywhere near the Milk Way. It’s just a simple traffic circle down here on Earth.”
“You don’t say.”
Brenner was still as pale as a sheet. Because, first of all, a beer in the dining car on the train that morning, which he’s not used to. And then an hour and a half circling the Praterstern. And then going under the wheels of Frau Winkler’s husband’s Mercedes.
Brenner must’ve been feeling a little weak in the knees. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why he took Winkler up on his offer. Because he held the car door open to him and Brenner, knowing no pride, got in.
“No hard feelings, Brenner. It was just a joke.”
“Very funny.”
“That was always your motto, Brenner.”
“Yeah, yeah. Long time no see.”
“Get this: didn’t miss you at all.”
Winkler had put on at least thirty kilos since they’d lastseen each other. But Brenner didn’t say anything. He was glad to be sitting in a comfortable Mercedes and glad to be
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