The Memory Trap

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Two things, the boss had told everyone to do: to act normal, but to report anything suspicious to the plain-clothes cop just inside the doors to the kitchen. But for Genghis, the new Turkish waiter, those were contradictory orders. Because, if there was one thing he had learnt never to do, both back home in the old country and in Berlin, it was to help the cops. The less a man had to do with those bastards, the better. And maybe in this case the safer too, if the kitchen-rumour about two cops-with-rifles on the roof was right.

Small guns were bad enough, but long guns meant marksmen. And marksmen meant big trouble for someone.

So bugger them! "Dumb Turk", they were always saying. So he'd be dumb, then!

All the same (and strictly for safety's sake, anyway), he kept his eyes open. And that eventually paid off in a double satisfaction: it was drugs-bust for sure, and he had two of the dummy1

ring spotted; and neither of them was at one of his tables.

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