Dead Before Dying: A Novel Page 9

  “One day he’ll really beat you, Joop.”

  “Not if he jacks off too much.”

  Joubert sat down at the Outspan’s bar counter and remembered how he’d blushed, how embarrassment had overcome him. Did he have to tell Dr. Hanna Nortier about that as well? Would it help?

  Reluctantly the barman got up.

  “Castle, please.”

  The man served him with the smooth expertise acquired over years of experience.

  “Three rand.”

  “I’m looking for Benny Griessel.”

  The barman took his money.

  “Who’re you?”

  “Colleague.”

  “Where’s your paper?”

  Joubert showed the card again.

  “He was here last night. Couldn’t go home. I put him in the tank. I went to have a look after lunch and he’d gone.”

  “Where does he usually go from here?”

  “How should I know?”

  Joubert poured his beer into the glass. The barman interpreted this as a signal and returned to his chair in the corner.

  The beer tasted good, round and full. He wondered whether it had something to do with the surroundings. He lit a Special Mild. Would he ever get used to the mildness?

  He knew he was hiding.

  He smiled into the glass in his hand at the admission: he was looking for Benny in the bar—and he was looking for courage in the beer. Because there was a young body at home and he no longer knew whether he was capable.

  He lifted the glass and emptied it. He put it down hard on the counter to attract the barman’s attention.

  “Another one?” Without enthusiasm.

  “Just one. Then I have to go.”

  12.

  He used his elbow to push open the door because he was carrying two large shopping bags—apples, pears, peaches, apricots, All-Bran, oatmeal, skinless chicken, fat-free beef, skim milk, hake fillets, lowfat yogurt, tins of tuna, dried fruit.

  He could smell that she was there.

  His house was filled with the heavy odor of roasting lamb. And other smells. Green beans? Garlic? And a baked pudding?

  He heard the music.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice came from the kitchen. “Here.”

  He walked down the passage. She came out of the kitchen. She had a spoon in her hand. He saw the miniskirt, the lithe, beautiful legs, the high-heeled shoes. The other hand was on her hip, the hip angled. Her breasts were barely covered. Her stomach was bare and firm, pale flesh in the light of the late afternoon. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, her face was heavily made up.

  Femme fatale of the kitchen. He recognized it in a flash as the theatrical flight of fancy of an eighteen-year-old. His embarrassment mingled with the knowledge that it was all for him. He could feel the beat of his heart.

  “Hi,” she said, the voice of a hundred Hollywood heroines.

  “I didn’t . . . know that you . . . cook . . .” He lifted the bags in his hands.

  “There are lots of things about me that you don’t know, Mat.”

  He simply stood there, a stranger in his own home.

  “Come.” She disappeared into the kitchen. He followed her. The taste of the night was in his mouth.

  Her portable radio and cassette player stood on the windowsill. It was tuned to a local music station. She stood at the kitchen table. “You’re in the newspaper.”

  He put the bags down on the table and looked at the Argus lying there.

  “You’re famous.”

  He couldn’t look at her. He picked up the newspaper. Lower down on the front page there was a headline DON CHAMELEON STRIKES AGAIN. He read:

  As a blond, middle-aged playboy, he escaped with R7,000 from Premier Bank’s Bellville branch less than a week ago. Yesterday he was a little old man walking away with R15,000 from their offices in the Heerengracht.

  But police have little doubt that it was the same man, because of curious similarities—the Chameleon was the epitome of charm, calling the tellers “sweetheart” and asking them what perfume they wore.

  According to police spokesman Lieut. John Cloete, one of the only clues they have so far is video footage of the second robbery, taken by a hidden bank camera.

  “But it is obvious that the perpetrator is heavily disguised. There is little chance that anyone will be able to identify him from the video.”

  Lieut. Cloete said one of the Peninsula’s top detectives, Murder and Robbery Squad captain Matt Joubert, had personally taken charge of the case.

  Joubert stopped reading, replaced the paper on the table, and sighed. He would have to phone Cloete. One of the Peninsula’s top detectives . . . How would they know? Couldn’t even spell his name correctly. And de Wit wouldn’t like it at all.

  Yvonne had poured him a Castle while he was reading. She handed it to him, her slender hands and scarlet nails etched against the amber fluid.

  “You’re one behind.”

  “Thanks.” He still avoided looking at her. He took the beer.

  “I’m going to spoil you.” Suddenly she was next to him, against him. Her hands slid under his jacket, pulled him closer. She raised her face, offered her mouth.

  “Say thank you,” she said. He kissed her. His one hand held the beer, the other touched the bare part of her back, and he tightened his hold. She flowed against him like quicksilver. Her mouth tasted of beer and spices and he was astonished by the heat of her tongue. Her hands were behind his back, pulling up his shirt and sliding under the material to stroke his skin. Joubert was desperate to feel his hardness against her. He pushed the lower part of his body forward. She felt it and rubbed her stomach against him. His mind was in a whirl, his heart an elevator—on its way up. But down there, where it mattered, was nothing.

  “The food,” she said and fluttered her tongue over his lips. “It’ll burn.” She dug her pelvis hard into him, a serious promise. Her hands tucked his shirt in again, her body flowed away. She was slightly breathless.

  He remained at the table, deserted and uncomfortable.

  “I’m going to surprise you. But it’s all a big secret. You must wait in the living room. That’s why I brought the newspaper.” Her voice had lost some of the theatrical intonation, held a measure of uncertainty now. She stretched out an arm to the windowsill and he saw her picking up a packet of cigarettes. She opened it and offered him one. Winstons. He hesitated for a moment, then took one. She extracted another one with her long red nails and put it in her mouth. Her lipstick was smudged.

  He dug into his pocket, found the lighter, lit her cigarette and then his own. She deftly took a deep drag, blew a thin jet of smoke toward the ceiling, came to him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Into the living room with you.” Her voice had deepened again and the self-confidence had returned.

  He smiled awkwardly, took the newspaper and the beer, and walked to the living room. He opened the newspaper, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and dragged strongly on the Winston. It filled him with a deep satisfaction.

  He hadn’t known that she smoked. For some reason or another it made her even more exciting.

  He stared at the newspaper. He felt her skin under his hand. Dear God, that youthfulness. Firm, firm, firm. He could feel the long muscles move when her hands were busy behind his back. And her pelvis rubbing against him.

  He forced himself to read. He heard her pottering about. She sang along with a rock number. Later she brought him another beer. “You mustn’t fall behind.” He assumed she was also drinking in the kitchen. “I’ve almost done. When I call you must come.”

  More activity in the kitchen, then a long stretch of quiet.

  “Mat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Switch off the light. Then come here.”

  He swallowed the last of his beer, folded the newspaper. He switched off the living room light. There was a soft glow in the dining room. He walked down the passage and entered the room.

&
nbsp; Candles in two tall holders lit the table. There was a vase with flowers, two slender crystal glasses that reflected the candlelight, gleaming silver on the table, a silver ice bucket from which the neck of a bottle protruded.

  She sat at the other end of the table. Her hair was piled high on her head. Large gold hoops dangled from her ears. Her scarlet mouth wore a small smile. Her slender neck, her shoulders, her arms, and most of her breasts glowed rosily in the circle of light. The black dress glistened and clung. She rose with grace. He saw that her dress hung down to her ankles. She wore two thin gold bangles around her wrist. She walked to a chair at the top of the table and pulled it back. Her hip angled. A leg, the color of ivory, slid out of the black.

  “Please sit down, Mat.” She and the table were a picture out of a women’s magazine. It took his breath away.

  “It . . . You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  He walked slowly to the chair. Had the beer caused the light-headedness? Before he could sit down she helped him take off his jacket.

  “You can open the champagne.” She leaned back, pressed a button on her cassette player. Soft music filled the room.

  He reached for the bottle, pulled off the foil, unwound the wire, and wiggled the cork.

  “You’ve got big hands. Strong.”

  The cork shot out. He poured sparkling wine into her glass. His hand shook and the foam overflowed the rim, spilling onto the white tablecloth.

  “Sorry.” She giggled.

  “To our first evening, Mat.” The glasses sang a high note as they touched. They drank.

  “There’s more champagne in the fridge. Have some more.” She emptied her glass and held it out to him to be refilled. He obeyed. They drank again. She dished up. Leg of lamb, rice, a rich brown gravy, baked potatoes, green beans with mushrooms and cream, cauliflower with cheese.

  “It looks . . . I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

  “Ag, it’s just from a recipe book. I hope you like everything.”

  “Everything,” he said. Tonight would be a farewell to all the wrong kinds of food. Tomorrow he’d speak to Yvonne about his diet.

  “What did you think of my poem?”

  “I . . . liked it very much.”

  “Mr. Venter said I should do more writing. He was my English teacher last year. I showed him all my poems.”

  “This one as well?”

  “No, silly, of course not. Pour me some more champagne.”

  They ate. Silence.

  Then: “I’ve been in love with you for more than a year, Mat.”

  He swallowed some champagne.

  “But I want you to know it’s not because of being sorry about your wife.”

  He took another swallow.

  “There were a few guys in my class who were interested. Ginger Pretorius already has a job . . . His bike is very sexy and all that, but he’s so adolescent.”

  She looked at him, unfocused. “Didn’t you suspect? Every time my parents invited you, I was there as well. I felt as if you didn’t see me. I had to do something. Didn’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “They say the time is over for women to simply sit around waiting. If I hadn’t done something, we would still have been secretly in love. Are you pleased that I did something?”

  “Yes.” There was a befogged window between Mat Joubert and reality.

  “Tell me how you felt, that evening. Was I too aggressive? They say some men like it. Did you like it, Mat, hey, did you?”

  “Yes.” He looked at her, at the teeth so white in the candlelight, at her red lips, at the deep valley between her breasts where the black dress had shifted.

  “For me it was a fucking rave.” She looked at him, saw his eyes on her breasts. “Does it bother you if I swear, Mat?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He listened to a single beat of his heart.

  “Yes.”

  She pushed her plate away, leaned toward him. The top of the black dress unfolded like a petal. He could see the pink circle of one of her nipples.

  “What else would you like, Mat?”

  He slid his eyes away from the nipple, over her creamy neck up to her mouth, now half open. Her teeth shone. He wanted to tell her what he would like. His courage failed him. He swallowed more champagne, also pushed his plate away.

  “A Winston.” He smiled ruefully.

  She smiled back as if she’d heard the words but hadn’t caught their meaning. She leaned over and found the packet behind the radio. He lit cigarettes for both of them. She blew the smoke at the candles, which flickered. He saw the nipple was now completely bare. Was she aware of it?

  “Do you remember that I said everything was going to be a surprise?” He heard the faint slurring of some of her words and realized that she was drunk. For some reason or other this made his stomach muscles contract.

  “Yes.” You’re not completely sober either, Mat Joubert.

  “Well, this evening you’re getting the first course after the main course, Mat Joubert.” She got up slowly and moved toward him. She sank down on his lap, her hands around his neck, the cigarette burning between her fingers. He put his cigarette in the plate on the table and placed the palms of his hands against her back, searching for the firm muscles of youth.

  She kissed him in slow motion. Her mouth and tongue slid slowly over and into his mouth, like honey. His hand moved inch by inch toward her breast. His thumb and forefinger searched for the nipple. He felt it harden. He pressed his palm more strongly against the fullness. It was softer than he had expected.

  She groaned. Her hand dropped, pressed against his abdomen, moved up, unloosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. Her tongue licked a line of fire across his chest, her teeth danced across his nipple. Suddenly he had an overwhelming need. He forced her throat back and dropped his lips to her breast. He sucked it into his mouth until it filled him from tongue to palate, the skin smooth and supple. He teased her with his tongue and she grew again, moaned, her hand between his legs again. He pushed his own hand to her leg, felt the strength of her muscles and visualized the pleasure that was waiting. He sighed shudderingly and moved his hand slowly to the center of his interest. Her legs opened, her mouth on his again. He expected panties there but found none, only wetness. His fingers slid inside. She groaned and sucked his tongue.

  And suddenly he was ready, a machine rescued from rust. The swelling in his groin changed to a rock-hard erection, a fiery soldier on parade.

  She pulled his hand away from her heat. “This,” she said, and the hoarseness was real, “is dessert.” She gave him a quick kiss and moved to her own chair with difficulty. She held her glass for more champagne. Her hair had come loose. She dragged deeply on the cigarette.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Mat.” Her breast was still bare. And he speculated about her experience, the fact that this wasn’t her first time. About the fact that she excited him. About the fact that he was a vehicle for the achievement of a fantasy. But he didn’t want to speculate any longer. His heart leaped at the pressure in his trousers. The bottle was empty. He got up, walked unsteadily to the kitchen, and fetched another one. When he came back she was still sitting in the same position, elbows on the table, cigarette between her fingers, the nipple almost touching the tablecloth. He poured for them both.

  “Were you shocked because I wasn’t wearing anything? Down there?”

  “No.”

  “I had nothing on below the mini this afternoon. It made me so randy . . .”

  She took a last puff of her cigarette, killed it. “Does it make you randy too?” Her hand dropped to her breast. Her fingers quietly stroked the nipple.

  “No one has ever made me so randy in my life,” he said and knew that just for that moment it was true.

  She put her hand on his and suddenly said softly: “I’m so pleased.”

  She remembered: “You must take the candles to the living room. That’s wher
e you’re getting your dessert.” She put Joubert’s finger in her mouth, sucked it gently. “Two kinds,” she said and smiled seductively, but the alcohol undermined the effectiveness. He didn’t notice it.

  He sat.

  “Get up. I’ll come in a second.” There was a momentary silence, then she giggled at the play on words. “Take the champagne, too.”

  He got up.

  “First fill my glass.” He obeyed, then took his own glass, the bottle of champagne, and the packet of Winstons to the living room. When he came back for the candlesticks, she wasn’t there. He carried the candles and saw that his shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel. He sat down on the carpet. He was filled with satisfaction, anticipation. In his imagination his finger slid into her again.

  He heard someone knocking at the front door.

  He couldn’t believe it. The knock came again, more softly. A feeling of unreality came over him, as if it was all part of a strange dream. He got up, uncertainly, and unlocked the front door, turned the handle, opened it.

  Benny Griessel was leaning against the wall, chin on his breast, his clothes crumpled, his hair wildly untidy.

  “Mat?” The voice was barely audible. “I have to . . . talk.”

  Griessel stumbled forward. For a moment Joubert wanted to stop him, but then he opened the door wider so that the man could come in.

  “Benny, this is a bad time.”

  “Must talk.”

  Griessel staggered to the living room, a road he knew. Joubert closed the door. His head struggled to find a solution. Quickly he walked to Griessel, turned him around, put his hands on his shoulders.

  “Benny, listen to me.” He whispered, shook the shoulders.

  “I want to die, Mat.”

  “Benny.”

  “Rather die.”

  “Jesus, Benny, you’re as pissed as a newt.”

  Griessel started crying.

  Joubert stared ahead, his hands still on the man’s shoulders with not the vaguest idea of what to do. The sobs tore through the body of the figure in front of him. Joubert turned Griessel around, walked to the living room. He’d make the man sit down, then warn Yvonne. He helped Griessel as far as the couch. The sobs stopped when Griessel saw the candlelight. He looked at Joubert, frowned in an effort to understand.