Drew Wilson was driving home in his CitiGolf. The radio was tuned to a late-night talk show but he wasn't listening to it. He was tired. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes and his back was stiff and sore from the long hours of sitting.
He didn't mind the tiredness because it was so good to be busy again. Even if you werent working for yourself. It was good to be creative every day, to use your ingenuity and craftsmanship to mold the gold metal into something that would enchant a woman so that she, with true feminine charm, could persuade the man in her life to buy it for her.
He fantasized about each one of his creations, about what kind of woman or man sometimes would wear it. With which outfit. To what occasion. Now and then, there were foreign tourists in the showroom but he tried to ignore them. They were never as beautiful or as stylish as in his dreams.
He lived in the Bellville suburb of Boston in an old house with big rooms and high ceilings which he had restored. The driveway to the single garage was short but, as usual, he stopped to open the gate, got into the car again, and drove to the garage doors.
When he put his hand on the car handle, someone, something, stood next to him in the dark.
His head jerked and he saw the pistol.
Oh God.
Drew Wilson hadn't read a newspaper during the past week. The long hours and the pressure at work simply hadn't left time for that. He didn't know about the death of James J. Wallace. But he saw the face behind the pistol.
The physiology of shock is predictable. The brain signals orders to prepare for action, for fast, urgent activity. Adrenaline pumps into the bloodstream, the heart rate increases, blood vessels expand, lungs pump.
He, however, could only remain seated behind the steering wheel because the muzzle of the strange gun was against his skull, just above his right eye. But his body was forced to react. So he trembled, his hands and his knees shook with fear.
I . . . he said and a tear rolled slowly down his cheek to the black mustache on his upper lip.
I . . .
Then the bullet penetrated his skull, the heartbeat ceased, the blood vessels narrowed, and the lungs collapsed the adrenaline wasted forever.
Radio control woke Mat Joubert at 4:52. His voice was hoarse, his mouth dry. He searched clumsily for pencil and paper when the woman began speaking. She gave the facts in a neutral voice the address, the sex, who had been notified.
Looks like more Chinese, Captain. One in the head, one in the chest, she added in a conversational tone and said good-bye. He mumbled and put back the receiver.
He had slept very little and the champagne and beer had turned his head into a mushy cement mixer. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He groaned and thought about Benny Griessel in the living room. He thought about Yvonne Stoffberg and groaned more loudly.
It hadn't been his fault.
How could he have foreseen that Griessel would arrive?
He had followed her down the passage but she had banged the bedroom door in his face and locked it.
Yvonne, I didn't know . . .
Her voice was shrill and hysterical. My names Bonnie.
I didn't know he was coming here.
Who opened the fucking door?
Good argument. There were noises behind the bedroom door a banging and shuffling.
Someone knocked. I had to.
The door had opened. Her face appeared. Anger and hate had changed her mouth, narrowed her eyes. By now she was wearing a pink tracksuit.
You couldve ignored it, you fucking stupid cop. Shed banged and locked the door again.
Hed sunk down on the floor next to the door. Now the drunkenness was a burden that prevented him from thinking of ways to convince her. But her final words had taken the starch out of him. He was still sitting there when she jerked the door open some time later. Her suitcase was in her hand. She stepped over him and stormed down the passage to the front door. There she hesitated for a moment, threw down the case, and walked back to him and said with the same thin mouth: Ill leave the key here tomorrow when I fetch my other stuff. Then she left with her suitcase. He saw the firm bottom in the tight pink tracksuit pants disappearing around the front door and briefly wondered if she was wearing underwear. Hed remained sitting there, his mind dulled, liquor a sour taste in his mouth, only a vague yearning left between his legs.
Sometime during the night hed climbed into bed and now he felt old and tired. And in Boston a second man was lying with a shattered head and a smashed heart. He got up with a groan. First of all he had to look after the man in the living room.
He wanted coffee but there was no time. He hastily brushed his teeth but it didn't remove the foul taste in his mouth. He washed his face, dressed, and walked down the passage. In the dining room the remains of their meal lay cold and unappetizing. In passing he saw the cigarette stub that had smoldered in the plate. The disappointment of the evenings fiasco swept over him again.
Griessel was snoring on the living room couch. Joubert found the packet of Winstons on the small table and lit one. Hed go back to Special Milds a bit later. His mouth tasted of stale liquor. He shook Griessels shoulder lightly. The snoring stopped.
Mat, Griessel said, surprised.
Come on, Benny, I've got to go.
Slowly Benny sat up, his head in his hands.
Another Tokarev murder. In Boston. But youre not coming with me.
He pulled Griessel to his feet and marched him to the front door, then to the Sierra. They got in and drove off.
De Wit gave me an ultimatum, Mat.
Joubert said nothing.
I must leave the bottle or Im out.
And you gave him your answer.
They drove on in silence.
Where are you taking me?
To the cells at the Edgemead station, Benny.
Griessel looked at him like a wounded animal.
Youve got to stay dry now, Benny, until I can find help for you.
Griessel stared ahead of him. De Wit warned you, too.
Yes, Benny, he warned me as well.
Mrs. Shirley Venter was a tiny sparrow of a woman who constantly used her hands while she spoke very fast and in a high voice. Shame, what a way to go. In any case, I get up at four oclock every morning. I dont have the luxury of a maid. Bob goes to work early during the week and it gives me time to make his breakfast and to feed the dogs and put the washing in the machine. I dont believe in these automatic things. I have a twin-tub Defy, seventeen years old and not a thing wrong with it. In any case, I switched on the kettle for coffee because Bob likes percolator coffee and it takes a while and then I saw a car with its lights on in front of Drews garage but you can see its difficult to see clearly through that window because Bob hasnt trimmed the hedge for a long time.
She turned to her husband, a man in late middle age with heavy shoulders, thick lips, and a mouth slightly agape under an Adolf Hitler mustache.