Dead Before Dying

“Listen, Lieutenant, I can’t remember precisely which words . . .”

“Gentlemen,” the attorney said placatingly. “Gentlemen, you can’t expect my client to remember the

ipsissima verba

of a telephone conversation that happened twenty-four hours ago while you interrogate him like a criminal here. He’s under pressure. He’s a human being. Please.”

“He’s a liar,” said Petersen, got up and turned his back on Nienaber.

“Very well. He used filthy language. Is it necessary for me to repeat the filth?”

Nienaber’s voice formed a halo.

“Do your best,” said Joubert and leaned back, suspecting that Petersen wanted to play the tough-cop role.

“In any case, he made a great many filthy remarks and I put down the phone. Then, half an hour later, he phoned again. Said he was sorry he’d carried on in that way. Wouldn't I just have a look. It was a fantastic building. And he would charge me an extremely cheap rental. He was very convincing. Then I thought it would be easier to get rid of him in the cheapest possible way. Have a look at the building. I mean, it was cheaper than changing my telephone number. But then I told him I didn't have the time. And he said what about early in the morning. Before work. Then I said it was okay, what about tomorrow morning, because I wanted to be shot of the whole thing. I simply wanted to get rid of the man. Then we decided on six in the morning. At his home. And we could use my car. He said his car stank too much. Of fish. So I drove there this morning. But I was late because I couldn't find the address at first. And when I got there he was lying in the doorway and he’d been shot right in the . . . the . . .”

“Penis,” said Petersen and turned back to Nienaber.

“That’s right. In the penis.”

“Sheesh,” said the attorney.

“You’re lying,” Petersen said.

“You can’t say that,” said Nienaber.

“I can say exactly what I like.”

“He can’t say that.” Nienaber turned to the short attorney.

“I insist that you treat my client with respect.”

“With respect, Oliver, you’re lying.”

“He can’t say that,” Oliver complained and looked at Joubert, who was leaning back in his chair, a sneer on his face. The scene in front of him was faintly unreal.

But Petersen was angry now. Angry, because Nienaber had ignored him in the first place and then sarcastically called him “Lieutenant.” Angry, because the man was rich and superior and blatantly lying.

“I can, Ollie. You’re lying. And I’m going to catch you out. I’m going to lock you up. And throw away the key. And what’s going to happen to your pretty little wife then, Ollie? Huh? While you’re behind bars, Ollie? Who’s going to scratch her when she itches, Ollie?”

“Leon,” Joubert said warningly, because he suddenly recognized the tone of voice. He remembered the Sunday afternoon in Mitchells Plain when Petersen had a go at the young gang member who was also lying, smashed his face. Petersen had a temper, a bad one . . .

“Fuckin’ rich asshole whitey is lying, Captain,” Petersen said, the whites of his eyes huge. His hands were shaking.

“No, no,” said the attorney and waved an admonishing finger.

Nienaber was halfway out of his chair, his face contorted. “Hotnot,” he said, the charm of the newspaper advertisements unimaginable. “You hotnot.”

Petersen jumped over the attorney and hit Nienaber on the cheek in one, smooth, quick movement. Nienaber fell backward in his chair. His head hit the bare tiled floor with a dull thud and then he rolled out of the chair.

Joubert had jumped up even before the blow fell but he was too late. Now he grabbed Petersen’s shirt and jerked him back while the attorney dived down to his client and spread protective arms over him. “No, no, no,” he shouted, his big head tucked into his shoulders as if he expected more blows.

Petersen let out his breath and relaxed in Joubert’s grip. “Never mind, Captain. I won’t hit him again.”

“Get an ambulance,” said the attorney from the floor, his arms still extended to ward off another attack. “I think he’s dead.”

Joubert kneeled next to them. “Let me see.” The attorney was reluctant but moved away. Joubert saw that Nienaber’s cheekbone was already swollen and discolored. But his chest moved up and down in a perfectly healthy manner. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” said Joubert. “Just a bit faint.”

“Get an ambulance,” said the attorney. “And get your commanding officer.”

Joubert knew what that meant. And he knew what the upshot would be. De Wit would give the case to Gerry. SALON BARON SUES STATE FOR MILLIONS. De Wit would have to give the case to Gerry. He would have no choice. Joubert sighed and his shoulders sagged. Petersen saw it and he grasped something of the attitude.

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Will someone get an ambulance! Now!” the attorney pleaded and ordered at the same time.

“It’s not necessary,” said a voice from the floor.

All three stared at Nienaber, who slowly sat up.

“We’re going to sue them, Oliver,” said the attorney. “We’ll strip them of everything. He . . .” A finger pointed at Leon Petersen. “He’ll never find another job in this country.”

“No,” Nienaber said.

Silence.

“Drop it,” Nienaber said. “Let’s just drop the whole thing.” He got up with difficulty, his right hand touching the bruised cheek. The attorney immediately rushed to his assistance, pulled Nienaber upright, helped him to straighten the chair, carefully helped him to sit down.

“They don’t stand a chance, Oliver. It was brutality in its worst form. Under the new government . . . They’ll both be looking for work.”

“I’m prepared to drop it, Phil.”

“Sheesh, Oliver.”

Nienaber looked up at Joubert. “Are you prepared to leave it?”

Joubert said nothing. His mind was at a standstill, he was holding his breath. He merely stared at Nienaber. Petersen stared at the wall.

“Let’s go, Phil,” said Nienaber and he walked to the door. The attorney grabbed his attaché case, his notepad, and his pen and hurried after him on his short legs. Nienaber opened the door and walked out. The attorney followed him, slamming the door behind him.

Petersen lifted his head slightly and massaged the hand that had hit Nienaber. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“It’s okay, Leon.” Joubert sat down at the table and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and blew a thin plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

“It’s okay. I also think the fuckin’ rich asshole whitey is lying.”

29.

They drank coffee in the tearoom at half past eight on the Monday night. They sat next to each other, elbows resting on their knees, both hands curved around the coffee mugs. Rows of cheap steel-and-plastic chairs were stacked against the wall waiting for the seating rush in the morning.

“I'’ve fucked up everything, Captain.”