The Outspan Hotel was on Voortrekker Road between Bellville and Stikland, a hotel that had acquired its one star under another management.
Joubert showed his plastic identity card and asked for the register. Only two rooms were occupied, neither by a Griessel. He walked to the bar, a dark room with a low ceiling and somberly paneled in wood.
The first early evening clients were already leaning against the long bar counter, singly, uncomfortable, uncamouflaged by the anonymity conferred by numbers.
The smell rose in Jouberts nostrils. Liquor and tobacco, wood and people, cleaning materials and furniture polish decades of it. It reached a tentacle deep into his memory and brought forgotten images to the surface: He, aged nine, ten, eleven, was sent to call his father. Ten oclock at night. The bar was filled with people and smoke and heat and voices. His father sat in a corner surrounded by faces. His father was arm wrestling against a big man with a red face. His pa was playing with the guy.
Ahhh, my sons here. Sorry, Henry, I cant look bad in front of him. And his father pushed the mans arm down flat on the wooden table. The faces laughed amiably, full of admiration for the strong man, the keeper of law and order in Goodwood.
Come on, Mat, let me teach you. He sat down opposite his father, shy and proud.
Their hands clasped. His father acted, pretended that his son could easily beat him.
Again the onlookers laughed loudly.
One day hell really beat you, Joop.
Not if he jacks off too much.
Joubert sat down at the Outspans bar counter and remembered how hed 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.
Im looking for Benny Griessel.
The barman took his money.
Whore you?
Colleague.
Wheres 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 hed 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 barmans 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 dont 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. Youre in the newspaper.
He put the bags down on the table and looked at the
Argus
lying there.
Youre 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 Banks 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 Peninsulas 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 Peninsulas 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.
Youre one behind.
Thanks. He still avoided looking at her. He took the beer.
Im 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.