Magda had sent all her boys searching for Ruda, sure she would turn up on some street corner. The days turned into weeks, months, and Magda had to admit she was wasting her time searching for the little bitch. But she never forgot Ruda; every time she slipped a ring onto her finger she remembered her. She had never told anybody of her part in the murder, but she had kept the knife — as a memento, a warning never to turn soft on any of her tarts, or on anybody else for that matter. The knife had traveled from apartment to apartment, club to club, until she had stowed it away. Somehow she knew that one day Ruda would come back, one day she would see her again... and when she did, she would think about cutting her throat open.
Magda ran her nail along the serrated edge. She had been right, she had come back. But when she had seen her, it was strange... she hadn't hated her, she had really wanted to talk to her. She had been ready to forgive, but Ruda had played a stupid game, pretending she couldn't understand German, that she didn't know Magda. Well, the baroness, or whoever Ruda pretended she was, would be sorry. This time she wouldn't be able to hide, there would be no place in Berlin where she could take refuge. Remembering it all made her head throb, she searched for aspirin.
Eric rushed back into the office. He was soaked. "I lost her, she was going from club to club, she was very drunk. Then I went in one door, and she must have walked out another; she disappeared."
Magda hurled papers from her desk. "You fucking little queen... all you had to do was follow the bitch!" Her face was puce with rage.
"I followed her up and down the fucking streets. I'm soaked — it's comin' down in torrents out there!"
"Get out of my sight, you useless piece of shit!"
Eric leaned on her desk. "I'm all you've got, you big fat cow. You haven't got a friend in the world, Magda. I am the only person who can put up with you."
"There's the door, Eric, and that thing attached is the handle. Turn it and walk. Go on, I don't need you, I don't need anybody — I never have. I have never depended on anyone or anything but me! Because that's all I've ever had, me, I made me and my money is mine."
Eric hesitated, and she laughed — her heavy phlegmy laugh. How many years had he put up with her? But he had no place to go, and he did have an easy life. Besides, she couldn't last many more years. She was eighty, maybe even more. So he laughed, and she held open her arms, her mammoth body shaking.
"Come on, make up, give me a hug."
He let her embrace him, her beads clanking against his head. He could hear the rattle of her chest, the hideous breathing he had lain next to for fifteen years. She settled back on the cushions and said she'd start calling the clubs, she'd soon trace her.
"Who is she? I mean what's so important about her?"
Magda dialed, and waited. "She stole from me, Eric. I was like a mother to that girl, and she pretended she didn't know me. Well — she's going to know who I am."
Eric eased off his tie, removed his Gucci loafers. They were encrusted with mud around the edges. Magda made call after call, club after club, getting angrier as she described Vebekka in minute detail, down to the cape with the sable trim. She kept on saying it was urgent, she had to find her.
Eric took off his socks, his feet were cold. He was so intent on inspecting his feet he didn't even observe anything strange; he only looked up because the room was so quiet. She sat well back in her chair, her head almost touching her bosom, a cigarette still burning in her fat hand.
"Magda?... Magda?"
Eric walked around the desk, peering at her. The poodle suddenly started pawing at her leg, wanting attention. Eric took the cigarette from her fingers, stubbed it out. He called her name again, then felt her pulse. He withdrew his hand, and gave her body a small push — she slowly sagged to one side, and her arm slid from the desk and hung limply over her chair.
He gave a small, dry laugh like a hiccup, and quickly covered his mouth. He shooed the dog away and it scuttled beneath the desk. He was about to rush out of the office when he remembered he was in his bare feet.
As he slipped his feet into his loafers, he had another good look at Magda, and giggled. It was his club, all his now, and he wanted to hug himself.
The phone rang. He hesitated, deciding whether or not to answer, and in the end he snatched it up. It was the barman at the Vagabond Club returning Magda's call. The woman she wanted to know about had just walked in. "It doesn't matter, Magda's dead," said Eric. He heard the shocked voice asking how and when, and he beamed, but kept his voice to a hushed whisper. "I have to go, I have to get the police."
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
"Heart attack, I think..."
"My God, when?"
"Oh, about five minutes ago."
"Oh shit, will you be closing the club?"
"No... no I don't think so, she wouldn't have wanted that. Nothin'll change, just that I'll be running the show from now on... so, if you'll excuse me..."
Eric carefully replaced the receiver, looked at the peroxided head of his wife. He couldn't see her face, he was glad about that. He whistled to the dog, and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck. "Your life, sweetface, hangs on a thread. You had better be very, very nice to me." Eric didn't even notice the carving knife on Magda's desk as he walked out of the office.
Chapter 15
Vebekka eased her way to the bar, the third she had come to. The champagne had dulled her senses, she was confused and disoriented, and she wanted something — anything — to wake her. The rain had begun again, a downpour. Her hair was wet, her cape soaked, but she pushed her way through the customers, calling to the barman.
Vebekka felt a man brush up against her. He smiled apologetically and then signaled to the barman, snapping his fingers impatiently. His heavy gold bracelet and thick ring shone, and his cheap suit and white polyester shirt gleamed in the fluorescent light.
"Is it raining again?" he asked, smiling, his teeth as white as his shirt. She could see speckles of dandruff on his shoulders, and she giggled.
"I don't speak German, I'm American — or French."
He spoke in pidgin English, leaning his elbow casually on the bar. He asked her if she would like a drink and she nodded, asking for champagne. He hesitated, and moved closer.
"It's very expensive here."
She looked at him with a half smile, and asked for a cigarette. He patted his pockets; she leaned against him and slipping her hand into his pant pocket, she withdrew a cigarette pack and giggled. Confident, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and then as the barman came over he asked for champagne.
She drank the entire glass in one go, and banged it onto the bar.
"Let's sit down."
She shrugged and wandered off. Taking her by the hand he guided her to a booth, she tossed her cape onto the seat.
"What's your name?"
"Vebekka."
She drank another glass, again gulping it down as if it were water. He moved closer to her; his hand began to feel along her thigh.
She suddenly felt sick, and pushed his hand away, mumbling that she needed to go to the bathroom. He touched her thighs and behind as she eased past him. She stumbled, and he caught her.
"Maybe you need help..."
They headed toward the door marked TOILETTEN, and by this time he had one arm around her, the other feeling under her sweater. The door led into a small corridor, ladies' and men's toilets on either side.
Vebekka staggered into the ladies' room. She vomited into the bowl and as the room began to spin, her legs collapsed under her. She swore, pushing herself up against the wall. She began to pant, trying not to be sick again. The cubicle door opened, she hadn't bothered to lock it.