— One thing, Franco says, — who found him?
— Somebody made an anonymous 999 call to the ambulance service, said there had been a bad accident, then hung up.
Frank Begbie thinks about this. The caller is obviously implicated in some way. A straightpeg would have called the cops, as well as the ambulance service, and not described what happened to Sean as an accident. — Could it have been the caller that did him?
— It’s possible. Or a friend or accomplice who witnessed the murder, and knew both him and person who did it. Perhaps had an attack of conscience later, Notman says, — but we don’t know.
Franco ponders this, feeling that it’s about as much as he’s going to get from the cops.
— You seem to have turned your life around. I hear that you’re doing well for yourself in the art world, Notman half smiles.
— Can’t complain. I’ve had a wee tickle, Franco says, now fully realising that they would do fuck all about Sean. And he’s also worked out that their main reason for agreeing to see him so readily was to tell him that he should do fuck all as well.
— I appreciate that you must be upset, Mr Begbie, Ally Notman states, his tone now professionally grave. — But it goes without saying that you have to leave this to us. Are we clear on that?
— I’m happy to let you boys do what you do best, Franco smiles, then adds darkly, — and leave me to do what I do best.
Notman’s face drops.
Franco breaks into a beaming smile. — Which, of course, is painting and sculpting.
9. THE DANCE PARTNER 1
They found themselves at the club’s outside veranda area to the rear of the building, drawn by the dance beats spilling from the sound system, courtesy of a DJ in the corner. After the drab, near-deserted interior, this proved to be an oasis: people were dancing, sitting at tables drinking and smoking, or loitering in small groups. Melanie and Jim immediately registered that they were two of the very few non-Latinos present; another white couple gyrated with some style and proficiency, while two black men leaned on the banister, alternately looking down into the street then turning back to appreciatively scan the crowd. At Melanie’s prompting, she and Jim took some seats positioned against the wall and opposite the bar area. As they looked out onto the polished wooden dance floor, the table’s red cloth brushed against their legs.
They hadn’t been settled long when two strikingly beautiful women, dressed to kill and with matching attitudes, strutted out onto the patio. One was entrancing and sleek, with a slender figure and almost implausibly angular curves. She has to be a model, Melanie thought out loud. The other, with her smouldering lips and long black hair, had a lioness prowl that drew a reaction from everybody present. Jim and Melanie were not the only people to exchange glances; something was going on, with the innuendo of much more to follow.
Seconds later, behind both of the strutting interlopers, a young man in a light blue suit walked in. He was handsome and lithe, slick but easy in his movements. Smoking a cigarette, he surveyed all with an air of haughty, but jovial, disdain. When his eyes fell on first the two black men, then Jim and Melanie, he cracked big smiles, as if acknowledging new guests. Then he waved over to the DJ, and joined the two women at a table, where they ordered a bottle of white wine.
Melanie had tried not to stare, but something about this trio absolutely sparkled. The aura from them resonated across the space, and they emanated a total connection to the music and the atmosphere. They seemed important, but for a deeper reason than how they looked. It was as if they belonged there; had an almost divine purpose in the proceedings.
As half an hour elapsed, Melanie and Jim were disappointed that the impressive trio had not joined in the dance, as almost everybody else seemed to be up. At Melanie’s urging, she and Jim rose and struggled through the steps, being met with kindly, if slightly pitying looks. Then the DJ put on a song with a faster beat, and the blue-suited man rose, nodding to the thin, model-type woman, who was sipping her drink. Taking one deep puff of his cigarette, before crushing it into the ashtray, he took her hand, and they walked towards the dance floor. At first she appeared only half interested, but his look seemed to ignite her, and they started to dance to the music.
Melanie could feel her heart begin to race. She looked at Jim, who was totally transfixed by the duo. They instinctively made for their seats, to better appreciate the performance. It was a remarkable one, as the dancing couple seemed to embody sound into human movement: rhythm, flair, style, grace, and an incendiary passion. Neither Jim nor Melanie could take their eyes from them. The man ran his hands softly through the woman’s hair, caressed her face, and then suddenly, as the beat violently exploded, grabbed her waist, thrusting her body down, her head lashing back.
Melanie felt her mouth open wide, her spine tingle and her palms sweat. Then, under that hanging tablecloth, Jim’s hand was on her knee, then crawling like a tarantula up her thigh. Despite this, she couldn’t avert her gaze from the couple on the floor. Every beat of music was scored by the flash of a hand, the twist of an arm, the swivel of a hip, while each crescendo was powered by a spin. . then two. . then three. . then four. . followed by a pause, and Melanie could feel Jim’s fingers, up her skirt, inside her panties, probing at her wet pussy for her clit. And almost at the same time her hand was inside his zipper, undoing the top button on the waistband of his trousers, fastening around his brick-hard cock. She could hear his breathing, slow and ragged, as they remained fixated on the dancing couple. Jim’s inhalations grew shallower still, mirroring her own, as they got off on the dance and the style, jazz and sex appeal of the incandescent duo.
The entire crowd, couple by couple, cleared the dance floor as the stars’ performance built in intensity. It was seemingly reckless, yet at the same time partnered with a technical perfection on every beat. A circle formed around them, as people just watched and clapped. This blocked Melanie and Jim’s view of the couple, and they too would have risen from the table had they not both been gripped by their own eye-popping climax. When the song finished, the entire room cheered, whistled and clapped. Melanie and Jim sat in a stupor, realising something significant had just happened. He whispered in her ear, — Do they do salsa dance classes in town?
— Yes, Melanie said. — I’m sure we’ll find something.
It had to be Harry the police department sent along. Lonely, sad-eyed Harry Pallister, whom she’d first encountered in seventh grade at Goleta Valley Junior High School. Melanie’s thoughts flashed back to those days. Some boys she could scent lusting after her, their pheromones filling the air. And with some of them, she’d reciprocated their ardour. But Harry lurked in the shadows pining silently, occasionally catching her with his sad, longing stare. Then, when Melanie began freshman year at Santa Barbara High School, as she stepped onto the campus of that Spanish colonial building, flushed with excitement, the first familiar face she saw was Harry’s.
Her joy evaporated.
Now he stands on the front porch, and even with the sun behind him making her squint, Melanie can see his thin, sincere face, that quietly martyred expression of his, as if the world was too much for him, but he was nonetheless valiantly and uncomplainingly fighting on. Then, as now, it seemed to be the harbinger of great disappointment. — A bit of news, about those men you called about.