“Do you want the information I have on Him or do we need to reschedule. Either way works for me, I have a motherfucker of a headache brewing now anyway.” The Rabbi opens his drawer as I sit back in my own chair.
“Continue,” I say.
He pulls a Grandpa headache powder packet from the drawer, unwraps it and drops the white powder directly onto his tongue. He chews a few moments, rolling the powder around his mouth, while he crumples up the wrapper and tosses it in a bin under the desk.
“There are a lot of rumours as to where Him comes from and what his deal is. They’re all false. Nobody knows for sure. Nobody besides me knows, of course.” The Rabbi hands over a thick A4 sized manila envelope. Something heavy lies in the bottom, the outline of an A5 notebook, perhaps? “If this doesn’t buy your trust, nothing will.”
“What’s in it?” I take the envelope.
“I don’t know.” He makes a show of pulling up his shoulders. “I’ve never seen that envelope before in my life.”
“Illegally obtained information, huh?” I stuff the envelope into my oversized purse.
“Look, I couldn’t care less about the police finding out how I came about my information. It’s Him I’m worried about. If he finds out who gave you the envelope, I’m dead,” he says. “So, do everyone a favour and get the fucker off the streets before he targets one of my people.” The Rabbi cradles his head in his hands as he massages his temples some more. “And show up to my trial on time. Judge Haskins hates me enough as it is.”
“That’s your cue to leave,” Feyisola says.
I stand, ready to go.
“This meeting never happened,” The Rabbi says before I can take a step.
“Quick question” I say. “Not to offend or anything, but why do they call you The Rabbi?”
“The Gypsy was taken, I suppose,” he says.
The bouncer opens the door for me to exit. Feyisola nods as I depart. Then, I’m alone with the bouncer in the VIP part of the strip club.
“Where’s the guy I came here with?” I ask the bouncer, searching the faces of people in the crowd.
“He left with Cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon?”
“The prostitute who propositioned you when we first came in,” he says. “They left in a hurry.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Nuh-huh,” he grunts. “Men like him have a wandering eye. If they do stick around after they’ve gotten what they’ve wanted, or after they’ve gotten you into trouble, they’ll never be yours alone. Wandering eye, yeah?”
I find my cell phone, intending to call Howlen who’d left me stranded in this godforsaken place.
“My advice,” the bouncer says as we exit the VIP room and make our way through the red corridor, “move on before you’re the one who’s stuck cleaning up his mess.”
I dial Howlen’s number and wait. It goes to voicemail: “This is Howlen Walcott’s phone. You know what to do.” The beep sounds.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Howlen? A whore? You left me stranded to go screw another woman on the night of our first fucking date?” I almost yell into the phone. “I hope you pick up an STD that’ll make your dick rot off! We’re done. It’s over.” I end the call. “I need alcohol,” I say and the bouncer gives me a knowing nod.
“Want me to call you a taxi?”
“No, I want to get shitfaced.”
A new girl’s on stage; her dark-skin highlighted with golden powder and an itsy golden G-string. Kohl lines her brilliant green eyes, her black hair straight and long and shiny. She’s an Egyptian queen, a Nairobian goddess. Nefertiti in the flesh. The bouncer, seemingly disenchanted with the women and the atmosphere, says nothing. He simply leads me to the bar and leaves after having whispered something to the bartender.
“One vodka,” I order, glancing at my phone. I sit down in an empty spot. By the time the bearded bartender gives me my drink, I’ve already scrolled through my contact list in search of someone to come get me. Twice.
“Wonderful.” I pick up my vodka and slam it back, allowing the spirits to burn my throat and stomach for a few moments before pressing dial on my choice of chauffeur.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Rynhardt. It’s Esmé Snyders,” I say. “Are you working?”
“No, but I’m on call tonight. What’s the matter?”
“I need a favour.”
Chapter 26
The neon red light declares that there are GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! inside the rectangular brick building. In truth, there are girls on the street, too.
The almost vacant parking lot, where trash litters the tarmac and faded white lines indicates parking spots, looks desolate and unwelcoming even with the brightly dressed girls and women strutting about. There are men there too, mostly homosexuals from the look of things, but they aren’t as prominently dressed or flamboyant in the way they try to flag down clients. Cars drive by, some speeding up to get out of the red light district as fast as possible, others slowing down momentarily as they check the merchandise walking on precariously high heels.
I’m not afraid to be out here by myself but I’m not exactly happy either.
I pace the short walkway in front of the strip club, where a bouncer named Gillis keeps a watchful eye on me. After what feels like a lifetime—which turns out to be no more than ten minutes, a black double cab Ford Ranger turns into the parking lot. The car drives up to me and the window inches down, revealing Detective Rynhardt Louw’s face.
“Thank God,” I say.
“Get in,” he says, eyeing the surroundings.
I half-heartedly wave to the bouncer as I make my way around to the passenger door. Gillis, in turn, nods my way.
When I’m in, Rynhardt looks me over. “Do I want to know?” he asks.
“I came with Howlen.” I hide my trembling hands in the folds of the dress. “My informant scared him senseless and he upped and left with a prostitute, leaving me stranded here. I couldn’t call Mosepi because he’d tell my dad. I couldn’t call my grandfather because then I wouldn’t hear the end of it. My real friends, unfortunately, can’t be seen with me in public otherwise they’ll get killed. And my acquaintances wouldn’t understand. I could have probably called a cab, but—”
“No,” Rynhardt interrupts. “You were right to call.”
“I’m sorry.” I sigh, embarrassed. “This is not how I thought tonight would go. On the upside, at least I know if things don’t work out for me as an occultist, I’d be able to become a hooker. I got some creative cat-calls and colourful language while I waited. That must mean something.”
“I know you’re trying to be funny, but don’t,” Rynhardt says, picking up his GPS. “Address?”
I give him my home address which he quickly types in to the machine.
“What type of partner—No. What type of man leaves a woman by herself in this part of town?” It’s not just talk. I can tell by the way his hands clutch the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, veins throbbing, how angry he is. “Even Detective Mosepi, who despises me, wouldn’t allow me to come here without backup!”
“The bouncer was keeping an eye out, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I say.
“Well, it’s still not right.”
“Relax. You’re not the one who was blown off because something shinier walked past in a skimpy dress.”
I should’ve known something like this would happen. It always happens. How many losers were there before Howlen? Quite a few, to be honest. The difference is, usually I figure out the guy is a douche before I slowly open my heart to them.
“Are you okay, though?” Rynhardt breaks the awkward silence threatening to settle around us.
“As okay as can be, considering the circumstances,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thanks again for coming to pick me up.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles back. “I didn’t know occultists even had informants, especially ones who hang out around The Rabbi’s franchises.”
“Maybe. For all I know you commune with ghosts.”
“Ghosts? No. I’ve never actually seen a ghost. But I suspect there’s a demon in my house.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know, but I wasn’t.”
Rynhardt frowns as he looks to me, studying my face for dishonesty, I suspect. When he finds whatever he’s been searching for, he turns back to the road. “All right then.”
More silence.
“See? This always happens!”
“What?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “I repel good guys.”
“I don’t think so—”
“I’m good guy bane,” I insist. “As soon as good guys figure out how real my job is, they bolt. Not that I blame them or anything, but my ego can’t withstand the rejections for much longer.” I brush my hair behind my ear, and cross my arms over my chest. “If I didn’t have any dignity left, I’d wallow in self-pity.”
“I’m not repelled by you or your job, Esmé,” Rynhardt says, turning onto the always busy N1 highway. “If anything, I’m more—”
His words are cut short when the car jerks suddenly, shaking us in our seats. The vehicle veers into another lane without warning. My nails dig into my palms as I watch the nose of the Ford Ranger miss the taillights of the next car by a hairsbreadth. The radio switches on by itself and runs through AM stations. The static noise is the least of our problems.
“Put your seatbelt on,” Rynhardt orders me as he battles with the steering wheel.
“It is on. Slow down!” I watch us miss another car by centimetres.
Instead of slowing down, though, the car speeds up. We hear honking behind us and beside us.
“Rynhardt!” My hands move to the armrests to brace myself against impact.
“I’m trying!” he screams, pumping the brake, battling the wheel, and switching on the four-way flashes, all at once.
Blurs of colours streak past as the engine moans from being pushed to its limits. The speedometer’s reading increases with each passing second.
I reach to the radio with a shaky hand, trying to switch the damn thing off. It’s useless. Every time I come close to the stand-by button, the car swerves, bumps, or jolts my hand away.
I glance up in time to scream,“TRUCK!” when the sixteen-wheeler appears directly in front of us.
The registration number of the truck grows larger and larger as we approach. Rynhardt’s eyes widen, like those of a poor animal caught in headlights. His one arm reaches out in front of me, a further brace for when we collide. His other hand stays on the wheel, shockingly white from clutching it.
Seconds become endless hours.
I use those hours to watch my pathetic life play itself out before my eyes. When that’s done I get to wonder about what I’ll miss out on if my life is cut short tonight. No husband. No kids. No growing old enough to reminisce about how different the world used to be way back when. There’ll be nothing for me except a lifetime of regrets.
There’s still time left after all that’s gone through my mind.
Enough time to let me imagine the cacophony of sounds hitting us like a tidal wave, hearing the engine being ripped apart like tinfoil while metal fuses with metal on impact. I can envision the way the doors tear apart; the windows shatter into a billion little pieces. I can already smell burning rubber and feel how we’re thrown around deleteriously, even though we are both strapped into our seats. What happens next? A resounding quiet? Pain?
Before any of my thoughts can become reality, the Ford Ranger jerks into another lane, away from certain death as if the car has a mind of its own.
“Jesus,” I gasp. My heart is propelling so much blood through my head I’m beginning to feel dizzy. The sweat trickling down my forehead burns my eyes, blurring my vision. My throat constricts after a sob manages to escape.
Rynhardt slows the Ford Ranger and coaxes it to the side of the highway.
I have the safety belt off and the door open before the car comes to a complete halt, then I’m out. Gasping, filling my lungs with warm oxygen and exhaust fumes, I wander around aimlessly on shaky legs. My hand is pressed against my diaphragm trying to get my heartrate under control.
That aside, the world seems brighter, and the air tastes sweeter.
Rynhardt walks around the front of the car, heading to where I’m still regaining my wits. His strides are long, fast, resolute, bringing him closer before I can comprehend his intentions. He takes my face in his hands and crushes his lips against mine. Hungry, desperate, grateful—those elements turn my skin and lips ultrasensitive. Sparks ignite as his tongue massages mine, drowning me with vibrant sensations. Malleable lips envelope mine, the kiss growing deeper and ravenous. I fall into his embrace without considering the consequences and grab hold of his white button-down shirt with both hands to stabilise myself.
Whether it’s Howlen’s rejection, the alcohol in my system, or the near death experience responsible for my lack of inhibitions, I don’t know. What I do know is I’ve never felt more alive, and there’s no way I’m about to squander the opportunity to live.
Rynhardt moves his hands to my hips, and takes a tentative step forward. I’ve danced to this song before but it somehow feels new, so I take a step back. My fingertips trail down his stubbly cheek and over the side of his chin. I direct one hand past his Adam’s apple, over his neck, and across his collarbone.
A hoarse sound escapes his lips. He tugs me closer, closer still, until only our clothes separate us. I shrug off my crochet wrap, right there in the field beside the highway, taking another step backwards. Rynhardt guides me toward the Ranger, his one hand venturing to loosen the buttons of my dress.
Our urgency grows along with our electricity and passion.
We somehow manage to get into the cramped backseat of the car without injuring ourselves. I unbuckle his belt and undo the button of his pants as his hands roam over my body, exploring my form through the thin material of my sundress. Every time our skin meets, his touch sends fireworks through me. My cotton thong is hastily removed, discarded over his shoulder and out the open door.
Rynhardt tugs my hips into position, his mouth never leaving mine. My dress shifts high over my thighs and he settles between my legs.
He slides himself inside me, and my world bursts with starlight and pleasure.
I grab hold of the armrest above my head, arch my back, and exhale loudly. This is living. Where a single touch can set your world on fire… This is what being alive is meant to feel like.
I moan against Rynhardt’s mouth, relishing in how our bodies melt together.
When we’ve established a steady rhythm, his hands explore and caress in ways that drive me insane. His mouth moves away from mine, kisses trailing along my jawline and down my neck, and I take the time to draw in quick, deep lungsful of breath. Rynhardt reaches the nape of my neck and he finds a sweet spot… and… and—
“Don’t stop.” My whisper is a few decibels higher than normal.
I grip the armrest tighter as my body responds to his. Throaty moans, high and low, intermingle with loud gasps and short exhalations. My ecstasy is potent; infectious enough to send Rynhardt over the edge too. A guttural sound is muffled in my neck as he rides his own orgasm while I’m coming down from my high.
Our laboured breathing is the only communication between us as we enter the recuperation period. After it passes, Rynhardt pushes onto his elbows and fumbles to button up my dress.
I watch him, smirking.
When he’s done, he sits upright to make himself more presentable. I swing my leg over his head and sit up beside him.
“I don’t know what came over me,” he says.
“I know what you mean.” I straighten my dress, trying to ignore the slick stickiness of his seed between my thighs. I make a mental note to pick up a morning-after pill the next day on my way to work, but he doesn’t need to k
now that. Rynhardt seems like he’s got enough self-guilt and regret to deal with already, so what’s the use of bothering him with that little piece of information? “I should—” I gesture to the open door, “—get dressed.”
“Of course, sorry,” Rynhardt says, slipping out of the backseat and helping me out.
Once my feet are on the ground, he walks to where my wrap is lying, searches around. “I hope you weren’t attached to your underwear.”
“Don’t worry, these days I have to buy in bulk anyway.” I say, accepting my wrap from him. Rynhardt frowns in response. “Remember the demon I told you about?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a kleptomaniac with a thing for lace underwear,” I explain.
He opens the passenger door. “I can never tell if you’re lying or not.”
“I have a tell when I’m lying,” I say, reluctantly climbing back into the Ford Ranger.
“What’s your tell?”
“My lips tighten when I speak.”
“Noted.” He forces a smile, closes the door, and makes his way around to the driver’s side.
I buckle the seatbelt again and throw a silent prayer to whatever god or goddess might be listening at this time of night.
Rynhardt climbs in, takes a moment to lock his seatbelt in place, and inhales deeply. He glances out the window to the starry heavens. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. The Ford Ranger slowly pulls back onto the N1 highway.
The tension and awkwardness mutes us the entire way to my solemn, silent house.
He parks in front of the garage. The headlights brighten the metal garage door I’ve threatened with a new coat of paint for the past year, but haven’t gotten around to doing. Fully intending to voice a platitude for the lift, I turn in my seat to find him already looking at me.
“Thank you for—” I cut myself off, feeling foolish on one hand and reckless on the other. “Screw it.” I throw myself across the partition separating us, and onto the mercy of his lips.
Muti Nation Page 16
