ONE
“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” Freddy muttered. “There’s always one answer I cannot get.”
Freddy was attacking a Photo Blockbuster crossword puzzle in You magazine where the winning entry could claim a refrigerator stocked with a year’s supply of beer. He got up from his desk and ambled into the reception area.
“Hey, Yvette,” Freddy said, “what’s the currency in Qatar? Four letters.”
Yvette, the receptionist, was reading a chunky paperback novel with a stiffly executed cover painting of a bare chested pirate-type embracing a bosomy woman in a low cut dress. Yvette looked up at Freddy and frowned. This was not the first time he’d interrupted her perambulations in the world of great literature because he was stumped by a crossword.
“Where or what is Qatar?” Yvette asked.
Freddy was not too sure whether it was a country or a city.
“I think it’s in the Arabian desert somewhere,” he said, “you know, where they have nothing but date palms, camels and oil. Hey, maybe their currency is petrodollars. But that’s not four letters. Maybe it’s the Arabic for petrodollars.”
Yvette did not know.
“I thought currency had something to do with electricity,” she said.
Freddy did a double take, almost making a barbed comment, before he grasped that she was pulling his leg.
“Hah, bleeding hah,” he said and returned to his office to continue his onslaught on the crossword.
It was a sunny day in Parow on a thankfully wind-free day in mid-November and Freddy and Yvette were minding the office of Top Notch Comprehensive Credit Consultants. Debt collecting is the kind of ongoing enterprise where the operatives are not supposed ever to sleep -- like cops they are on duty twenty four hours out of every twenty four -- but even so there are those occasions when a credit consultant can relax, take the load off his feet and try to win a nice prize in a You crossword.
Actually Freddy‘s boss no longer ran a “debt collection” or even “tracing” agency. Those were the terms of the old South Africa in the times when these activities, although vital for the successful running of democratic free enterprise, were seen as somehow non-u, staffed by ex-cops who could no longer hack it in the police force. Nowadays the self-same activities, such as harassing poor, unemployed people who were unlucky enough to have fallen in the credit trap sprung by unscrupulous salesmen interested only in commission and not the well-being of their clientele, were conducted under the broad and colourful umbrella of comprehensive credit services .
Freddy Oelofse was an ex-cop too. Left school at sixteen, volunteered to join the Correctional Services for two years rather than be an infantryman on the Border and then joined the SAP where he achieved a sergeancy by the time he was fully sick and tired of the hours, the danger and the shit pay. A few of his friends had left the police to join tracing agents and they regularly entertained him with their tales of the easy money to be made in this business.
“Jeez, Fred,” they would say, “ you get thirty bucks a trace and most of them you can do by just phoning around and you can easily do ten phone calls a day, three hundred bucks a day; now where is the bleddy government ever going to pay you that, and there’s no danger, man, you’re sitting at home; and if you have to go out, well you do that early in the morning while the buggers are all still fast asleep and you’re back home for breakfast. Now doesn’t that beat driving around in a cop van, being shot and being hated by the community you’re supposed to help protect?”
Freddy had to admit that this scenario did sound good. He resigned from the SAP and joined Top Notch Tracing Agents, now incorporated as Top Notch Comprehensive Credit Consultants.
The crossword clues were not getting any easier. Freddy had managed to find about half the answers but the rest seemed to deliberately more difficult and finicky than one could have expected from You magazine. Freddy got up to fetch a Diet Coke from the office refrigerator. They had beer in there too, Castle, Amstel, Windhoek, and Esprit for Yvette but the alcohol was reserved for after hours when the crew got together, swapped stories of their day and got slightly sozzled before heading home to their families, budgies or whatever. Freddy headed to whatever out in Vasco.
Anyhow, Freddy got himself the Diet Coke and drank it standing at the window looking out on Voortrekker Road. Across the road a queue had formed at the Trust Bank ATM. Ja, thought Freddy, the queues are no longer in the banks, they are now on the pavements outside banks, but queues are like herpes, the degree of discomfort can vary but they are here to stay.
There was a hassle at the ATM. Two young girls were having trouble with their PIN number or maybe the damn thing had gone off-line. In the old days bank staff went off to lunch when most inconvenient for customers; in this de-personalised age computers go off-line. The result was more or less the same.
The bank’s main entrance doors, just to the left of the ATM, swung open with considerable force as if they had been kicked open from inside. Two black men came running out, waving AK’s, carrying bulging black plastic refuse bags. An early-Eighties 3-series BMW braked hard at the kerb, the rear passenger door was flung open and the two men scrambled inside. The Bee Em took off with screeching tyres. Couple of seconds flat. Only then did the people at the ATM turn around to see what the commotion was about. The girls were still struggling through their own particular little computer-banking quagmire.
Freddy could only marvel at this slickly professional bank job. Bugger it, these guys had guts and they were cool. Did not even wear balaclavas, probably calculated that nobody inside or outside the bank could positively ID them. Blacks look alike, especially when they rob your bank and wave guns about. Nice work. They’ll dump the car somewhere down the road, jump in a taxi and zoom off to the safe haven of the nearest squatter camp. Maybe they’ll keep the Bee Em. Nice, respectable car. These days it was by no means a strange sight to see a black guy drive an expensive car that most likely was his car or at least his company car. No-one blinked twice anymore. When Freddy was still a cop you could just as well stop a black driving a fancy car, unless he had a white passenger or two, because it was more than likely that he had stolen the car or had bought it from the guy who had nicked it in the first place.
Freddy walked back into the reception area.
“Christ, Yvette,” he said, “you’ve just missed the best show you’ve ever seen off TV. Daylight robbery in Voortrekker Road! Affirmative withdrawal of funds if ever I’ve seen it.”
“Run that by me again?” Yvette responded without looking up from her novel. “Start from the beginning?”
“You should pay attention, my girl, life happens when you’re reading trashy romances. Couple of black guys just robbed the Trust Bank across the street. Real life daylight robbery. People standing at the auto bank didn’t even notice it was happening. Some people just have no idea of what is going on around them.”
“I don’t care,” Yvette said, “ I don’t bank there, they won’t have taken my money, it’s safe.”
She looked up at Freddy. Deadpan. He took a moment to consider whether she was being clever with him again. Decided that she was. Fuck the bitch, he thought, does she think I’m stupid?
“No jobs come in today?” he asked.
“Naah, not yet,” said Yvette, already back into her novel. “You would’ve been the second person to know about it. I guess this is your lucky day. Maybe you can knock off early, go to the beach, have an ice cream.”
Freddy did not like the beach. He had not been to one in ages, not since he still went on family holidays up the East Coast to Mossel Bay or Hartenbos. Should he go home early, he would rather stop off at a pub, have a few extra-cold Windhoek Exports, condensation running down the sides of the bottle like a TV advertisement come to life.
He walked back into his office and stood at the window, contemplating the street scene. By now two police vehicles had arrived, uniform cops were standing around on the pavement, a small crowd had formed, a couple of people were clearly attempting to put their versions of events to the cops.
He heard a call come in on Yvette’s switchboard. He sat down behind his desk and reached for the telephone in anticipation of the ring that would follow. It rang, he picked up the receiver and settled back in the chair.
“Yello!” he said. “Freddy Oelofse speaking.”
“Do you trace people other than debtors?” asked a cultured, male voice. “I mean, do you track people down and bring them in?”
“That depends,” said Freddy. “We don’t go looking for fugitives from justice. If it’s a Police matter, we let them handle it. Normally we just supply addresses and phone numbers. Can I have your name? And exactly who do you want traced?”
“Oh, right, sorry, I ‘m Jacques Vollenhoven. I think it’s best that I come to see you and explain everything and then maybe you can tell me whether you can help me. When will it be convenient for you to see me?”
“Is it urgent?”
“Well, yes, I would like it to be done a-s-a-p but I guess it’s not desperately urgent, no.”
“Can you come over straight away?”
“Yes.”
Freddy gave Vollenhoven directions. Vollenhoven undertook to be there within ten minutes. Freddy tidied his desk, finished his Coke and straightened his tie.
Vollenhoven was a tall, thin, twenty something with a deep tan and a fashionable hair cut and wore a dark blue suit that almost certainly wasn’t bought on any six months as cash payment scheme. He looked tired, or worried.
Before taking instructions on this matter Freddy discussed his tracing methods and fee structure with Vollenhoven who seemed somewhat impatient with this preliminary procedure. Freddy did it slowly and thoroughly anyway. Through sometimes bitter experience he had learnt that it paid off to be upfront and open on this subject. Once the job has been done the client cannot complain that he never knew it would cost as much as it did and that he never knew anything about the fee structure.
“Now that I’ve done my lecture,” Freddy said, “it’s your turn to tell me all about it. What is the problem?”
“First of all,“ said Vollenhoven, bracing himself in his chair, “I’m an attorney and this is a delicate situation and I want discretion. I don’t want my practice to be ruined,”
“Discretion?”
“Well, yes, I don’t want this story to find its way around town. I don’t need that kind of embarrassment, seriously.”
“We respect a client’s confidentiality. Trust us, we’re credit consultants.” Freddy chuckled self-deprecatingly.
Vollenhoven declined to exhibit evidence of a sense of humour.
“All I want is that this story doesn’t get around,” he said.
“OK, so what is the story?”
“Well, my girlfriend, or maybe I should call her my ex-girlfriend, she’s missing and she must be found before the twenty fifth”
Freddy checked his desk calendar. The deadline allocated seven days for the trace.
“Okay, we sometimes look for missing persons but that’s also a job for the cops.”
“They will be looking for her if you don’t find her by the twenty fifth.”
“Ja?”
“Well, let me explain, this is going too slow I suppose. Last week Anthea was arrested for possession of a huge amount of coke. She appeared last Wednesday and because SANAB were talking amounts of coke that made them charge her with dealing, she was given bail of R5000,00, which I paid. I haven’t seen her since the weekend. She took her stuff and disappeared. If she’s not back at Court on the twenty fifth the bail will be forfeit and I’ll lose five grand, and that’s not a pleasant prospect. So, I want you to find her and make sure she’s at Court. If she’s not, the cops will look for her anyway but then it’s already too late. My money’s forfeit.”
“You must have liked Anthea a lot to risk that much money on bail”
“Well, she is all right, I guess, but I really didn’t want her to sit in Pollsmoor for a month. She has no other money, no other friends, and no family in Cape Town. I trusted her and now see where that got me. I felt sorry for her, responsible”
Vollenhoven’s tone was a mixture of incredulity and bitterness.
Freddy wondered what the big connection was. She must have had a lot of cocaine in her possession for bail at that amount. And she must have been more important to Vollenhoven than he was willing to let on.
“What was she doing with the coke? I mean, if it was such a huge amount. Do you know how much it was?” he asked.
Vollenhoven hunkered down in his chair, hunched his shoulders, then straightened up again and looked Freddy in the eyes.
“Well, if you knew her you wouldn’t be surprised. She’s had what you might call an interesting life. Look, I’ll be honest with you, the main reason I paid her bail isn’t that she’s my girlfriend. Well. that too, obviously, I didn’t want her to end up in Pollsmoor, but the real reason was, she was with a colleague of mine, in the same car, it was a hell of a lot of coke, and it would’ve been very damaging for him if he had to be charged for it, so she took the blame, we did a little deal with the arresting officer, that’s why I paid the bail. A quid pro quo. But I don’t want to lose my money either. What’s the possibility or probability of finding her?”
Vollenhoven sank back into chair again, exhausted by all these revelations. He looked troubled. Freddy wasn’t sure whether it was due to the sordid details he had recounted or because he was truly worried about his money.
“Okay, what’s Anthea’s surname? Other Christian names?”
“Well, I thought her name was Sklaar, she’s Jewish, but on the bail papers her surname is Van Heerden. She’s got a long, involved story, mother remarrying, or some such, I don’t know. As far as I know, Anthea is her only first name.”
“Do you have any photographs of her?”
Vollenhoven put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a colour print. He looked at it for a moment before sliding it across the desk.
“She doesn’t look like that anymore,” he said. “That was taken two years ago by her ex-boyfriend, one of her ex-boyfriends.”
She was leaning against the bonnet of a metallic blue BMW parked in a city street, could be Sea Point. Broad grin on fleshy lips, arms flung open as if she was showing off both the street and the car she owned. Black shoulder length hair, a scoop neck black T-shirt and baggy stone-washed jeans with an intricately woven leather belt, a profusion of bangles on each wrist. Quite plump. Her facial features were obscured by oversize pink-framed sunglasses. A funky chic chick.
“She’s a lot slimmer now,” Vollenhoven explained, “and her hair is also much shorter. Dark brown eyes. Wears a lot of black clothing, lots of jewellery, mostly cheap second hand stuff, costume jewellery. Comes across as kugel de luxe, she can really put it on sometimes. She likes to be the loudest person in the place”
At least the recognition factor should be high on description alone, Freddy thought.
“Where do you live? Did she stay with you?”
“My house is in Thornton. My office is in Goodwood. She lived with me. For about two months.”
Freddy thought that this was a very brief period for such a solid bond to have been forged. Must have been true love at first sight.
“You say she has no friends here? Is she not from Goodwood? Cape Town?”
“I mean she has no friends who are going to look after her, pay bail or whatever. She knows some people, a lot of people, but the poor ones obviously don’t have that kind of money and the rich ones don’t care. She says her parents are in Port Elizabeth. When I met her, she was living in Mowbray, before that in Tamboerskloof, apparently.”
“Have you tried any of her friends? Does she have any favourite hang-outs, regular spots?”
“I don’t know her friends. One or two, those I have phone numbers for. They were her friends, you know. I met some of them here and there, parties, clubs, but we didn’t socialise much, they didn’t visit us, maybe they came around when I was at the office. Anyway, the ones I spoke to, they say they don’t know where she is and can’t or won’t help me. The best one to speak to, her best friend I suppose, is Caronne, that’s spelt C-A-R-O-N-N-E. She has a flat somewhere in Sea Point, I can give you her phone number. There are a couple of places Anthea goes to a lot, New York Bagels in Sea Point in the late afternoons, La Playa in the Waterfront for late night coffee, Cafe District Six, Mr. Pickwick’s Deli in Long Street, they’re all late-night places. She sleeps during the day, stays up all night. Other than that, who knows where she goes?”
“Doesn’t she work?”
“Well, not really.”
“A part time job?”
Vollenhoven closed his eyes for a moment, sighed.
“I supported her,” he said resignedly.
“How old is she?”
“I think she’s twenty two.”
“You think?”
“Well, she told me she’s twenty two. I don’t know.”
“Is she a student?”
“Not now, she said she did Art at U.P.E. but that was a couple of years ago. She wasn’t working when I met her.”
“How did she live?”
“I guess men support her.”
“She’s a professional mistress?” Freddy chuckled at his own dry witticism.
Vollenhoven still refused to admit to a sense of humour. He got up and took a walk around the office, looked out the window, returned to his chair.
“Can I please have a glass of water?” he asked.
“Sure, tap water with ice? We don’t do mineral water I’m afraid but we’ve got some Diet Coke or Tab.”
“Ice water is fine.”
Freddy buzzed Yvette and ordered two glasses of ice water. They waited in silence until she brought the water. Vollenhoven downed his in one long swallow, got up and did a quick scenic tour of the office. On his way back to the chair he reached a decision. He sat down on the edge, folded his hands on his knees.
“I’m going to give you as much of the picture as I can,” he said, “but not all of it because I don’t know all of it. At least you’ll have a better idea of what you’re looking for. Who you’re looking for.”
Freddy leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his belly. He considered taking notes but decided against it. Get the big picture first, then take detailed notes afterwards
Vollenhoven was at the confessional. He was telling a story that was painful but necessary and would not make him look good but that might redeem him. He turned into himself as if he was ignoring the fact that he was telling this story to a real person.
“Anthea is very young and she’s kind of wild, exciting. You must understand, she moved in with me virtually immediately after we‘d met . She was living with a dentist in Mowbray. She was hitchhiking on Kloof Nek Road in Tamboerskloof at one ‘o’clock in the morning, said she was going home from a party in Clifton. She didn’t stop talking all the way to Mowbray, of course I offered to drop her, it wasn’t so far out of my way, it was the middle of the night. Anyhow, she talked a mile a minute, told me all about her life, her dud of a dentist boyfriend whom she was considering leaving, her Art degree, whatever. She kept touching my shoulder, rubbed her hand along the back of my neck. She gave me her phone number on a piece of scrap paper.”
Vollenhoven was deep into his reverie. Total recall. Action playback.
“So I wait a few days and I call the number. She says I should met her at the New York Bagel place in Sea Point, she’s always there in the early evening, I go there and we have supper at a place in the area, go to a club in town, end up playing pool at the Cafe District Six at three in the morning. When it’s now really time to go home I ask her whether she wants to go back to Mowbray and she says no, she wants to see my place. Well, I’m into her, I don’t object to this idea even though she’s supposedly living with a boyfriend. So she ends up sleeping at my place. Next morning she’s still sleeping when I leave for the office so I leave her there. I got home, she was still there, she says she slept the whole day, wears some of my clothes. She offers to cook for me and whips up a huge meal. I was surprised she could cook that well. She spends that night with me too. Next day is Friday, she stays at home again but tells me she has to go to Shul that evening and can she have a key, she’ll get back on her own. She phones me that night and says she’s sleeping over at a friend’s place but she’ll come through in the morning, she even gets the woman to say hello to me. Anyhow, the next morning she arrives with a bag, clothes, cosmetics, and shoes. She’s left the dentist she says, can she stay with me until she finds a spot of her own? I say yes. She never looked for another place, as far as I know.”
Vollenhoven closed his eyes and again shrugged his shoulders as if he was trying to shrug off the past.
“Not that she was a burden. She spent a lot of time trawling around Cape Town, visiting friends, boyfriends, hanging out. Sometimes not returning home at all until the next day. Refused to tell me where she’d been or who with, said she couldn’t stand jealousy, inquisitiveness. Wanted freedom, trust, whatever. Mostly bullshit. I guess she used my place as a crash pad. I gave her some money when she asked but she always seemed to have money anyway. Sometimes she cooked, when we were both at home at the same rime. After the first week she stopped sleeping with me too, not that she was around a lot. Sex as an entree, then nothing.”
Vollenhoven lapsed into silence. Shrugged his shoulders again. His eyes panned the ceiling. He looked Freddy straight in the eye.
“Well, do you think you can track her down? I don’t want to waste more money on top of the bail money I might lose anyway.”
“It’s difficult to give guarantees, as you should know. Why do you suspect she won’t appear? Does she have a record?”
“I don’t know about a record. She says she hasn’t but who knows. It was a hell of a lot of coke. She might very well be convicted as a dealer. I think she has a tendency to run away from trouble, she’s not exactly Miss Responsibility.”
“Was she dealing?” Freddy asked, “is that how she made a living?”
Vollenhoven blinked, pursed his lips. He did his best to come across as absolutely frank, co-operative though baffled by some of life’s mysteries, in particular this one.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, shrugging his shoulders..
“Mister Vollenhoven, we’ll give it our best shot but, as I’ve said, I won’t guarantee that we will find her but if she’s around we’ll probably pick up her traces. You’ve got to take a little risk, spend some money to avoid losing more. We’ll do regular assessments. If you’re unhappy with progress you can tell us to stop.”
Freddy took a green folder from a desk drawer and wrote “SKLAAR, ANTHEA (possibly VAN HEERDEN)” at the top of the front cover, took a sheet of paper from another drawer, wrote down the date and Vollenhoven’s name.
“ Now, let’s just go over the details again so I can make notes for the file,” he said. “By the way, do you happen to know what the currency of Qatar is?”
“Musical notes?” replied Vollenhoven with a small movement at the corners of his mouth. It could have been the world’s tiniest smile.
TWO
After three rings the answering machine kicked in.
“Hi, this is Caronne,” a husky voice breathed into the phone, “I’m not home right now but if you want to leave a message for Chantelle or me, I’m sure you know what to do.”
Freddy knew what to do. He left his name and home phone number. It was generally a bad idea to let on that one was working for Credit Consultants. People who returned calls often put the phone down as soon as Yvette identified Top Notch. This was discouraging and completely counterproductive.
The return phone call came just after seven ‘o clock. Freddy was halfway through a Rodeo Ranch take away cheeseburger and chips special.
“Hi, is Freddy there?” asked a husky voice he had recently heard giving it sexiness on an answering machine.
“That’s me,” he said.
“This is Caronne. You phoned me?”
“Hi, thanks for returning my call. I’ve got some stuff from Anthea she said I should drop at your place?”
Freddy crossed his fingers.
“What kind of stuff?” Caronne asked, definitely interested.
“Uh, I don’t know,” he said, trying to sound mysterious and sincere, “it’s a parcel, she wrapped it up. She didn’t say....”
Caronne took a minute to decide. Freddy could almost hear her mental microprocessors sweat.
“Well, I have to go out by ten? If you want, you can come around any time before then, if you want to do it tonight. Otherwise, tomorrow?“
Freddy looked over at the dinner table where the remnants of his meal were quietly getting colder and deadlier. No great loss if abandoned to the greater need of the neighbourhood dogs. He looked at his wristwatch.
“Okay, I can be there in thirty minutes,” he said, “if you can give me your address.”
“Sure. Where are you coming from anyway? I was puzzling over this area code?”
“Vasco.”
“That’s strange territory.” She sounded amused. “I didn’t know Ants hung out with people that far out North? But anyway, hey, you’re welcome to drop off this mystery package. I’ll be here.”
Freddy took down her address. Afterwards he took out his map book of Cape Town to pinpoint the location. Caronne lived in what she called an apartment in London Road, between Main and Beach Roads in Sea Point. He took a moment to decide on his dress: business-like in jacket and tie, or casual and consumer-friendly in open shirt and jeans? He decided on casual dress. It was already probably going to be difficult, he did not want to look too much like a real cop.
From his interview with Vollenhoven Freddy had a suspicion that Caronne might be living in a twilight world where honour amongst thieves counted for more than simple honesty.
Freddy checked that his answering machine was on and left by the back door of the house. He hardly ever used the front door. The side entrance to the garage was a few steps away from the kitchen door. He could drive straight into the garage because he had installed an automatic device designed to open garage doors by remote control. You drove onto the driveway, pointed the little plastic box at the door, pressed a button and the door opened while a light went on inside the garage. A great safety feature for people who habitually came home after dark and feared ambushes by the criminal classes.
In the confines of the small garage Freddy’s metallic grey 1993 model Jetta looked bulkier than it actually was. He would have preferred something smaller and sportier but at the time of purchase the Jetta was meant to be a family car that could take two adults, two kids and their entire luggage on holiday. A responsible parent’s kind of car. Unfortunately there had not been many family holidays after the car had come into the household.
Freddy got into the car, slipped his .38 Smith & Wesson into place below the driver’s seat, pointed the door “bleeper” backwards over his shoulder without looking and started the car when he heard the garage door creaking on its upward path.
There was relatively little traffic on the on the road and Freddy got to Sea Point fifteen minutes early foe his appointment, He entered London Road, a one way, from Beach Road and drove up past Caronne’s building without finding a parking spot. At the traffic lights at the intersection with Main Road, Freddy turned right and found a vacant spot a block away.
The block of flats was grey and squat, four floors high. It looked like an institutional building of some kind. Freddy buzzed at the entrance. A good few seconds passed before Caronne answered and opened the front entrance for him. The lobby was grimy. The floor below the post boxes was littered with knock-and-drop pamphlets. Evidently the occupants here did not bother to read and discard them in the privacy of their own homes.
Every door on the floor had its own individual security gate. The paranoid count in Sea Point was high. Freddy tried the bell button at Caronne’s flat but heard neither ring nor chime and then knocked loudly. A minute passed before the door was opened.
“Caronne?” he said. “I’m Freddy Oelofse.”
“Hi!” she replied, smiling brightly. “Do come inside, please excuse the mess.”
She unlocked the security gate and stepped aside as Freddy entered.
Caronne looked about sixteen. Wet, blonde hair hugged her skull and flowed over her thin, slightly hunched shoulders. The face was gaunt, with delicate features, thin mouth, and huge blue eyes. Clever application of make up could probably transform her into a girl worth a second glance or two. She wore a sashless kimono and kept her arms crossed in front of her chest to keep the kimono from opening.
The flat was a spacious single-roomed apartment, the kind that was optimistically, if slightly disingenuously, being marketed as ‘loft style living.’ The only items of furniture were a huge unmade bed and a low table supporting a large television set and a VCR. The telephone perched on top of the television set. A ghetto blaster stood on the floor next to the table. A profusion of audiotapes was strewn around this little audio-visual entertainment nook. Indian scarves, hung two or three deep covered the available wall space. A large wall mirror with ornate gilt frame faced the entrance.
Caronne must have been joking when she used the word “mess.”
“Go on, sit down on the bed,” Caronne said as she reclined on it, “I promise I won’t accuse you of coming on to me.”
Freddy sat on the edge of the bed, allowing her an uninterrupted view of his left profile. He looked around the room, he looked at Caronne. She rummaged under the bed and pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges Ultra Mild. She lifted the pillow and found a Zippo-style lighter, lit a cigarette and lay back while she took her first puffs. Her actions were slightly jerky, either she was ill at ease or she was of nervous disposition.
“Where’s the stuff?” she asked. “You said Ants gave you some stuff for me?”
Freddy decided to stop lying.
“There’s no package,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, putting on his open and honest face. Trust me, I’m a tracing agent. “I’m looking for Anthea and I was told you’re her best friend and that you may know where she is.”
All his cards on the table. Caronne narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She sat up and stared at Freddy like a kitten might stare at a rubber mouse.
“A-ha!” she exclaimed, emphasising the second syllable for maximum dramatic effect. Her mother should have put her on the stage. “You’ve used subterfuge to gain entrance to my chamber! Sir, you are a cad and a bounder!”
Caronne smiled at him and got up from the bed. The kimono swung open, revealing Victoria’s Secret, or the closest approximation thereof. She stood in front of him, hip cocked, arms akimbo. If she wasn’t so skinny the effect might well have been erotic.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked, “provided you want nothing more than scotch and soda or G & T?”
“Please,” Freddy said, “Whisky with ice, if you have it.”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Caronne sang as she sashayed out of the room, returning with a tray holding well-used bottles of White Horse, Booths and Indian Tonic, and ice in a large ceramic ashtray. She put the tray on the floor.
“Help yourself,” she said as she fixed herself a stiff gin and tonic.
Freddy was less generous to himself.
“So,” she said after downing most of her drink in one gulp, “you’re going to ask me questions, are you, monsieur? You’re going to interrogate me, no?” The French coquette. Eyes extra wide.
“Do you know where she is?” Freddy asked hoping a straight, simple question would have a straight, simple answer. Preferably a favourable one.
“Not lately.”
“Okay, then, what’s the last address or phone number you have for her?”
Caronne gave it some thought. She bent over the edge of the bed and felt around under it, pulling a leather tote bag. From it she pulled an address book she opened at A.
“There’s a Mowbray number,” she said, showing Freddy. “I don’t know the address. You can try that number if you like. She was living with a guy called Paul.”
Freddy wrote it down dutifully. It was probably the dentist.
“Is there any other clue you can give me, where I could find her,” he asked. “Like places she hangs out at?”
Caronne repeated the list of places Vollenhoven had mentioned. Freddy groaned silently. Foot slog here I come.
“Does she have any other friends you could give me phone numbers for? In case they’ve seen her recently.”
“Well, doll, she knows stacks of people, boys mostly,” Caronne the Kugel reared her head, “but I will have to disappoint you there. I know some of them but I’ve never taken their numbers. Only their measurements. And their money.”
She giggled at her own joke and took another swig of her drink. Freddy gave the room another once over.
“Nice place you have here,” he said, making conversation automatically while trying to think of another angle to pursue. Was she honest or was she taking him for an idiot? “Is this a bachelor? I thought you had a flatmate.”
“Flatmate? Chantelle? She’s not my flat mate, mate! ‘Tis only I who resides in this humble abode.”
“Now I’m beginning to think you’re suffering from multiple personality disorder,” Freddy said.
“Is that, like, an insult? Or a joke?”
“Maybe you’re the one playing the joke. Are you just Chantelle’s personal answering service?”
“That might be, in a manner of speaking,” she allowed, very serious now, “but all messages are actually for me. Chantelle is my professional name. If the message is for her, I know it’s a client, otherwise, if it’s for Caronne, it’s a friend.”
“Oh,” said Freddy, better informed but not really any the wiser. “Why a professional name?”
Caronne smiled a suddenly bitter little smile.
“My dear, sir,” she said in a clear, business-like tone as if she were delivering a lecture to a possibly dim audience, “in my line of professional activities one does not want one’s real name bandied about town. It might prove to be quite horribly embarrassing. I entertain lonely men in need of warm companionship and an uncomplicated fuck.”
“Oh,” said Freddy.
“I hope you’re not going to get all moral on me,” said Caronne defensively, “because moi, I don’t give a damn, my dear, if you do.”
“Judge not lest ye be judged,” Freddy remarked. “All I want is some information on Anthea.”
Caronne lit another Ultra Mild and adopted a calculating look.
“Why do you want to find her?” she asked, “and what’s in it for me?”
No doubt her battle cry, Freddy thought.
“It’s confidential,” he said, “but I can reassure you it’s only her boyfriend who’s looking for her. She’s missing and he’s scared something happened to her.”
“Hah!” Caronne snorted derisively. “I don’t think Ants has ever had a boyfriend who really gave a shit that something’s going to happen to her.”
“That’s not a very flattering view?”
“Aah, my dear, you obviously do not know her at all, do you, darling?” Caronne acted the Grand Dowager. “Do you want to know about her? Do you want me to tell you some of her dirty little secrets?”
“Preferably just an address or phone number of someone who knows where she is.”
“Look here, my good man, how dare you cross question me and then absolutely refuse to listen to my tale of woe! Her woe!” Caronne had the pukka dowager drawl down pat. “Do have another whisky. I’ll have another G & T and then I’ll tell you all about her.”
She poured herself another generous drink. Freddy still had plenty whisky left in his glass. He topped it up with ice. They stared at each other for a few moments. Caronne took a swallow of her drink, a puff of her cigarette, cleared her throat.
“I’ve known Ants for about two years,” she said, “We started work together, and I mean together, at Dream Team around the corner here in Main Road. Our first job was a date with a couple of Malaysians who were over here to market cellphones. We were an interesting combination. I was as skinny as I’m now and she was still overweight from the baby. Not that the Malaysians complained. She was supposedly living with some guy in Clifton but he kicked her out or she dumped him, or whatever, and she moved in with some lawyer in Tamboerskloof, then she left him. Actually, she lived with him for quite a long time. She moved in with this guy Paul in Mowbray? That was a couple of months ago. I haven’t seen her lately and I haven’t heard from her. We used to talk on the phone every now and then and sometimes I saw her at work, but it’s been a long time since I last saw her or spoke to her. She hasn’t been at the agency for months.”
“She worked as an escort for two years?”
“Off and on. I know that she hardly worked for a long time when she was living with this lawyer. We saw each other every now and then but I didn’t have full details of her daily life, you know?”
“Did Anthea also have a ‘professional name’?”
“Yes, of course, we all do, you’re not going to tell a client your real name, are you? She called herself Alexandra.”
“Would the agency have an address for her? Or phone number?”
“You can try them but I don’t think they’re going to be too keen to help you. No one’s mentioned that she’s been there recently. So, I guess she’s not working for Dream Team at the moment.”
“If I phone for Alexandra, they’ll put me onto her?”
“You can try that, I suppose. I don’t think Rudy is going to give you her private number.”
“Rudy? Is he the boss?”
“The manager. Rudy Banerjee.”
“Do you know any of her clients? Regular clients?”
“She had a couple. I might drag up a few names from my memory but not addresses or phone numbers, just first names. We swap stories about the experiences. Names and places don’t really matter.”
“What is this story about a baby?”
“She’s got a kid, a girl, she must be about three, three-and-a-half by now? She was just under a year old when I met Ants. The kid lives with her grandmother somewhere in Woodstock but don’t bother asking me for the address ‘cause I do not know. And I don’t know the woman’s name either. ”
Caronne was an absolutely impeccable source of peripheral and incomplete information.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to dress and do my make up,” she said, pointedly looking at her wristwatch. “I’ve got a date at ten. Do you have anything else to ask me? Maybe we can make a date for some other time?”
“Okay, thanks for your time,” Freddy said, putting his glass on the floor before rising. “I will contact you again if I think of something else to ask you. And if you hear from Anthea, I’d appreciate a phone call.”
He handed her his business card, said good-bye and left. Asking her whether she knew the currency of Qatar was probably an exercise in futility. Caronne did not bother seeing him to the door.
“It was lovely meeting you!,” she called as Freddy stepped out into the passage.
He looked back. Caronne blew him a kiss, a wicked little smile on her lips. Freddy shuddered inwardly and closed the door behind him.
THREE
Freddy stood on the corner of London and Main with a Styrofoam cup of Steers coffee. He was taking a moment or two to collect his thoughts and to ponder his next significant move in this search. The interview with Caronne had been an interesting experience even if it had not lead to an early breakthrough.
He slowly sipped the scalding hot coffee and watched Sea Point buzzing around him, at least in the version it affected since the opening of the Waterfront. Main Road was still Restaurant Row albeit in a somewhat diminished and changed form. Kids in the hippest of clothing still swaggered along the pavements. Little old Jewish ladies and gents still shuffled past but probably with less confidence in the safety of their neighbourhood than a few years ago. Funky black dudes strutted their dreadlocked stuff. Prostitutes in skimpy outfits and with nasty little coughs paraded their charms on selected street corners.
Dream Team’s neon logo flickered across the street, half a block away. Freddy dutifully tossed the empty Styrofoam cup into an already overflowing and worse for wear plastic garbage container and crossed the street. While he was in the area...
The Agency’s shop front entrance was very discreet. Tasteful mauve curtains obscured any view into the premises. Only the neon sign had an element of garishness and a slight hint of vulgarity.
The reception area was small: four visitors’ chairs upholstered in mock leather, two potted palms and a reception desk. A block-mounted poster of a voluptuous nude silhouetted against a kitsch sunset on one wall. A ceiling to floor curtain covered the wall behind the desk and Freddy could hear the low bass thump of a hi-fi playing somewhere on the other side of the curtain. The receptionist’s hairstyle and colour were a living tribute to the ingenuity of the hairdressing profession and its manipulation of chemicals. Fortunately, her breasts were too small and flat to be able to pop out of her excessively low cut cerise body stocking. The lighting was low and intimate and kind to the heavily applied facial redesign by L’Oréal. The reigning aroma was Death by Joss Stick.
“Hi there!” said the receptionist brightly, baring her teeth to prove that years of smoking had had little impact on the enamel of her teeth, “how may I help you?”
She was sizing him up with a calculating look. No doubt the calculation related to Rands and cents. Freddy had a sneaking suspicion that he might not look prosperous enough to bolster his pretence of being a potential customer.
“Good evening,” Freddy said. His attempt to match her smile failed because he had not perfected the trick of completely relaxing the jaw muscles. “Is Alexandra in?”
“She is not in tonight,” the receptionist replied with a slight increase in her brightness as if to compensate for the disappointment that Freddy might feel. “However, may I introduce you to Carmen or Shelley? They are both very nice girls.”
“No thank you,” Freddy said, “your offer is very generous and I am sure Carmen and Shelley are both wonderful but it’s Alexandra I want. Will she be in tomorrow? Can I arrange a booking with you?”
“I’m sure I cannot at this moment in time tell you whether she will be in tomorrow but if you would care to leave your telephone number I will do my utmost to arrange a date for you. Would that be satisfactory?”
She positively beamed at Freddy. Except that it is difficult to beam properly if the eyes remain unresponsive. Anyhow, she had amply demonstrated that Dream Team would always go that extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction.
“Well, that is very kind of you,” Freddy said. “I’d really like to see her again.”
“I’ll do my best,” the receptionist promised. “But if Alexandra isn’t available, I’m sure that Carmen and Shelley are equally as nice. You won’t be disappointed. We Don’t Allow Our Customers To Be Disappointed.”
Another bright smile that reached from ear to ear but no further. Freddy bared his teeth but he knew it was futile to compete with her. He said good-bye, she implored him to call again, soon. He left.
On the pavement outside Dream Team he took another pause to consider options. He could go to New York Bagels while he was in Sea Point, then to Mr. Pickwick’s Deli in Long Street. It was still far too early check out the late-night spots.
Two prostitutes minced up to him with exaggeratedly swaying hips and mini skirts so short they would not have to be pulled up for the purpose of urinating. When they were close up Freddy realised that they probably peed standing up anyway. They were transvestites. The best way to tell the difference is that the trannies had the best bodies: tall, slim, good legs. And the biggest hair.
One of the two winked at him and flashed a smile. Freddy realised that his stare could be interpreted either as unfriendly or as an indication of trade possibilities. He looked the other way.
Freddy went to his car. He drove to Regent Road and New York Bagels.
At the coffee shop cum deli he hauled out the photograph and asked the staff the usual questions. All of them remembered her but none could say exactly when last they had seen her. One or two remarked that, come to think of it, it was strange that she had not been seen in a while. She used to be a regular.
Freddy drove into central Cape Town, down the length of Long Street, past a dozen or more rent boys hugging the corners. At Mr. Pickwick’s Deli he again showed his photograph and asked his questions. The proprietor, a native Englishman, remembered Anthea but had not seen her for a while. Neither had any of the other staff members. Freddy had another cup of coffee and then headed home. Late night investigations could wait for another day.
FOUR
In broad daylight the garden of his little house was a sad picture of horticultural neglect. Darkness softened the ugliness. Fortunately for his peace of mind that was generally the time of day Freddy saw it. More often than not, he had to leave the house before dawn and returned after dark.
He parked the Jetta in the garage and lingered on the concrete driveway for a few minutes while he studied his domain. Freddy had never been much of a gardener, through lack of both inclination and application. While he was still the head of a household he had made an effort to mow the small lawn as regularly as he could and on weekends he had grimly assisted Heleen when she messed about in the flowerbeds.
Heleen liked to have fresh flowers in the house. She planted batches of seedlings or sowed seeds all year round but somehow she could never maintain a consistently picturesque garden. There was always a bare patch of dry soil or a section where only half the flowers had survived into maturity. Freddy would have preferred large shrubs and trees, they were less work. You watered them regularly and pulled a few weeds, and they were happy to grow at their own pace.
Nowadays the lawn was scruffy and the flowerbeds were home to nothing but the most exotic of opportunistic weeds. A gardening service could have had a field day but Freddy did not have the spare cash to afford the luxury of paying somebody to beautify his environment on his behalf. The bond repayments were bad enough and a further big chunk of his income was earmarked as maintenance for the kids. He could barely afford a twice-weekly charlady but at least she was a necessity. Freddy did not mind untidiness but he certainly did not want to suffocate slowly in his own dust.
Heleen had left a message on the answering machine, asking him to call. She probably wanted money. She would never run up a phone account with long distance calls for mere idle chitchat. Freddy checked the time. She was probably still up, possibly waiting for his call. Bugger this, he thought, I’ll phone in the morning.
He made himself a cup of coffee. The Nescafe was almost finished. He had a quick inspection of the grocery cupboard. Mother Hubbard would have felt quite at home here, he reflected. Time for some grocery shopping. As a bachelor Freddy kept only the bare minimum of essentials in the house. He hardly ever prepared a meal when he was on his own and if a female friend came over for a meal, they bought fresh produce and she cooked.
Freddy ambled back into the lounge with his coffee and switched on the television set, tuning in halfway through a true-life drama emergency services programme from Australia. Apart from the fact that he had missed the build-up, this section was boring and lifeless. This was true of almost the entire SABC schedule. For some peculiar reason Heleen had attached a great deal of value, probably sentimental, to the M Net decoder and it was one of the few of their joint possessions she absolutely insisted on taking when the spoils were divided. This meant that Freddy did not watch much television anymore. I might as well cancel the damn rental agreement, he thought, at least that will be an extra R100,00 for living expenses.
He switched off the TV set and finished his coffee. His thoughts turned to Caronne. She was too skinny for his taste but there was a certain sex appeal in there somewhere. The jailbait sleaze factor. Such a kid. He thought of Heleen who was most certainly no longer a kid, if she had ever been one. Heleen was a strong, robust woman who had always regarded deliberately skinny women as stupid and ugly and who could never stand clinging, whinging women.
Maybe Heleen was in bed already. It might be a good idea to phone her, piss her off, and pay her back a little for the money she was going to ask for. He knew the maintenance was up to date. He had always made sure of that even if his money was a bit tight. He was not going to give Heleen the bitter satisfaction of coming down on him with the full force of the law and her scorn because he was short on the maintenance. But every now and then she demanded money over and above her due. Unavoidable circumstances, she called them.
The phone rang ten times before Heleen picked it up.
“Hello, Heleen?” she said. Crisp. If she was annoyed she would only show it once the caller had been identified and exposed as a nuisance caller.
“Yello,” Freddy said.
“What a surprise,” she said, evidently not happily surprised, if at all. “I was expecting you to phone me about the day after tomorrow. I know how busy you are.”
“I hope I disturbed you,” Freddy said.
This was an opening ritual skirmish that could escalate if the parties were really prepared to kick ass but usually the level of animosity remained at this low pitch, if it could even be dignified as animosity. Each of them simply wanted the other to know that there was no softening of attitude, that the lines remained drawn.
“How are you, Fred?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” Freddy said. “How are you? How are the kids?”
“We’re fine,” she said. “Chris is doing very well. He’s probably going to be first in his class this year and he’s a prefect next year, in with a chance to be head boy. Tracy always does well. She’s also going to be first in her class.”
“I guess they got the brains from your side of the family,” Freddy remarked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Heleen replied, after a brief pause as if she had given his remark serious consideration. “If the brains were on my side of the family I wouldn’t have married you.”
“Ouch,” Freddy said.
“Anyway, Fred, I know you don’t really care so I don’t want to waste too much time on these unimportant matters. The kids need money from you.”
Freddy shuddered, not quite inaudibly. He did a quick review of his finances. Not a pretty sight. Heleen never asked for a spare twenty Rand or so he might have floating around.
“How much and what for?” he asked.
“Well, I need a thousand all-in. They desperately want to go on a school camp thing over the holidays and I believe it’s a good thing because it also has something to do with leadership and group spirit building and so on. Most of their friends are going. So, it’s important for next year especially if Chris wants to stand a chance of becoming head boy. If he doesn’t go on this camp, he won’t be head boy.”
“A thousand bucks! One thousand Rand!” Freddy squeaked from shock. “You cannot be serious?”
“I am serious,” said Heleen who was indeed serious if she told you so. “Look, I don’t expect you to pay all the expenses, if that is what you’re thinking. I’m also putting in a thousand. It’s two thousand for both for three weeks. A thousand from you, a thousand from me. I had to make an effort and I made some sacrifices but I’ve done it and now it’s your turn to do your little bit.”
“Jeez,” Freddy said, “and when did you know about this? Months ago I suppose? And you ask me now? When’s school holidays?”
“Well, I did know about two months ago but I was trying to get it all without asking you. You know how I hate having to ask you for money. You always moan. It’s almost Christmas. Aren’t you getting a bonus? Look, this is important for the future of your children. Give it to them as a Christmas present. You’ve got about three weeks. I have to pay the money the day before they leave.”
Freddy had never given anybody such a big Christmas present. He could not even remember whether Heleen’s wedding ring had cost that much. But that was not the issue, nor was the question of his children’s future happiness. The money was. In general he earned a fair living but there were months when his income just about matched his unpleasantly high expenses.
“I don’t know whether I am getting a bonus,” he said. “It’s not part of my service contract, you know that. You’re the one with the thirteenth cheque, not me.”
“Are you saying no?” Heleen asked in her quiet but ferociously deadly voice.
“No,” Freddy replied, as quietly but less ferociously. He had to placate her until he could think up a plausible reason to refuse. A mere lack of funds was not always good enough. Her invariable response was that he should get his act together: work harder or change jobs
“I don’t have anything like a thousand bucks spare at the moment,” he said, trying to sound willing to be co-operative but hamstrung by events beyond his control. “I’ll see what I can do. I am up to date with the maintenance.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged grimly. “That’s a relief. But I am going to need more money from next year. I’m giving you fair warning. I need three hundred Rand per month more for both and I’d like to have it from January. Don’t make me go to my lawyer.”
“Why?” Freddy squawked.
“Expenses are mounting, Fred. Unavoidable circumstances. Schools are expensive. The cost of living is rising. You should be grateful you’re not stuck with everything I have to deal with. Remember, you don’t know what being a full-time single parent is like.”
Fortunately, she did not launch into the long version of her usual lecture on duties in general and parental responsibilities in particular, boiling down to the assertion that the mere payment of money does not compare to the day to day care and nurturing of children. Not only was this onerous responsibility entirely hers but she had also taken on a substantial share of the financial burden.
Freddy resented this lecture, particularly because he had always paid every cent of the maintenance he was required to pay and because she had chosen to take the kids with her to Swellendam. She enjoyed lecturing him from a distance while in the meantime he hardly ever saw his kids. In terms of the Divorce Order he had “reasonable access” provided he was prepared to go up to Swellendam every second weekend. Heleen had refused to allow the children to go to Freddy for weekends until they were “older.” Freddy suspected this would be about the time they turned twenty-one.
Therefore, he had the dubious pleasure of contributing to his kids’ living expenses without seeing them grow up. Brief, uncomfortable telephone conversations did not do much for father-child bonding.
True to his generation and class Freddy had married young because he was horny and Heleen did not believe in sex before marriage. They had had two children by the time they were twenty-five. It might have been the pressure of being a cop that changed his attitude towards her and to life or it might have been that Heleen herself just got fed up with the marriage and Freddy’s mood swings. The divorce was uncontested: she took what she wanted of their meagre joint possessions, and the kids. Freddy got the maintenance bill and access every second weekend. He stayed on in the former common marital home, which was a mixed blessing. The mortgage payments were a bitch to keep up. Heleen moved back to Swellendam to be closer to her parents, for baby-sitting services and all that supportive stuff you can demand from your close relatives but not always from your friends. She might also have intended her move to be a kind of secret revenge against Freddy.
“Well, look, I can’t make any promises,” Freddy said, “but I’ll try my best to give you as much as I can. I’m not making any promises about next year either. I accept that you’re struggling but so am I.”
“Fred,” she said sternly, “don’t make me go to my lawyer. They‘re your children. You have a duty to support them. You always have excuses. Grow up and accept a little responsibility. Anyway, I do hope you get the thousand together. You don’t want to ruin your children’s chances to get somewhere in life, do you? Goodnight.”
Heleen liked nothing better than to sign off with a guilt inducing admonishment.
Freddy had a sudden urge for a strong drink. A few strong drinks. He searched the kitchen cupboards in case he had perhaps hidden away some whisky he had forgotten about. No such luck. He thought about going out again but he did not feel like drinking in a bar either.
His emotions were a lethal mixture of rage and hopelessness.
Heleen knew he was on a treadmill. She knew how hard he had to work just to make ends meet. He had always lived frugally, even during the marriage he’d not had extravagant vices.
Lack of money is the root of all evil. Reality is the unpleasantness caused by lack of alcohol. Life is a bitch; you die and Hell is no better. “Bugger, bugger, bugger,” Freddy said aloud and went to the bathroom for a shower.
He got into bed and fell asleep within ten minutes. Although he had worries, there was no nagging conscience, no troubled psyche. And he was tired.
FIVE
Freddy’s consciousness returned slowly and sleepily. He fought his way up a steep, sand dune at the top of which he could hear a phone ringing. He lay semi-stupefied for a few seconds, listening to the phone’s monotonous and insistent aural intrusion in the lounge. Not for the first time he wished that he’d had the foresight to have a phone jack installed in the bedroom.
He tossed up a mental coin. It came down against common sense and in favour of action. He got up and dragged himself into the lounge where the telephone was still ringing. It must have been going for a long time before he woke up. The caller obviously had something pretty damn important to share with him. The lounge was dark and Freddy bumped into a few items of furniture before he reached the sideboard where the phone was.
“Yello,” he croaked into the mouthpiece.
“Freddy?” a breathy female voice inquired.
“Yes,” he said. He picked up the apparatus and sat down on the floor with it. He closed his eyes.
“You spoke to Caronne earlier this evening, last night, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Freddy said.
He was too tired to ask who the other party was. His recently formulated policy on this interrogation was to answer all questions as briefly and honestly as possible. He was not going to waste time, it could result in a longer conversation than was strictly necessary
“Okay, I wanted to make sure I got the right guy,” she said and put the phone down.
Freddy’s groan turned into a yawn. He returned the receiver to the cradle, struggled into an upright position and replaced the instrument on the sideboard. He had grasped that this call had manifested dangerous undertones but it did not feel like a good time to start analysing the situation. Tomorrow would do fine.
He got back into bed and checked the digital display on the bedside radio alarm clock. 04H30. He groaned again, turned over onto his comfortable side and went to sleep.
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