The Rabbi folds his hands together and laces his fingers.
“I had a standing arrangement with the manager. Once a month, I go in and make sure the books weren’t being fucked with. On those occasions, I sometimes heard things about this one’s thing for young boys or that one’s taste for strangulation. You know, typical whore house stuff.” The Rabbi pauses, his gaze travelling to Howlen.
“I don’t know, actually, but please continue,” Howlen says.
The Rabbi shrugs. “One day, out of the blue, I get a call from the manager. “Come in,” he says, “It’s an emergency.” I wasn’t in the mood to deal with another prostitute OD-ing, so I told him to fix it himself. But the man was adamant, and eventually I was persuaded to check in at Sodom.
“
Him
is a strange man, unremarkable in almost every way. If you see him on the streets, you wouldn’t look twice in his direction. Look into his eyes, though, and your first instinct will be to run. He has no soul. I confirmed this when I shook his hand.”
I glance at Howlen before looking back to The Rabbi. “Explain.”
He holds out his hand for me, “Take my hand,” he says.
Howlen moves forward taking The Rabbi’s hand in his.
In an instant, The Rabbi’s eyes turn milky white, but he locks gazes with Howlen anyway.
“Will you join us for a tea party, Howly? Mr. Wiggles and Mrs. Bear requested your attendance, personally. Will you? Will you? Will you?”
The voice coming out of The Rabbi’s mouth doesn’t belong to him. The eerie sound, saccharine and girlish, has a distinctively British accent to it, which I doubt he could fake.
Howlen tries tugging his hand away but The Rabbi holds fast, clamping his free hand over Howlen’s.
“Did you see that one, boy?! What a beauty!”
Another voice, an elderly male sounding excited.
“I should bring you on more of these trips of mine.”
“Stop it.” Howlen tries to free himself from The Rabbi’s grasp. “Stop!”
The Rabbi doesn’t let go of him.
Blood drains from Howlen’s face until he’s an ashen copy of himself, his eyes widen and his jaw goes slack.
I rest my hand on Howlen’s knee. “Howlen?”
“Shit,” Feyisola, or rather Naledi, says, putting down her nail file and standing.
“What shit?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you hold my hand, Howlen? Mum said you should always hold my hand, but you didn’t… Don’t you love me anymore?”
The Rabbi tilts his head to the side, those glazed-over eyes staring without really seeing. It sends shivers up my legs.
“It’s so cold here, Howly. Cold and dark… Why didn’t you hold my hand?”
Feyisola rushes to The Rabbi’s side, places one hand on his shoulder and tries to pry his fingers away from Howlen’s hand. “Help me!”
I grab hold of Howlen’s wrist. His skin is like ice and the hair on his arm is coarse from fear. I try to pull him away from The Rabbi.
“I’m so scared, Howlen,”
The Rabbi continues in the little girl voice. Then he switches to an elderly man again.
“Sit down, son, and tell us exactly where you last saw Olivia. No, no, we’re not angry with you, Howlen. Just tell us where you last saw—”
Whatever connection there is breaks as Feyisola and I pull them apart.
Howlen slumps back against his chair. Air rushes out of The Rabbi’s lungs in a
whoosh
as he crumples into himself.
“That was rather unpleasant,” he says in his own voice while I kneel by Howlen’s side, trying to revive him from whatever dark place he’d been forced to visit.
“Howl?” I whisper, taking his hand in mine. The calluses on his palm feels familiar against my fingertips, but his eyes are vacant. “Howl, snap out of it,” I say, gently placing my other hand against his cheek.
“Give him a few minutes,” The Rabbi grumbles massaging his temples.
“What did you do to him?”
“Naledi,” he says, waving a hand.
“The Rabbi acts as a conductor for the dead. Whatever happened here is the result of a guilty conscience, of not being able to let the dead sleep in peace,” Feyisola explains. “Your friend’s grief is what caused this, nothing more.”
“Will he be okay, though?”
“In time,” she says, sounding unsure.
“This happens more often than you might think. Guilt, I mean. When I shook
Him
’s hand, however, the voices of his victims were in my head—begging, pleading, yelling for some release from the endless torment—but his state of mind kept them from breaking through.
Him
has no soul, Crimson. None,” The Rabbi says. “Lancelot’s different. His guilt keeps the dead here.”
“I’m fine,” Howlen says, blinking as he snaps out of his stupor.
“See? What did I tell you?” Feyisola says, sitting back in her chair.
“Are you sure?” I ask, ignoring Feyisola, still holding his hand. Howlen suddenly pulls his hand out of mine, and stands.
“Howl?”
“I’ll wait for you outside.” The monotonous sentence holds the slightest hint of anger. With a single cutthroat glare, directed at The Rabbi, he weaves around me and the chair, and heads for the door. Obviously his wellbeing is important, but I decide—for the sake of not making a scene and flaunting my personal life in front of potential enemies—to let him leave.
“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.