Death Angels

24

THERE WAS THAT RESTLESSNESS AGAlN, LURKlNG lN THE PlT OF his stomach like a predator.

Are you mature enough to be a father? he asked himself. Is it too big a step, or is something else bothering you?

He had felt the baby kicking earlier that evening, and his hand was still throbbing hot and cold.

“What’s going on?” Martina asked, squinting at him.

“Nothing.”

“You just had an expression like something horrid had crossed your mind.”

“It’s just the job.”

“What about the job?” she persisted.

“The late hours are getting to me, that’s all.”

“Haven’t you got the afternoon shift all week?”

“Yes, but they should call it the evening shift.”

“Or the night shift. You come home smelling of cigarette smoke.”

Bergenhem took the road that led from their row house to the bridge. The sunlight over the bridge had worn a different aspect the last day or two, like a promise. Will you have the same feeling fourteen years from now? he wondered. Will your heart still leap when spring is on the way? In fourteen years, the trees will tower over the house and you’ll be a detective inspector and your kid will be starting high school.

Then we’ll hole up in some secret hideout, like Birgersson, for the last week in February when the whole world is waiting out winter’s last gasp. Birgersson is never tan when he comes back. Where the hell does he go, anyway?

Chunks of ice floated below the bridge. The setting sun struck the water and turned the river into a trail of broken glass.

A cutter cleaved the surface on the way to the sea as if it had diamonds in its propeller. West of the bridge, it met the Catfish, soaring above the water on its way in from Denmark. He heard nothing, the hovercraft a burst of movement without sound.

He left the bridge behind and found himself surrounded by the silence that wafted through the city from the sea.

It must be possible to get hold of a sailboat at a decent price, he thought. Martina would be glad for some time alone, wouldn’t she?

He put a tape on and turned up the volume until it was just short of unbearable. The traffic flowed soundlessly outside the window.

The sign was lit up, just like the last time. He parked in the same spot. The door looked different now that he knew what it was like inside. He walked quickly past the racks of magazines, through the curtain and into the club proper. There were men at all the tables except the one closest to the door, and that’s where he sat down.

A woman was dancing on a table next to the stage at the far end of the room. The customers clapped every once in a while. No music was playing this time.

Tina Turner deserves a break, he thought. A waiter in a white shirt and dark bow tie came and took his order, returning a couple of minutes later with his Coke. He raised his glass and sucked an ice cube into his mouth to chew on.

“Back already?” The owner stopped halfway through the curtain.

“You don’t waste any time.”

The owner didn’t respond.

“I had a couple more questions for you.”

The owner stayed where he was, cigarette in hand.

“This is fine right here. We don’t have to go into your office.”

“Fire away.”

“Isn’t the curtain bothering you?”

“Is that the first question?”

“I was just wondering.”

“It’s a great curtain, exotic, just like our dancers.”

“It looks like something out of a silent movie.”

The owner held up his hand in resignation and sat down across from Bergenhem. He peered over at the glass on the table. “We can spike your drink if you like.”

Bergenhem asked himself what Winter would have done in this situation. He sipped his Coke, feeling the icy cold on his tongue. “With what?” he asked, though it was obvious he was being offered any substance of his choice. “How about rum?”

The owner went off and talked to the bartender, then returned, and soon the waiter appeared with a couple of drinks. “For our friends only,” the owner said, lifting his glass once the waiter was gone.

This is an innocent enough game, Bergenhem thought. He’s testing me, but for what? “I just remembered I’m driving,” he said.

“A few sips won’t hurt you.”

This is pure strategy on my part, Bergenhem thought, raising the glass to his lips.

“Was there something you wanted from me?” the owner asked.

The music started to pound like a pile driver through rock. The low bass made Bergenhem’s forehead throb. Is this another test? he wondered.

The owner studied him. The volume was lowered and the treble turned up. Two women climbed onto the stage. Tina Turner again.

The owner leaned over the table. “I’m still waiting.”

“Is Tina Turner the only thing you’ve got here?”

The owner glanced over at the stage, then fixed his eyes on Bergenhem once more. He was wearing an open-neck plaid shirt, suspenders and dark pants with cuffs. The painted floodlights along the wall lent a red tinge to everything in the room. “It’s the best music to dance to,” he said after half a minute.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Are you trying to make me angry?”

“Hell no.”

“Then what did you come for?”

“Last time I was here, I forgot to ask you about the kinds of customers you have, whether there’s any difference between them and the ones who patronize other clubs.”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

“Are you sure? Every club’s got its own little specialty, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

Bergenhem eyed the stage. He recognized both women. The younger one looked even thinner than before. Her lips were crimson. He suddenly wished the owner weren’t there.

“You’re mistaken if you expect to find anything here,” the owner said. “Just take a look around. I see you’re already checking out the show.”

Bergenhem managed to take his eyes off the women. The song ended, and another one started up after a few seconds. You’re simply the best, Tina Turner thundered, better than all the rest.

“This isn’t a gay club,” the owner said.

“You’ve had a drag show or two in your time.”

“Is that so. Were you here?”

“That’s not the question. We’re not prejudiced against anyone.”

The owner shook his head in bafflement and stood up. “Feel free to finish your drink.” He rustled his way back through the curtain.

The show continued for another ten minutes. The women left the room. Bergenhem sat quietly, sniffed his drink once but didn’t touch it again. He didn’t want to leave the car outside overnight. He’d assumed the owner would hang around for a while if he was drinking, but that had turned out to be a miscalculation. Perhaps just as well, he thought.

The younger woman stepped out of the doorway by the stage and walked to the closest table, where three men got up and pulled over a chair for her. Her black dress glistened in the red light. She took a cigarette out of her purse. One of the men flicked open a lighter even before she could put the cigarette between her lips. He said something and she laughed. Bergenhem studied their every move.

The woman stood up and went back out through the door, followed by the man who had lit her cigarette. Other women sat at a number of the tables, but there were more men. Bergenhem waited.