There were pelicans on
the lagoon opposite the golf course. They were feeding, undisturbed by
"They were so full of their fucking four-by-fours."
"So you assaulted them?" "The fat one hit me first." "Why?"
He turned his head away. "I don't understand you." He made a noise in
"You can make a living. But you have such a shitty opinion of
yourself . . ."
Paarden Island's industries moved past. "What happened?"
Van Heerden looked at the rain, fine drops scurrying across the
windshield. He took a deep breath, a sigh for the uselessness of it all.
"You can tell a man his four-by-four isn't going to make his prick any
larger and he pretends to be deaf. But drag in his wife . . ."
For a brief moment he felt the hate again, the relief, the moment of
release of the previous evening: the five middle-aged men, their faces
contorted with rage, the blows, the kicks that rained down on him until
the three bartenders managed to separate them.
They didn't speak again until Kemp stopped in front of a building on
"Third floor. Beneke, Olivier, and Partners. Tell Beneke I sent you."
He nodded and opened the door, got out. Kemp looked thoughtfully at
Then he closed the door and walked into the building.
He slumped in the chair, lack of respect evident in his posture. She
had asked him to sit down. "Kemp sent me," was all he had said. She had
nodded, glanced at the injured eye and lip, and ignored them.
"I believe that you and I can help each other, Mr. van Heerden." She
tucked her skirt under her as she sat down.
Mister. And the attempt at common ground. He knew this
approach. But he said nothing. He looked at her. Wondered from whom she
had inherited the nose and the mouth. The large eyes and the small ears.
The genetic dice had fallen in strange places for her, leaving her on
the edge of beauty.
She had folded her hands on the desk, the fingers neatly interlaced.
"Mr. Kemp told me you have experience of investigative work but are not
in permanent employ at the moment. I need the help of a good
investigator." Norman Vincent Peale. She spoke smoothly and easily. He
suspected that she was clever. He suspected she would take longer to
unnerve than the average female.
She opened a drawer, took out a file. "Did Kemp tell you I was
Her hands hesitated briefly. She gave him a stiff smile. "Mr. van
Heerden, your personality doesn't interest me. Your personal life
doesn't interest me. This is a business proposition. I'm offering you a
temporary job opportunity for a professional fee."
So fucking controlled. As if she knew everything. As if her cell
phone and her degree were the only defense she needed.
"How old are you?" "Thirty," she said without hesitation.
He looked at her third finger, left hand. It was bare.
"Are you available, Mr. van Heerden?" "It depends on what you want."
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...