From Cape Town with Love (26 page)

Nyathi reached into his pants pocket and brought out a handkerchief to wipe his brow, perspiring despite the cold air clutching us from the fresh meat and fish counter. Nyathi's sister-in-law was hovering in the aisle beside April's; he waved his handkerchief to her, impatient. “The register!” he said.

She scurried away to her post.

Satisfied that we were alone, Nyathi told me his story.

“The night in question was three years ago. Understand, the African immigrant community is small and scattered here, and our little family of African martial artists is smaller still. We all know each other. So we had a barbecue at a grandfather's house, a special night. All of us shared our favorite dishes from home, a couple of drummers brought their drums. We displayed our martial arts skills with sparring and demonstrations. No matter what you know, there is more to see, more to learn.

“Late in the evening, a drummer introduced himself as Spider. A young man, hair shaved off. No one knew him—everyone assumed he had come with someone else. But he had sought us out on his own. Spider begged our forgiveness for coming uninvited, but said he had brought food and wine for us, and he wanted permission to present himself to the elders in our community of warriors. Spider displayed skills in the shadow dance, the solitary play we use to demonstrate our skills.

“This is a major part of our gatherings: the introduction of young warriors to the spiritual elders. And we were very impressed!” He leaned forward, his eyes full of the memory.
“Very
impressed. The old men were reminded of themselves in their youth, and they shared stories of old matches, something that they rarely do before newcomers. He might have found harbor with us, if not for what happened next.

“He was drinking beer, and his personality changed as he grew puffed up from our praises. He became careless, rude. Several women were there, and he insulted a young woman in a very coarse way, the way someone might talk to a woman who was
isifebe
. . . a prostitute. Her young man challenged him, and they agreed to fight a practice match, using dulled knives. The young man was one of our best.

“And what did Spider do? He
destroyed
that young man, mentally—and almost physically. Even with a practice knife, Spider punctured him in the side”—Nyathi indicated a spot on his side dangerously close to the kidney—“and in the thigh, very close to his manhood. He did it laughing and taunting, so amused to give pain to another man. It was a sickening display.

“His venom repelled us. What this man knew, he knew from killing, not from practice. We are warriors, not killers. We tried to speak with him, would still have found a place for him had he humbled himself. Instead he cursed us, and fled.”

Sounded like the right man to me.

“Do you know anyone he's affiliated with?” I said.

Nyathi looked at his hands, inspecting those impeccable fingernails. When Nyathi turned his attention back to me, he looked as weary as I felt. “From time to time, I hear talk,” he said. His voice hushed. “Do you know of Umbuso Izulu? The Kingdom of Heaven?”

I cursed myself for not bringing a pad with me. I pulled my pen out of my pocket, ready to write on my open palm. “Who is that?” I said. “How do you spell it?”

“Not a who—it's a criminal enterprise here in L.A., but it originated in South Africa. Very organized, and growing.” I remembered Zukisa's words when we discussed the kidnappers at Maitlin's house:
These are awful people, but they are not simple. They are sophisticated. They are not wide eyed. They know all about how things work.
I might have it. I might.

My heart was pounding. “What do you know about them?”

“I just told you,” he said. “That's all I know, or want to know. I'm a businessman. No one worthy of respect would associate with Umbuso Izulu. I've only heard about the knives because they fight with this style you saw. Ummese Izulu—the Knife of Heaven. They say once you see the Zulu blade, you are a dead man. No one walks away.”

Almost no one,
I thought.

The television set's volume climbed, and the newscaster's words were suddenly audible through the door:
“. . . from FBI sources, Sofia Maitlin's longtime bodyguard, Roman Ferguson, died on the scene from multiple knife wounds. A second man, actor Tennyson Hardwick, was treated and released after being rendered unconscious by the kidnappers. While it is currently unknown what his role in these events might have been . . .”

He gazed at me closely, studying my mustache. “Are you a bodyguard? Like Cliff?”

“Now and then.”

Xolo Nyathi's jaw went to stone. Maybe he'd known from the start.

April and I had once talked about the magical moment when an interview subject decides to share, to say the thing that loyalty or fear made them hold on to. Nyathi had reached his moment. The look in his eyes made my heart thunder.

“This man,” he said, speaking slowly. He rubbed the sole of his sandal across the floor, as if he were wiping clean an invisible mess. “Spider. He plays drums with a combo from time to time. I believe the art he showed us was Ummese Izulu.”

God, please just do this for Nandi. Punish me instead.

“Where does he play?” I said.

“Shelter? Bamboo. Little clubs, parties. He's in demand. He plays salsa, ska, South African township, all the styles. I've seen him twice. I enjoy live music.”

I was running out of room on my palm. I hoped April was taking notes, too. I had never heard of Shelter, but Bamboo was an African and Caribbean restaurant in Baldwin Hills.

“After the party, I saw Spider playing drums at a restaurant. His playing style on the
djembe
was fascinating to me because it reminded me of his motion with a knife. The quickness. Between beats, he seemed to pat at the air, as if he was doing drills even while he played. The same butterfly energy and speed. I fear no man, but if I had no weapon, I believe Spider would kill me in . . .” He closed his eyes. They vibrated behind his lids, as if he was choreographing conflict. “He would kill me in less than a minute.”

“And if you had a weapon?”

Nyathi's lips curled into the slightest of smiles. “As I said, I fear no man.”

Spider was the man I wanted. My bones felt it.

I asked Nyathi to list every venue he could think of where Spider might have played, or anyone who might have hired him. By the time he finished, my palm was full of scribbles. I would transfer the notes in April's car. Her backseat was littered with reporters' notebooks.

“It would not be good, Mr. . . . Hardwick . . . ,” Nyathi said, “. . . if the wrong people were to hear that you got this information from me.”

“I understand. Everything is in confidence.”

“I have only given you suppositions. But if one businessman's thoughts might help you on your quest . . .” He gave me a sad, knowing smile. “Then God be with you.”

By the time I finished interviewing Xolo Nyathi, April was standing nonchalantly at the checkout counter with an armful of purchases. I walked past her without acknowledging her, and back outside.

“Mr. Hardwick!” Nyathi called sharply from behind me as I began back toward the car.

He had run out behind me. He looked over his shoulder before he approached me, then he slipped something into my palm. “A souvenir from my shop,” he said.

Silver gleamed in my hand: a small Ethiopian-style cross, with artistic flourishes around the traditional cross shape. I hadn't owned a cross since I was a kid.
Dad would love this guy.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll take all the help I can get.”

“I pray you find her,” Nyathi whispered. And he went back into his store.

I beat April back to her car, so I hung out on the corner of Fairfax and Whitworth to wait, mulling over what Xolo Nyathi had told me. While I waited, I put in a quick call to Chela's cell.

“Hey, Ten—whassup?” Chela said cheerfully. She was enjoying her day's adventure.

“Where are you guys?”

“Waiting for the check. I love the food here! Did you ditch 'em?”

“So far, so good.”

“We were just joking that if they keep trying to follow us, we'll drive to Palmdale.”

On another day, I would have laughed. Palmdale was a long hike to nowhere.

April carried a loaded shopping bag and a large, thin object that looked unwieldy.

“Hey, could you put Dad on?” I said to Chela, keeping an eye on April.

“Thanks for the whole
Bourne Identity
escape thing,” Chela said, trying to cheer me up.

I heard muttering, and Chela's voice was gone. I realized that if the day went wrong, I might never be able to speak to Chela again, but the cold knowledge was devoid of emotion. She would make it without me. She had a home.

“Whatcha got?” Dad's voice sounded far away, just shy of the microphone.

A passerby came too close to me on the street, a man with short dreads and an army jacket. I stepped away from him and kept my voice low. “Umbuso Izulu. Heard of it?”

“Mmmmm-hmmmm,” Dad said. “Kingdom of Heaven. Gangs from South Africa, Zimbabwe. Moved over here in the nineties. Why?”

April's car
clicked
as she unlocked it with her remote key.

“Hold on,” I told Dad, and walked to climb inside April's car. I didn't relax until my door was closed. “I think they're involved in this.”

“Ambitious, ain't it?” Dad said, sounding skeptical. “A movie star's kid . . . ?”

April climbed into the car beside me, closing her door, too. She showed me a reporter's notebook, flipping to a page full of neat lines of notes. She'd written down everything she'd overheard from Xolo Nyathi, just as I'd hoped. I blew April a kiss.

“Yeah, but this movie star's kid is from South Africa,” I said. “She put herself right on their radar. We need to pull Nelson into this. I'm calling him.”

“Better coming from me,” Dad said. “You two fuss and fight. Gets in the way.”

“Fine. But he needs to jump on this even if the FBI won't. The guy on
the football field knew the same knife art I saw in South Africa. I've found a lead, a guy named Spider, who knows the art. A drummer. I'm going to talk to him.”

“All this from the knife?” Dad said.

“It's an uncommon fighting style,” I said. “I got lucky.”

“Tell you what I know: Kingdom of Heaven had a nightclub, midnineties. Hollywood. It's closed now, but those guys had a bad rep. Vicious, like the Colombian and Mexican gangs. From time to time we'd find a vic dumped in an alley, some poor African immigrant whose girlfriend or sister said he was at the club and never came home. Just kids, mostly. Twenty-one, twenty-five.”

“How'd they die?”

I knew what my father was going to say before he did.

“Multiple . . . ,” Dad began, and stopped. “Shit.”
Multiple stab wounds.

I stared down at the cross in my hand. I clasped it so hard that the ridges bit into my palm.

“Nelson was on at least one of those homicides,” Dad said. “I sent him out so he could talk to witnesses. Black cop—you know, tryin' to blend. The investigation never took off, but Nelson will remember. I might've heard somethin' about abductions in South Africa, but I don't think they ever pulled that in the United States. They're smart. Like things quiet. Don't want headlines.”

“They tried to keep the kidnapping quiet.”

“Yeah, but they knew it might not stay that way.” Dad sighed. He wasn't quite convinced. “I'll work on selling Nelson. What about you?”

I hesitated. Was I talking to Richard Hardwick the police captain, or to my father?

“I'm going after Spider,” I said. “I got a couple of leads. Clubs where he plays.”

April cast me a worried glance over her shoulder.

Up ahead, I saw a sign for a car rental company on the corner. When I gestured for her to stop, she looked disappointed, but signaled to change lanes.

“Don't go solo,” Dad said. “Give me a minute with Nelson first.”

“Nelson's gonna take more than a minute,” I said. “Even if you sell
him, he has hoops to jump through. I'll give you everything I have, but I won't wait for him. No time.”

“Ten, if you move in too fast . . .”

I knew what he wanted to say. If I showed up asking questions about Spider, the kidnappers might get scared and any debates about Nandi's future would be over. But they also might kill Nandi in the next twenty minutes. In the next hour. Until I heard about another ransom demand, I would assume they weren't sending her home.

“Dad, moving too fast isn't the problem,” I said. “We're not moving fast
enough.”

I read him the list of nightclubs Nyathi had mentioned, and Dad shared the names discreetly with Marcela or Chela, who wrote them down. Writing was still difficult for him.

“Remember what I said, Ten,” Dad said. “Every decision matters.”

“Yessir.” A stone caught in my throat. “Thanks, Dad. Love you.” It fell out of me.

“It's a solid lead, Tennyson. Be careful.” Short silence. “I love you, too, son.”

Some people grow up telling their fathers they love them, or hearing their fathers say it. Not me. Finally, after forty years, my father and I had run out of bullshit.

Better late than never.

April was still waiting in the parking lot of the car rental office when the salesman walked me outside to inspect my rented black Corvette 2LT convertible. The car gleamed like moonlight on wet asphalt, and I silently apologized for everything I might do to its perfect finish. The salesman was thrilled when I agreed to buy the insurance, but he wouldn't have liked the reason.

I'd asked April to go, but she was still leaning on a hand-carved Ethiopian walking stick she'd bought at the store. Once we were alone, she stood within six inches of me. She forced me to stand still and look at her. I hadn't realized how much my eyes were avoiding hers.