Killer Country (10 page)

Obed Chocho was maudlin. Unexpectedly down. Stricken when he should’ve been mighty fine.

After the call from Sheemina February he’d known a grief that kept him awake, tossing. Had him up drinking the better half of a bottle of Glenmorangie. The sort of whisky that should celebrate the good, not dull the bad.

At the end of the fourth double it was Lindiwe’s fault. For disrespecting him. Disregarding him. Opening her legs to Popo Dlamini, thinking nothing of it. Straight afterwards, opening her legs for him, letting him, her husband, slide in among her lover’s sperm. The bitch.

He’d warned her. Clearly in so many words: ‘You talk to him. You phone him. You send him any message I’m going to know. You do not want that to happen.’

Deadly serious he’d been when he said it. This was no joking matter, no funny business. This was about loyalty. Honour. Reputation. He was her husband. So it was over with Popo Dlamini. Stay away, he’d told her. You are making me out a moegoe.

Still she doesn’t listen. Still she goes running to the bastard last night. Mighty fine, the bitch, she had it coming.

But it wasn’t that easy. After four doubles Obed Chocho was in tears, weeping for his dead wife. He finished the last whisky, hurled the glass at the wall, the shattering like a gunshot in the quiet of the prison hospital. No one came to check.

Obed Chocho threw himself face down on his bed, smothered his head in the pillow to stop his howls. Great sobs racking his body, misery heaving and gasping in his chest. He gave himself to this: let the shuddering quieten itself and fell into exhausted sleep whispering no more Lindiwe. No more taking one of her long nipples between his teeth.

When the prison commander knocked on Obed Chocho’s door at two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, the prisoner was sharp and waiting. Trademark suit, white shirt unbuttoned to show chest and a gold chain.

Obed Chocho checked his watch. ‘It’s two.’

The prison commander nodded.

‘At two I should be through the gates, my brother. Not waiting here to be taken down.’ He picked up his cellphone from the bed. ‘This is my time we’re on now.’

‘It’s your lawyer’s come to fetch you.’

‘I hope so,’ said Obed Chocho. ‘Business before pleasure.’

The prison commander blocked the doorway. ‘The regulation is five o’clock, you’re back. I’m giving you till six. You come back later I’m the one in the shit.’

Obed Chocho grunted, waving the man out of the door way. ‘Mighty fine. That’s mighty fine, no one’s going to be in the shit.’

The prison commander stepped aside and followed the prisoner down to the visitors’ reception room. Watched Obed Chocho shake hands with Sheemina February, the lawyer almost as stunning as the man’s wife. Only the lawyer had something else about her: a ruthlessness the prison commander thought. Because of the black glove on her left hand, the flash in her eyes that saw and dismissed him in the instant. The briskness of her exit. So abrupt she left a presence behind, a lingering malevolence.

In Sheemina February’s high-riding X5, Obed Chocho said, ‘Are they found yet?’

The lawyer fired the ignition, slipped the gear into reverse. ‘Yes. A little earlier than I’d thought but what can you do? Sometimes there’re wild cards in the hand. Anyhow, earlier, later doesn’t make much difference in the end.’

Obed Chocho thought of the medics lifting Lindiwe’s body onto a stretcher, carrying it out covered by a sheet out to the ambulance. He wondered where she’d taken the bullet. In the head was Spitz-the-Trigger’s style. She wouldn’t have known fear. Would’ve gone from this world to the next without a pause.

‘How’d you intended it?’

Sheemina February pulled the SUV round in a U to face the gates. ‘I thought putting the broken-hearted hubby on the scene would’ve been good. Would’ve stirred the press.’ She glanced at him. ‘Are you broken hearted?’

Obed Chocho kept his head turned away from her, facing the road. ‘I was. I’m dealing with it, okay, leave it.’

She left it, steering slowly out of the prison and turning towards the highway.

Obed Chocho settled himself on the seat, easing down the backrest. ‘How long to the Smits’ place?’

‘You’re going to sleep?’

‘Why not? It’s a way isn’t it?

‘Forty-five minutes.’

‘Mighty fine. Get us there.’

He was finished with talking but Sheemina February wasn’t.

‘Obed, there’s another matter: Spitz.’

‘What’s his problem?’

‘Money. He wants more of it.’

‘To hell with him.’

‘That’s not so easy.’

‘So what’s his case?’

Obed Chocho brought the seat up. He needed a drink. Whisky would be preferable but he’d settle for something long and cold. ‘Tell me there’s a six-pack of beer in the back.’

Without a flicker of a smile, no hint of humour in her voice, Sheemina February said, ‘Behind your seat is a cooler box. Help yourself.’

Obed Chocho slapped her thigh. ‘That’s mighty fine, my sister, mighty fine. A woman who knows my preferences.’ He reached back and broke free a Black Label can, tore the ring-pull, putting his mouth over the opening to draw up the foam.

Sheemina February waited until he’d wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before she said, ‘Don’t do that again. I’m you’re lawyer. That’s how we keep it. That’s how I know your preferences.’

Obed Chocho took another hit of beer. ‘What’re you saying?’ He looked at her: her profile sharp and outlined against the side window. Her jaw tight, her mouth closed. Her lips bright as the flesh of plums. Her eyes secret behind the designer shades. Very elegant. His sort of woman. Not the sort of woman he wanted lip from. ‘What’re you saying?’

She didn’t answer. Let a minute pass. Let him drink another mouthful.

He broke her silence. ‘Lighten up, lady, okay? I’m mighty fine. Everything’s mighty fine.’

‘What I’m saying,’ said Sheemina February, ‘is the beer’s not free. On my invoice under incidentals you’ll see there one
six-pack
listed.’

‘Hey,’ said Obed Chocho, ‘you’re on a good number with me. Keep it in mind.’

Sheemina February smiled but the sight of it didn’t fill Obed  Chocho’s heart with joy. Nor her words: ‘Oh I do, Mr Chocho, all the time.’

He drank the rest of the beer without pause. ‘So Spitz is moaning. That’s what Spitz does, he moans. People who know Spitz say he’s a pain in the arse.’

‘He wants double payment.’

‘What for?’

‘He believes he was contracted for one hit, ended up two. One plus one.’

‘That was my wife. He wasn’t contracted to kill her.’ Obed Chocho broke open another can of beer.

‘Technically, not his problem.’

‘Mighty fine. The trigger man goes in to do a job, someone else is there he shoots her too. Who asked him to do that? No one. No one said shoot everybody in the house. Take no prisoners. Like here is a licence to kill. Go ahead, be my guest. Massacre everybody.’ He drank deeply. ‘He didn’t have to kill her. She shouldn’t have been there.’

‘I’m not going to answer that.’

‘Why not? Why not? He didn’t have to kill her.’

Obed Chocho felt the tears start, the emotion clogging in his throat. One thing he didn’t want was for Sheemina February to see him distraught. He swallowed more beer.

‘You want to do denial, you do it Obed. Just don’t do it on me.’

Obed Chocho groaned, turning away from her to still the sobs, bring himself under control.

‘I’m going to pay Spitz, Obed. Keep it simple. We don’t want problems from him and Manga. When it’s over, what you do then is your business. For now I’m paying him.’

Obed Chocho blew his nose into a handkerchief. Stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘Mighty fine. You’re the lawyer, sister. You handle it.’

The lawyer didn’t reply, kept the car humming down the highway.

* * *

Half an hour later Obed Chocho stood on the stoep of the old farmhouse and looked at the sea. The water still with kelp heads resting on it. A path of broken shells leading from the house to a curve of beach. Headlands of white boulders either end.

‘Mighty fine view,’ he said to the two Smits, Henk and Olivia, standing between him and Sheemina February.

‘It’s our weekend park-off,’ said Olivia. ‘We love it. You can see Cape Town and the mountain from the top of the rise back there’ – she pointed off to the left – ‘but otherwise it’s like nineteenth century.’

‘With indoor plumbing,’ said Henk, laughing.

‘But no electricity,’ said Sheemina February.

‘We could’ve got it put in,’ said Henk. ‘For a price, but then we couldn’t see the point. If you put in electricity you’re going to bring work here. The idea wasn’t to do that.’

‘Gas and candles’re all you need,’ said Olivia. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her cut-off jeans, looking, to Obed Chocho’s way of thinking, far too easy in the situation.

The conversation died. Obed Chocho thought spoilt white kids in their trendy gear, Raybans stuck in their hair, dark blue Saab cabriolet parked on the gravel patch at the back of the house. The house furnished shabby chic. And an apartment in Bantry Bay, Sheemina had found out.

Where’d two kids not thirty, okay maybe thirty get this kind of money? Not a question he had to ask himself because he had the answer: white privilege. Centuries of it. People like Henk and Olivia made him want to spit.

He stared at the horizon, realising the smudge in the haze was the northern tip of Robben Island.

‘That the island?’

‘You get a perfect view from the rise,’ said Olivia.

‘Mighty fine, I’m sure.’

‘On a clear day, through the bins, you can see people. It’s that close.’

Sheemina February said, ‘Mr Chocho spent time there. In the old days.’

Olivia Smit frowned, said, ‘Wow.’

Henk Smit said, ‘Oh interesting.’

Olivia saying, ‘Did you know Mr Mandela, Madiba?’

‘They’d taken him off already, when I got there,’ said Obed Chocho. ‘But I know the Old Man.’

Olivia said, ‘That’s a privilege.’

Obed Chocho made no further comment but turned to face the Smits. Smiling at them. ‘Business,’ he said.

They nodded.

‘Mighty fine. The story’s you bought this five years ago? For what? Five hundred grand? Five hundred and fifty? Six hundred?’

‘It was a good deal,’ said Henk, taking the answer no further.

‘We needed diversity in our portfolio,’ said Olivia. ‘More property, specifically. The West Coast was obvious. Where else is there for the city to grow?’

‘We’re offering to double your money.’

‘Uh ha,’ said Henk.

‘Five years that’s a good return.’

‘It’s fair.’

‘Market related,’ put in Olivia.

‘So where’s the problem?’

‘No problem,’ said Henk. ‘We’ll sell at that price for a buyin. We like your development. Only thing we’ve got to do is structure this.’

‘We do it all the time,’ said Olivia. ‘Paperwork.’

Obed Chocho said, ‘You got any beer?’ He’d had three in the car but could do with another. And one beyond that to wrap the deal.

While Olivia went to fetch the bottles and glasses, Obed Chocho said, ‘You understand what’s going on here? This is a BEE  project. Black. Economic. Empowerment. Totally. To push this through we can’t be seen otherwise.’

Henk nodded. ‘Of course. We appreciate that.’

‘Not about getting our slice of the cake. About getting back the cake.’

‘I hear you,’ said Henk. ‘I don’t see it quite that way but I hear you.’

‘How do you see it, Henk?’ said Sheemina February.

‘I can talk straight?’

‘We’re adults.’

Henk drew in a long breath. ‘Okay. What I see happening is some people getting rich on the back of a political situation. Getting very rich. Mostly it’s the same people. So happens I don’t have a problem here. This is capitalism: the acquisition of wealth. It’s what we do, Olivia and me, most waking moments of our day. No reason others shouldn’t.’

‘What’s that?’ said Olivia, setting down the bottles on the table.

‘Make money.’ Henk moved to uncap the beer. Olivia laughed but neither Obed Chocho nor Sheemina February cracked a smile. ‘Glass or bottle?’

Sheemina February said, glass; Obed Chocho said, bottle. He was thinking that these were punk whiteys wasting his time. His valuable time talking their stupid politics like there’d been no change of government. He took the beer Henk offered. ‘You think I’m greedy? That’s why I’m in jail.’

‘I don’t know you,’ said Henk. He handed Sheemina February a glass of beer and she took it in her good hand. ‘Personally I don’t know what you’re like. I’m talking generally. Theoretically. The reason you’re in jail, that’s old news. Doesn’t bother us.’

‘But if you come down to it,’ said Sheemina February, ‘what you’re saying is that Mr Chocho is greedy.’

‘Mr Chocho’s a businessman,’ said Olivia. ‘He lives in a nice house, he drives high-ticket cars. He has certain tastes. We all do that. So what?’ 

Sheemina February sat down at a chair beside the table. ‘You’ve done your homework.’

Olivia inclined her head.

Obed Chocho standing on the edge of the stoep felt a pressure build in his temples. To get this far and be stopped by two young mlungus whose forebears had stolen the land in the first place. To be insulted. To be called greedy. These arseholes judging him. He swallowed a mouthful of beer, said, ‘You think I am corrupt? That I took bribes?’ His voice quiet, containing violence.

Olivia was about to respond when Henk put his hand on her arm. She let him talk.

‘For myself I’m not concerned about that arms deal business. Neither of us are. What we see here is a way to make some money. We want to invest’ – he gestured at the beach and behind the house – ‘this property. For that we want a share of the profit. Open to negotiation of course.’ Henk shut up. He and his wife watching Obed Chocho.

Sheemina February watching Obed Chocho too. The pulse point throbbing on his forehead. One hand gripping the beer bottle, the other latched onto the stoep railing.

He turned to face the couple, went towards them, stopped a pace off. The woman and the man meeting his gaze. Obed Chocho held out his hand. He laughed. ‘My brother, my sister. I like you. So mighty fine we have a deal. Shake.’ He took Henk through the brother’s handshake, but kept it Western for Olivia. ‘We will negotiate like greedy people.’ Laughing again, letting them see he was relaxed. ‘Put your proposal in writing. We will work something out.’