Killer Country (20 page)

Pylon met Henk and Olivia Smit in a reception lounge of the downtown offices of Smit & Desai Financial Advisors. While he waited stood looking at a view over the harbour, at the expensive apartments fringing the marina and the malls beyond. To the right a sight of the working harbour, an oil rig berthed there, swarming with maintenance crews.

From here too he could see the curve of the bay disappearing up the west coast. Couldn’t see as far as the land he’d hoped to develop but almost. The sight brought a metal taste to his mouth. Not only because of Rudi Klett’s murder but because of Obed Chocho. Because Chocho was riding over everyone.

Which was what he told Henk and Olivia Smit.

‘Wait,’ said Henk. ‘Hold it, okay. Before you start, I have to tell you we’re not about to reconsider. Your deal was good but Obed Chocho’s is better. Nothing personal about it. Just hard figures.’

‘You’re not listening to me,’ said Pylon. ‘I’m telling you Chocho’s hanging you out.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Stringing you. Dishing up what you want to hear. Come the time he’s going to cut you free without a tiny cent.’

Henk interrupted him. ‘Oh, come on.’

Olivia said, ‘Let him finish.’

Pylon glanced from Henk to Olivia, their faces non-committal. ‘Why I’m here is to give you more information. Information which you should know before you go any further.’

‘We’ve put down our cards,’ said Henk. ‘You can’t tempt us.’

Pylon smiled. ‘I’m not going to. We’ve pulled out. Had to pull out, I should say.’

‘Why?’ said Olivia. Where she sat on a leather couch beside her husband, she kept running her hands down her skirt, smoothing the creases. Such a delicate, fragile woman, Pylon thought, to be in finance.

‘Because our backer was shot.’

Olivia stopped in mid-iron. Henk said, ‘Hell, man!’

‘Driving into the city on Monday night, he was assassinated. The best we can work it out the shooter came alongside and popped him where the road splits at the freeway. He died in hospital yesterday.’

‘Hell,’ Henk said again.

‘That’s horrible,’ said Olivia.

‘You’re sure it was an assassination?’ said Henk. ‘Not something random.’

‘We’ve discounted that.’

‘I can’t believe it. That’s pulp. That’s what happens in the movies and books.’

‘Real life, too,’ said Pylon. ‘I told you about Lindiwe Chocho.’

‘Not the way the papers reported it,’ said Olivia.

‘Course not,’ said Pylon. ‘Because they weren’t told. The papers don’t know everything. Didn’t know, for instance, that Popo Dlamini was passing on information to Obed Chocho about when our backer was flying in from Berlin. Unfortunately we didn’t know Popo Dlamini was doing this until too late.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Henk. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Wait,’ said Olivia, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘You’re telling us Mr Chocho had him killed, your backer?’

‘Let me put it this way,’ said Pylon. ‘From what I know of Obed Chocho, and I know a lot over a long time, then it’s not impossible. I’ve got no proof. Just circumstantial evidence and some inside information.’

‘So you’re telling us what?’ said Olivia.

‘To be careful,’ said Pylon. ‘Don’t go in with him. Sell at his price and walk away. Stay alive.’ Pylon stood up, stared at the young investment analysts. Doubt in Henk’s eyes; Olivia troubled, believing him. ‘A quick story to fill you in.’

Olivia and Henk stood.

‘This happened in the camps. Twenty years ago. The bad one, Quattro, in Angola. You want to hear it?’ He waited for them to nod. ‘Okay. What happened at Quattro is people were brought there, people they thought were impimpis, betrayers. Some of those people died in that camp. Died because they were tortured to death. Raped. Beaten. Starved. Driven mad because they weren’t given water. They could see it there in a glass on the floor but they were tied up and couldn’t reach it. Or they could feel it dripping on their heads, smack, smack, smack. The lucky ones were shot. Gun to the head. Bam.’

‘Stop,’ said Olivia. ‘Stop.’ She had her hands on her face, covering her mouth.

‘For a year,’ said Pylon, ‘Obed Chocho was one of the commanders at Quattro.’

Henk folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘How d’you know that?’

Pylon smiled, a wan smile that hardly moved his lips. ‘I was there. I saw him.’

‘He killed people?’ Olivia had lowered her hands and now held them flat against one another as if in prayer.

‘You don’t have to take my word for it,’ said Pylon. ‘There’re records. But the president’s got the paperwork under lock and key. And, yes, that’s what I’m telling you.’

Which was what he told Mace as they drove to the airport to pick up two clients flying in from London. Return business, husband and wife motivational speakers who’d done a surgical safari the previous year. Wanted a little peace of mind while in Cape Town. Nothing heavy, more a chauffeur with clout than a bald bouncer. Complete Security’s speciality. Five men, two women, all police services finishing school. Any one of them could’ve done the meet-and-greet, except with return business Mace and Pylon preferred to do the honours in person. Helped shine the image. So here they were on the highway in the big Merc pushing the clock.

‘But they’re not going to listen,’ said Pylon. ‘They’re not the type. Only thing now is how badly they’ll get burned.’

‘If not killed.’

‘A possibility. Except I don’t reckon Obed’ll go there. More likely to take their bucks and leave them steaming. What he’d call righteous returns.’

As they took the exit to the airport, Mace said, ‘That’s where Rudi got done’ – pointed at the outgoing lanes – ‘still can’t get round it that I didn’t realise till we were on the highway. One maybe two kays away. Hey? How can it happen?’

‘It does,’ said Pylon. ‘After the Smits I took a drive to Obed Chocho’s place. Don’t ask why, okay. I don’t know. I just did. Two  hours to kill I thought I’d go and sit there, see if anything was going on.’

‘Pylon Buso, private dick.’

‘Just listen alright.’

Mace slowed on the approach to the arrivals building. ‘I’m going to park in a drop zone.’ He checked his watch. ‘They’re probably through already.’

‘No panic,’ said Pylon. ‘You want to hear this?’

‘Sure, sure,’ Mace stopped to let passengers wheel baggage trolleys over the pedestrian crossing then angled the car into a no-parking bay.

‘I sat down the road from Obed Chocho’s. I’ve been there about forty minutes, nothing going on and I’m thinking about how I did this just five days ago checking out Lindiwe and Popo Dlamini. I’m about to leave when the gates open and Obed drives out in his macho black Yengeni. The same one I followed when Lindiwe was driving it. Problem: follow or stay? Something says stay even as I switch on. So I switch off. Sit there watching Obed Chocho drive away. Not five minutes the gate opens again, here comes a nice new Audi with two gents. This time I think, follow them. So I do.’

‘Tell me inside,’ said Mace. ‘Our clients’ll be waiting for us.’

He and Pylon got out, hurried into the terminal, Pylon saying, ‘I don’t even remember what they look like?’

‘Chic,’ said Pylon. ‘T-shirt and black linen jacket on him. Her: white linen blouse, jersey knotted round her neck. Lots of white hair on both.’

They scanned the crowds.

‘Here’s the rest,’ said Pylon, ‘short and sweet. Where I followed them to was the Waterfront. The guy in the passenger seat with the short dreads was the guy who wandered into ICU the other day. No mistaking him.’

‘Jesus,’ said Mace.

‘Exactly,’ said Pylon.

‘And the car?’

‘Hired. Yesterday in the name of Obed Chocho. One extra driver by name of Manga Khumalo. Strange thing: last Saturday night a courier signed himself out of the golf estate where Popo Dlamini lived as Manfred Khumalo. Coincidence, or what?’

‘Curious.’ Mace saw an arm waving in the thick of the crowd, the twin heads of white hair. ‘That’s them’ – he said, angling off towards the mid-fifties couple: tanned people, tall and slim, dressed exactly as he said they would be.  

Spitz stood in front of the mirror gazing at his feet in the Bally moccasins. He moved his toes, watched the black leather ripple. Soft and silky. Cool shoes. Shoes to walk into JB’s on a Saturday morning as if you’re walking on air. Have the babes nudging one another. Tinkling their lattes, running their eyes full time in your direction.

He walked a few paces, watching the movement in the mirror, the cuff of his jeans riding up slightly to expose the low cut of the shoes. Po-et-ry.

Manga, sprawled in a chair, said, ‘Captain, just buy them. No more catwalk stuff.’

‘With shoes,’ said Spitz, ‘you have to be very careful. Even good shoes can sometimes be the wrong type.’

‘For what?’

‘For the job.’

Manga snorted. ‘And these are the right type?’

‘Yes. They are light and they are quiet.’

‘For the job we’ve gotta do, you need this,’ said Manga, thrusting out his trainers. ‘The tough ones. Go anywhere, go anytime.’

Spitz twirled on his left heel to come face to face with the shop attendant. ‘I will take them,’ he said.

The attendant beamed at him. ‘If sir’ll sit, I’ll slip them off for sir.’

‘No, that is alright,’ said Spitz. ‘My other shoes you can put in the box. These shoes I will wear.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the attendant. He turned to Manga. ‘We can’t interest sir in some proper shoes?’

Manga shook his head.

‘That’s a pity sir,’ said the attendant, sweeping Spitz’s brogues off the floor. ‘Nice shoes, sir,’ he said to Spitz. ‘Sir has taste.’

Manga glared at the attendant poncing off, head high. ‘Shit, captain,’ he said. ‘These coloureds are fulla shit.’

Was still pissed off with the shop jockey when they drove out of the V&A following Spitz’s directions along the waterfront cutting back beside the golf course towards the traffic circle that spat them onto Somerset.

‘Now you can drive slowly,’ said Spitz. Manga noticed the scatterings of prossies on the corners. He groaned, ‘No, captain, no way, not these.’

‘Coloureds’ – Spitz grinned at him – ‘for me they give the best head.’ He tapped his two front teeth. ‘Those ones without these teeth to get in the way.’

They cruised the length of the street once, u-turned at Glengariff coming back fast on the other side, Spitz making a selection, saying, ‘That is our girlfriend, that one with the red skirt. That is our baby. Go to her.’

‘You maybe,’ said Manga. ‘I don’t do coloured.’

Spitz laughed. ‘My friend is racist.’

‘Hola, captain, it’s about preferences. The way I see it. Me, I prefer young. I told you.’

‘She is young. Eighteen years old. No more than that.’

‘I like younger. And no coloured.’

‘This is Cape Town. Everyone is coloured.’ He pointed out the window at sky, mountain, sea. ‘Tomorrow we are gone. Maybe we should go up the mountain afterwards?’

‘I don’t do mountains,’ said Manga. ‘Even flat ones.’

‘Because of you I cannot go up the mountain? Is that what you are saying?’

‘Do your thing, captain. But if you wanna go up the mountain you go alone.’

‘I ask you please. At this moment we must enjoy the city.’ Spitz waved at the girl in the short red skirt. ‘Stop the car.’ He lowered the window as they pulled alongside. ‘Hello, baby,’ he said, ‘how about we can have some fun?’ To Spitz the girl looked the image of Sheemina February. Only younger.

The prossie strutted, half turning away, giving them the lower curve of a cheek hanging out the red dress. ‘What you want, gents?’ Manga whistled, changing his tune. ‘Come for a ride, my cherry.’

‘With you gents, not a chance.’

‘Come’n,’ said Manga, ‘we’re good.’

Spitz held up two pink fifties.

The girl-woman snorted. ‘Nah, sweetie gents, what d’you want for that little.’

‘Gates of heaven,’ said Manga, leaning across Spitz to waggle his tongue at the prossie.

Spitz got out, opened the back door. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Cherildeen, sweetie.’ She changed hips, the dress riding higher on her bum. Still half turned away from Spitz and Manga, looking back at them over her shoulder: wet red lips. ‘You put another pinkie to it I’ll mos blow yous both.’ She grinned at them, gap toothed. ‘Seventy-five, drive alive. Come again twenty ten.’

‘You like football?’ said Manga.

Cherildeen stuck her tongue into her cheek. ‘Anything with balls, hey sweetie gents.’ She brushed past Spitz to get into the car, feeling at his crotch. ‘I like you, sweetie big boy.’ He eased himself in next to her. 

Manga, eyes riveted to the rearview mirror, said, ‘What d’you think I am, captain? A Spitz special chauffeur?’

‘Your turn’ll come, sweetie,’ said Cherildeen, already working to undo Spitz’s belt and flies. She got him loose and gasped. ‘Oh what a pallie. You wanna wait until you’ve got a sea view or you want me to mos do it now.’ She slid down to give him a lick. Like she would an ice cream.

‘Now,’ said Manga. ‘This isn’t a tourist trip.’

‘My friend is from Jozi,’ said Spitz, putting his hands in the frizz of the prostitute’s hair. ‘You can give him the sea view.’

She did Spitz on the drive to the car park at Mouille Point lighthouse. He got a sea view, even a sight of Robben Island before she sucked him off. Swallowing. She came up, dabbing her mouth with a tissue, her lipstick smeared. While Spitz zipped, she unclicked a purse, reapplied a glossy red.

‘A girl’s gotta look girlie, hey sweetie,’ she said, taking the three fifties.

Spitz nodded, got out of the car.

While she blew Manga, Spitz leaned on the railing watching two surfers riding a small break off the rocks. He smoked a menthol. Enjoyed the sun on his back. The salty air. The squabbling seagulls. Reckoned maybe this day was enjoyable. When Manga was finished they could take another beer and white sausage at the Paulaner. See a movie. Tomorrow ride off, Saturday do the job. Sunday lunchtime he could walk into JB’s to flash the moccasins. Putting it all together: for a week’s work a good return and interesting scenery. He crushed out the menthol as Manga started shouting. Turned to see Manga dragging the prossie from the car. Manga’s belt undone, his jeans unzipped; the prossie flailing at him, getting free and hobbling off on her high heels. Spitz watched. Manga chased her, landed a few kicks, danced round her like an ostrich, holding his jeans up with one hand, trying to swipe at her with the other. The prossie jumped a children’s roundabout did a complete circle with Manga galloping alongside calling her bitch, poes, whore, umqwayizi, moffie, his jeans slipped down on his bum, flashing his black arse at a nearby granny. The prossie said something Spitz couldn’t hear. Manga stopped, hiked his jeans. The prossie leapt off the roundabout, gave him the finger, wide grin on her dial. She got a bitch, poes, whore from Manga. Spitz saw the granny get in on the act, yelling at Manga he wasn’t in a kaffir township now. Manga told the granny to suck her tit. He zipped up, tucking his shirt in as he walked back to Spitz. Manga spitting, saying, ‘Shit, captain, shit, man she’s not a prossie. That’s a guy. With a cock and balls squeezed between her legs.’

Spitz stared at Manga. Stared at the prossie Cherildeen in her short skirt hurrying away in the distance, forced a laugh.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘with coloureds you cannot tell.’