Killer Country (31 page)

‘How?’

‘Doesn’t matter, Mace. He knows. We go in we’re caught. We  stay out, he’ll have Revenue on us. We tell the cops, it’ll hit file thirteen. Probably he’s already bought off Spitz, if he doesn’t whack him. We’re stuffed. Up shit creek. No paddles, no canoe, crocs in the water.’

‘What about Visser?’

‘He’s saying Visser’s in it. He’s saying they’re buddies.’

‘Visser doesn’t know him. Sends him down for six years. That’s not buddy stuff.’

‘He’s saying a con trick. Didn’t matter how long the sentence. Visser, both of them, knew Chocho’d only sit for a few months. Face it. He’s saying Visser’s been on Zimisela for two years. That’s from the start.’

‘Implying Visser allowed the hit. On his own father. Because of bad blood. Pah. Tell me a story.’

‘This happens.’

‘In books.’

‘In real life, Mace.’

‘So we hit Visser.’

‘Tie him down, break his fingers.’

‘One way of doing it.’

‘Another?’

‘Put the story together for him, say we’re taking it to the newspapers. Play him off against Chocho.’

‘Dangerous.’

‘Or we don’t do any of it.’

‘What then?’

‘Shoot him. Shoot Obed Chocho. Point two-two, the same gun. Give the cops something to think about. While they’re doing that the problem goes away. West-coast tender comes up again, you scoop the deal. Pylon Buso Developments.’

‘And Sheemina February?’

‘What’s she going to do?’

‘Maybe she’s the leak on Cayman?’

‘The bugger.’

‘Maybe.’

‘So afterwards she’ll make a play. Or she won’t. If she does. Well…’

‘Most of this I don’t want to think about.’ ‘It’s an option, Pylon. Or such shit with Revenue it’s jail. The money gone. The future truly down the toilet. For the sake of two wankers. The one kills his own wife. The other his own father. Worse, buys someone to do it. And all the rest. Probably also for the sake of that prime bitch Sheemina February.’

‘Save me Jesus.’

‘Times two. What it comes down to is how far we go. How far we’re prepared to take this.’

Mace and Pylon coming in from the courtyard, shaking rain off a golf umbrella.

‘And what’s that about, standing out there to talk?,’ said Tami. ‘I’m not trustworthy or something?’

‘Not you,’ said Pylon. ‘Others are listening. And for the moment that’s okay.’

‘You mean…’ – Mace holding a finger to her lips.

‘Yeah. Exciting isn’t it?’

Tami broke open a stick of nicotine chewing gum. ‘Spooky, actually.’ 

The woman from the agency was waiting. By herself in a Jap crap car outside his front door. Obvious as if she was standing on the pavement in fishnet stockings and a bareback teddy. Wasn’t for the rain she might have been. Couldn’t be a neighbour didn’t know she was there.

Obed Chocho pulled into his driveway, not even casting her a sideways glance. Went straight to his front door, hearing her slam out of her car, calling to him, ‘Sir, are you Mr Chocho, tata?’

The door open, he turned. She was hurrying towards him. A woman in a long furry coat buttoned to her knees, white with a hood. Holding up what looked like a business card.

‘Discreet Service,’ she said. ‘For Mr Chocho.’

He nodded. ‘Mighty fine, mighty fine. Keep down the adverts.’ Wondering if her red boots were thigh highs. Flashy plastic boots.

He led the way to the sitting room, went to the sideboard for a whisky. ‘Want one?’

‘We can’t drink on the job,’ she said. Standing close enough that he could smell her perfume. A scent he recognised. Something Lindiwe had worn.

‘What’s the perfume?’

‘Glow.’

A whore with expensive tastes.

‘You like it?’

‘For sure.’ Obed Chocho drained off a short tot. Waited until the warmth bounced back from his stomach. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘It’s part of this job.’

She shrugged, kept her gaze full on him in the Western way. In that moment he recognised Lindiwe. She’d done that. Spurned the eyes down in respect business. He’d liked that. Showed her fire.

‘Vodka lemonade.’

He smiled at the woman. Her hair braided like Lindiwe’s. About the same length. ‘Playing safe, my sister?’

She brought out a condom from the pocket of her coat, held it towards him.

‘I don’t do those.’

She leaned forward, dropped it down the neck of his shirt.

‘I do, my brother.’

The warmth of her breath on his cheek. Cigarettes and peppermint. Her height about the same as Lindiwe. Same stature. Like it was Lindiwe standing there.

He reached out, caught the woman by the coat, pulled her into him. His mouth coming down hard on hers. Her hand unzipping him. Burrowing into his rods.

Obed Chocho groaned at her touch.

Lindiwe.

When Buso’s money was banked, when Spitz had done his job, Spitz was dead.

He pushed the woman away. ‘Undress,’ he said.

She laughed at him. ‘I don’t wear clothes.’ Unbuttoned the coat, not taking it off. Gave him a full frontal, turned slowly, sweeping the coat back over her thigh, the swell of her buttocks. The boots were thigh-length.

She had Lindiwe’s breasts. Small, perfect, dark-nippled. He knew how they would shape when she rode him. Like cones as she arched over his chest.

She moved towards him. Loosened his shirt, picked out the condom. ‘Rough rider, baby.’

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I must make a phone call.’

Obed Chocho opened his cell. With a remote brought up on the plasma screen a DVD of a family at supper. Eating pasta. The dad going on about the boy’s homework. The mom heaping more food onto the kid’s plate.

‘You like them?’

‘Who?’ she said. Poured her own vodka lemonade. 

Spitz, parked in the square, watched the two cars arrive. The big Merc first, the red Spider coming in not a minute later. Flicked the wiper to clear the rain blur. Saw Mace and Pylon hurry to the front door. He finished his menthol.

Now, he believed, was as good a time as any. Only three of them in there. Problem: they’d be scattered throughout the house.   The receptionist probably downstairs, the other two wherever their offices were. Upstairs he reckoned.

Which was not ideal, wandering through a house blotting those you stumbled across. Not the quick in pop out scene he preferred. Without collateral.

Although sometimes you had to shrug and shoot. Take out the audience. Sometimes the best plans got screwed up.

Once he’d put away a string of bystanders to reach the main macher: a bodyguard, a servant, a woman in pyjamas wafting mace about like he was a mosquito. On the way out another security with a cannon in his fist. Proved it wasn’t size that mattered.

Only people not part of the plan were the servant and the mace sprayer. Spoilt his principle of one payment one hit but Spitz figured security signed up to take a bullet. Knew one day they’d be staring at a gun barrel. Part of the job description. Bystanders were a pity though. No matter how much you minimised the possibilities there was always the unexpected.

The reason Spitz favoured an eight-round clip.

The way he really wanted to operate was like the scene in Panic. A class act. The sort of scene he enjoyed re-running where Macy in a suit walks up to a guy on the street, pulls a gun from inside his jacket, shoots the guy up close, walks on looking sad, drops the gun in a wastebin. Spitz’s aspiration. Clean and neat.

He went now, the receptionist would open the door, he’d have to pop her to get in. Standing there visible to the street. Not a busy street in the rain but you couldn’t tell at the crucial moment. Just took one person to drive past as the deed was done.

Even on a best-case scenario: he’s in the office, the receptionist’s dead in the hall, he’s dealing with two ex-gun-runners might have heard the whop of the silencer, recognised it for what it was. Be standing there at the top of the stairs fully loaded.

He shook his head. Not worth thinking about. The only option: get in there face the situation unfolding.

Spitz took the Browning out of the glove compartment, fished the silencer from the pocket of his leather jacket. Screwed it to the barrel. Checked the clip. Eight rounds ready to go. He pulled on his gloves.

Was about to crack open the car door, head across the drizzly square when his cell vibrated. Obed Chocho.

‘Where’re you, Spitz?’ said Obed Chocho. Straight in, no cheery hello. ‘On the job?’

‘I am about to be doing that,’ said Spitz.

‘Mighty fine,’ came back the answer.

‘I will be in touch afterwards.’

Obed Chocho coughed. ‘No, Spitz. Back off. Leave it for the moment. Just stay close to them. Hear me?’

‘I do not understand. Now is a good time.’

‘Listen to me. Not now. Later. Getit. Later. When I tell you.’

‘This is not the way I work.’

Obed Chocho yelled. Not a word that Spitz recognised. Just a hard bellow. Then quietly. ‘If you worked properly, my brother, I would not be talking to you. You would not be here in the rain. You would be at home. I would be happy. Everything would be mighty fine. But nothing is mighty fine. It is a mess.’ His voice higher than a soprano choirboy. ‘So, my brother, you stick with them. Wherever they go, you go. Invisibly. And when I say, now. Then you kill them. Do you understand me, mighty fine?’

Spitz said he did. Recognised Tony Soprano calling the odds.

‘Mighty fine,’ said Obed Chocho. 

On the phone the judge was short.

‘I’m reviewing evidence for the arms commission,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be disturbed.’

Mace made a yadda yadda mouth with his free hand. ‘This is  important.’ He and Pylon in the big Merc already on De Waal, Mace looking into the bowl at the city curtained with rain. ‘It can’t wait.’

The judge sighed. ‘Two minutes. What is it?’

‘Give me ten,’ said Mace. ‘I’ll tell you personally.’

Pylon coming up behind a truck slow on the climb, thumped the steering wheel waiting for the fast lane to clear. ‘What gets me,’ he said, ‘is someone knowing all our business.’

‘Tapes and tapes of it,’ said Mace. ‘Or is it digital now? CDs?’

‘CDs probably.’ Pylon growling at the slowness, eyes in the rearview for a gap. ‘When we talked about the Cayman it was in my office,’ – lurched the Merc into the fast lane, flooring the pedal. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Most of the other stuff’s been out and about.’

‘Pays to sit in cafés.’ Mace gripping the armrest.

‘Except for Rudi Klett. Those details were in-house.’

‘You’re saying it wasn’t Popo Dlamini ran his mouth?’

Pylon easing on the juice at the feeder curve, Mace wondering as always, what caused the smoke from the hospital chimney. Tissue discard. Cancered organs. Foetuses. Medical waste. Sheets soiled with death. ‘Huh, you’re saying that?’

‘I’m saying it was him, mostly. But also someone listening in.’

Pylon took the downhill at a clip, pulled a right across the yellow lines of the split, cars hooting.

Mace saying, ‘Christ, I didn’t think you were going to do that.’

‘This’s the way, why shouldn’t I?’

‘Seemed you were heading for the N1. The airport.’

‘N2,’ said Pylon. ‘Airport’s on the N2. How long we been living here?’ Pylon, laying down more power along the sweep to Mostert’s Mill, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. ‘There’s a reason for it. The reason’s a white Golf.’

Mace angled the side mirror. ‘Got it.’

‘Been behind us from the city. Dude hangs well back. Didn’t  have any problem with the lane switch at the split.’

They kept an eye on the Golf past the university, through Newlands forest, Pylon taking a right into Rhodes Avenue, the Golf following two cars behind.

‘Black or white?’ said Mace.

‘This makes a difference?’

‘Might do. General surveillance would be from the same place as the bug. Specific spying would be one of Obed’s sidekicks, for instance.’

‘General surveillance is going to be white?’

‘Dead-end job. You see a brother taking a dead-end job. In the days of black empowerment?’

‘No.’

‘Stands to reason, then. So: black or white?’

‘Can’t tell in this rain.’

Pylon took it slowly along the avenue towards Kirstenbosch Gardens, Mace looking up at the mountain cloud, saying, ‘Three days ago we had summer. I was planning to shoot the mountain maniac.’

‘In your dreams,’ said Pylon. ‘All that vigilante stuff.’

‘Thought you were into that a while ago.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Chickening out?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ At the T-junction Pylon turned left, checked his rearview mirror, no sign of a white Golf. ‘Big brother’s changed his mind. Or it was coincidence to start with?’

‘Sans irony.’ Mace smiling at his use of the French.

Pylon didn’t comment, the two silent for the jag through the suburb to the judge’s house.

The judge waited for them in the study. The front door opened by their security man, giving them a nod that his lordship was in a foul mood. His lordship straight-backed in his wheelchair not inclined to any preliminaries. 

Going to the crux: ‘What is so urgent?’

Might be working from home but he was suited: tie neat in a broad Windsor, black shoes mirror polished. Very professional.

Mace and Pylon stopped two metres from him, stood feet apart, hands clasped loosely in front, almost military in their stance. Mace, an envelope in his hand, took his cue from the judge. Said, ‘Judge you owe us an explanation here.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of your connections with Obed Chocho.’

The judge frowned. ‘I have none.’

‘You found him guilty of fraud.’

‘I have found many men guilty of fraud.’

‘You handed down a stiff sentence.’

‘As one should.’

‘Our belief is that this was to deflect attention from your relationship with Mr Chocho.’

‘Really?’ The judge smiled, brought his hands together, rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I have no relationship with Mr Chocho.’

Mace took the mining magazine out of the envelope, opened it to the announcement regarding Zimisela Mining.

‘What’s this?’

‘Read it. Please.’

The judge stretching to take it from Mace. ‘You are trying my patience.’ He read through the article, handed back the magazine. ‘So?’

‘Today,’ said Pylon, ‘Obed Chocho showed me a Zimisela letterhead that has your name among the directors.’

The judge shifted his gaze to Pylon. ‘Obed Chocho is a racketeer. A man I sentenced to six years for the crime of fraud. That letterhead is another example of his duplicity. A fake.’

‘He says you met about five years ago,’ said Mace. He replaced the magazine in the envelope, brought out another. Found the  article about uranium deposits. ‘We believe that he approached you, or you approached him shortly after this report appeared.’ He handed it to the judge.

Judge Telman Visser read the report, Mace watching for any tell in his face. Saw nothing but a judge’s unconcern. He took back the magazine. ‘My patience is exhausted. If this is the purpose of your visit, I suggest you leave now.’

‘One moment,’ said Mace. ‘Hear us out.’

‘I have no wish to.’

‘All the same.’

‘Our business is concluded, Mr Bishop. I no longer have need of your services. I will pay your invoice to date.’ He powered his wheelchair behind his desk.

‘Judge,’ said Mace. ‘Hear us out.’ Mace not waiting for the judge’s response. ‘Here’s the thing: to our way of thinking you conspired with Obed Chocho to acquire your father’s farm. Getting there we believe involved the death of your father’s lawyer. Not an accident, a deliberate arson. With Chocho’s help we reckon a hitman was hired to murder your father and his wife.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Contracting our services was another instance of your cunning. A smokescreen. A hoax, playing on the random violence of farm killings. Had I died it would have strengthened your game. Nice one, judge. Very cutthroat.’

The judge shook his head. ‘You are sad men, you and your partner, Mr Bishop. Conspiracists. Paranoids. Pathetic.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘Your little story is slanderous. Outrageous. To even make these suggestions is beyond comprehension.’

‘The press wouldn’t think so.’

‘Don’t tempt me, Mr Bishop. Don’t tempt me. If the press gets onto this I will slap interdicts and writs on you that you wouldn’t have thought possible. Now, leave my house. And take your goon with you.’  

‘It’s not over, judge,’ said Mace. ‘You’re in with the snakes. Big time.’

‘Out. Out.’ The judge pointing at the door. Could have been dismissing servants, Mace and Pylon and the Complete Security guard traipsing out.

In the car, staring down the street at the dripping trees, Pylon said, ‘Not a bad actor.’

‘He’s had the training,’ said Mace.

The security officer in the back leaned forward, tapped Mace on the shoulder. ‘What’s his case?’

‘A guilty heart,’ he was told.

Pylon fired the car. ‘So now?’

‘Coffee,’ said Mace. ‘At the office.’ Thinking, maybe the potshot attack had been a staging. What it had been was amateurish or deliberately so. Surely hadn’t damaged the paintings. As the Yanks put it, smoke blown up their arses.

Pylon took a different route out of the suburb. ‘What I think,’ he said, ‘is we need to stake them out. Him and Obed. Sometime they’re going to have to meet.’

‘What for? You need more evidence? You think he’s innocent? Shit, Pylon, that was an act. You know it? It was bullshit. They’re not going to meet. They’d be crazy. They’ve got other ways of running this. And what difference does it make to us. We’re not going to sink them. We’ve been through this. We took a decision.’

Pylon didn’t answer, said, ‘How about that we’ve got company.’ His eyes on the rearview mirror. ‘Yeah, has to be.’

‘You’re kidding. The white Golf?’

Pylon said, ‘Don’t look back. I’m thinking we keep it calm, head for the office. Pick up your car. Make a plan to nail him.’

‘A little bit of fun to brighten a dark day.’ Mace racked a round into the P8. Stuck the pistol in his jacket pocket.

They came onto De Waal Drive, the Golf way behind. 

‘Change of plan,’ said Mace. ‘At the houses, pull over, he’s got to go past.’