Killer Country (32 page)

Obed Chocho was loud, running his mouth.

‘You’ve been drinking, Obed,’ Sheemina February said.

He laughed explosively. She held the phone away from her ear.

‘Because I have the skelm Buso by the balls. In my fist.’

‘How nice for you.’

‘The bastard thinks I want to be friends. Cousin to cousin. Brother to brother. Black men together. To hell with him.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Sheemina February.

‘I have made a deal with him. Given him a chance to buy in. With his money from the Cayman Islands. Then I will kill him. When I have his money.’

‘Obed,’ said Sheemina February, ‘you should consult me before you make such deals. I am your lawyer.’

‘Pah! So, mighty fine. What would my lawyer say?’

‘That you were unwise. Pylon Buso could use your conversation against you.’

‘Never. The man is greedy.’

Sheemina February tapped the long fingernails of her good hand on the glass tabletop. A semaphore of red. ‘Where are you, Obed?’

‘My home.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Sober up.’

Sheemina February docked the phone. The trouble with Obed Chocho she’d long realised was his macho attitude. His world of men that allowed for no finesse.

She sighed, went to stand at the French windows of her apartment. Washes of rain came off the horizon; below a heavy sea beat onto the rocks in spume and spray.

She put her damaged hand against the window pane, could feel a shudder at the break of the waves. Imagined the lives of sailors, filled with the fear of shipwreck. The sea thundering against a metal hull. It made no sense surrendering your will. Putting your life at the whim of the elements.

What point if you had no control? No legal niceties. No contracts. Even with them the world was open to the unexpected.

Open to an Obed Chocho doing stupid deals.

The situation, she decided, was too fluid. It was time to intervene.

Her phone rang.

For a moment Sheemina February considered letting it go to voicemail. Then turned into the white room, in two paces could see the name on the display screen: Judge Telman Visser.

Beside the phone, her glove. And next to that a photograph. A photograph of Judge Telman Visser and Obed Chocho.

The photograph was a black-and-white print. Both men in tuxedos. She remembered Chocho wore a red bow tie. A signal of his difference, she supposed. At the time she had yet to meet him. At the time she didn’t even realise there were links worth following. That came later, much later, long after she’d learnt about Zimisela Mining and started sweetening Obed Chocho. Yet it was not until she saw Obed Chocho sent down for six years by Judge Telman Visser that she remembered the photographs. Put the links together. You clever bastards, she’d thought at the time. And got herself closer to Obed Chocho. Made herself indispensable.

It’d been a banquet, she recalled. A banquet in celebration of mining contracts. Black empowerment deals. A banquet thrown by the department of minerals and energy. With an in-house photographer making everyone feel important. Except Sheemina February was absent from the photographs taken that evening four years back. As Sheemina February was absent from all photographs taken at the social events she attended.

She picked up the phone. ‘Judge,’ she said. 

‘I can’t have this,’ said Telman Visser. ‘I can’t have wild talk from Chocho.’

‘I’m sorry. Enlighten me.’

‘I have just had a visit from Messrs Bishop and Buso. They have threatened me. With the help of Chocho’s bluster.’

‘How very clever of them.’

The judge paused. ‘Sarcasm is inappropriate. These are not stupid men.’

‘Then why did you employ them? If you thought Mace Bishop was no fool, why set him up as a blind?’

‘Speak English.’

‘Con language, Judge Visser. A blind: a distraction, a decoy, something that keeps out the light. All very sophisticated but very dangerous. As you have discovered. As I could have told you. If you’d asked my advice. What did they have to say?’

Judge Telman Visser told her. Sheemina February listened. Stood looking at the photograph of Obed Chocho and Judge Telman Visser shaking hands, beaming at one another while the voice in her ear told a tale of woe.

When the judge stopped, she said, ‘Speculation.’

‘Accurate speculation, for the most part.’

The judge perfectly calm, despite the revelations. His voice unwavering. An interesting attitude, thought Sheemina February. The man apparently unfazed.

‘Accurate it may be but so what? Even if they take it to the press they have no facts. Without facts, where are they? Besides, you are a judge. Above reproof.’

‘Among us are the avaricious and adulterers.’

‘This is unfortunate, admittedly. Still, nothing is out of hand.’

‘I am glad you think not. From where I sit it looks problematic.’

‘Judge,’ said Sheemina February, ‘I will talk to my client. You have fired Bishop, that is good. Other measures are in place that I  can’t speak of. What I can say is you have nothing to worry about. Believe me.’

‘Hmmm. I shall see you tonight.’

That was not a frightened Judge Visser, she thought. Concerned, yes. Maybe slightly anxious but not frightened. How well things were working out.

She replaced the phone in its stand, picked up her glove, worked her fingers into the leather. Across her view a frigate ploughed eastwards, spray breaking over its bows. One of the navy’s new toys. She wondered if Obed Chocho had been in the line-up for handouts in the deal that bought the ships. She wouldn’t have been surprised. An operator like that would have his fingers everywhere. She shrugged into her long black coat, cast a look around the apartment. Realised that when she got back in the evening, the world would be completely different. 

Pylon stopped sharply on the side of the road in front of a service truck. The white Golf out of sight still approaching the bend. He watched in the rearview, said, ‘Here he comes.’ Then: ‘Save me Jesus.’

‘Spitz,’ said Mace as the Golf whooshed past in a fine spray, the driver not noticing them on the side. ‘What’s his case?’

Pylon shrugged. ‘Nothing a little chat won’t sort out.’

They watched the Golf slow down before the bridge, Spitz trying to decide which option to take. Up onto Jutland Avenue? Down into Roeland Street? Deciding on Roeland Street.

Pylon pulled into the road, oncoming traffic flashing lights, hooting.

‘Don’t follow,’ said Mace. ‘He’ll check us.’

‘We’re going to let him go?’

‘Take a bet he’s heading for Dunkley. We go the other way, park in the back streets. Surprise him.’

‘Who’s Spitz?’ said the security man from the back seat.

‘Country ‘n western hitman,’ said Mace, catching a glimpse of the Golf stopped at robots opposite the fire station. They’d have followed, they’d have spooked him.

Pylon, took the tight ramp fast onto Jutland, said, ‘Probably got a contract on us.’

‘You’re thinking Obed Chocho?’ said Mace.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Someone wants to kill you?’ said the security man.

Mace said, ‘We lead exciting lives.’

Pylon gunned the Merc down Jutland into Mill running orange traffic lights as he pulled the car squealing into Hope Street. Cruised to Glynville Street, stopped in the narrow street.

‘This’s the plan,’ said Mace, turning to the security man. ‘You hop out, take a walk down Wandel at the end there, my bet is you’ll find him somewhere with a line of sight on our offices. Walk past, give us a buzz.’

‘It’s raining,’ said the security man.

‘Umbrella’s in the boot,’ said Pylon.

‘Walk past, hey. No funny stuff.’

They watched him out of sight, tall man under a pink umbrella.

‘It’s depressing,’ said Pylon. ‘Having someone want to kill you. On a day like this all grey and dripping.’

‘Mightn’t be the case. We’re only guessing. Maybe he’s upset with us, ‘n it’s a personal thing. He does personal, look what he did to his mate.’

‘This’s true.’

They sat in silence. Couple of minutes later Mace got the call.

‘You’re bloody right,’ said the security man. Gave them the position.

‘Stay tight. Out of the rain.’ Mace clipped closed the phone, opened the door. ‘There’s another umbrella in the boot?’ 

Pylon shook his head.

‘This’s what I think’s depressing.’ Mace got out, zipping closed his jacket. ‘Getting wet.’

Pylon leaned along the seat towards the open door. ‘We could call Tami have her nip one over.’

Mace got back in while Pylon put through the call, told Tami what they wanted and where to bring it. ‘Like I’m not supposed to know why?’ she said.

‘So Mace doesn’t get wet,’ said Pylon.

She brought three umbrellas – green, blue, black – slid into the back of the car. ‘My last job,’ she said, ‘my boss was a therapist. I can give you his name.’

‘Very funny,’ said Mace. ‘Walk with me, Tami. Up close under the umbrella like we’re lovers.’

‘This’s not sexual harassment?’

‘I’m not going to lay a charge,’ said Mace, choosing the black umbrella.

They walked down Wandel, Mace’s arm around Tami’s shoulder, her arm around his waist. The umbrella hiding his face. He could feel her body firm against his. Had to be the kickboxing she did.

‘See the white Golf?’ said Mace. ‘I’m going to stop at the driver’s window, tap on it. When he unlocks I’ll get in behind him. You can go back to the office.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Sure. If he pulls a gun I’ll probably shoot him first.’

Tami said, ‘Such fun working for you guys.’

Mace angled them off the pavement into the street. ‘Has its moments.’

When they got to the Golf, Mace tapped on the driver’s window with the butt of the P8, said, ‘Open up Spitz, it’s wet out here.’ He noticed Spitz jump, but the hitman did as he was told. Mace got in behind him.

‘Spitz,’ he said, ‘what a surprise. How’s the hand?’ Spitz’s left  hand out of sight. ‘Bring it up, let me have a look. And hold the gun you’ve got down there by the barrel because what’s in my hand will put your face all over the windscreen. If I have to pull the trigger.’

Spitz held up his hand, the bandaged pinky sticking out straight, his other fingers gripped the .22 by the barrel. Mace reached out and took it.

‘Nice gun, the Buck Mark Standard. Accurate. You fancy these things in your line of work, don’t you?’

‘They are good for the job,’ said Spitz.

‘And I’m assuming,’ said Mace, ‘we were your next job?’

Spitz made no comment.

‘No hard feelings,’ said Mace. ‘We’re not talking about anything personal. The way my mate Pylon sees it you’re the same as the gun, a piece of equipment. My position’s a little different. Brings in a moral element. But that’s getting all philosophical and we don’t want to go there. So. Tell you what, we’re not keen on this idea of being your next job. We realise this puts you in a predicament with your client, so we’ve got a proposition. Want to hear it?’

‘I am sure you will tell me.’

Mace laughed. ‘That’s what I liked about you from the start Spitz. A practical man. No bullshit.’ He ejected the eight clip from the Browning, left in a single round, jacked it back into the butt. ‘We’ll talk while you’re driving,’ said Mace.

‘Where is this place I am driving towards?’ said Spitz.

‘Not a concern. You go up this street, at the top Pylon will pull in front in the Merc. You follow him, like you’ve been doing all morning.’ 

‘How can you tell that he will be at home?’ said Spitz.

He and Mace sat in the Golf down the street from Obed  Chocho’s house. Pylon in the big Merc parked in the man’s driveway.

‘Because Pylon has a meeting with him. To discuss high finance.’

Mace’s cellphone rang. He keyed it to loudspeaker.

‘Good to go,’ said Pylon. ‘The man’s waiting.’

‘Fine,’ said Mace. ‘We’re all ears.’

They heard Pylon open the car door, the door slam. Spitz flicked the windscreen wipers: there was Pylon hurrying down the path to the front door. The buzz of the intercom. Obed Chocho saying, ‘Mighty fine, my brother, you have seen the light.’

The door opened, Pylon went inside.

Obed Chocho said, ‘Time for another whisky. I took a little bet with myself this morning. A little bet that I’d be seeing you again today.’ The voices faded, then came on clear again.

Pylon said, ‘What was that? The bet?’

‘That I wouldn’t drink anymore of this bottle unless we had a deal.’

In the car Mace and Spitz heard whisky being splashed into glasses.

‘You have spoken to Cayman?’

‘Sure.’

‘And the money?’

‘By now the transfer would have been made.’

‘Mighty fine. Mighty fine.’

‘Phone your bank,’ said Pylon.

‘There is no need for that. As soon as it is done I will be notified. Until then we relax with Glenlivet. On a wet afternoon is there a better option?’

‘Ah,’ said Pylon, ‘a Blackberry.’

A fainter Obed Chocho: ‘A mighty fine toy. Come, sit, sit. Let me send a message to ask for confirmation.’

‘That thing sends emails?’

‘From the palm of my hand.’

Spitz’s cellphone vibrated where it lay on the passenger seat. Mace placed his thumb over the mic on his cellphone.

‘A message,’ said Spitz.

‘Open it.’

‘From Mr Chocho. One word that says, “now”.’

‘Which means?’

‘Now it is okay for me to kill you.’

‘Bloody wonderful.’

On his cellphone Mace heard Obed Chocho say, ‘Tell me, my brother, why are you doing this? A few days ago I was the bad man. Now we are business associates. It is so sudden. Must I believe you love your money over your idea of justice.’

‘There are realities.’

‘Realities, exactly. Pragmatism not idealism. The opportunities of a new country.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Perhaps we should toast to these realities? Our position as developers.’

‘Why not?’ Mace heard the clink of glasses, then Pylon say, ‘Where are the contracts?’

And Obed Chocho come back, ‘On the table.’

Mace said, ‘Alright, we’re on.’ He closed his phone. ‘We get out together. Any nonsense, you’re dead.’

‘There will not be any nonsense,’ said Spitz.

The two men walked quickly through the rain to Obed Chocho’s house. Mace slightly behind Spitz, his hand on the P8 in his jacket pocket. He buzzed the intercom. When Obed Chocho answered, said, ‘Courier, package for Mr Obed Chocho.’ Was told, ‘One moment.’

Mace thought, the nice thing about people, even crooks, was their trust.

Obed Chocho opened the door. Mace slammed Spitz against the big man, the three of them stumbling into the hallway. 

Pylon stood alert at the lounge door watching, his automatic clutched in both hands, pointed at Chocho and Spitz. Said to Obed Chocho, ‘Off your knees bad man. We’ve got a new reality here.’

They sat Obed Chocho in an easy chair, kept him under Pylon’s gun, Mace with the P8 on Spitz.

‘What we didn’t appreciate,’ said Pylon, ‘was your having Spitz fly down to zap us. Not friendly. You could also say that if we didn’t know which way to dive before, this kind of convinced us. Okay? Mighty fine!’

‘Fuck you,’ said Obed Chocho.

‘Brave,’ said Pylon. ‘The bellow of the bull brought to the slaughter. Yakhal’inkomo.’

They gagged him with what remained of the duct tape they‘d bought for Spitz. Also strapped his ankles. Took a photograph of Lindiwe framed in silver from among a herd of photographs on the booze cabinet, told Obed Chocho to hold it against his chest. Whichever way he preferred: her image in or out. He clutched her to his heart.

‘Touching,’ said Pylon.

Mace took out the Browning from his belt, the can from his pocket, screwed it on. He placed the gun where Lindiwe’s photograph had stood.

To Spitz said, ‘Put on your gloves.’ Waiting while Spitz waggled his fingers into the black leather. ‘We’ll wait in the hall. When we’re out of the room the scene’s all yours. One load in the clip. Our deal’s this: you come through we’ll call it quits, no comebacks.’

Spitz said, ‘If that is what you want, I can agree.’

‘Mighty fine,’ said Mace, nodded at Obed Chocho. He and Pylon backed out the room, closed the door. Heard the muted whop of the shot, stepped back into the room. Obed Chocho slumped in the chair, his head fallen forward, blood dripping in his crotch. The angle of his head you couldn’t see the bullet hole.

Mace took the gun from Spitz, waited while the hitman pulled off his gloves. Pylon emptying his whisky into a flower pot, wiped clean the glass and put it back on a shelf of similar glasses.

‘Forensics’ll find it,’ said Mace.

Pylon shrugged. ‘Maybe. But what’s it going to tell them? Someone else was here. Bit of luck they’d have put that together anyhow.’

Outside Mace said, ‘So long, Spitz’ – giving the hitman the keys to the white Golf. ‘I like your work.’ He and Pylon watching the man drive off.

‘Think that’s the last we’ll see of Spitz?’ said Pylon.

Mace brought up Eugene Edwards on the sound system doing a cover of Sinnerman. ‘Probably not.’