Muti Nation (21 page)

He remembers his Gogo in detail, though: a stout, stern woman, a matriarch like no other. Crocheting her brightly coloured shawls, wearing them like armour whenever she left the house. Hovering over the stove, like a witch tending to her cauldron, feeding her horde of grandchildren whatever she had in her shiny pots. Always willing to love someone fiercely, to defend them viciously, until she found them undeserving. All of her own children had lacked in some department or another; prostitutes, drug dealers, criminals—the lot of them. But Gogo didn’t hold the sins of her children against her grandchildren. In fact, she had high hopes for the younger generation.

She’d had the gift, too, like
Him
. Gogo could see
things
, hear their whispers in the dark, and sense their presence even if they sometimes hid from her. What’s more, she was a human lie detector. Lie to her and you would feel her full fury.

Unfortunately, the difference between Gogo and
Him
is that she decided to ignore their fearsome ancestors’ calling.

It was foolish of her, he now knew.

They only kept her around long enough to make sure he didn’t die young. For eight years, they kept her around for him. Eight short years…

Then it all went to shit.

Thanks to his fucked-up drug-addict mother, who spawned more children than one would think possible, and his unknown father, who was either a pimp or a client she turned tricks for,
Him
and all his siblings and cousins were sent into a non-existent foster system after Gogo’s death. The three youngest of Gogo’s brood,
Him
included, ended up with a distant relative—a long lost uncle of some sort. A sadistic bastard whenever he came home from the
shebeen
, which happened infrequently, but not seldom enough.

By ten years old he knew what true hunger was, what real fear felt like, what pain meant. By thirteen, all three of them had lost every bit of innocence his Gogo had tried so hard to preserve. Whatever childlike essence remained disappeared when they burnt that fucker’s rickety shack down to the ground, with him still in it.

Him
was fifteen years old when it happened.

They ran away, lived on the streets for a few years like animals, doing what they could to survive.

Nobody had cared then; nobody cared now.

He closes his empty lunchbox, places it on the passenger seat, and proceeds to brush the crumbs off his face, shirt, and trousers. Eyes glued to the PG-13 romance scene developing on the Union Buildings’ lawn, he contemplates his next move, his next victim.

I need to get her attention properly
, he thinks. With his mind made up,
Him
turns the key in the ignition and the van growls to life.
If she doesn’t want to play, she’s useless to me. Entirely useless.

Chapter 25

The entity currently residing in my house is benevolent for the most part. Annoying as it is, what with stealing anything resembling lace, I see no reason to enrage it by inviting Father Gabriel to abruptly end its ethereal presence.

The phantom that’d stalked me on the night of Carol-Anne Brewis’ murder also moved on. So it seems, at least.

As I told Howlen, these things are just scare tactics, employed by disgruntled criminals with a knack for magic. I’d go so far as to blame the human psyche for conjuring up such fantasies due to sleep deprivation, or psychological impairments,
if
I was a non-believer in the weird.

Unfortunately for me and others plagued by the paranormal, these things do exist.

It’s acquiring logical evidence which makes it difficult to prove how insignificant and insufficient humans are in the greater scheme of life, the universe and everything.

So while in public I choose to actively ignore whatever pseudo-psychological attacks comes my way, but I do see these otherworldly creatures as an invaluable research opportunity. Each nuisance, every disturbance, is one tiny piece of a magnificent puzzle that could solve questions we’ve never even dreamed of asking.

Snyders International wasn’t established to solve murders; it was never our intention to fight crime.

But here I am, still dressed in my flowery dress and wedge heels after my date with Howlen, crossing the sticky floor of a two-bit strip club in a questionable neighbourhood.

A bottle blonde bombshell expertly moves around a pole, wearing nothing more than a bejewelled G-string and a pair of fuck-me heels. A smoke machine sets the mood while the strobe lights flash with the rhythmic music. Men sit in groups around the stage—the young howling in delight, the old intense in their ogling. Wads of cash—tens and twenties—are waved around to catch her attention as she stretches her body into some extreme yoga positions to show off her best attributes. Her perky breasts glisten in the spotlight as she slowly slides down the pole and crawls towards a group of men who’d pulled out a few hundreds.

Howlen clears his throat and turns his attention away from the stage. His shoulders are stiff, his gaze focused on everything except the stage, and a droplet of perspiration trickles down his temple.

“Are you seriously uncomfortable right now?” I ask loud enough to be heard over the music.

He shrugs.

“Well stop it already. You look like a cop.”

I look back to the stripper, her expression blank as she allows one of the men to push some money into her panties.

An oversized chest blocks my view. I look up to see the brutish bouncer with a roid-rage glare staring down. His bald head gleams with sweat, and the pungent smell of meat coming out of his pores make my eyes burn.

Howlen sticks to my side, casually snaking a hand around my waist.

The bouncer, a giant, studies the pair of us for longer than necessary.

“You Esmé?” he grunts.

“Yes.”.

“And him?”

“My partner,” I say. “Is his presence a problem?”

“Depends,” the bouncer snorts, reminding me of a bull being antagonised by a red sheet. “Come,” he says, turning around and leading us deeper into the club.

The music changes from techno to rap and the now naked stripper surrenders the stage to a new girl dressed in a hip hop outfit.

We’re led through a beaded curtain, away from the strobe lights. A corridor stretches before us, lined with doors—some closed, some ajar, some open. The carpet might have been red at some point, it might’ve even been plush, but it’s become distinctively brick-coloured and worn through with time. Howlen’s grip tightens on my waist as we walk a couple of steps behind the bouncer.

The bouncer opens the furthest door in the corridor and shows us inside the dimly lit, sound-proofed chamber. More people are present than I expected, especially for a Thursday. I take in the scene of the men, and a few women, seated around circular tables. People huddle together in their own cliques; the gamblers play poker, the drug addicts shoot up or snort the flavour of the week, the lady-boys sit on the laps of businessmen, and the ladies of ill repute search for their next paycheque.

Topless waitresses make the rounds, their erect nipples reinforced by cold air blasting through the air-conditioning. The bouncer continues his steady pace towards a well-guarded door on the other side of the chamber, even as a young woman saunters up to us. She’s dressed in a revealing evening gown, her ample bosom almost spilling out of the flimsy fabric. Raven curls frame her oval face, bouncing with each step she takes. I would have thought her pretty were it not for the track marks visible on her arms.

“Five-hundred for the night,” she says in a dry whisper to Howlen, her voice sounding like wind rustling dry leaves. She licks her plum-purple lips and flutters her fake eyelashes, undressing him with her eyes. Before he can answer, she averts her gaze and sizes me up. I can almost feel her caressing the curve of my hip and the swell of my chest. “Seven-fifty if she joins in the fun.”

“Sorry, but no,” Howlen says walking us around the woman.

“Look me up when you change your mind,” she calls behind us.

My breathy giggles can’t be heard over reverberating music playing through speakers in the walls, but Howlen senses my amusement and pinches my waist as a warning. I return the favour by slapping his hand away. The bouncer impatiently crosses his arms as he waits for us to catch up. The other two guards are impassive, though I doubt they would stay that way if problems arose.

The bouncer gestures for Howlen to spread his legs and arms for a body search. He does a thorough pat-down before glancing at me.

“Don’t even think about it, Tarzan,” Howlen says.

Perhaps the bouncer saw something in Howlen’s eyes, or maybe his body language did the talking for him, because the bouncer decided not to force me into a pat-down. He nods to one of the guards and the door is opened for us.

“Whatever happens, don’t say a word,” I whisper to Howlen.

We enter a windowless room, occupied by a large desk and two chairs, a sofa against one wall and file cabinets stationed against the other. Behind the desk sits a man, his short dreadlocks bleached white—a heavy contrast against his midnight skin—wearing an immaculate white suit. With folded hands, he watches me as we dawdle near the door. My eye catches Feyisola seated in the corner, behind the unknown man, filing her long nails. She doesn’t acknowledge us.

“Ah yes, the Crimson Huntress and… You brought Lancelot? Why, yes you did! What an honour to meet you both.” The man speaks cheerfully in a thick accent—part gangster trying to sound posh, part African, nationality unknown. He rises from his seat. “You may call me The Rabbi; everyone else does. And this is Naledi.” He nods to Feyisola. Of course she’d have another alias to play with on this expedition. “Please, sit.” He gestures to the seats across from his.

“Thank you.” I smile my sweetest smile, crossing the room to take a seat.

“You must be curious as to why I asked you here,” The Rabbi says once we’re settled in.

Not really, I think, but say: “Your name is whispered whenever I catch a killer, usually as a last resort, but whispered nonetheless. I suspect you need a favour of some kind, considering your recent run-in with the law.”

“Our reputations precede us,” The Rabbi says, folding his hands together.

I nod, nonchalantly. “Unfortunately, I don’t do favours for criminals.”

“I am hardly a criminal. It’s business, nothing more.”

“But you do want a favour?”

“No.” The Rabbi smiles broadly, showing off a golden tooth which glitters in the artificial light. “I asked you over to do
you
a favour.”

“Interesting.” There goes my entire game-plan for this meeting. “What favour could I possibly want from you?”

“I’ve heard you’re looking for a killer, a man known only as
Him
.” The Rabbi sits back in his chair. When I don’t respond, he continues. “What if I told you I can help?”

“What if I told you withholding any information from the authorities can be considered obstruction of justice?”

He bursts out laughing, a rough bellow coming straight from his belly.

I wait for him to quiet down. “If this was America I might’ve been worried, but this is Africa. Obstruction of justice…” He chuckles and shakes his head, short dreadlocks slapping his forehead. “I like you, Crimson. Your poker face is impeccable.”

Of course a criminal of The Rabbi’s calibre would know the law better than an appeal court judge. Fuck! There goes Plan B.

“What do you want, Rabbi?” I say.

“A character witness,” he answers, his smile never faltering. “For my trial, of course.”

“Of course. Give me the information and I’ll consider it.”

“May,” Howlen whispers to me.

I ignore Howlen, watching The Rabbi’s expression instead.

“I need more than a consideration. They’re trying to catch me on ludicrous charges: Tax evasion, like Al Capone. Those uncreative morons,” he explains. “The charges won’t stick; they never do. I’m a businessman, not a fool. Still, a character witness will improve my standing with the judge.”

“I can’t make a deal if I can’t use the information. How do I know you aren’t bullshitting me?”

“Tsk.” The Rabbi clicks his tongue. “Would I waste my time calling on you if I had
nothing
of worth?”

“Desperation makes people do strange things.”

“Ah-ha! Exactly!” he exclaims. “I’m not desperate. You are.”

“Fine, I’ll be a character witness, but you better have something good up your sleeve or the deal’s off.”

He grins, and slides forward in his chair. “I’ve never met anyone who knows
Him’s
true name. Those who know it are either dead or too afraid to call him anything else,” he says, crossing his arms on the desk. “Before I made Pretoria my base of operations, I had a club down in Hillbrow, named Sodom. I never particularly cared for the place due to the patrons’ strange tastes and desires, but it made money so I kept it running for longer than I should have.