Payback - A Cape Town thriller (25 page)

Come the afternoon of Tuesday 14 January, when Mace took the call from Isabella, he couldn’t decide if he was pleased or not. The excitement and fear he’d known in New York. Except with a cold edge: Isabella in the same city as Oumou was tricky. The woman a loose cannon on any deck. Still, he set up a dinner date. Better to keep her humoured than feeling spurned. Somewhat of an hour later he had Paulo, confirming the collection details. A whine to his voice. The guy trying some tough stuff, which amused Mace.

When Mace disconnected, Pylon stood in the doorway to his office, grinning at how the exchange had ended.

‘What a prick,’ said Mace.

‘It happens.’ Pylon couldn’t stop the grin. ‘Got your goat didn’t he?’

‘Maybe you should call Mo tell him the deal’s good.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘Cut me some slack, hey.’

Pylon sighed. ‘Sometimes you must face your demons’ - at the same time flipped open his cellphone.

Mo Siq answered right off. ‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes,’ said Pylon.

‘Midnight my trucks are rolling. What about the money?’

‘Tell him Saturday morning half past eleven,’ said Mace. ‘His apartment.’

Pylon did.

‘And the rest?’

‘On the Monday.’

Mo gave his grunt, disconnecting.

Pylon stared at his phone, said, ‘Have a nice day to you too Mr Siq’ - and clipped the phone shut. ‘It’s so rewarding doing business with him.’

Mace chuckled, suggested why didn’t they take a break, have a Coke float at the café in the Gardens. Surely a good idea on a long and hot day with something to celebrate? Especially as come Saturday they were headed for a place where it’d cost a month’s salary in hard US for a Coke float. Or they wouldn’t be able to order one at all.

Pylon said, ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Relax,’ said Mace, ‘it’s a short flight.’

‘I don’t do any sort of flying. Remember.’ Pylon slipped his phone into the pocket of his slacks. ‘That was our agreement. You fly. I stay on the ground.’

‘This is different.’

‘Don’t tell me.’

They shut the office, ambled up Barnet, down Dunkley, crossed Hatfield into Avenue behind the Gardens Commercial High, the school shuttered for the holidays, and turned right into Paddock beneath the oaks. Dappled shade but no relief from the heat. Both men breaking a sweat in their armpits. At the fish ponds they came out of the shadow into the heaviness of the sun, the light blinding even through sunglasses. In Government Avenue the tree canopy took the weight off their heads. Mace glanced up the avenue at the distant pillared entrance to the Mount Nelson, wondering what Isabella was doing with that jerk, her husband. Considered too that he, Oumou and Isabella hadn’t been in the same town in twelve years, since their last days in Malitia. The thought brought out a flush behind the perspiration. Caused a nervous cough.

Pylon thumped his back. ‘You alright?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mace. ‘Nothing a swig of Coke won’t wash down.’

They took a table where the shade was deepest, near the bird cages, the canaries in loud song, untroubled by the sweltering afternoon. Only other people on the terrace were a couple eating burgers and a group of backpackers in the full sun like cancer wasn’t an option. Next time he looked a woman, her hair covered by a shawl, had taken a table on the far side of the terrace. She was bent over a document, a highlighter clasped in her right hand. Mace felt something about the woman seemed familiar but he wasn’t troubled enough to mention it.

The Coke and ice-cream went down smoothly, Mace not saying much, Pylon getting into his stride about Treasure wanting to adopt an AIDS orphan. Didn’t want to have one of their own because of these kids stacking up in the shacks and huts, being looked after by grandparents. Was alright for her to talk, she had Pumla. But what about him? He didn’t have a kid of his own. His own blood. Instead she’s uptight about social responsibility. The new black middle class in their rich houses and SUVs not showing any compassion. What Arch Tutu called ubuntu. Like she expected differently?

Mace listened with half an ear, his eyes drawn to the quiet woman at the far table. She looked up, smiled at him: Sheemina February.

At the same time his cellphone rang, a new number on the screen.

‘I’m standing at a public phone kiosk in Llandudno,’ were Captain Gonsalves’s opening words. ‘The one just before you go onto the beach. Just had this interesting talk with a Mr
Cavedag
-no. Name mean anything to you?’

Mace told him no. Asked where did Mr Cave-dag-no stay?

Gonsalves gave the address.

Mace said, ‘Maybe we could sort this out the same way as last time?’

‘Depends.’

‘Always does,’ said Mace. He could hear the cop’s slow chewing. ‘Anything specific you have in mind?’

‘I’ve got the commissioner on my back you have to understand. The man wants the poppie because the Italians are about to send people out to show us up.’

‘I hear you,’ said Mace.

‘We agreed next Tuesday. I can’t do next Tuesday anymore. This’s drawing in.’

‘Can you do Saturday?’

‘Saturday would be easier.’

‘That would suit us.’

The line went quiet, Mace could hear excited children
shrieking
, the noise blocking Gonsalves’s voice. ‘Normally I wouldn’t be doing it this way, Mr Bishop,’ he was saying. ‘Normally I would go straight in there with a warrant, get the mess cleaned up.’

‘Sure,’ said Mace. ‘I appreciate that. I appreciate your call. Listen, let’s say you can go knocking there from eleven-thirty Saturday morning. How would that do?’

‘I can live with that.’

‘We can maybe ease the waiting too. Like by three grand.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Gonsalves.

‘Next Tuesday we’ll sort you out,’ said Mace. ‘Adios.’

‘Three large,’ exclaimed Pylon. ‘We’re not a bank.’

Mace shrugged. ‘The commission we’re pulling, we’ll not miss it.’

‘Long as it ends there.’

‘He’s a cop for Chrissakes. He’s honourable.’ The two men laughed. Mace looked over at the table on the edge of the terrace. Sheemina February had left.

‘Sheemina February was behind you,’ said Mace.

Pylon turned round. ‘Where?’

‘She’s gone. Seems to me we’re bumping into her a bit too often.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Pylon. ‘Lawyers hang out here. Huguenot Chambers is full of lawyers. High Court’s round the corner, it’s to be expected.’

‘All the same,’ said Mace.

At five Mace was home to pick up his daughter for their
swimming
session. He called downstairs to Oumou in her studio that they were off and heard her call back, ‘Oui. Enjoy the water.’

Christa, in a black Speedo under one of Mace’s T-shirts, ears glittering with studs he’d bought her, closed her book, said, ‘Let’s go, Papa. Let’s go, we’re late.’

Mace scooped her up from the couch and carried her through to the garage where the Spider ticked quietly. She was still a child’s weight although he sensed the strength of the muscles in her arms hugging his neck. She squeezed.

He mock-gagged. ‘You’re strangling me?’

‘We’ve got to move,’ she said, setting Cupcake on the dashboard as a mascot.

‘What’s it? There’s some boys you want to impress?’

She giggled. ‘Papa!’

Mace plopped her in the Spider, fitted her wheelchair into the space behind the seats. Before he could start the engine Christa slotted a Britney Spears CD into the player, saying, ‘Don’t even say aargh,’ but Mace did and she slapped at his shoulder.

He drove fast down Molteno, the city spread below them, Christa singing Britney’s words, both of them exhilarated by the speed. At the Annandale traffic lights he bought a joke sheet from a cross-dresser in a blonde wig and an orange miniskirt, the trans squealing at him ‘Hello, how are you, what a sweetie,’ poncing and pouting all the time it took Mace to dig out some change. He gave the photostatted sheet to Christa, said, ‘Read us a joke.’

She read two, neither funny, and scrunched up the sheet in disgust.

‘Bit of a waste of time,’ he said.

‘I know better ones,’ she replied, going back to singing with Britney.

At the gym Mace wheeled her through to the pool, running a shower of greetings along the way, his daughter a hero with everyone. And she was. Maybe she couldn’t walk yet but there was movement in her legs when she swam and he lived in hope that each session in the pool brought her a day closer to walking. He got her out of the chair into the water, watched her take off for the other side in her dragging crawl, her legs mostly trailing. What he admired in her was the fierce determination. Like her mother she didn’t give up.

Mace changed and hit the water, getting into sync with his daughter until she tired. Then they stopped and he held her by the arms while she tried to coax a kick into her legs. A year they’d been doing this. In the beginning she hadn’t the strength to hold her body out, and her legs had drooped down, useless. Now she floated easily, legs out, gently rising and falling, her little bum tight with effort. The thought of her grit choked Mace.

When she was tired he piggy-backed her to the side and set off for a couple of lengths at a pace way off what he’d managed with Tyrone and Allan. After Tyrone’s death in a car crash eighteen months back, the sessions at the pool had petered to a halt. He hadn’t seen Allan in a while; the guy could’ve left the city for all he knew.

Ten lengths later he surfaced beside his daughter. ‘One more for luck?’

She shook her head.

‘A smoothie?’

She nodded. Mace caught a change in her mood. ‘Something’s wrong?’ Again she shook her head but he could see she wasn’t far from tears. In the end they skipped on the smoothie and went straight out to the car.

Neither of them noticed Cupcake wasn’t where they’d left him until they were almost home.

‘Cupcake? Where’s Cupcake, Papa?’ Christa pointed at the dashboard. ‘Someone’s stolen him.’ This time the tears came.

Mace reached a hand across to comfort her, thinking, had he or hadn’t he locked the car? Sure that he had. But the bear was missing.

‘Cupcake’s gone. Someone stole him out of the car,’ Christa told Oumou, the tears coming again as Mace carried her into the kitchen and eased her onto a stool at the centre island where Oumou stood preparing a salad, a glass of chardonnay at hand.

‘Ma puce,’ said Oumou, hugging her daughter, looking at Mace. ‘This is terrible. Maybe he fell out.’

‘No,’ said Mace. ‘I couldn’t have locked the car.’

‘And there were no car-guards watching?’

‘Gone home already.’

‘Oh ma puce,’ said Oumou, wiping her daughter’s tears. ‘This is sad on a day when Maman has a celebration.’

‘What celebration?’ said Christa.

‘Yeah, what?’ said Mace, picking at the calamari strips and black mussels simmering on the gas hob, shooing off Cat2 from clawing his leg.

‘You have to congratulate me.’

‘For what, Maman? For what?’ Cupcake’s loss temporarily put aside.

‘For my exhibition that is all sold out.’

‘Wow!’ said Christa.

‘Hey!’ said Mace. ‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Today,’ said Oumou. ‘This afternoon quite late a tourist bought everything that was not sold. The gallery phoned to tell me a cash payment.’

‘A sell-out.’

‘What is best for me is the exhibition is only open a week.’ She clutched their hands. ‘This is wonderful. It will be something to shut up the bank woman.’

Mace hugged her, said, ‘We should celebrate but I can’t. That’s a pity.’

‘You are going out?’

‘Aah Papa.’

‘Dinner with clients,’ he said. ‘I have to be on the schmooze.’ He saw it took the smile off Oumou’s face but she said nothing.

Mace and Isabella had dinner at the hotel.

‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make a night of it. We can hit the town some other time.’

‘The hotel’s fine,’ said Mace wondering when that other time would be. He wasn’t sure two nights on the trot with Isabella would be a good idea.

They took a drink first in the bar with a guy called Ludovico who Mace couldn’t remember meeting back when he’d agreed to the deal. Ludovico didn’t have much to say, seemed distracted, Mace thought, and a bit uptight even in his bright shirt and white slacks.

‘My brother’s watcher,’ Isabella reminded him over dinner. ‘Keeping an eye on business.’

‘Like the money?’

‘The money’s fine.’

Mace took a mouthful of grilled fish. Before he’d swallowed it, said, ‘When do I get to know the details? Of who we’re selling to.’

Isabella set her knife and fork neatly on her plate, the only remains of her meal a grey jacket of fish skin folded to the side.

‘Not a bad fish,’ she said. ‘Needs the sauce though.’ She sipped her wine, dabbed her lips. ‘What’d you call it, a kind of cob?’

‘Kabeljou,’ said Mace.

‘Would’ve risked being bland otherwise.’ She sat back to let the waiter take the plate. When he was gone, said, ‘It goes like this, Mace. A man called John Webster’s going to be in touch. Probably at your hotel. Old-hand trader. Guns, diamonds, even ivory, at one time I heard. Art too. Masks and carved figures. Some of my best stuff in New York came through him. He’s got this contact, politician, chief, warlord, I don’t know what exactly, who needs to improve his standing. This consignment he reckons will do that. Shouldn’t be a hassle at all.’

‘And the diamonds come via Webster?’

‘In him we trust.’

‘Like you say, no hassle then.’

They finished the bottle of wine and ordered espressos.

Isabella said, ‘Macey-boy what I’d appreciate doing while I’m here is to see where you live, maybe meet your daughter?’

Mace felt the chill of that suggestion in his veins. He shook his head. ‘Not a good idea. I don’t want Oumou to even suspect you’re here.’

Isabella smiled. ‘I bought out her exhibition. I’d say for that you owe me one small favour.’

Mace looked down at the black surface of the coffee, mottled with golden froth. Thought, Christ, didn’t she ever stop. ‘I should’ve guessed.’