Payback - A Cape Town thriller (26 page)

‘She excited about a sell-out?’ Isabella couldn’t keep the smirk from her voice.

Mace glanced up at her. ‘Why’d you do it?’

‘I liked the stuff. She does good work. Hell, Mace, why not? What was left? Some bowls, plates, vases.’

‘About fifty grand’s worth.’

‘In dollars, peanuts.’

‘That’s not the point.

‘No? But she’s happy, I’ll bet. Flying.’

‘Because she thinks some stranger walked in and snapped it up.’

‘That’s about right. There hadn’t been a flyer for the exhibition on the concierge’s desk I wouldn’t have known. She wouldn’t have sold out, I wouldn’t own some of her pieces. What’s the big deal here? I’m not allowed to buy her pottery?’

‘It’s patronising. What you did’s like taking the piss.’

Isabella laughed. ‘Come on. Lighten up.’ She opened the foil on the round of Belgian noir that came with the coffee, popped it on her tongue, sucked loud enough for Mace to hear. ‘Not bad.’ Sipped coffee over the chocolate melting in her mouth. ‘So what d’you say, Mace?’ - leant across the table to stroke his cheek.

Mace and Pylon spent Wednesday running ragged, juggling their time between two sets of clients. The one couple about to head off for their post-op safari, both of them surgically sculpted and still a little puffy and bruised about the gills. Neither much concerned about their war wounds.

‘Hell,’ the husband said, ‘like I should give a damn.’ His wife adding, ‘These people on the safari we’re never going to meet again.’ Predictable attitude in Mace’s experience, yet always amused him seeing as appearance was the nip-and-tuck brigade’s major motivation. While he got them to the airport in the big Merc, Pylon logged in a gay couple for their detox at a hydro in the winelands.

On the highway back to town Mace took a call from Isabella.

‘So, when’re you gonna pick me up? Show me your fair city.’

‘I’m not,’ said Mace. ‘I’m flat-out, Bella. Also we’re taking over the consignment this afternoon.’

‘Count me in.’

‘Don’t want to disappoint you again, but no.’

‘Sweetie! So macho. Dinner then?’

‘Okay,’ said Mace, thinking what he’d do was cancel in the late afternoon. Maybe fob her off with lunch on Friday.

They agreed a time and disconnected. For sure, Isabella in his home town was big-time maintenance.

Mace and Pylon met up at the quay to watch Mo Siq’s trucks unload twenty wooden crates marked engineering equipment. All the paperwork stamped, the ship’s captain relaxed, happy to share a beer with them on the bridge. The wind freshening through the afternoon, the mountain under a tablecloth of cloud, and the harbour water choppy. A murky green, ominous looking. Across in Duncan Basin the wharf cranes loaded containers onto a trio of ships. Back of that the city skyline floated low in the wind haze. The sight gave Mace a charge, like this was the old times.

Going down the gangplank he said, ‘Maybe we should do this more often.’

Pylon stopped. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’

‘Just a thought. Hitch a ride with Mo’s Opportunity?’

‘Forget it. We don’t need the exposure.’

‘Good bucks though.’

‘We’re doing alright last time I looked.’

They reached their cars. Mo’s trucks were already gone. Some sailors huddled out of the wind behind a container playing cards, a long-haired dog beside them.

‘That’s it,’ said Mace. ‘May as well head home for an early one.’

Pylon beeped his car’s remote locking. ‘Give Isabella my best.’

‘I’m not seeing her.’

‘No?’

‘No. A family evening.’

Pylon held his gaze. ‘I’m pleased. I was wondering there.’

Mace laughed. ‘You don’t think …? Come on. No.’

‘Have to admit it crossed my mind.’

‘You mean you would’ve?’

‘For the nostalgia. I might’ve taken a night out. That sort of thing’s tempting.’

‘Forget it.’ Mace opened the Alfa’s door, staring over the car at a white Toyota coming fast along the quay. ‘This situation’s worth a lot of money but it’s not worth that, blowing it with Oumou.’ The Toyota stopped, out jumped a nifty dresser, all smiles. Came forward, his hand extended.

‘You’re Mo Siq’s guys,’ he said. ‘My name’s Vusi Themba, Customs and Excise.’

‘That so,’ said Mace, shaking the offered hand. Pylon approached, did the brother’s clasp.

‘Establishing that everything went as it should.’ He grinned from one to the other, giving them a lot of teeth behind thick lips. Mace thought his nose looked like it’d been beaten onto his face. A round friendly face.

‘No problems,’ said Pylon.

Vusi said, ‘I’ve just passed the trucks heading out. Couldn’t have taken more than forty-five minutes to unload.’ He hauled up a heavy Rolex to check the time. ‘Yeah, forty-five, fifty minutes.’

Neither Mace nor Pylon made a comment.

Vusi took out a pack of Marlboros, tapped the base and offered it. The two men shook their heads. ‘I’ve gotta stop,’ he said, picking out a white, firing it with a Zippo. He blew the exhale from a corner of his mouth, the wind bringing it back on Mace and Pylon. Vusi gestured at the ship. ‘Argentinian?’

Mace nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Heading up the coast?’

‘Haven’t asked their schedule. The captain’s up there if you want to know.’

Vusi turned his back to the wind, the strength picking up, getting unpleasant and gritty. ‘Sailing tonight I believe.’

‘If that’s the schedule.’

‘According to the harbour log, it is.’ Vusi flicked ash. ‘Once I’ve signed off the paperwork.’ He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, pulled out a sheaf of forms from his jacket pocket, said with the Marlboro bobbing on his lip, ‘Wouldn’t want to lose these in the breeze.’ The documentation fluttered in his hand.

‘What’s it you want?’ said Pylon switching to Xhosa, knowing the answer all too well.

The custom’s officer stuck to English. ‘To talk. Mo said I should speak to you.’

Pylon looked at his partner, gestured his head at the big Merc. Mace nodded, said to Vusi, ‘We’d appreciate no smoking in the car.’

Vusi grinned, dropped the remains of the cigarette and crushed it.

Mace held the front passenger door open for him then slid himself in along the back seat. Pylon went behind the wheel.

‘Nice car,’ said Vusi, ‘leather, hey, really smooth,’ patting the seats, turning sideways so he faced Pylon and could see Mace behind the headrest. ‘Look, guys,’ he said. ‘This is awkward for me. My understanding is you’d have been expecting me. Maybe even have come in to see me. In my office. We could’ve had coffee. That would’ve been easier. More comfortable.’ He spread his hands. ‘Mo should’ve told you the way it works.’

‘Maybe you should now,’ said Pylon.

Vusi nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right. Okay. Okay. Take it this way. The way this works is you wouldn’t be here without me. You understand what I’m saying?’ He glanced from one to the other.

‘Sure,’ said Pylon. ‘Continue.’

‘What I’m saying is that I’m the link that makes the chain. Otherwise you got two bits dangling in your hands.’ He laughed. Nervous, cutting the laugh short at their non-response. ‘Mo should’ve told you that.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes Mo’s not good on the detail.’

‘Seems like it,’ said Pylon. ‘So how much is the bribe?’

Vusi grimaced. ‘Commission,’ he said. ‘Same as any professional consultant.’

‘Well?’

‘How about twenty grand?’

‘How about it.’

‘My estimation. As this’s for Mo, that’s a base rate.’

‘So maybe you should talk to him.’

‘That’s right,’ said Vusi. ‘I should, normally. Except he said to talk to you.’

‘Fifteen thousand, tops’ said Mace. ‘Saturday midday at Mo’s flat. You know where it is?’

Vusi nodded. ‘Now would be better.’

‘Now we don’t have it. Ask Mo. This thing’s structured on trust.’ Mace leant over, touched Vusi on the shoulder. ‘We’re grateful for your help, Mr …’

‘…Vusi. Vusi Themba …’

‘… Mr Vusi Themba. But this’s how things are. Till Saturday.’ He opened his hand and the custom’s officer hooked his arm up awkwardly to shake it.

Mace and Pylon saw him into his car, watched him drive off.

‘How come we’re always the suckers paying the hired help?’ said Pylon.

Mace headed for the Spider. ‘This sort of thing all comes out in the wash.’

On his way across the docks Mace put through a call to Isabella.

‘You’re cancelling?’ she said when she heard his voice. ‘You’re taking the chicken option.’

Mace smiled, Isabella always getting in ahead of the game. He gave her the excuse of clients needing a run around.

‘Nanny work,’ she said. ‘When’re you going to get a proper job?’

‘It buys the beer.’

Isabella laughed. ‘You’re a bad liar, Mace. Go’n, run home to mommy.’ She hung up.

He considered ringing back, then had second thoughts. Better to head for the Hot Wok and get takeout Chinese. Put him into Oumou’s and Christa’s good books.

Mace woke with Christa’s screams, and found her sitting up in bed, eyes screwed shut, mouth open, hands in tight fists over her ears, shrieking. He and Oumou dropped either side of her, Oumou clutching her, Mace holding them both while Christa subsided into deep sobs.

‘Shoosh, ma puce, shoosh,’ said Oumou, the three of them rocking gently while the echo of the screams bounced around Mace’s head. The vision rising of Abdul Abdul shooting, Christa’s cry, and the gun coming back on them again. He closed his eyes, felt the trembling of his daughter and pushed away the memory. It’d been a while since she’d woken screaming, so many months back he’d hoped the nightmare was over. But no. Some things didn’t end.

For a long time they held one another until Mace said, ‘I’ll get you a drink of milk’ - and went through to the kitchen to warm a glassful, stirring in a teaspoon of honey. He brought this back with a tranquilliser popped from a blister pack.

Christa said, ‘It was that man. I could smell him.’

‘What smell?’

‘Like cinnamon.’ She finished the milk, handed the glass to Mace.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘just your mind playing tricks.’

Oumou fussed with the pillows and the sheet. ‘Come, ma puce, lie down’ - easing her back, Christa’s face softening under her mother’s hands.

‘I can still smell the cinnamon,’ she said.

‘There’s no cinnamon,’ said Mace.

‘Don’t go.’ Christa reached up to both of them.

‘You must sleep,’ said Oumou.

‘Please.’

‘Okay.’ Oumou and Mace stretched out either side of their daughter.

She’ll get through it, Mace thought, it takes time. And what time was three years? Not much. What he couldn’t fathom was what triggered the flashback. Yesterday she’d been laughing. Rough and tumbling with him in the swimming pool before supper. Ravenous for the Chinese takeout, giggling over their game of rummy. A happy young girl. Except she was paralysed. Except she’d once been shot. Because of him. The thought worked into his mind: a splinter under a fingernail.

It was gone eight when Mace got up, shifting Cat2 from where she was curled behind his knees. He’d slept badly off and on, aware of Christa’s every move beside him. In the kitchen he spooned coffee into the Bialetti and set it on the hob. Stared out at the city, already bright and growling. He heard Oumou come down the passage and pause in the kitchen door.

‘She alright?’

‘Of course, why not?’ Oumou hugged him from behind.

‘When is it going to stop?’ said Mace.

Oumou rubbed her chin between his shoulder blades. ‘Maybe it will take a long time. Maybe it won’t go away. It is not over for me. I can still see the man with the knife. What is it Pylon says? There is a way of things, no?’

Mace turned in her embrace. ‘I don’t go with that stuff. We make our lives.’

‘I didn’t make what the men did to me.’

‘But look at you now.’

‘And look at Christa. One day she will walk again.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She will.’

Mace reached behind to unlock her hands. ‘I’m going to take a swim at the centre,’ he said. ‘Work off some of this.’

‘If you wait till Christa wakes, she could go with you, no?’ Oumou took the coffee pot off the hob, poured two cups. ‘This will be good for her.’ She handed Mace a cup, her eyes on him.

He met her gaze and smiled. ‘I’ll do that.’

Oumou took his hand. ‘Then we can go back to bed.’

Mace stood, eyes closed under the shower, thinking, this was on the edge, this wasn’t New York. The unease in his gut again. He let the water run full in his face, water restrictions or no water restrictions. The city could be drying up in the heat, he needed water. Turned to get the jet on his back, adjusted the rose until the water was hard and sharp. The cascade drummed against him. He switched off the hot tap, let the cold water bring out the gooseflesh before he tightened that tap too and stepped from the cubicle.

‘Any longer and you’d have run the hotel dry,’ Isabella said, leaning now against the bathroom doorway, flicking a comb through her wet hair, watching him. ‘This thing with you and water. Very mother’s womb.’

Mace towelled himself. ‘We all have our hang-ups.’

‘Some more than others.’ She stood aside to let him into the bedroom. ‘Still, lunch and a fuck in a strange city’s always
something
to be appreciated.’

Mace stopped at the tone, halfway into a T-shirt, his arms in the sleeves. ‘What’s this about?’

Isabella looked at him. ‘My requests, Mace. Two small things. A drive past your house. A chance to say hello to your daughter. Not much to ask, I’d have thought.’

‘No.’ He pulled on his T-shirt. ‘I told you. Out of the question.’

‘What you don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is that girl, your daughter, is just a name to me. I want to meet her.’

‘And then?’

‘And then she’s real. We have a connection, Mace. The four of us. You, me, Oumou, Christa.’

Mace snorted. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘I could be a client for all she has to know.’

‘Not going to happen.’ Mace fastened his belt, sat down next to her to put on his shoes. ‘Accept it, Bella. I’m not going there.’

Isabella launched off the bed to stand at the window with her back to him. Her shoulders rigid, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

‘You need help, Mace. A full-time shrink. Give you back some feelings.’

Mace looked at her silhouette. Mistake. It’d been a
mistake
in New York, a lapse, a moment’s weakness. Which he’d deeply regretted. This wasn’t a mistake. This was foolish. Utter craziness.

‘Come on, be reasonable,’ he said.

She turned to face him. ‘Do me a favour, Mace Bishop. Fuck off.’

Mace did, slamming out the room, thinking, up yours too Isabella.