Payback - A Cape Town thriller (27 page)

Eleven on the nose, Pylon brought the big Merc to a stop before the gates of the Llandudno house, he and Mace on their cells.

Mace to Isabella, ‘The flowers weren’t a good idea.’

‘What flowers? Like I’m going to send you flowers after Thursday.’

Mo to Pylon, ‘You get the guy to ring me and tell me how much is in the bag. Then you get here chop chop.’

‘That’s our schedule,’ Pylon said, then said, ‘Hang on’ - and buzzed the intercom, telling the person who answered they’d come to collect.

Mo said, ‘Another thing, I got a call from Vusi.’

Isabella to Mace, ‘I don’t even know your address to send you flowers. You’ve got a secret admirer. Or Oumou has.’ She laughed. ‘Who got them, you or her?’

‘She did,’ said Mace.

‘And she thinks they’re from you?’

The gates opened. Pylon drove in pulling up close to the front door. Mace caught the movement of someone at a window, thought, no, the weasel wouldn’t try it surely. Wondering whether to take the Ruger from the glove box. He and Pylon got out, leant against the car to finish their conversations, scoping the grounds and the house.

To Isabella he said, ‘She does. Thinks I’ve given them to her because she sold out her exhibition.’

‘How sweet.’

Mo said to Pylon, ‘I don’t like Vusi. Vusi’s a slimeball. I don’t want him coming here.’

‘Have to go,’ said Pylon, disconnecting.

Isabella said to Mace, ‘No bad blood?’

‘We’ll survive,’ he said.

‘Keep in touch,’ she said. ‘And Mace, bon voyage.’

Mace pocketed his phone, then he and Pylon walked up to the front door, rang the bell.

Paulo buzzed them in: a big black Merc. Two guys got out: smart types in jeans and T-shirts, shades. Both on their cells, leaning against the car finishing their conversations, watching the place while they talked. Difficult to tell which was the man, the white one he supposed. Paulo waited for them to ring the doorbell. The bag with the money on the table. Ludo tuned to a sports channel. The doorbell rang, Paulo opened.

‘You’re Paulo?’

‘That’s the name I’m known by.’

‘This is Pylon. I’m Mace.’

‘The money’s on the table,’ said Paulo, letting them follow him into the dining room.

‘Nice place.’ Pylon, nodded at Ludo, asked what was the cricket score?

‘Fifty-seven for two,’ said Ludo. ‘Pakistan bowling big-time.’

Mace opened the bag, took out some bundles of notes at random. ‘These in thousands?’ he said.

Paulo nodded.

‘Can you get me a damp sponge?’

‘If you want.’

‘I do.’

Paulo fetched one from the kitchen, by the time he returned Mace was sitting at the table, the elastic bands off a bundle, ready to be counted. The guy Pylon chatting to Ludo, saying, he didn’t know Americans were into cricket.

‘Couldn’t tell a stump from a six before I got here,’ said Ludo, laughing.

‘What they say about travel broadening the mind.’

‘Sure thing,’ said Ludo.

Mace counted off notes into a stack of fifteen grand, stuffed them into an envelope, slipped an elastic band over the rest of the bundle. Everything went back into the bag.

Pylon brought out his phone, connected to Mo Siq. To Paulo said, ‘When the man answers, tell him how much is in the bag.’

Paulo took the phone and headed back into the kitchen, not wanting them to hear the figures. He returned shaking his head. ‘Who’s that guy?’ - gave the phone to Pylon.

‘Not someone you want to meet,’ said Mace.

‘Enjoy the cricket,’ said Pylon to Ludo on his way out. Mace walking ahead with the bag of money, Paulo on his heels.

At the front door Mace turned to Paulo. ‘You Isabella’s husband?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Nothing,’ said Mace, with that bopped Paulo two power punches: the first on the mouth, the second on the cheekbone, both split skin, drawing blood. Paulo staggered back, hands going to his face. Mace dancing forward, arms like lightning dealing two short five-finger stabs to Paulo’s ribs.

‘Oof,’ the breath knocked out of Paulo, doubling him up.

Ludo scooted to the door at the sound of the scuffle. ‘Hey, hey, hey, guys, what’s the problem!’

‘No problem,’ said Mace. ‘Nothing that a block of ice and a Band-aid won’t sort out.’

‘Yeah, well let it go,’ said Ludo, stepping in front of Paulo.

‘Obliged,’ said Mace. ‘Give my regards to your wife.’

Paulo dabbed at his lips, blood smeared over his face.

‘Serious people,’ said Ludo, conjuring his cellphone from a trouser pocket as the Merc pulled out. Thumbed a number, said, ‘Deal’s done.’

‘That was Isabella?’ asked Paulo.

‘Francisco,’ said Ludo, very elegant today: white shirt, pale avocado slacks, suede slip-ons. He disappeared upstairs came back down carrying a suitcase.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Yeah. I were you, I would too. Given the cop’s interest in your ladyfriend, you don’t wanna be hanging around here anymore. Either you or her.’

Paulo waited for more explanation, none was forthcoming. ‘Where’re you going?’

‘Best you don’t know. Find a little B&B. Keep in touch.’

‘I wanna see Isabella,’ said Paulo. ‘You tell her.’

‘Tell her yourself.’ Ludo headed for the Jeep. ‘She’s your wife.’

At the Mount Nelson Isabella upgraded to a luxury suite with two separate bedrooms, the second for Ludo. This her idea while they waited for the collection. ‘May as well treat ourselves,’ she’d said. ‘Also better for security.’

The situation gave Ludo a rush yet he pretended nonchalance at the thought of getting to sleep that close to the woman of his daydreams. That she had him in the next room as muscle was not a reality he let infringe on the fantasy.

The first thing that spoiled the fantasy for Ludo was he couldn’t find his gun. Here he was in this paradise room over the trees, bright swimming pool down below, four days with Isabella ahead, he couldn’t find his gun. He unpacked some shirts, put underwear into a drawer, hung up jackets, he couldn’t find his gun. It was there when he packed. Sure it was there when he packed. He went through jacket pockets, trouser pockets, laid out his clothes on the bed. No gun.

He shook out a smoke, lit it. The punk. The gigolo punk.

From the other room came Isabella, ‘You smoking, Ludo?’

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry.’ He pulled twice quickly, then stubbed the Camel and went through to the suite’s lounge. ‘Paulo’s got my gun,’ he said to her bare-foot image in the mirror. She was changing, had on unfastened jeans and a cream camisole, a bead choker round her neck.

She looked at his reflection in the mirror. ‘This’s a problem?’ Isabella came out of the room, fixing diamond clip-ons to her ears. The flies of her jeans still undone. ‘Probably makes him feel macho.’

‘He said he wanted you to call him.’

‘Sure he does.’ She closed the zip. ‘He knows where I am. He wants to talk to me he’ll call.’ She fastened the belt, shook her head, giving Ludo a broad smile of amusement. ‘Would you credit it. Paulo pulls a move. The punk I thought was a jerk.’ She went over to a mirror, applied lipstick. Chuckling, mmmed her lips, padding back to her bedroom.

‘He’s got my gun.’

‘What you think he’s going to do? Shoot someone?’

Isabella strapped on sandals, slung a small bag over her
shoulder
, Ludo watching her in the mirror: some cool woman this.

‘Let’s go get a coffee.’ As they were leaving the suite said, ‘You think the pussy gave him the balls?’

Ludo patted his pockets for the reassurance of a Camel packet, desperate for a cigarette the moment they hit fresh air. ‘Probably.’ He pressed for the lift. They travelled down two floors in silence.

Halfway through their coffees, Isabella’s phone rang. Ludo watched her reach for it on the table, the phone vibrating across the glass top. She flipped it open. ‘There we go. The little man on cue’ - and gave her husband a bright ‘How’r you, hon?’, smiling the while at Ludo sprawled in the cane chair opposite.

Ludo thought, not for the first time, strange game she played with the asshole, listening patiently while the jock mouthed on.

‘More than talk I would think,’ she said eventually, studying the nails of her right hand. ‘What’s that? A coffee shop. Mugg & Bean? You think that’s the best place to discuss this sort of thing, hon?’

Ludo signalled to her that the hotel would be good, but she shook her head.

‘How about one o’clock? You want to do it when there’re lots of people, that’s alright.’ She lent over to spoon froth from her cappuccino, paused with the teaspoon halfway to her mouth. ‘Alone? Hubby and wifey doing lunch, how sweet.’

Now Ludo shook his head, pointing at himself then at her to say no ways would she be going alone. Tell him, he mouthed, tell him I’ll be with you.

Isabella put the teaspoon in her mouth and swallowed the froth, put the spoon back on the tray. Ludo made a pistol out of his right hand, held it up to catch Isabella’s eye. She nodded. Tell him I want it back, he mouthed.

‘Another thing, hon, ‘fore you go. Bring the gun. It’s what Francisco would call crucial. And crucial is best to swing with.’ She disconnected before Paulo could respond, and flipped the phone closed.

‘A Mugg & Bean,’ she said. ‘Can you take seriously a guy that wants to talk money in a Mugg & Bean?’

Mace and Pylon in the departure lounge ordered filter coffees at a stand-up bar. Pylon wanting to know what was it that they couldn’t serve it in a china cup and saucer or even a china mug? Why’d it have to be this polystyrene nonsense? The cashier told him the price without a smile.

‘What d’you call it?’ he said. ‘Not a mug, it’s a container, even has a lid on it. Like where else will I drink this but standing here, hey sisi?’

The cashier scratched at a stain on her apron, flaking off a white powder.

Pylon turned to Mace, ‘A two-plane airport like Malitia’s, no more’n an airfield and a hangar, they served coffee in proper cups. Back then.’ He fidgeted change from his pocket.

‘When they served coffee,’ said Mace taking away both
containers
to a counter that’d still to be wiped clean, littered with an assortment of polystyrene cups stacked into one another.

He prised off the lid, sipped at the liquid. That it was hot was about all you could say for it.

Pylon said, ‘Look at all this shit. Can’t they get it right to clean when the customers leave? You could put your elbow in a coffee ring if you weren’t watching.’

An attendant came up, swept the empties into a black bin liner, wiped a damp cloth over the counter top.

‘This’s too late,’ said Pylon. ‘The time to’ve done this was before we got here.’ The woman apologised. ‘It’s important,’ he said, ‘otherwise the place feels dirty. Everything’s sticky where people’ve spilt sugar and slopped their drinks. You can feel it.’ He patted his hand on the table top where she hadn’t wiped. Held up his palm. ‘See there, there’s sugar sticking to it. See what I mean?’

Mace said, ‘Pylon.’

Pylon said, ‘No, this’s an issue. Here’s a place with a captive market but just because of that they’ve still got to treat people properly. What’s needed here is some competition. Get everybody on their toes. Or decent management. Someone who’s concerned. Gives the staff some training, keeps the customers satisfied.’ He popped the lid on his coffee, tore open a sachet of sugar and poured it in. Before he’d stirred it he said, ‘I have to go again. Excuse me’ - and headed for the toilets at a clip.

Mace took another swallow of coffee, noted twenty minutes to boarding time. Gazed across at the Hottentots Holland mountains hazed by the heat and the strengthening wind, and thought,
thirty-six
hours he’d be home and dry with enough moolah to shut up the bank chick. Goddamned woman. What a moment that would be.

His cellphone rang, no caller identity on the screen. Normally he didn’t take those, this time he did. The voice he recognised straight off: Sheemina February.

‘How’d you like the flowers?’

‘Very nice,’ said Mace.

‘Bit confusing, maybe,’ she said and clicked her tongue. ‘After the way you left Isabella maybe you thought they were from her. All these women in your life.’

Mace stayed calm. ‘You’re bugging hotels now?’

‘I don’t have to. Still, with the CIA it’s not a bad idea.’

‘Ex.’

‘Ex? Not from what I heard, Mr Bishop. From what I heard you had a lapse for old time’s sake. So maybe the lovely Isabella’s not ex-CIA either.’

‘What’s your point?’ said Mace.

‘A courtesy call. To wish you well on your trip. And a cautionary: drop it with Isabella before word gets out. I mean to Oumou.’

Mace took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. ‘Then one courtesy deserves another.’

‘How wonderful.’

‘Don’t fuck with me, okay. Or my wife.’

Sheemina February laughed. ‘That’s not my style.’

Mace said good, and Sheemina February said have a pleasant flight and that brought Mace back to the thing she’d first said: to wish you well on your trip.

‘And what trip’s this I’m supposed to be on?’ he said. Could sense her shaking her head.

‘Oh come now, Mr Bishop. There’s no need to pretend with me. Please’ - and she disconnected, leaving Mace to thumb his phone off thoughtfully.

‘How much more?’ said Pylon, coming up. ‘Three times since we’ve got here, I’ve still got the squirts.’

‘I’ve just had a call from Sheemina February,’ said Mace. ‘She knows about this trip.’

‘Hey?’ said Pylon, stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon, frowning at Mace. ‘She’s saying what?’ He put the spoon on the counter, took a mouthful of coffee. ‘She’s saying she knows about this?’

Mace nodded.

‘Bloody save me Jesus.’ Pylon drank again, dabbed at his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘It won’t be from Mo she heard.’

‘I wouldn’t imagine either. But it makes you wonder where she did hear.’

‘Maybe,’ said Pylon, ‘it’s not so much where as how.’