Payback - A Cape Town thriller (30 page)

Saturday night Ludo went on a bender. Starting with the
minibar
. Hit back four Chivas and sodas, before taking the brandies neat. The sun dropped below Signal Hill he cried. Ludo couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Standing at the window looking over the tree-tops, sunlight reflecting off the high-rise windows, he cried. His face crumpled. He sobbed. Deep agonising sobs. And groaned. A groan that came from his heart. Hurt in his chest like he’d taken a solid right roundhouse.

‘Oh shit,’ he heaved. ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.’ Smearing tears across his face with the back of his hand. The brandy in the other hand trembling.

He didn’t want to think about Isabella. He couldn’t think about anyone but Isabella. Imagine where she was lying. In a ditch. A dumpster. Among scrapped autos at some industrial site. These images haunting him. What if she wasn’t dead? Was bleeding out. Alone. Dying alone. Enough to agitate him to do something. Anything.

He dialled Paulo, surprised at the connection.

‘What the fuck’ve you done with her?’ he shouted.

‘Hell, I left her at Mugg & Bean,’ Paulo said. ‘Hours ago.’

‘Tell me,’ screamed Ludo but the connection was cut.

‘Bastards,’ he howled, sitting down, letting go. Knowing what Paulo must’ve done. ‘Bastards.’

Slowly the shaking subsided. Ludo sat back, took deep breaths. Lit up again. The ashtray a mess of butts. There would be revenge. He would tell Francisco the punk had killed her. The least he could do. The news going to wreck Francisco, Francisco going to want to kill the messenger, knowing him. As if his pain for Isabella was all the pain there could be. Jesus, Ludo sighed, the heartache unbearable. The guilt, too. He’d gone with her this wouldn’t have happened. Even without a gun.

This thought fired him again, brought down more vitriol on Paulo. Ludo knocked off the brandy, chased it with a beer. Fuck them. The best place he could think of to start was at the Llandudno house. Take it from there step by step. If they were around, really grind them over. Do what Francisco would want.

Ludo showered, dressed to kill. In Isabella’s room, looked at her clothes folded on the shelves, a strappy dress hanging up. Probably what she would’ve worn to dinner that evening. Would have been something, the two of them dining together. Like a couple.

At Llandudno he left the Cherokee at the beach parking, walked to the house along a path at the back. Entered from the garden gate, cutting across the lawn to the swimming pool, surprised to find the patio door unlocked. He went in, called out, got no response. Upstairs he checked out Paulo’s room: a goddamned mess of newspapers, magazines, brochures, maps, flyers, even ticket stubs. Their clothes gone. Among all the shit he found a portfolio of B&Bs and holiday rentals, one place circled - Molteno Road. Ludo thought, careless prick, came from thinking he’d covered all the angles.

He got out of Llandudno, driving to a cafe on the zooty beach strip. Took a table inside beneath a light, ordered a double Jack Daniel’s while he located the street on a map. What he needed was a gun. Without a gun the world was too risky a place. He sipped at the sour mash. The best guy to organise a gun Ludo reckoned, short of Francisco, would be none other than Paulo’s contact, Oupa K.

While he was toying with this, he was not thinking of Isabella, but the gun brought the heartache back. There’d been a gun, things could’ve played out differently. Instead she was probably dead. He hit the rest of the Jack to dull the grief.

He tried Isabella’s number again. Voicemail. The same with Paulo’s cell.

Ludo left the cafe, considering he needed to waste two, three hours before cruising for Oupa K. His preference in the interlude being a bar of drinkers, pool players, darts-types, men and women, there for the drink and the smoke and the company. Sometimes these summer nights he’d found it at the Perseverance, more usually at the Stag’s Head. He made it the Stag’s Head, a part of the city dim and empty this hour of a Saturday evening. Suitable to his mood. A place to grieve.

In the bar he was pulled a draught and a shot of Jack besides, taking these to a back bench behind the pool players. Set down the beer and whiskey on cork coasters, beside them laying his packet of Camels, a Zippo, his cellphone. The pool players paid no heed. Ludo sipped the beer: to Isabella. The thought of her become a dull ache in his chest. He lit a cigarette, drew smoke into his lungs, keeping it there for a ten-count, releasing it through his nose. What the hell! Put down half the Jack, chasing it with beer. He leant back, closed his eyes. The balls clicked, the players grunted approval. Ludo reckoned what was the problem here was he couldn’t remember feeling so lousy. Ever. He’d felt better in worse situations. Like he didn’t have the heart for this. Like what was the point? Go home, punter, go home. Catch the next flight. He got another beer and chaser.

Just after half eleven he left the Stag’s Head, carrying a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and headed for the Club Catastrophe that Paulo had raved of often enough. Getting there the town changing from dark and empty to a different quarter: traffic jams, cruisers, kids, the sound level booming. A block away he got a parking space, a Golf trying to squeeze him for it, Ludo pushing right on in, the Golf screeched off, hooting.

Before he left the car Ludo broke the seal on the Jack and took a pull and a second mouthful, went searching for Oupa K.

At the door of the club the bouncer said, ‘You’re looking for?’ - meaning this is not your scene daddyo.

Ludo eyeballed him. ‘Black fella name of Oupa K.’

The bouncer looked past him. ‘That so? This’s Africa, friend, most people’re black.’

‘I believe you know the man,’ said Ludo, ignoring the jibe. ‘I believe he hangs here.’

The man glanced at him, decided to leave it there. ‘Maybe. You go inside you can find out.’

‘Surely.’ Ludo stepped forward and the bouncer let him pass, the bouncer smelling of the aftershave Paulo favoured, powerful cloying scent of sweat mixed with tar.

Ludo pushed into the dancers. Women in skimpy clothes
everywhere
, men with their shirts off, shuddering around the dance floor like zombies. They called this a club? Like hell it was. Pictures of cats crucified on the walls. Scenes from some junkhead’s worst nightmare.

A tall thin guy came at him, shouting over the techno. ‘M-my name’s Ma-Matthew. I heard you’re lo-looking for some-one?’

‘Yeah,’ Ludo shouted back. ‘You heard right.’

‘You a-aiming to score?’

The guy had attitude. Ludo grinned at this. ‘Other business.’

‘Sh-sh-shit doesn’t go dow-down here.’

‘Sure, pal.’

The Matthew guy indicated he should follow through the bodies and foam pumping from nozzles like it was a freaking bubble bath. Everybody raving on E. And the Matthew guy said shit didn’t go down. The Matthew guy had his eyes closed. Probably getting some kickback.

They came to a door. Ludo heard the thin man shout at him, ‘Ch-chill room.’ He went inside, there was a black sucking the face of a latte boy. The black had his eyes wide open.

‘You Oupa K?’ said Ludo, kicking the schwarzer’s boot,
hand-tooled
cowboy, product of the USA.

The man got back his mouth, said, ‘Who the shit’re you?’

‘Doesn’t matter, pal.’ Ludo fished out his Camels, took one of the sticks from the packet with his lips. ‘I’m in the market for a pistol. What’re you selling?’

‘Hey, hey, hey.’ The black laughing, pushed away the latte rent, said to him, ‘Go dance, baby.’ Said to Ludo, ‘You Yanks reckon you run the world.’

Ludo lit the cigarette, puffed out the smoke without drawing it down. ‘$250 cash. Here and now.’

Oupa K stretched his legs. ‘You not notice the hulk at the door, chief? He’s going to let me in with a tray of hardware.’

Ludo shrugged. ‘$250.’

Oupa K said nothing, staring at him. Suddenly exploded, ‘Who you think I am? Who’re you, Yank, you can walk in here even think I’m going to snivel, yes, boss, anything you want boss? Your problem, your white problem is you’ve all got this arrogance. The white man speaks the black man obeys. Hey, up yours, Yank. Screw you, man. You run the world so well, go ask one of your honky honchos. Don’t put this bullshit on me.’

Ludo smoked through to the end of the cigarette, both of them staring past one another now.

‘No offence, pal.’ He killed the butt with the toe of his shoe. Frigging jigs, always the image problem. Oupa K wasn’t his only hope, he’d walk out. Find another darkie sharper at the business end. ‘Like I said, though. You can help me I’d appreciate it.’

Oupa K sprang up. ‘Stuff you, mlungu.’ Grabbed Ludo’s open bomber jacket, pulling him towards the door. ‘You want a tool? What’re you want? 9mm? .38? Magnum? Huh! Huh! Tell me,
Yankee
. Let the niggerboy run for the white master.’

‘A nine would be good,’ said Ludo.

Oupa K leered at him. ‘A nine would be good. Hooray for you, Yankee. Come. Come.’

Oupa K was off through the dancers, Ludo following him out the door past the grinning bouncer calling after them, ‘
Follow
your noses, grandads,’ through the throngs a block down the street, a right, and four cars away was Oupa K’s van, rocking. Not only with requiems, but the human connection. Oupa K banged on the panel door. The door slid back, a guy with a straight up monkey squinted out.

‘Ah shit,’ said Oupa K. Then stood back for Ludo to see. ‘Be amazed, Yankee. Be amazed at the darkie’s big dick.’

The guy with the hard-on disappeared, Oupa K shouting, ‘Where’s your pistol, bro? Gimme your pistol.’ Turned to Ludo. ‘You want something, you’re going to take whatever?’

Ludo nodded. ‘If it works.’

‘It works, Yankee. It works.’ Oupa K reaching in for a pistol being offered grip first from the dark of the van. He raised it
sighting
at a streetlight, firing, missing, the slug gouging into a wall behind. ‘You do any better, Doodle-dandy?’

Ludo took the gun, brought his arm up, popped the streetlight.

‘$250,’ said Oupa K, feigning unimpressed.

Ludo looked at the gun. A Czech CZ75. Not a corner of the world they didn’t get to. Praise the Lord. Even in the midst of darkness you could be blessed. The first positive in a bad day. Ludo released the magazine: eight rounds. Jacked it back in with the palm of his hand.

‘You have more ammunition?’

Oupa K tapped the roof of the van. ‘What you see is what you get.’ Oupa K getting jumpy at the length of this transaction. ‘You want it? You don’t want it?’

Ludo slipped the shooter into the pocket of his jacket, took out a roll of dollar bills. Counted off two hundreds and a fifty, handed them across, Oupa K eyeing the remainder.

‘You Yanks got a strange attitude,’ said Oupa K, folding the money into his pocket.

‘I’m obliged,’ said Ludo. He turned away, walking off fast.

‘Hey, chief,’ shouted Oupa K, ‘go down easy, man. Say a prayer to Jesus.’

At the corner Ludo made for the crowds, his right hand in his jacket pocket, fingers curled round the grip of the Czech, his thumb working the safety catch. On, off. On, off. On. Life was better with a gun. Life would be even better with a mouthful of whiskey, the gap since the last lengthening further than it should. Still he went easy through the crowds, rolling with the bumps and pushes, stepping round the teen-scene knots, causing no aggro, everyone here for a good time after all. Stepped out of the club quarter into the quiet street where he’d parked. Here he was jumped, a knife going into his right shoulder and out, the second strike intended as a gut-rip.

Ludo felt no pain, staggering from the mugger’s body-rush against a car, bringing his free hand up to save his belly. Realising this was what he’d wanted: action, something happening. He went down easy as the man had said, not praying to Jesus but slipping off the safety catch. The mugger following to stick him in the neck, his arm pulled back for the swing. Ludo shot him, the gun still in his pocket. The wonder of the CZ you didn’t need a cocked hammer. The other wonder its reliability. You could lie awkward in a gutter against some Beemer’s Pirelli, watch the ballet of a mugger dying. A pretty performance: pas ciseaux, pas allé, pas chasse, le grand écarté. Only at the moment of the dipshit’s dropping, feel the pain.

Ludo brought his left hand to his shoulder, blood on his palm. He levered himself up, moved off in search of the Jeep, not giving the mugger a second glance. Even with his clothes on, the jig recognisable as Oupa K’s stud. The trouble with jimbos their sheer greed and avarice. Their honour code non-existent.

In the car Ludo took two long hits at the Jack Daniel’s. Stripped off his jacket and shirt, fingering around the puncture. From what he could tell a muscle stick wound that hurt like hell but needed no more than a wad. For the wad used a handkerchief to soak the bleeding. Carefully, grimacing, put on his shirt and jacket, keeping the wad positioned beneath the clothing.

The whiskey level was under half, Ludo wondered if he went back to the Stag’s Head would the barmaid sell him another? It was worth a try. Fifteen minutes later walked into the Stag’s Head, the right sleeve of his jacket bloody. The barmaid saw him coming, raised a thumb and forefinger to indicate a shot glass, at Ludo’s nod poured him a Bushmills single malt.

‘A nightcap,’ she called it, sliding the taste of heaven towards him.

‘Much obliged,’ he said. She glanced at his arm. ‘Just got mugged,’ he said. ‘Some Elastoplast would be handy. And another of those bottles.’

Poker-faced she nodded. Got the bottle from below the
counter
, cut a long strip of adhesive plaster off a roll kept in a drawer. ‘In case of breakages,’ she offered as explanation. ‘You need ointment?’

Ludo pointed at the Tennessee sour mash. ‘That’ll do.’ She nodded again.

Ludo took his time over the Bushmills, Paulo on his mind. He were Paulo he wouldn’t be whooping it up, would be keeping a low profile in the apartment he’d rented. Ludo finished the malt. Couldn’t help licking his lips.

‘Another?’ asked the barmaid without smiling.