Killer Country (29 page)

‘The way I read it,’ said Mace, ‘the judge was lucky.’

Mace and Pylon on standby for a Cape Town flight. Sitting to one side at Gate D3, looking out on an array of planes. Pylon hoped, ‘If we get this flight I can still pick up Treasure and Pumla, keep on the sweet side of the pregnant lady.’ The two men waiting behind the ropes for the last passengers to board. Mace thought of it as penning sheep.

‘Lucky he didn’t want the farm. He’d wanted the farm, our friend Spitz might’ve been the last person he saw.’

‘Strange guy,’ said Pylon. ‘Spitz. So cooperative. So grateful for the lift.’

‘A hitman,’ said Mace. ‘Who lost you the West Coast.’

‘Nah,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s like blaming the gun. Spitz did it as a job.’

‘He doesn’t have to. He could do something else. Be a DJ. Guns, you pull the trigger they have to shoot.’

‘You offered him a lift.’

‘To show no hard feelings.’

Pylon smiled. ‘This’s the mother left you to die.’

Mace thought about this. ‘Probably, in the same circumstances I’d have done the same thing. What I like about Spitz is he shot the Manga man and didn’t hurt Christa.’

‘Still a hitman. Could be paid to shoot Christa, Oumou next. He’d do it. He’s not going to say, no, I pass on this one, Mace’s alright. Only smashed my pinkie. You know what? Took me to the hospital afterwards.’

‘What’re you saying?’

‘I’m saying what you said, he’s a hitman.’

‘And hitmen kill.’ Mace laughed. ‘Though some of them like good music.’ He brought out the blue iPod.

‘You swiped that.’

‘It was mine. He took it from me, okay. While I was dying.’

‘Actually I’d lent it to you. It was his. He’s the one paid money for it. He’s the one who lost it. Dropped it outside Popo’s place. After he’d shot them.’

‘Also it’s evidence.’

‘Of what?’

‘Places him at a certain killing.’

‘You’re kidding. Who’s going to believe that?’

‘Obed Chocho might.’

An attendant called over that they could board now, unhooked the rope barrier. She smiled at them, even placed them in adjacent seats.

‘To get back to the judge,’ said Mace, when they’d buckled up. ‘He was lucky. Helluva coincidence that he’s the judge to put Chocho away.’

‘Very ironic.’

‘No. Coincidental.’

‘Look,’ said Pylon, ‘irony’s when you get stuff happening and the stuff’s connected but nobody knows it at the time.’

‘Like a coincidence. Two things coming together that’re related. The judge sending down Chocho, while Chocho’s planning to snuffle the judge’s farm. The judge’s old man’s farm.’

‘For Chocho that’s irony.’

‘Maybe. Except for the judge it’s coincidence. Happens out of the blue. It’s random. That there’s a connection’s a fluke. Pure and simple.’

‘Kind of an ironic fluke.’

The captain came on said they’d been given clearance to take off. Everyone was to sit back and enjoy the flight, folks.

Pylon said, ‘I hate flying. I hate being called folks.’

‘It’s just an accident. A stroke of fate.’

The plane’s engines wound up a notch, Pylon gripped the armrests. ‘Like getting the mining magazines.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Mace. ‘Their coming out of the blue. Been wondering who sent them.’

The plane backed away from the terminal buildings, juddered off along the runway into a departure queue.

‘Has to be someone with a grudge. Someone wants to tell us Chocho’s been after the Visser farm from before he went to jail.’

‘That’s what I mean, it’s ironic. The judge putting him away.’

The captain instructed cabin crew to take their seats. Said the tower had given them clearance for takeoff, folks.

Mace glanced at Pylon. Pylon rigid, staring down the aisle at the cockpit door. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

The engines went to a pitch, the plane started forward. Mace a sucker for this bit: the acceleration, the Gs pushing him into the seat. The plane bulleting on and on down the runway, faster.

Pylon going, ‘Lift the nose, lift the nose.’

When the nose came up Pylon saying, ‘Oh shit.’ Closing his eyes.

Mace waited until the climb gentled out, the plane tilting south over a mosaic of swimming pools, before he said, ‘There’s a whole lot of stuff here I can’t put together. Too many coincidences. Too many things falling in Chocho’s lap.’

Pylon said, ‘Helps when you contract a hitman.’ Gritted his teeth as the plane bounced through an air pocket.

Brought the captain on to say, folks, it was best to stay buckled up, for comfort’s sake.

Sheemina February and Obed Chocho sat at an outside table at the café in the Gardens, drinking iced coffees. Mid-morning, two other tables occupied by lawyers and early tourists drifting in. A berg-wind day, warm and pleasant. Later the wind would scour your sinuses, scorch your eyes. Tomorrow it would rain. April in the city. Sheemina February looked up at the blue sky, thought of money. Lots of it.

‘Why here?’ said Obed Chocho.

With her gloved hand Sheemina February took a file from her briefcase, placed it on the table. ‘Because it’s a sunny day. Because this is the sort of thing we need to do in a public place. Because the last time I confronted these two it was here.’

‘Oh mighty fine,’ said Obed Chocho.

‘Hey. Hold it.’ She looked at him, no smiles. ‘Humour me. I’m your lawyer.’

Obed Chocho snorted.

She turned the file until the documents faced him. ‘This is the deed of sale. Zimisela Explorations now owns the property. Soon it will run a uranium mine. You are a rich man. You will be even richer.’

She closed the file.

‘Also in there is a letter permitting your West Coast development. What more does it take to make Obed Chocho happy?’ She sat back, caught sight of Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso heading towards them.

‘Having you handle the arseholes.’

‘Deal with it, Obed. It’s you they want to see. I’m here to hold your hand.’

Mace and Pylon stood over their table.

‘The gangster and the gangster’s moll,’ said Pylon. ‘Aren’t we honoured.’ He pulled out a chair, sat down.

‘Such a way with words, Mr Buso,’ said Sheemina February. She smiled up at Mace. Giving him the icy Nordic eyes. ‘Please, Mr Bishop, sit. Tell us what’s on your mind.’

‘We don’t need you here,’ said Mace. He pulled out the remaining chair. Sheemina February on his right, Chocho on his left, Pylon opposite.

‘But I’m his moll, as Mr Buso so quaintly puts it. His legal moll.’ She rested her gloved hand on the table between them. ‘When the heavies get heavy, a lawyer is always useful. Keep a sense of perspective. Now.’ Looking from Mace to Pylon, back at Mace. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Spitz,’ said Pylon. ‘Sharp dude, wears good shoes. Into movies and country rock. Says you’ve… your client’s… contracted with him from time to time.’

While Pylon spoke Sheemina February kept her eyes on Mace. Her lips holding a smile faintly. Flicking to Obed Chocho, she said, ‘Obed, you know of anyone called Spitz?’

Obed Chocho shook his head.

‘You might like to rethink that, my brother,’ said Pylon.

‘My client’s answered you,’ said Sheemina February.

Pylon sighed. ‘What I didn’t tell you last time is I have photographs. Piccies of Spitz leaving Mr Chocho’s house. Him and a brother called Manga Khumalo. The same Manga Khumalo turned up dead at the Visser farm shooting.’

‘Where I saw Spitz shoot the Vissers,’ said Mace. ‘And Manga.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sheemina February, ‘what’s the point of this?’

‘Don’t play thick,’ said Mace.

‘Proves,’ said Pylon, ‘that your client’s lying about not knowing Spitz.’

‘An oversight,’ said the lawyer. ‘That this Spitz shot the Vissers has nothing to do with my client. That information you should take to the police.’

‘Just an ironic coincidence then,’ said Mace, ‘that your client’s company’s bought the farm.’

‘Indeed.’ Sheemina February drew the folder towards her, slipped it into her briefcase. ‘Mr Chocho is on the board of Zimisela Explorations. That’s common knowledge. The farm has uranium deposits. That’s common knowledge. The farm came on the market, obviously Zimisela would put in an offer to purchase.’

‘How convenient,’ said Mace.

‘No, Mr Bishop. Ordinary, above-the-line market forces. Willing buyer. Willing seller. Nothing dark and devious.’ She made to rise. ‘If you and Mr Buso have nothing more than this speculation, then there is no longer a point to our meeting.’

‘Keep sitting,’ said Mace. He glanced at Pylon.

‘We can also place Spitz at the shooting of Popo Dlamini and Obed’s wife,’ said Pylon. ‘Thanks to this little thing he left behind.’ He placed on the table a blue iPod in a Ziploc bag.

Obed Chocho wiped his hand over his face.

Sheemina February held up the bag. ‘Likewise this is  information for the police. Obviously, Mr Chocho would like to see his wife’s killer brought to justice.’

‘Obviously,’ said Pylon, taking back the bag.

‘Now. We have to go.’ She stood.

‘One other thing,’ said Mace. ‘Yesterday we spoke to Spitz. Maybe a hitman but he’s got good points. Like honesty.’

‘So?’

‘He has agreed to help us.’

Sheemina February sat down. ‘Help you?’

Pylon came in, ‘As a state witness. Nail Obed here as the contractor behind the killings. We believe the case is looking good.’

Mace and Pylon stood. Mace said, ‘Think about it. Suicide’s always an option. Sign of the grieving husband, heartbroken. That sort of thing.’

‘Two days,’ said Pylon. ‘Before we go to our friends in blue.’

When they’d left Sheemina February said, ‘This’s a problem, Obed. Something extra-legal required. Know what I mean?’

Obed Chocho said, ‘Mighty fine. Mighty fine. When the going gets tough Obed’ll fix it.’

‘Very macho, I’m sure.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘They’ve given you two days, Obed. Maybe they want an offer. Other hand, maybe Spitz is the answer, hmm? The honest hitman.’

She walked away, Obed Chocho admiring her legs.

Obed Chocho ordered another iced coffee, made a phone call. Spitz.

‘Listen, buti,’ he said. ‘You’ve fucked me up. You want to get out of this you come down here ‘n sort out your mess. Specifically the arseholes Bishop and Buso. Like chop chop. Now now. Any time from five tomorrow I want to hear they are late. For your account. You fuck me up again, you’re dead.’

He disconnected, realised Spitz hadn’t said a word. Then again, words weren’t the issue here. Action was.

He finished his second iced coffee, phoned Pylon. Said, ‘I’ve  been considering maybe we could come to an arrangement.’ Paused but Pylon didn’t respond. ‘At the West Coast site ten tomorrow?’ Again the non response. ‘Okay. Be there. Alone. We can talk.’ He disconnected.

Arseholes. Mighty fine. The arseholes thought they’d nailed him. The arseholes would find out about Obed Chocho. Mighty fine they’d find out. If they were still alive.  

Spitz, watching a high-speed boat-chase through the canals of Venice, popped a painkiller wondering how one small finger could hurt this badly. Wondering what kind of sadist had to go all the way when you’d told him what he wanted? And then take you to hospital. Say, sorry, pal, no hard feelings. And steal an iPod. What sort of person was this?

The speedboat doing the chasing entered a bad situation ramping over a small boat to land on a flat-bed barge loaded with vegetables. The thieves in the getaway boat grinned at one another, powering up towards open water.

Would the brother have done it? Spitz thought probably yes. Maybe wouldn’t have broken the bones. Not hit with such force. As if he enjoyed causing the pain. Spitz aimed the remote at the TV screen, getting back to the main menu.

In tens of jobs, never a comeback. Always clean contracts. In out. Money in his account. Never any of this mess Never people tracking him down. Never physical violence. Even threatening to kill him.

He clicked on-scene selection: there’s Charlize cracking the safe the moment before the cop steps up and you realise it’s not for real. He had to smile at the concentration on the girl’s pretty face.

This job was bad from the start. The changes. The add-ons.  Now mighty-fine Chocho telling him, ordering him, to make a hit on his own account. Or he’d put a hit on Spitz-the-Trigger.

On screen, the cop came into the frame and the tension went out of the scene.

Spitz phoned Sheemina February. Told her the story.

She said, ‘Join the club.’

Spitz said, ‘I am not sure which club this means.’

‘The reason, Spitz,’ she said, ‘that I wear a glove in case you’ve ever wondered is because they smashed my hand. Like that, with a mallet.’

‘How could this happen?’

‘Years ago. In the guerrilla camps. Different world, same modus operandi. Mr Bishop and Mr Buso are not nice men, Spitz.’

‘I must kill them?’

‘If that’s what Obed wants.’

‘You have changed your mind?’

‘About?’

‘About the white man. You want him to die now.’

‘I think so. Yes. This time.’ A silence. Then: ‘Tell me, Spitz, why’d you keep my name out?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I think you do. I’m asking why you didn’t tell the thugs that I work with Obed Chocho? That I was the one made the arrangements with you.’

Spitz scene-hopped to the lovely Charlize in overalls conducting the recce in the fool’s mansion.

‘There are some reasons.’

‘Such as?’

‘You are like me. You work for Mr Chocho. You are doing his business.’

‘That’s one reason.’

‘Another one is that they did not ask me about your name.’

He could hear Sheemina February clicking her nails on the desk. 

‘Fair enough.’ Click, click. ‘Let me tell you what another reason might be, Spitz. How about you thought that out of gratitude I’d put down a bonus. Not so? How much were you thinking, Spitz? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty even?’

Spitz didn’t answer. Sheemina February gave a soft laugh.

‘Doesn’t matter, Mr Triggerman. I don’t hold it against you. Same circumstances I’d have had similar thoughts. Only now you’ve got to kill them the leverage falls away.’

Spitz flicked back to the main menu, selected Charlize getting some driving lessons in a Mini Cooper. He could imagine Sheemina February in such a car.

Sheemina February saying, ‘No hard feelings, Spitz. Go ahead, make your arrangements. Call me when you’ve booked into a hotel and we’ll take it from there. I have some information you’ll find useful.’

‘I will need a weapon.’

‘There was a time when your targets were a source of weapons. Poetic justice, isn’t it, that the gun-runners should take a bullet? A nice idea.’

‘A point twenty-two with a silencer.’

‘I know, Spitz. Relax.’

‘Then we can have a drink on the town. You will show me some of your places.’

Sheemina February laughed. ‘You’re cheeky. Give it up, Spitz, I’m not available. Understand what I’m saying.’

‘One drink.’

‘Maybe afterwards.’

Spitz said, ‘Is that a promise you are making’ – realised she’d disconnected. He aimed the remote at the screen, flicked back to watch Charlize waking up to her daddy’s phone call. Paused the movie to give full appreciation to Charlize’s body. Sheemina February he believed would have a body like that.