Killer Country (30 page)

‘That,’ said Pylon, ‘was the great Obed Chocho.’

Mace and Pylon on a stroll up Government Avenue through the Gardens heading back the long way to their offices. Kids running on the lawns, people on the benches enjoying the sun.

‘Wanting?’

Pylon dug out peanuts from a jacket pocket, threw them to a squirrel. ‘To offer a deal.’

‘Oh yeah!’

‘So he says.’

‘When ‘n where?’

The squirrel stuffed its pouches, sat up waiting for more.

‘Tomorrow morning. At the west coast site, the Smits’ old cottage.’

‘Should be interesting.’

Pylon bent down, some peanuts rolling in the palm of his hand. ‘For me.’

The squirrel approached, paused with a paw in the air, sniffing. Pylon kept his hand still.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m going alone.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I am.’

The squirrel snatched two nuts, scampered off and up the base of a tree, hung there looking back at the two men. Pylon dropped the remaining nuts on the ground, straightened.

‘No way. This’s Obed Chocho we’re talking about. A guy puts out hits easy as we buy lattes. He’s not wanting to deal, he’s wanting to whack you.’

‘I don’t think so. He knows I’ll tell you, probably that you’ll be waiting not far off. He’s not going to pull a number. This’s to sort something. Buy us off.’

‘Sounds bloody dicey to me.’

‘Nah. Not a big deal.’

‘I’m going to ride backup.’

‘No need.’

‘Every need, china. Just don’t even argue the toss.’

The squirrel leapt off the tree trunk, snatched at the nuts, retreating into the undergrowth.

‘You like this action? Prefer the edge.’

‘Makes the day more clear cut. Brighter. Sure. But between this and getting out, I’d still take getting out. Okay there’s fun here. Except I’d rather have other kinds of fun. Where it’s not deadly.’ Mace gave a chuckle. ‘Never thought I’d say that.’

‘Never thought I’d hear it.’ Pylon laughed too.

Vagrants laying out their clothing over benches cackled with the two men, calling after them, ‘Hey, my larneys, two rands for a drink, ek sê. Lekker, lekker. On this lovely day.’

Mace waved a hand. He and Pylon swinging behind the school across Hatfield and down Dunkley to the square. The cafés on the square doing good business. Buzzing talk and laughter.

‘You’d swear this city was on holiday,’ said Pylon.

‘Rain’s coming,’ said Mace. ‘People getting in some sun.’

Pylon stopped, gazed across at the scene. A quick Stella?’

‘Why not? Think we should get Tami over?’

Pylon shook his head. ‘Nah. Gives too much lip.’

They found an empty table, ordered two draughts. Mace stretched out. Looked up at the mountain stark and solid above the city, a cut-out against the azure sky. Days like this you wanted to go on forever.

Cape Town wet and miserable. Grey murk across the city bowl. Lights on in houses, the sort of damp cold that made Spitz think  of Germany. The old GDR. Training in gloomy dawns. Loneliness and grim barracks.

Spitz stayed well back from the red Alfa Spider. He’d picked it up on the steep downhill street, Molteno, as per the note. Correct to a minute on the outside. Someone had done their homework. Whoever it was Sheemina February used.

‘He will drop his daughter at school and proceed to the office on Dunkley Square,’ read the note. The note that had been delivered to his hotel. With the gun.

This morning was no exception. Spitz followed the car through the wet streets to a school, where the girl got out, joined other girls bolting through the drizzle into the building.

At Dunkley Square he parked in a bay with his back to the offices of Complete Security, angled the rearview mirror so he could see without being seen. He was ahead of Mace Bishop. He watched the Spider slot into a kerbside space outside the building. The driver get out, unhurried, unfazed by the drizzle, head for the front door.

‘Fifteen to twenty minutes later Pylon Buso will arrive in a Mercedes Benz. He will park in the street in a reserved bay behind the Alfa Romeo. It is usual for them to have coffee in a guest lounge downstairs until 09h00. The only other occupant of the building is their administrative assistant, Tami Mogale. She arrives at 08h25 on foot. The security officers employed by Complete Security very seldom report to this office. In the five days to date these three people were alone in the building between 07h50 and 10h00. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays a cleaning organisation, Dust Busters, services the offices at 15h00 for forty-five minutes.’

With the note was a diagram of the building. Front door leading into a long hallway that ran through to a kitchen at the back. Two paces in, a door on the right into the lounge. Three paces beyond that another door on the right where the assistant had an office. Opposite that door a staircase to the upstairs offices of Bishop and Buso. A boardroom on the left before the kitchen. A toilet opposite the boardroom. A door in the kitchen to an outside courtyard.

Spitz’s idea was: knock, and the young woman would open. Brush past her, swing right into the lounge doorway: whop, whop, and out. How the woman reacted determined whether she stayed alive. Back to the hotel, check out, catch a midday flight to Jozi. Spitz’s idea.

Twenty minutes later Pylon Buso had not arrived. Shortly before half past eight a minibus taxi pulled into the square, let out half a dozen people. Among them a young woman who ran to the row of offices. Tami Mogale, Spitz believed. Another ten minutes no Pylon Buso. Mace Bishop came out, took off fast in the Spider.

Spitz sighed. Reached down, pulled out the Browning Buck Mark from underneath his seat. Unscrewed the can. Ejected the clip. Distributed the parts in the various pockets of his jacket. Phoned Sheemina February.

‘And?’ she said. A slight huskiness to her voice.

‘Mister Buso didn’t arrive here,’ said Spitz. ‘Now Mister Bishop has left.’

‘What a pity,’ said Sheemina February, the strength coming back into her voice. ‘Never mind, Spitz, there will be other occasions today, if not tomorrow morning. Use the opportunity to familiarise yourself with our fair city.’

‘I know the city.’

‘Not well enough and not the parts they frequent. These are not easy men to kill, I must remind you.’

‘That is not necessary, a reminder.’

‘I know, but it’s worth saying.’ She paused. Spitz could hear the clink of a teaspoon stirring a cup of tea. He did not think Sheemina February drank coffee, only herbal tea. ‘Another thing, could we meet tonight. At your hotel, about eight.’

‘For a drink on the town?’

‘Not exactly. I have other business, Spitz. For which there’ll be a disbursement. So your trip is not without its compensation.’ She disconnected.

Spitz clicked on the rear window wiper: saw the offices of Complete Security showed a light downstairs and one upstairs on this grey and dismal morning. He fired the white Citi Golf. Went in search of breakfast.

The judge held the young man’s hand lightly in his own. They sat side by side on the bed, the young man, his trainer, Ricardo, his hair wet from the shower, a bath sheet wrapped round his waist. The judge naked. Their shoulders touching, flesh against flesh.

The judge lifted Ricardo’s fingers, brought them to his lips. He could smell herbal hair shampoo, cleanliness. He kissed Ricardo’s fingertips, lowered his hand until it came to rest on the young man’s thigh.

‘You are very beautiful,’ he said, his eyes not leaving Ricardo’s face.

‘Ag, judge,’ said Ricardo.

‘Telman.’

‘Telman,’ said Ricardo, withdrawing his hand, standing. ‘It doesn’t sound right.’

Telman Visser laughed. ‘I can’t make love to a man who calls me judge.’ He looked up at Ricardo, beckoned him to step closer. ‘Now drop the towel.’

‘It’s late,’ said Ricardo. ‘We can’t do this now.’

‘We’re not going to do anything, I just want to look at you.’

‘In half an hour I have to be at the gym. For my shift.’

The judge tugged at the towel, loosened it. ‘The Constantia ladies can wait. They only want to lech at you, Ricardo. Dream of biting your bum.’ He admired the dark crotch, leaned back on his elbows. ‘In a Cavafy poem a young man throws off his unworthy clothes “And stood stark naked, impeccably handsome, a miracle”. Like you.’ He smiled. ‘Turn around, my sensual boy.’

Ricardo did. Judge Telman Visser leaned forward, nipped at the young man’s rump.

Ricardo yelped, skipped away.

‘Aaa hah,’ said the judge. ‘By the look of things you don’t want to leave just yet.’

‘No, I’ve got to,’ said Ricardo, searching among a pile of clothes for his boxers. ‘The gym’ll fire me.’

‘I don’t think so. If I had a word.’

Somewhere in the house a phone rang three times, an answering machine took the call. The judge sighed. ‘Next it’ll be my cellphone.’ When it rang he gestured at Ricardo. ‘Bring it to me. Please. There on the bedside table.’

‘See,’ said Ricardo, handing him the phone, ‘it’s very late.’

Judge Visser glanced at the screen, connected. ‘Sheemina February. What is the problem?’

He heard her say, ‘Are you alone?’ – covering the mic with his thumb asked Ricardo to leave the bedroom.

‘Without my clothes?’

‘Dress in the bathroom. Close the door.’

He watched Ricardo scurry into the bathroom, a last glimpse of the firm backside.

‘Ms February.’

‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘My work on the commission.’

‘I’ll be brief.’

He imagined the woman with the black glove and the ice eyes somewhere in a public place by the sound of it, wondered if Sheemina February was ever anything other than brief.

‘The issue is this, judge,’ said Sheemina February, ‘there is more paperwork to be ratified. Relating to the sale.’ 

‘What paperwork?’

‘A question of capital gains tax. Nothing out of the ordinary. Revenue needs their pound of flesh.’

‘Don’t they always.’ He caught himself about to sigh again but stifled it. ‘Send the documents over to my chambers.’

‘I can bring them right now, if you like.’

‘I’m not there,’ said Visser. ‘I won’t be there today.’

‘Then how about this evening? At your house? You could invite me for a drink.’

Judge Telman Visser considered this, a drink with Sheemina February being a low priority. In fact not a priority at all on his agenda.

Before he could answer Sheemina February said, laughter in her voice, ‘That didn’t set you alight.’

The judge coughed. ‘I have other engagements to juggle.’ Mostly the other engagements concerned Ricardo. Wining him. Dining him. Screwing him.

‘It will take fifteen minutes, judge. You won’t have to juggle anything.’

Judge Telman Visser arranged for her to call at eight. He disconnected, called out, ‘Thank you, Ricardo. Please come through.’

The bathroom door opened, Ricardo standing there in chinos and his gym T-shirt, his hair combed. Still bare feet though.

‘What a pity,’ said the judge. ‘There are few people I would rather see naked than dressed. You are one of them.’ He patted the bed. ‘Sit next to me while you tie your trainers.’

Ricardo did.

‘Tonight,’ said the judge, ‘I wonder if you could make it a bit later than usual. I have an attorney calling at eight, she’ll be gone by eight thirty at the latest. Perhaps we should make it nine. What do you say?’

‘That’s okay, judge, anytime.’

‘I will arrange prawns. A quick easy supper. But a messy one. Hands on. Tactile.’

‘Prawns are good.’

‘Queens, I think.’ 

Pylon turned the big Merc off the coast road onto the dirt track that led towards the sea. A grey sea, wild with wind and scudding foam. Clouds rolling off it, dashing rain against the windscreen. He drove slowly, rank thorn scratching the low hang of the car, a Merc the last ride you wanted on dirt. He checked his cellphone: no signal.

What was it with Chocho, they couldn’t do this in an office? He knew the answer. Obed Chocho wanted drama. Couldn’t resist being out on the contested land. Rubbing in the prospects.

The track turned down towards the cottage, Chocho’s black SUV hunched in the clearing at the back door. The SUV his dead wife Lindiwe had driven. No sign of Chocho. He’d be listening for a car’s engine, Pylon suspected. Sitting in the lounge, waiting. Waiting with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands? Unlike Mace, Pylon doubted it. Wasn’t Obed Chocho’s style. This was about buying time.

He stopped beside the other car. Sat for a moment alert to any movement around the house. Nothing moved, nothing human. The northwester shook the scrub, whipped sand across the clearing. Pylon killed the engine, withdrew the keys from the ignition. Got out, shrugging into a fleece. The back door was open. He knocked, calling out as he entered, getting no response.

Obed Chocho sat at a bar stool, diagrams, plans, paperwork spread across the wooden countertop. A bottle of whisky and two glasses weighting down a file.

‘My brother,’ he said as Pylon paused in the doorway. ‘Come  in. Please.’ He pulled free a stool – ‘Sit’ – and slid the diagrams in front of Pylon. ‘My development.’

‘Big deal,’ said Pylon.

‘Ah, my brother, don’t be so hostile. I am holding out an olive branch.’

‘To get you out of shit.’ Pylon angled the stool away from Obed Chocho, hoisted himself onto it. ‘No reason to play lovey-dovey.’

The two men did the hard glare. Obed Chocho looked away first, pulled back the plans. ‘Okay. Mighty fine. If that is how it is to be.’

‘It is.’

They sat in silence. Obed Chocho moved the whisky bottle, took a letter from the file. ‘I am going to offer a deal.’

‘What else?’ said Pylon. ‘I don’t go to the cops. You cut me in on the development.’

Obed Chocho held up the letter. ‘This is the planning permission.’

‘Congratulations.’

The sarcasm brought a smile to Chocho’s lips. ‘In our business we must be tough.’

‘Killers.’

‘Your good German friend Rudi Klett was a killer. Like you. An arms dealer. Selling guns to children.’

‘I am not an arms dealer.’

‘You were.’

‘For the struggle.’

‘But sometimes you sold guns to children.’ Obed Chocho grinned. ‘I know about you, Pylon Buso. More than you think.’

Pylon shifted on the hard stool. ‘Cut the crap.’

‘Mighty fine.’ Obed Chocho gazed at the sea. ‘I offer you shares in my consortium. Five per cent. For that you get five per cent of the profits.’

‘I must invest in your scheme and shut up?’

‘You and Mr Bishop.’

Pylon kept focused on Obed Chocho. Watched the bald head turn towards him, the brown eyes find his own. A stonewall stare. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘For the money.’

Pylon laughed. ‘You’re a criminal out on parole. I could have you investigated. Charged. Arrested. Your development would collapse. I could tender again and this time be awarded the contract.’

Obed Chocho set his head nodding. ‘You could do all that. Except I have Sheemina February on my side. While that is so you will get no developments in this city. Not even in this province.’

‘Perhaps you are forgetting the other story,’ said Pylon.

‘The other story? What other story is this?’

‘The farm story.’

Obed Chocho laughed. Not a forced laugh, a laughter that was deep but ended suddenly. ‘The mighty fine farm story. Of course. That is a very interesting story. Like all stories of African farms.’ He reached for the bottle of whisky. ‘A drink?’

Pylon shook his head.

‘Why not? Soon we will be partners.’ He unscrewed the cap, poured a measure into a glass – ‘To the ancestors’ – drank off the liquor, slapped Pylon on the knee. ‘I know Judge Telman Visser,’ he said. ‘For many years.’

‘That’s why he knocked you down for six.’

‘You see. You will not believe me.’

‘No.’

‘It was a mighty fine trick.’

Pylon waited. Obed Chocho grinning at him.

‘Have a glass with me?’ Obed Chocho hovering the bottle over the two glasses. ‘Yes? No? Yes?’ Poured only into his own glass. Before he drank he took a sheet of letterhead from the file and handed it to Pylon. ‘My other company, Zimisela Explorations. We talked about it.’ This time he sipped at the whisky. Smacked his lips. ‘Ummm, a mighty fine malt.’ Swirled the whisky, smelt it. ‘Perhaps?’

Again Pylon shook his head.

‘Perhaps you are not a whisky drinker. For many of our brothers whisky is a learning curve.’ He pointed at the bottom of the letterhead. ‘There is one name missing.’

Pylon scanned along the list, all the usual big name businessmen.

‘Judge,’ said Obed Chocho, ‘is what I call him, the missing director. To him I’m Obed.’ A mighty fine smirk on Obed Chocho’s face. ‘Judge Telman Marius Visser. He has been in Zimisela for two years.’

‘Save me Jesus,’ said Pylon. Nobody knew?

‘A prayer in need,’ said Obed Chocho, finished his second tot. ‘Now you have an idea of the players.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, my brother, in these circumstances, what is it you want?’

Pylon didn’t answer, thinking, if Chocho was in with Visser he needed more on that. Details. The full story. He pointed at the whisky bottle. ‘A drink.’

Obed Chocho gave his throaty laugh. ‘The man sees a little sense. Mighty fine, mighty fine.’ He poured measures into each glass, pushed one towards Pylon. ‘Going forward,’ he said, raising his glass. Pylon drank to it.

Obed Chocho turned on his stool to face the incoming storm. He leant back against the countertop, propped on his elbows. A gust battered the windows, he mock-shivered. ‘On a wild day the Cape is dangerous. Even when this is a golf course, there will be days like this. For me, not a place to live.’

Pylon sipped the scotch. Obed Chocho didn’t spare himself on his whisky. Stuck to the wall was a photograph of the Smits. Something overlooked when the place was cleared. A small print, the colours faded to pink. The couple arm in arm laughing at the camera. Given the positioning probably a self-timer, Pylon reckoned. He flashed to the photographs Captain Gonsalves had shown him of the couple dead. Individual photographs.  Thought: take the in. Said, ‘I haven’t got cash for five per cent.’

Obed Chocho shot him a side glance, eyebrows raised, no light in his eyes, a glint on his teeth. He took a swallow of scotch.

‘You have made bad choices,’ he said. ‘In your business. You forgot your comrades. So they have forgotten you. You are
small-time
, my brother. You cannot do developments like this. In the planning department they see a scheme from Pylon Buso and they laugh. Where are the lunches? The holidays? The little gifts? The generous gestures? The patronage? No, that Pylon, he has turned away from us. This is what they say.’

Obed Chocho popped off his stool, went to stand at the window, his back to Pylon.

‘Mighty fine. I have not forgotten you. I remember Comrade Pylon. I remember what he did in the struggle. In the dark days. So’ – he turned – ‘I know that you have money on the Cayman Islands. I know that you can use this money for the five per cent.’

Pylon kept his eyes locked on the gloating man.

‘What I am saying is, mighty fine, let us put the other matters to the side. Let us go forward.’ He made to pour another tot into Pylon’s glass. Pylon held his hand over the top. ‘Do we have a deal on this?’

‘I need time,’ said Pylon.

‘Why not? In the Cayman Islands they are only waking up. Talk to your bankers when they have rubbed the sleep out of their eyes. In a few hours this can all be settled. Inter-account transfer. Cayman to Isle of Man. We live in the days of globalisation, my brother. So much is possible.’ He pulled his lips into the rictus of a smile. ‘Be in touch. This afternoon.’