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Authors: Roger Smith

BOOK: Wake Up Dead
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Again she shook her head.
He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her forward so she knelt, her chin almost touching the carpet. He pushed the gun up against the base of her skull.
“Tell me, or I shoot you.”
“There’s no safe.”
Roxy heard him cock the gun. She stared down at the carpet, wondering if this knotted woolen pile was the last thing she would see. When she closed her eyes, she knew that it wasn’t. Because she saw Joe, his face warping from the impact of the bullet. She could go either way on the whole afterlife deal, but she had this premonition that Joe was out there somewhere. Waiting for her. A trigger pull away.
Then she felt the pressure from the barrel ease. She realized she was holding her breath and released it. Relaxed her locked neck muscles. The troll shoved a shoe beneath her chin, a torn
Adidas that stank of years of sweat and foot rot. Pushed her until she toppled over onto her back, staring up at him. He pointed the gun at her, held it unwavering for an eternity, then let it droop to his side.
“Okay, this is how it gonna be. You gonna get us a hunnerd thou. Cash. By tomorrow. Hear me?” She nodded, playing along. “You gonna give us your cell number, and we call you and tell you where to take the money. Okay?” She nodded again. “You not gonna go to the cops ’cause you gonna get your ass thrown in
chookie
. Big-time. I tell you something, Miss America, those bitches in the cells are gonna have fun with you. You get what I’m saying here?”
“I understand. I’ll do it.”
“If you don’t, we come here and kill you. But first I leave him alone with you for a nice time. Get me?” she nodded, aware of the beautiful man’s corrupt eyes on her, still feeling the memory of his hands. “Okay. Meanwhile we gonna take some down payments. If that’s okay with you?” He laughed.
She watched as they looted the bedroom. Jewelry. Joe’s camera. Designer jeans. For brown girls out on the Flats, she supposed. Roxy could hear them busy in the rest of the house. Hated the thought of those filthy bodies in the pink room. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but every second was another second of life. At least her brains weren’t part of the pattern on the carpet.
Mr. Handsome came in, Joe’s laptop slung over his shoulder and a DVD player under one arm. “So, I see you again tomorrow, okay?”
“Yes.”
“You stay beautiful, hear me?” He tipped her a wink and walked out.
The ugly man returned and stood over her with the gun. She looked up in time to see him reverse his grip, swing his arm back, and bring the butt down. The blow took her above her
right ear, and she crumpled, as blood sprang vivid on the carpet beneath her.
Roxy lay stunned, bleeding.
Heard doors slamming and the car driving away.
 
 
 
THE LONG CAPE Town twilight slowly turned the sky to velvet as Billy Afrika parked across from the house that hung like bird shit from the cliff in Bantry Bay. He saw the high walls, the electric fence, and the wooden gates standing open onto a short brick driveway. Most of the structure was below the level of the cliff, but he’d checked out the house as he drove along the road that snaked its way along the coast, far below.
Joe Palmer had done well out of his blood money.
Billy’s cop connection over at Bellwood South had come through with more than this address. Also told Billy that the widow, Roxanne Palmer, had been called in earlier that day for a lineup. Ernie Maggott had pulled in two White City punks: a 26 and a tik head. The woman hadn’t made an ID, and the men were kicked loose. So she should be inside now, the grieving widow.
Billy Afrika had heard of her, Joe Palmer’s trophy wife. The American model. But he’d never met her. Time to change that.
There was no sign of movement in the house, and no lights burned as darkness crept up the mountain. But the gates were open. Billy left the car and crossed the road. As he neared the gates he could see they were trying to close, humming and clicking on their tracks, making small movements toward each other, then retreating, like nervous dancers.
He walked to the front door and knocked. Knocked again. Reached out and tried the door. It opened. He stepped inside the house. He’d been a cop long enough to recognize the aftermath of a home invasion. In the fading light he saw a tangle of wires where the TV and stereo should have been. Empty shelves. Books, CDs and DVDs littering the floor.
The Glock was in his hand. “Mrs. Palmer?”
No answer. He scanned the lower level, then followed the Glock barrel up the stairs. A few closed doors. One door open at the end of the corridor. Billy paused in the doorway, saw the overturned chair, closets gaping and drawers yanked and thrown onto the floor. He saw a blonde woman lying beside the bed, hands and legs bound behind her back. There was blood in her hair and on the carpet beneath her head.
Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t moving.
Billy almost turned on his heel and got the hell out of there. Stopped himself.
He crouched down and was about to touch her neck to feel for a pulse when her eyes flickered and opened.
A
MAN WAS KNEELING OVER HER, GUN IN HAND.
Another brown man. Another gun.
“If you’re here to rip me off, you’re too fucking late.” The tremor in her voice ruined her attempt at bravado.
The gun disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. “Take it easy. I worked for your husband.”
That local accent, but watered down. And a slow delivery, unlike so many of these people who sounded like jackhammers on speed.
He untied her wrists and ankles. “You okay?”
“Hey, I’m golden.”
She stood, felt faint, and sat down on the bed. The brown man stretched across and switched on the bedside lamp. She saw he had eyes the color of pale emeralds. Beautiful eyes.
“Want me to call an ambulance?”
“No.”
Roxy looked into those green eyes but saw the paramedics
standing up from Joe’s body, faces fixed in expressions of professional sympathy, latex snapping as they shed their bloody gloves.
She tried out something that resembled a smile. “Why don’t you wait downstairs while I get cleaned up?”
“Sure.” He gave her a last look, then turned for the door. A lean man in a casual cotton shirt and Levis, Havaianas on his feet. He looked like a boxer, one good enough not to have had his face messed up. Like a younger Sugar Ray Leonard.
 
 
 
BILLY STOOD AT the wall of glass, watching the moon rising over the ocean. A speedboat sped across the waves far below, and he could just about hear the impact on the water.
The widow, the American blonde, was upstairs getting cleaned up.
He didn’t give a shit about her and her troubles. He had his own. But she was a potential solution to one of them: the money. So he had to deal with this, even though he wanted to walk out the door and drive away and forget he’d ever set eyes on her.
He turned. She came down the stairs, still wearing sweatpants, but she’d put on a fresh T-shirt. She was tall, slender but not scrawny, athletic in her tight workout gear. Barefoot. One of those women who could make a body bag look like a designer outfit.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Just a bit of a sore head.” That American accent.
“You should see a doctor.”
“No. I’m fine. Honest.”
She sat down on the sofa, tucked her legs under her. “You haven’t told me your name.” Looking at him with those blue eyes. There was still dried blood in her blonde hair, turning it strawberry above her right ear.
“Billy Afrika.”
“Mr. Afrika …” She stopped. Laughed. Covered her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sounds like I’m announcing the winner of a muscle pageant, is all.” She smiled one of those smiles designed to melt a man’s heart. Did nothing for him. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little lightheaded. And a bit stressed out.”
“You would be. Call me Billy.”
“And I’m Roxy. What are you doing here, Billy?” Then she held up a hand—long elegant fingers. He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. “Wait. Let me guess. Joe owed you money.” He nodded. “You and the whole country. The phone has been going crazy since this morning. People pretending to sympathize but asking polite questions about who’s handling his debts. I’ve got to tell you, I know nothing about Joe’s business.”
Billy shrugged. “What happened here?”
“I was out running. Two guys abducted me, got me into a car at gunpoint, and brought me home. Tied me up. Took what they wanted.”
“They knew where you live?”
“No. I told them.” Switched on that smile again. “I had a gun shoved in my mouth. Guess it loosened my tongue.”
“These guys, they my color?”
She paused a moment before answering. “The one was. The other was much darker. Why?”
“Just getting the picture. Anything about them stick out?”
“Other than they held gun to my head, tied me up, and robbed me?” Laughing his question away.
Something wasn’t adding up. Billy had enough experience of trauma to know that everybody responded differently. Tough guys shook and wept; fragile women were stoic. Maybe this attitude of Roxanne Palmer’s was just a coping mechanism. But still, she should be screaming for the cops, not tossing one-liners.
Billy said, “Pretty rough. Coming after what happened last night.”
“Yeah. Great city you got here, Billy.” Smiling at him like a professional.
He fixed a look on her that dried up that smile. “We should get the cops.”
“I don’t think so. Forgive me if I’ve lost faith in South African law enforcement.”
Who could argue with that? But there was something in the air, hovering. Something he couldn’t quite get.
“The two guys, they maybe tell you they’re coming back?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Try to scare you, to stop you going to the cops?”
Still shaking her head, but something clouded those eyes.
“You were at a lineup this afternoon, weren’t you?”
A look of surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I used to be a cop. I’m still connected.”
“Yeah. I went out to some place called Bellwood South.”
“But you didn’t recognize the men?’
“No. Never seen any of them before.”
Now he was sure she was lying. Something turned in his head, just a little, and a couple of pieces clicked into place. Not everything. But enough for him to know what he was going to do next.
She had those blue eyes on him. “What did you do, for Joe?”
“Security contractor. In Iraq. I never got my last two months’ paychecks.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe after the funeral, when I’ve sat down with the lawyers …”
Sure,
he thought.
You’ll sit down with the lawyers, and they’ll fill your head with ways to get out of paying Joe’s debts. Not going to happen.
He got to his feet. “I’ll be in touch.”
She unfolded those long legs from under her and stood, like
she’d rehearsed that move many times before. She probably had. In her bare feet she was almost his height.
“Thank you. For saving me.”
“Oh, I didn’t save you, Mrs. Palmer. Just untied you.” He headed for the door.
She followed him out into the driveway. He felt her eyes on him as he walked through the open gates and crossed to the Hyundai.
Billy looked back and saw her lift the gate clicker. The gates didn’t move, just buzzed and whirred like bugs caught in a bottle. She pressed the button again. This time the gates rattled closed, shutting her off from the world.
P
IPER LAY ON HIS BUNK IN POLLSMOOR PRISON, TRYING TO FIND oblivion in a mixture of weed and Mandrax. A young 28 soldier crouched over him, skin jabbing another teardrop into Piper’s face with a needle and black boot polish.
Teardrop number nineteen. In honor of the dead Pig.
The soldier lifted the needle and wiped away blood with torn newspaper. Piper took another hit on the white pipe, the bottleneck glowing red in his hand. He held the smoke in his lungs, letting it curl out through his nose and mouth, waiting for the numbness and the relief, waiting for the pain to leave his heart on the cloud of smoke. It didn’t happen.
The news of Disco’s release had reached him with the supper cart. Charges had been dropped. The elation he’d felt for the last day had drained slowly from him like stale piss down a backed-up urinal.
The blaring theme from
The Bold and the Beautiful
interrupted Piper’s white pipe reverie. As the murderers and rapists
crowded around the TV, voices were raised and opinions clashed on what this episode would bring the Forrester family.
The Bold
had been Disco’s favorite. They had lain together each evening on Piper’s bunk, and Disco had fed him or clipped his toenails while they watched.
That familiar music was more than Piper could stand right now. He was too raw.
Piper set the pipe aside and reached for the heavy lock that dangled from his steel trunk. In one motion he sat up and threw the lock at the TV.
The smashed tube fizzed and sparked. Then silence.
The men turned and stared, but none of them dared challenge him.
Piper tamped more weed and another white pill into the pipe and fired it up. He pulled on it while the youth set to work again on the tattoo.
After the teardrop was done, he lay on his bunk and smoked pipe after pipe, oblivious to the snores and moans around him, the stench of unwashed bodies, the sounds of men fucking like dogs. The smoke brought him no peace.
Instead it brought him images of Disco’s body. His mouth. His eyes. Piper saw his own hands on the boy as he branded him. He felt that moment of surrender as he lay face-to-face with him and possessed him.
He didn’t know why he loved the boy. Didn’t know how that emotion had grown from the barren soil of his dark heart. But he knew that it had, and that it had changed him.
All he could think of was Disco. Alone outside.
Piper was a man of the Four Corners. Pollsmoor was his universe. The world outside was alien and terrifying.
He was first imprisoned in apartheid South Africa. At a time when the white man had made the brown man into nothing. Less than shit. The prisons were segregated, just like the rest of the country. But Piper quickly understood that in prison you
could be king, ruling over brown men weaker than yourself, if you made your way up in the number gangs. Easy for a man born into brutality.
The first time he came close to parole he killed another prisoner in the yard, under the eyes of the guards. Had more time added. But brown lives were cheap, and within a few years he was up for parole again. So he killed a guard. A white one.
This got him the death sentence. Commuted to life when Nelson Mandela walked out of his cell and took over the country. Him and his darkies. Outlawed the death penalty. Only favor a darky had ever done Piper.
Left him secure in the knowledge that he would see out his days in the Four Corners.
Until two years ago.
They had come to him, the bastards in their uniforms, and told him he was free to go.
He shook his head, said they must be fucken joking. They showed him the paper. A general amnesty: selected convicts being released to cull the population in the overburdened prisons.
He saw his name on the paper and knew it was a mistake. He was proved right, later, when he discovered he’d been freed instead of a man who shared his name. A petty thief who lay dying of AIDS in the prison hospital.
But the next day they took back the orange jumpsuit, gave Piper his clothes, and left him standing outside the gates, a duffel bag in his hand and a hundred rand in his pocket.
Piper went back to Paradise Park, Dark City side, because that was all he knew.
Stepped out of the taxi in his clothes from twenty years ago, carrying a new Okapi knife. He saw the tattooed boys on the street. They had never been near Pollsmoor but called themselves 28s. One of them was stupid enough to follow Piper and speak to him in a version of the prison language that was garbled, butchered.
Piper sodomized the boy in an empty lot littered with bald tires and cinder blocks and rotting garbage, shredded plastic buzzing in the wind. Cut his throat and left him there with the trash, his jeans and boxers bunched around his ankles.
Piper knew he couldn’t stay out there, in the world. He wanted to go home.
Remembered the cop who arrested him twenty years before: Clyde Adams. Set him on his course. Something about killing him appealed to Piper’s sense of balance. It wasn’t revenge.
He found out where Clyde lived. Married now, with kids. Over White City side. Piper was unafraid as he crossed Main Road and walked onto enemy turf, his gang tattoos making him as distinct as a leopard prowling through a herd of buck.
He went to the cop’s house and waited and watched.
It was late in the day, and shadows blackened the hard white sand of the Flats. He let a shadow suck him in, stood unmoving. Felt he was invisible. He had no idea how long he stood there. A car pulled up, and Clyde climbed out. Twenty years older. Thicker around the middle, wearing civvy clothes. The black hair still grew straight and coarse as thatch from his head.
A woman and two kids—boy and girl—were in the car with the cop. They unloaded plastic shopping bags from the trunk. Piper heard the girl laugh, like a snatch of music floating to him on the wind. Clyde carried a bag, his arm around the woman as they went into the yard of the house.
Piper freed himself from the shadow and crossed the road, the Okapi knife held ready.
The cop sensed Piper and turned. Recognized him, gun hand full of shopping. Piper stepped in and sank the blade into Clyde’s gut, heard him grunt. The bag fell, and pink sausage and red tomatoes spilled onto the sand. The woman screamed.
Piper gutted the cop, pulling the knife up to his sternum
,
felt the blade stop. Clyde sank to the ground, trying to hold himself in, his blood patterning the sand. Piper cut a smile into the
cop’s throat. Saw another car speeding up. And another man from the past, running at him with a gun.
Billy Afrika. A coward he should have finished twenty years ago.
Piper smiled, raised his hands, and let the knife slip from his fingers, didn’t take his eyes from Billy’s but caught the hard shine of the blade where it lay in the cop’s blood.
Billy had the gun on him, the barrel shaking only a little. Piper could see the finger tightening on the trigger. Saw the sweat on Billy’s face.
Waited.
Then the gun drooped, and Billy spun him and cuffed him, shoved him to the sand.
Piper lay and watched the last of the cop’s life seep from him, his foot drumming like the hoof of a slaughterhouse sheep, kicking up dust.
The woman cradled the dead cop’s head. Saying over and over again, “Clyde, Clyde, Clyde,” like the words could reverse what had been done.
Piper had felt a great peace, hearing the music of the sirens. Knowing he was going home.
Agitated now, lying on his prison bunk, the white pipes doing nothing to calm him or still the craving in his heart. He knew there was no other way. If Disco wasn’t coming back to him, he’d have to go out again into the world.
Bring his wife home.

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