His walkie talkie crackled at his belt.
Bennie. Bennie do you read me?
Roger that. Bennie here. Over.
Noise complaint on D block. Seventh floor.
Roger that. On my way.
So much for a quiet night.
Wessel craned his head. “It’s probably that laaitie that pumps his rave music every night. Boy needs a solid klap.”
“Bennie will sort him out. Everyone’s scared of Bennie,” said Masimba.
“Knock his head against the door, Bennie.”
“Give him one of those death stares.”
Bennie grabbed his torch. “I’ll be back,” he said.
Hoots of laughter followed. They loved it when the big guy channelled Arnie.
As he walked past the towering residential blocks, Bennie withdrew his phone from his pocket. He was already almost seventy dollars up. He scrolled through the bids and spotted an email notification flashing on the corner of his screen. He had doubled up some of his listings on Gumtree, thinking he could save on postage costs if he made the sale locally.
Re: Rare MLP Twilight Unicorn Collectible
Dear Sir. I saw your listing and nearly jumped out my skin. I must have this item for my collection. Can I EFT you to reserve it? I’m willing to meet tonight to secure immediate sale.
Please advise urgently.
Jet
It was an easy six hundred rand. He made the arrangements to meet up after his shift. He had to deal with the kid in D block first. Usually all it took was the sight of him to get residents to toe the line. Bennie was the guy you called when there was trouble. All that lifting had crafted him into a formidable figure. It made people think twice, which was useful for someone who just wanted to be left alone.
The door opened, blasting the passage in the bass-heavy doof doof house music. The kid was about twenty and wore a white t-shirt over boxer shorts. He had to crane his head up to meet Bennie’s gaze.
“Too loud?” asked the kid.
Bennie said nothing and tapped his digital watch.
“I know. I know. No loud music after ten. I’ll turn it down.” His Adam’s apple jerked nervously.
The music was off before Bennie had even reached the lift.
He read the message again. He liked the sophistication of the language. “Dear Sir”. It made him feel like part of an elite club. A group that understood the meaning behind these items.
He waited with his arm resting out the open window of his double cab. At this time of night, the petrol station was fairly deserted. The attendants huddled in their office, the sound of a soccer match and a thousand vuvuzelas drifted from the open door. Bennie watched cars come and go. Most of the drivers rushed into the garage shop for bread or firewood or condoms and disappeared again in a flash of rear lights. Bennie drummed his fingers on his car door and waited.
He saw a hooded figure turn the corner and watched his progress. The guy wore a grey hooded sweatshirt under a black leather jacket with the hood up over the collar and a pair of black skinny jeans. Bennie watched as he looked left and right, like he was searching for someone.
He got out the car and whistled.
“Bennie?” the figure inquired, hurrying over.
“Yeah. You must be Jet?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Jet from Gumtree.” He spoke quickly and cast furtive glances around.
Bennie noticed he wore white Adidas Superstars with black stripes. Expensive. “Well here’s the figure. Mint condition as you can see. It comes with the matching brush.”
Jet nodded urgently and made a grab for the bag. “My daughter will love it,” he said.
Bennie held the bag out of reach. “I thought you were a collector?”
“Yeah, but she loves my dolls, you know how they are at that age. What’s yours is mine. Six hundred, right? I’m transferring you the money right now.”
Jet navigated his thumbs at lightning speed across the phone screen. “Done. You should get a notification.”
Bennie’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Money’s in,” he said.
“Nice doing business with you,” said Jet, making a grab for the packet. Bennie hesitated, but it was too late. Jet had already looped the handles safely over his elbow.
Shaking his head, Bennie returned to his car and drove home, playing Mega Drive loudly while he sped past the avenue of palm trees. He didn’t want to think about some kid ruining Twilight Unicorn’s perfect mane and destroying its value. Besides, it was nearly six-am. The world would wake up soon, and he needed to get a few hours in before his next shift.
It was just a pony. Not his problem anymore.
On the way to work he stopped in at Pick n Pay Liquors to pick up his celebratory bottle.
“I’m sorry, sir, your card has been declined.”
Bennie blinked at the woman behind the till. His whiskey waited in a paper bag on the counter. “That’s impossible, try it again. There’s definitely money in there.”
She swiped the card through the machine with a loud smack. Bennie could feel the queue snaking behind him shift with impatience. “Nope. Declined.”
He exhaled sharply and pulled out his emergency credit card. “Here. Use this. But if the machine is broken, it probably won’t work either.”
“It’s approved,” she said, with just a hint of eyeroll.
He checked his phone in the car. The message definitely said the money was through. He logged into his internet banking and stared at the negative balance, then checked his message folder again, noticing for the first time that the number linked to the transaction notification was different to the one his bank usually used.
“Those bliksems.”It wasan old scam. He should have picked it up.
He opened his contact list and searched the names of his carefully curated connections. “Hello, Gert. You still an inspector at Mowbray? I need a favour, man. Can you trace a number for me? Dankie. Yeah, just message me. I owe you a beer.”
The palm trees laughed at Bennie as he drove past. The wind raised their serrated leaves in the air. He ground his teeth. Bennie had been a security guard for nearly fifteen years. He had cut his teeth in ADT patrol, hopping walls and chasing down crooks in his heavy combat boots. The criminals were getting craftier by the minute, but he had always prided himself on knowing all the tricks. But that was another lifetime. There was a reason he had chosen the quieter, residential beat. Nowadays you couldn’t just klap someone. There were rules, public opinion to consider.
No one greeted him when he entered the security office and they all hurried to get on with various tasks. He had caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view mirror. The guys were wise to stay away.
Twilight Unicorn. He had been duped over a fucking plastic pony. But worse than that. They had hit him in a soft spot and breached his hidden private world.
He checked his Seiko watch. He could wait a few hours.
It appeared Jet was a fan of nostalgia himself. With his connection’s help, Bennie had followed him to the ground floor of Stadium on Main, to the bowling alley and arcade. From behind a pillar, he watched Jet battle it out on an old Duke Nukem arcade machine. Bennie waited for a father and his small son to finish at the basketball hoop game before making his approach. For a large man, he could be remarkably silent.
Jet noticed his reflection in the screen and spun round. “Vok. What do you want?”
“Where’s the pony?”
“What pony, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A quick glance confirmed that the woman behind the token counter was gone. They were alone. Bennie closed his fist and cracked his knuckles one hand at a time, made himself look bigger. “You don’t even have a kid, do you?”
Jet appraised his pursuer and glanced around the deserted arcade. He swallowed. “Listen man, call the bank. I’m sure it was just a simple mistake.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You tried to scam me
. You got caught. Now you have to deal with me.”
Jet started to sweat. He licked his lips. “I know it looks bad, but I’m just trying to make a living. I’m not even the one you want. I’m just the delivery guy. The collector I work for doesn’t even ask questions. He doesn’t care where the merch comes from.”
Bennie waited while Jet vomited all the details he needed. His anger at being ripped off was one thing. The knock his pride had taken was another matter entirely. He wouldn’t dupe another collector like that.
Bennie let Jet go. He had what he needed. He knew he wouldn’t allow himself a moment’s peace until that pony was back on his desk.
He parked in a side street behind the historic Labia theatre with its neon pink hearts and fairy lights blinking in the art-deco windows. He noticed that there was some kind of film festival happening, and young people in oversized jerseys and tight leggings smoked cigarettes in the parking lot and chatted over glasses of wine. No one looked up as Bennie stalked past.
The apartment block was a modern square building in Orange Street. Like every complex in Cape Town, it was access controlled by security and guests had to sign in and out by the CCTV-monitored gate. Bennie scouted the perimeter for a blind spot and hopped the wall undetected. The Collector lived on the top floor penthouse, its mirrored windows aimed towards Devil’s Peak and Table Mountain, the busy golden lights of the city reflected in the glass panes. Bennie wasn’t surprised by the absence of a Trellidor, since the complex was heavily guarded. Very few of the apartments in his block had them. He picked the front door lock with ease and used his empty debit card to pry it open. He would scare the guy. Take back his property. Rich fucks like this one needed to be taught a lesson, that’s all.
As the door opened, overhead ceiling lights cast a soft glow on the carpeted hallway. Vintage movie posters hung on the walls in glass frames.
He padded in soundlessly on the fluffy white carpet and picked up a familiar plastic scent. Someone was watching TV upstairs. A porn by the sound of it. He moved into the living room, which seemed larger because of all the glass cabinets lining the walls. Each cabinet was filled with faces from the past. Bobba Fett. Spock. She-Ra. Alfred E Neuman. Hundreds of pristine figures, like the apartment was some kind of museum. Momentarily forgetting why he was there, he ran his fingers over a glass door. Inside was Luke Skywalker standing beside Han Solo trapped in carbonite with Greedo right behind, still in their unopened cardboard packaging. He smiled as he remembered the age-old who-shot-first debate. The plastic smell seeped through the glass. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep whiff as his mind was transported back to a sunny day long ago, where he brandished a broomstick like a lightsabre in his parents’ back yard.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Bennie tore his gaze from the treasures and turned around slowly.
A tall, bald man with black-framed glasses stood on the spiral staircase in a white plush gown. His bare feet and ankles peeked out underneath. With his hand on the rail, Bennie could see a gold pinkie ring inset with a large red stone. He said nothing, but drew himself up to his full height.
The man on the stairs didn’t flinch. “I asked you a question, asshole.”
“You stole from me,” said Bennie.
“The fuck I did, I’m calling security.”
“I am security. Stay where you are.”
“Fuck you,” he said, turning around to go back upstairs.
“Find anything new recently on Gumtree? Or do you have so many figurines that one doesn’t matter?”
The Collector span around on the stairs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Bennie began moving slowly. “Vintage My Little Pony. Generation one. Circa 1985. You sent your goon to steal it from me.”
“What goon?”
“Jet. I tracked him down earlier. Said the pony was for you.”
The Collector blinked in confusion, then slowly opened his mouth as he remembered. He held up his hands, palms forward. “I pay Jet to track down memorabilia for me. You say he stole something from you? If he did, I’m sorry. But I didn’t tell him to do that. He has a mind of his own. You want it back? Is that why you’re here?”
Bennie ground his teeth. He wasn’t even a blip on this guy’s radar. “You can’t just walk through life on the backs of other people. How many others like me did you rip off to get all this?”
The Collector dropped his arms and his voice took on a harder timbre. “You want to call the police, be my guest. This is business. People sometimes get the rough end of the deal. Look, I’ll be happy to pay you for whatever he took. Email me the details. Just get the fuck out of my flat. Call my lawyer. Whatever.”
Bennie continued moving forward, his eyes taking in the hundreds of detailed gazes trained on him. Heroes from his childhood. He imagined it all in his own apartment, lining his shelves, his desk. He could build a whole new glass case for them all, arrange them by genre…
Somewhere outside himself, the guy was still talking, “You like what you see? Take anything you want. I’ve got the key right here. It’s all insured.”
Bennie said nothing. He remembered that time as a kid he took his best friend’s Mr T figure because he had been teased about how little he had. Because he could.
“Hey… What are you doing? Stay back. Don’t come any closer.”
In another room above them, a small dog yapped. The Collector ran up the stairs, tripping over his gown on the last step.
Bennie wasn’t a violent guy. But the Collector was weak. Poorly made. He wouldn’t be much trouble. He took a last sniff of the deep plastic smell before heading up the stairs.
This was business. Like the guy said, sometimes people got the rough end of the deal.
It just wasn’t going to be Bennie.
Not this time.
The Patron Saint of Night Puppers
Indrapramit Das
Kris walked down Terminal Ave. to autumn wind pounding on her aching eardrums, sunset striping the broad road with canted shadows and honeyed sunlight. Elsewhere in the city, candles sputtered in pumpkins and grown-ups and children alike put on their monsters and roamed the streets. But Terminal was haunted by emptiness, nothing but cars passing in intervals to keep Kris company; Kris was wearing her monster, and it was A Lack of Financial Stability. She hadn’t expected a shift on Halloween weekend, but also wasn’t one to turn down a chunk of rent.
It was a ten minute walk from the bus and SkyTrain stop on Main to the dog hotel if she hurried (and Kris always hurried, fastidiously punctual in the manner of the perpetually underemployed), down Terminal with its empty sidewalks and vast commercial lots, carpet stores and car dealerships and glassy office blocks with overpriced cafes, the line of warehouses that was the Vancouver Flea Market, and the dog hotel itself, all crouched low to offer a broken view of the mountains behind Vancouver. The oldest thing on that long stretch of road was the soil, empty lots whispering grassy secrets to their chain-link fences as they waited to be built up. Terminal Ave. always felt to her like a line drawn right across one edge of the city, between the ocean and the mountains, old land slashed new to bleed ugly buildings for the gods of real estate development and gentrification.
As she passed a new pop-up for-profit university block and the papered-over windows of its nascent Subway eatery, Kris saw a person up ahead on the sidewalk, standing still. They were dressed all in black and had a dog’s head, its ears black triangles. It was Halloween weekend and there were costumed people out and about, but this was a lonesome stretch for walkers, and Kris was wary of any pedestrians on it because of that. She hoped it wasn’t a man, because it wasn’t easy to cross over to the other side of the road on Terminal: it was broad and lacking in crosswalks—and the fact that the person up ahead had a dog’s head, dark and shaggy and black, unsettled her. Their eyes twinkled a sharp and quivering flame-yellow in the darkening air. There was an unpleasant serendipity to the sight—she was a dog hotel attendant, there had bee
n a spree of dog disappearances around Vancouver recently, and here was a dog person with glowing pinpricks for eyes. Hostage to her imagination, she imagined this person, with their dog’s head, was the Vancouver Dog Thief—or worse, the Vancouver Dog Killer. The eyes—Christmas lights, cleverly rigged and woven into a mask? Kris tugged at her hoodie, pulling it lower, and nearly yelped when her phone buzzed in her jeans pocket.
Kris took out the phone—greased with fingerprints and age—and saw a text from her roommate Tabby: Get yr ass to Main for some beers+ pho, looking for a place with Jo where u at? Kris sighed and texted that she was at work, fingers cold, remembering to check the dog-headed pedestrian as she got closer. The dog person stood where they stood, not moving. But once she tapped Send she looked up to see them sprinting down the sidewalk, thankfully in the opposite direction from Kris, running alarmingly fast. A howl rose into the darkening sky, bestial in verisimilitude. The last of the day flashed off the windows of the SkyTrains racing Kris down the looming tracks parallel to the road, burned on the fall snows tracing the creases of the mountains. Kris felt a deep longing to be on a beach (just about thirty minutes away by bus) or crowd-watching on a patio with Tabby and company, all coming off work, weary and alcohol-thirsty, many of them freelancers just shifting from coffee shop to bar. When she was on the SkyTrain, she felt a coarse bitterness at all the people made-up and dressed-up for Friday night, done with adult responsibilities for the day.
Kris bit into the chocolate cookie she always bought herself from the Starbucks at the crossing of Terminal and Main. The crumbly sweetness turned to coal in her mouth as she watched the dog-person become a speck darting down the receding sidewalk. As she always did, she finished the cookie just as the dog hotel’s smokestack became visible over the hard lines of the self storage terminal next door to it. The hotel had a smokestack because it had once been a glue factory and not because they secretly burned dogs, as the co-proprietor of the establishment had somewhat inappropriately joked on Kris’s job interview.
The Outcast Hours Page 19