by Andy Maslen
‘Why not? Listen, Stel, you said your story was conventional. Mine’s a little less conventional. After school I went into the IDF to do my national service. I really enjoyed it. The camaraderie, the training, all of it. But also the action. I was good at it and they recruited me into Special Forces. From there, I went into the Mossad. The real sharp end. Literally. In fact, the Hebrew name for my old outfit means tip of the spear.’
‘Have you killed many people?’ Stella asked.
Eli ate a spoonful of mango.
‘Mm-hmm,’ she mumbled, then swallowed. ‘Lots. It goes with the territory. But they were all enemies. Either mine or my country’s, although it always came down to the same thing in the end. Now I’m with Gabe in The Department, and you know how that works.’
‘But I’m a police officer. We’re supposed to uphold the law, not take it into our own hands.’
‘Who were these people you killed?’ Eli asked.
‘This is off the record?’
Eli grinned. ‘Given what I’ve just told you, I’d say you can trust me to keep my mouth shut.’
Stella sighed out a breath.
‘It all started when my husband and baby daughter were killed by a hit and run driver.’
Over the next fifteen minutes, Eli listened, rapt, as Stella shared her story. Of madness. Of a burning desire for revenge. Of a discovery that shook her faith in the legal system. Of a series of actions that gradually restored it.
‘…and now, although I’m still a successful senior detective, there are people higher up the food chain who’d like to see me gone.’
‘But why?’ Eli said. ‘If you’re so good at what you do.’
Stella smiled but Eli didn’t see much happiness in it.
‘Because I’m a permanent reminder of an episode they’d rather forget.’
‘Ever thought of leaving?’
Stella nodded.
‘Often. Your boss has more or less offered me a job on at least two occasions.’
‘But you’re still at the Met.’
‘Yep. It’s something I said to a friend of mine when she interviewed me on the radio. Deep down, I’m still just a girl in blue.’
‘Then focus on the job at hand,’ Eli said. ‘From the sound of it, the people you killed more than deserved it and justice wouldn’t have been done if you’d gone through official channels. They’d have got away with it. You did the right thing.’
Eli watched a sly smile steal across Stella’s face.
‘What?’ she asked. Because that looks like the genuine article.
‘That’s what Jamie says.’
‘And who is Jamie?’ Eli asked, cupping her chin in her hand and rolling her eyes. ‘A work colleague?’
Stella’s grin widened.
‘He’s my…boyfriend. God, that makes me sound like a twenty-year-old!’
‘No it doesn’t! Gabe’s my boyfriend.’
‘Yeah, and how old are you? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?’
‘Twenty-nine, actually.’
‘Well, I’m forty-one.’
‘Call him your partner, then.’
Stella shuddered.
‘Ugh! I hate that word.’ She put on a ridiculously over-the-top posh voice. ‘Yah, like, Jamie’s my partner, actually?’ Jamah’s ma partnah, arch’lah. ‘We, like, met on a yoga retreat in Madagascar?’ Yogah rahtraht in Mahdagahskah.
Eli snorted with laughter, sending a morsel of soft pink fruit flying towards Stella face. Stella squawked a ‘Hey!’ and ducked, but the episode sent both women into a fit of giggling that woke up the sleeping fruit vendor. She smiled indulgently in their direction then settled her straw hat over her eyes again and reclined against the back of her blue plastic lawn chair.
Stella’s burner phone rang, shattering the calm in the wake of the outbreak of laughter. She looked down, then up at Eli. Only one person had the number.
Eli stretched out her hand.
‘Let me answer it.’
She cleared her throat, stood up and shook her head, before lifting her chin and answering the insistently ringing phone.
‘Yes?’
‘Joyce?’
‘Joyce is on another call. Who is this?’
‘Peter Mafombe. Who are you?’
‘The help. What do you want?’
‘My contact changed his mind. He wants to meet Joyce tonight.’
‘No good. We agreed Friday.’
‘He’s gonna be up country, Friday. Business.’
‘This is business.’
‘Look, lady, if your mistress wants to meet Mr Ivory, tell her to be at the Oasis Lounge tonight at seven or forget it. This is not a negotiation. Clear?’
Eli counted to three.
‘Clear.’
She punched the end call button.
‘Shit!’
‘What is it?’
Eli sat back down.
‘The creatively named “Mr Ivory” just brought the meeting forward.’
‘To when?’
‘Tonight. Seven.’
‘So we do it ourselves. Three would have been preferable but it’s like we were saying, we’re neither of us shrinking violets, are we?’
‘No. But I’d prefer the odds stacked just a little bit more in our favour.’
‘You’ve got your Glock, plus that pea shooter you took off that mugger. We’ll just style it out.’
Eli barked out a short laugh.
‘Fine! But I tell you, Stel. If anybody makes a move, I’ll style his fucking eye out.’
Back at the hotel, Stella’s force-issued phone delivered two pieces of intelligence. Dr Montho called from the university to confirm the soil from the inside of the vehicle trim was definitely local. And Lucian sent her a text.
Trim is Range Rover.
On their second trip to the Oasis, Eli and Stella drove all the way. Figuring it might be a good idea to have their wheels close at hand, Eli parked the Toyota right outside the club. They’d discussed whether the Merc would make a better statement but, in the end, the Toyota’s rugged practicality and lack of brand kudos would make it a safer bet.
She blipped the throttle a couple of times, raising the revs to a deafening roar before killing the engine. Through the windscreen she watched the assorted lowlifes, swagger-merchants, wannabe gangsters and gangsters’ molls for a few seconds.
A couple of the boys moved closer, hands grabbing crotches, trousers at half mast like teenagers all over the world. They made complicated gang signs with knitted fingers and waved through the dusty glass.
In a coordinated move they’d practised back at the resort, Eli and Stella swung the doors wide and jumped out before slamming them again with a stuttered double-bang.
They’d paid just as much attention to their outfits as to the choreography. ‘Joyce’ was in her business suit, but this time with low-heeled boots beneath the trousers. She’d tucked the little revolver into the back of her waistband.
‘The help’ wore black jeans tucked into black combat boots and a black, sleeveless vest beneath a black silk bomber jacket. In a holster on her waist the Glock sat, stripped, cleaned and oiled, with a full magazine and topped off with one in the chamber.
Each woman also had a slender-bladed knife tucked into her right boot.
Eli singled out the biggest lad in the group of drinkers by the front door. She pointed at him.
‘You!’ she shouted.
He placed a palm flat on his chest and raised his eyebrows. Me?
‘Come here.’
The tone of authority was unmistakable to everyone gathered around the two women. Eli was used to giving orders and watched with satisfaction as his feet began to carry him towards her before he’d had a chance to think it through. Still got it, El!
Recovering some of his poise he sauntered over, taking his time, winking left and right at his friends. He stopped in front of her, hands loose by his side. Looked her up and down. Kissed his teeth.
Then he smiled, a slow, lazy grin that stretched
his lips wide, revealing perfect teeth, even and straight.
‘You, ah, want something, darling?’
‘How much do you make in a week?’ Eli snapped out the question.
‘None of your damn business.’ It came out nun ya dam bidness.
She stretched out a fist towards him making him jerk back. Rolled it over and opened her finger to reveal a rolled $50 note.
‘Watch the truck and you get another when we come out.’
He stared at her for two or three seconds, popped an unlit match into his mouth and gripped it between his teeth. A cheap gangster move from an old forties Jimmy Cagney flick, but somehow he made it work.
He took the note and pocketed it. Nodded briefly.
Eli took a gentle but firm hold of the front of his shirt and drew him closer. Up close she smelled clean male sweat and a tang of tobacco.
‘It would be in your interests to be here when we come out,’ she murmured into his left ear.
Having done what she could to arrange security for the truck, Eli led Stella past the newly respectful crowd and into the Oasis Lounge. The band from before were playing and the singer nodded to Eli as she made eye contact.
Before they reached the bar, Peter Mafombe materialised at Stella’s side, dressed in a shimmering shot-silk suit that changed from powder blue to maroon as the folds and creases caught the bar lights.
‘Joyce!’ he said, beaming. He extended his right hand and shook Stella’s vigorously. He turned to Eli. ‘And the help.’ He bowed a little from the waist.
Stella turned left and right then looked back at Mafombe.
‘Where is he?’
‘In the back. Come with me, please.’ He looked over at the barman, whose eyes were locked onto his. ‘Bring some beers,’ he shouted. The barman nodded and turned to the low-level row of fridges behind the bar.
Eli hung back, allowing Stella to precede her through the door at the back of the room. She pressed her forearm against the gun beneath her jacket, feeling its reassuring bulk against her ribs. Nobody was looking at them. Nobody shot them death stares, despite their being the only two white people in the bar. Or, she suspected, the entire neighbourhood.
Beyond the door, a dark, narrow corridor stretched for twenty yards. Stickers – for bands, nightclubs, car accessories and political parties – spattered the wall at shoulder-height all the way down. A fire door closed off the end, secured with a dull-steel push-bar and a green-and-white emergency exit sign.
‘Down here, please,’ Mafombe said over his shoulder, indicating a door to his right. A skirted stick figure had been chalked onto the matt-black paintwork. Beneath it, the word ‘Basadi’. Eli didn’t need Gabriel’s linguistic skills to translate it. ‘Women.’
Mafombe stood aside and pushed the door open.
Eli’s heart rate had jumped significantly as soon as they’d left the relative safety of a crowded bar. Now it ticked up still further. The ladies’ toilets? What was this? She pushed the side of her jacket behind the Glock’s butt and rested her hand on it.
Stella was playing her part to the hilt. Somewhere the woman had deep reserves of chutzpah, because she strode across the threshold as if she owned the Oasis Lounge instead of Mafombe.
Eli followed her in and stopped dead.
31
To the right of a row of three cubicles a tall man leaned against the single sink. He smiled at her. His beige silk suit, rust-and-cream-checked waistcoat, open-necked gold shirt, tan-and-white wingtips and gold-topped cane gave him the appearance of a 1920s New Orleans jazzman.
Flanking him were two beautiful black women with the lean, muscular look of Olympic athletes built for strength as well as speed. Heptathletes. Or javelin throwers. Each wore a bored expression: lazy eyelids coloured white and peacock blue, weighed down by exaggerated false eyelashes.
Mafombe left, letting the door bang closed behind him. Eli suppressed the urge to look behind her.
‘Good evening,’ the man said in a mellow baritone voice that could have secured him a gig in Sun City any night of the week. ‘My name is Joshua. You must be Joyce,’ he said to Stella before taking her hand and bringing her knuckles gently to his lips.
She inclined her head.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Joshua. Is this your usual place of business?’ she drawled, encompassing the toilet cubicles, sink and battered metal tampon dispenser with a sweep of her left hand.
He laughed, a deep, indulgent sound. Beside him, the two black panthers, as Eli had mentally named them, allowed themselves the briefest of smiles.
‘Ha! Very good, Joyce. My usual place of business,’ he repeated, chuckling. ‘No.’ His smile vanished.
He took a sudden, quick pace towards Stella. Eli willed her to stand her ground and couldn’t stop a frown from crossing her face as Stella leaned back, then righted herself with a half-step.
‘My, my,’ the man calling himself Joshua said. ‘Not nervous, are we? The bigshot white lady with the briefcase full of cash and the diesel-dyke bodyguard?’
He jerked his chin contemptuously in Eli’s direction as he spat out the insult.
She stared at him, her mouth a grim line, clenching her teeth to make her jaw muscles bulge. But her pulse was racing.
Stella’s next move surprised Eli. And clearly the man in the beige suit.
She stuck a pointed finger hard against his sternum, just in the V of his waistcoat’s neckline. His eyes widened and, to each side, the athletes tensed.
‘Keep your language civil, Joshua.’ She pushed hard with her finger. ‘Or I’ll have to teach you some manners. I came here to do business with Mr Ivory,’ Stella made air quotes, ‘not to have my staff insulted. So why don’t you tell me what the fuck is going on so we can sit down and talk about making money together?’
Genius move, Stel! Eli said mentally. Either we’re in, or we’re dead. She prepared herself for a fight. The women facing her wore tight jeans and tighter vests. She saw no evidence of any weapons. In a way, this worried her more.
Joshua had clamped his lips. His jaw was working. Eli looked at the cane. He was squeezing the gold knob – a lion’s head – so hard his knuckles were poking up through his skin. She experienced a surge of adrenaline. It’s a sword stick! She altered her stance, moving her right foot behind her left a little to shift her weight. She’d aimed for a casual move but realised she hadn’t carried it off.
The Olympians were glaring at her. And Eli realised they’d walked straight into a trap. You don’t need weapons! We’re in here. God knows who’s waiting on the other side of the door. You know we could never fight our way out. Shit! The Toyota’s probably having new plates screwed to it in some backstreet bodyshop right now.
Joshua broke the silence.
‘Take your clothes off. Both of you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Stella said, her hand sliding around her right thigh and towards the small of her back.
‘Move that slender arm one more centimetre and Galele here will snap it in two,’ he said.
The nearer of the two women took a step closer to Stella.
‘Joshua,’ Stella said, placating now. ‘I came here to talk business. Not to star in some cheap voyeur fantasy. Either we’re going to do business or we’re leaving.’
He held his hand up to silence her.
‘And we will talk business,’ he said. ‘But I am a cautious man. You don’t survive long in G-City if you’re not. Galele and Naomi will search you. I will leave. Any weapons you are carrying will be returned to you when our meeting is concluded.’
Without waiting for an answer, he squeezed between Stella and the sink, shot Eli a look of the purest malice and left.
Stella, maintaining her role as boss, looked at Eli.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said.
Standing naked, side by side, the two women watched as Galele and Naomi rifled through the pile of clothes on the floor. Galele placed the Glock, revolver and the two knives to one side. She stood and ki
cked the clothes towards Stella.
‘Get dressed.’
Eli felt more naked without her weapons than she had done without her clothes. She’d spent part of her childhood on a kibbutz where attitudes to nudity and sex were refreshingly frank and unconcerned. God gave us these bodies, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of, being the general drift.
With Galele and Naomi behind them, she and Stella walked along the corridor before stopping at the fire door. A door to the left seemed the obvious move.
‘In there, yes,’ Naomi said.
Eli pushed through the door. What she saw on the far side jacked her adrenaline levels into the stratosphere.
32
Through a sweet-smelling fug of marijuana smoke, Eli saw a couple of bare-chested guys sitting, legs spread wide, on a saggy old sofa. Off to one side, two more, wearing replica Manchester United football shirts over narrow chests. Sitting at a round table, Joshua looked up at Eli. No smile this time.
It wasn’t the men themselves that had elevated her fight-or-flight response.
The responsible parties were the AK-47s each carried or had resting beside his right arm.
The men on the sofa grinned lazily up at her and Stella. One had teeth missing at the sides of his mouth, giving him the comical look of a cartoon rabbit. The other had gleaming gold where his canines should be.
Afrobeat pounded from a boombox placed on the windowsill, its scratched silver paint and oversized speaker grilles placing it dead-centre in the eighties. Eli shook her head. It was a miracle of Japanese electronics the damn thing was working at all.
The room was lit with candles, whose untrimmed wicks led to wildly flickering flames. Shadows danced across Playboy centrefolds tacked to the walls.
As well as the cigar-sized reefers the men were smoking, they were taking pulls from long-necked bottles of beer. One belched grandly, an arm swept wide as the guttural sound emerged from between grinning lips.
Joshua rose from the table. He strolled over to Stella, hand extended. He shook her hand, then Eli’s. She registered the position of each of the four guards in her peripheral vision while smiling at ‘Mr Ivory’.