Mixed Blood

by Roger Smith

  Nolan and the two other men went into the bank. Burn stayed in the van, in radio contact, sweating despite the freezing weather. Terrified. Every few minutes Nolan’s calm voice would give him a terse progress report. The vault door had blown. They were in.

  It seemed like hours but took no more than forty-five minutes. The three men returned with the money in kit bags. There was an air of quiet jubilation. Nolan slid into the driver’s seat. A big guy who had hardly spoken sat next to Nolan. The third man, a skinny kid in his twenties, joined Burn in the back. He grinned and lit a smoke, offering one to Burn, who shook his head.

  Nolan drove through downtown Milwaukee. He kept to the speed limit. He stopped at the lights. Then a prowl car nosed up behind them, and the cop driving whooped the siren.

  Nolan pulled over. He looked back over the seat. “Keep cool.”

  Nolan got out of the van to talk to the cop. The van had a busted taillight. There was another cop in the prowl car who didn’t bother to get out. Things seemed under control until the first cop stepped up to the van and shone his flashlight at the big guy in the passenger seat. Something about him must have set off alarm bells. Next thing the cop was asking Nolan to open the rear of the van.

  That’s when Nolan shot the cop.

  And the uniform in the prowl car shot Nolan, who fell down in the snow beside the dead cop. The big guy had a pistol in his hand, and he returned fire. He slid over to take the wheel of the van, and as he pulled away, half of his head disappeared and the van slowed, then stalled.

  The cop in the car shot at the van, and one of his bullets pierced the door and caught the young guy in the stomach. He pitched forward groaning, bleeding over the bags of money.

  Burn vaulted the seats. He shoved the dead guy out of the van, got in behind the wheel, and took off. The cop was still shooting. Burn floored the van, fishtailing, fighting to get it under control. As he drifted into a corner Burn saw the strobing lights of the cop car in pursuit. A block later it hit ice and spun one-eighty before collecting a lamppost and disappearing from Burn’s mirror.

  Burn ditched the van in a side street, grabbed one of the money bags from the rear, and took off into the night, leaving the van and the dying kid.

  He’d been given fake ID for the job, and he used it to rent a car and drive to Chicago. He called Susan and told her to get herself and Matt on the next plane to Miami and check into a hotel. He would meet her there. It still amazed him that she had listened, even when he refused to tell her what the hell was going on.

  In Chicago it was his turn to look up Tommy Ryan, who was connected. Fitting that what began with Tommy ended with him. It cost Burn plenty, but he managed to get nearly two million dollars laundered and the bulk of it transferred to a Swiss bank account. The new identities came next.

  He joined Susan in Miami. They both had news. He told her what he had really been doing. She told him that she was pregnant.

  She cried, raged at him. wanted to go home. She wanted their life back.

  Then she had stopped crying and agreed to go with him, and the three of them caught a plane to Cape Town.

  The kid in the van hadn’t died. He’d sung a long and loud plea bargain, and Jack Burn had joined the U.S. Marshals’ MOST WANTED list.

  The dogs found them first. A pack of strays roaming the Flats were drawn by the smell of the bodies. They ripped open the plastic garbage bags with their teeth and claws, then recoiled at the ripe stench of rotting human. They ran off to root in the trash cans of the nearby houses.

  Ronnie September and Cassiem Davids came upon them next, sometime after eight in the morning. They were both eleven years old, in their school uniforms, but they had no intention of going to school.

  They headed across the open veld, sucking on illicit cigarettes, putting as much distance between themselves and their homes in Paradise Park as they could. They were going to jump a taxi and head for Bellville to play arcade games.

  It was Ronnie who saw the white Nikes sticking out of the grass. He stopped and pointed. “Check that, man.”

  Cassiem stared. “Those is Nikes.”

  “I know that. You think I’m stupid?”

  The two boys edged closer to the body of a short, skinny man, only partly covered by black garbage bags. Boys their age who grow up on the Cape Flats are no strangers to dead bodies, but the stench was fierce.

  “Look, there’s another one.” Ronnie was pointing to where the body of a tall man spilled from the torn bags. He ran a discerning eye over the lanky corpse’s outfit. “His clothes is shit, man.”

  “God, but it stinks.” Cassiem was covering his nose with his hand.

  Ronnie sucked on his cigarette and stepped closer to the small corpse. The dead man lay on his back, the jagged slash in his throat gaping at the sky. “Yaaaw. He was cut, hey?”

  Cassiem was looking over Ronnie’s shoulder. “Those pants is nice. Diesel.”

  “It’s full of blood, man.” Ronnie stooped a little lower. “Maybe he got a phone.”

  “I’m not putting my hands in there.”

  Ronnie was eyeing the shoes. “That Nikes is brand-new.”

  “I saw them first!”

  Ronnie gave his friend a shove. “So, you gonna take them off him? Do it then!”

  Cassiem said nothing, took a step back.

  Ronnie shook his head, disgusted. “My little sister got more balls than you, man.”

  “Ja, okay, then let me see you do it. Come.”

  Ronnie eyeballed his friend. He’d always kept a safe distance from the bodies he had seen before, watched as cops or paramedics had shoveled tm into bags and carted them away. This was different. Shit, this was fucken disgusting.

  But he looked down at his torn and scruffy running shoes, inherited from his brother. There was no way he was ever going to afford a pair of Nikes like these.

  Ronnie took a deep breath and knelt down and pulled loose the laces of one of the shoes. He almost puked from the stink. He untied the other shoe. Then he tried to get the shoe off. The corpse had bloated and stiffened, and the shoe was tight on the foot. Ronnie was tugging, and that set the dead man’s head lolling back, the wound opening even wider, and a fat white worm crawled out.

  It was too much for Cassiem, and he spewed his breakfast of egg and leftover mince curry onto his shoes.

  Ronnie wasn’t giving up. He tugged again and finally managed to get a shoe off, falling onto his butt in the process. Then he attacked the second shoe and separated it from the dead man’s foot.

  Ronnie stood, triumphant. He held the shoes up in front of Cassiem, dangling them by the laces. “Gottem.”

  “They fucken stink.”

  “Yours stink, and you aren’t even dead yet.”

  Ronnie walked away from the bodies, Cassiem tagging after him. Ronnie sat down and pulled off his old shoes and threw them as far as he could into the bush. He slipped on the new Nikes.

  “They fit perfect.” He stood, lifting his trousers to his ankles, flexing his toes.

  Then he grabbed Cassiem by the tie and pulled him close. “You keep your fucken mouth shut about this, okay?”

  Cassiem nodded. Ronnie was already walking toward the road. Cassiem shot a look back over his shoulder at the red socks sticking out of the garbage bag; then he followed his friend.

  CHAPTER 8

  Burn fetched Susan from the clinic shortly before noon. She looked pale but composed as he helped her into the front of the Jeep. He lifted Matt into the back and belted him into the car seat.

  Susan didn’t look at him as they drove. “Where are we going?”

  “Home. To the house.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to go back there, Jack.”

  “Susan …”

  “I mean it. Not after what happened.”

  He said nothing, then realized that his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He forced himself to relax. “Where do you want to go then?”

  “I don’t care. A hotel. Anyw
here but that house.”

  He pulled over and stopped. An almost absurdly beautiful expanse of sun-washed ocean and mountain spread out below them. Neither of them was looking at the view.

  “Susan, it’s important that we don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Anything that could attract attention.”

  “You mean like kill a couple of locals in our dining room?” She was furious, two red spots touching her cheekbones. Susan shut her eyes briefly and took a breath, her hands resting on her swollen belly. She looked over her shoulder at Matt, who was staring at his parents anxiously.

  Susan reached back and caressed Matt’s hair. “It’s okay, Matty. Mommy and Daddy aren’t fighting.”

  Burn, watching in the rearview mirror, saw an uncertain smile touch his son’s lips. Susan turned to face forward again, staring down at the ocean below.

  “Baby, you need to relax. Please.” Burn tried to take her hand. When she pulled it away, he noticed that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. “Where’s your ring?”

  She looked at him. “Jack, did you hear a word I said yesterday? About going home?”

  “Of course. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

  “I meant what I said.”

  “I know you did. And I understand.” He had to get ahold of himself, force himself to keep it together. “All I’m asking for is some time. To organize myself.”

  “How much time?”

  “A couple of days. A week at the most. Until then, we need to keep up our usual routine.”

  She was looking at him, intuiting something. “What’s going on, Jack? What’s happened at the house?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Those … those men left a car in the street, outside the building site. It must have been reported. A cop was around asking some questions.”

  “Jesus, Jack.”

  “It’s fine. He went to every house in the street. It was just routine.”

  She was shaking her head. “So he’s watching the house?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him again. I told you, it was just routine.”

  Susan turned slightly to face him, her eyes searching his face. “Three days, Jack. Three days, and then I’m contacting the consulate. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes.” He started the car and pulled back onto the road.

  His wife had become his enemy.

  Berenice September carried shopping bags into her small house. She worked as a cashier at Shoprite, and she’d used her staff discount to buy supplies for herself and her three kids. Like many women on the Flats, she was a single parent. Her useless bastard of a husband had left her for a young slut and then got thrown under the wheels of the Elsies River train.

  Good riddance.

  Her eldest boy, Donovan, was doing fine. He had a job and brought some money into the house, and her daughter, Juanita, was too young to be any trouble. But it was her middle one, Ronnie, who reminded her of her late ex-husband. He had that same fuck you attitude. She would have to watch him.

  Ronnie came slouching in while she was preparing supper, heading straight to the room he shared with his brother. She yelled after him. “Hey, come here.”

  He hovered in the kitchen doorway. “Ja?”

  “What time is this?”

  He could never resist consulting the huge Batman watch on his skinny wrist. It was a Hong Kong rip-off but still his most treasured possession. “It’s ten past five.”

  “I know the bloody time, Ronnie. I mean why you so late?”

  “I had sports.”

  “You got homework?”

  “Ja, I’m gonna go do it.”

  It was then that she saw his shoes. He saw where she was looking and stepped back out of the doorway. Berenice was a big woman, but she could move rapidly when she wanted to. She grabbed her son by the arm and pulled him into the kitchen.

  “Where did you get those shoes?”

  He tried to pull free of her grip. “I bought them.”

  “With what? You little liar! Did you steal them?”

  He shook his head. She grabbed him by the throat and pulled him to her. “Tell me the truth before I smack it out of you!”

  Ronnie knew his mother never made idle threats. “Can I keep them if I tell you?”

  “Just tell me, and I decide, okay?”

  “I took it off a dead guy.”

  She let him go, recoiled in horror. Berenice September lived in superstitious dread of those who had passed on.

  She shook her head at her son. What kind of a monster had she brought into this world? Why couldn’t he steal off somebody who was alive like any normal bloody person?

  Benny Mongrel arrived for his shift intentionally early. Patrol cars zoomed in and out, armed response patrolmen swaggered around with their Kevlar vests and their Ray-Bans and their pistols on their hips. They were the movie stars of the security world.

  Benny Mongrel was a bottom feeder. Nobody noticed him.

  He knew that Ishmael Isaacs wasn’t there. He’d made a big show of telling them that he was taking a course for the day, at the head office in Parow. Hinted that he was up for promotion.

  Benny Mongrel paused for a moment, realizing that what he was about to do wouldn’t make him popular with Isaacs, but he thought fuck it. He no longer wanted to guard the building site. Not after the gangsters. And especially not after that fat cop had kicked Bessie. He wanted to get himself and his dog as far away from there as he could.

  So he went up to the young girl behind the reception desk. She sat with her nose buried in a gossip magazine, chewing gum. She ignored him. Benny Mongrel had to find patience from somewhere. In his old world he would have blackened her eyes and bruised that painted mouth before she knew what was coming.

  “Missy.”

  She dragged her eyes from the magazine and stared at him. “What?”

  “I want to see the boss.”

  “Why?”

  “Please. I need to talk to him.”

  He could see she was finding it difficult staring at his scarred face. She looked away and lifted a phone, mumbled a few words. She pointed to a doorway. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  Benny Mongrel knocked on the door and walked in. He had never spoken to the white man behind the desk, only seen him driving in and out in his Mercedes-Benz. He wore a dark tie and a shirt so white it hurt your eyes. His office was as cold as a fridge from the air-conditioning.

  The man lifted his eyes from a laptop. He didn’t stand or invite Benny Mongrel to sit. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Niemand. Benny Niemand.”

  “Okay. Is there a problem?”

  “No, sir. I just was wondering if maybe I could guard a different site, like.”

  “Why don’t you take this up with Isaacs?”

  “He’s on the course, sir.”

  The man gave him a long-suffering look. “Where are you posted at the moment?”

  “The new house. Above Sea Point.”

  “Okay. What’s wrong with working that site?”

  “Nothing. No, I thought maybe I could have something more, I dunno … something with more responsibility, like.”

  The white man laughed at him. “So you’re ambitious, hey? Okay, that’s fine. Look, you’ve been with us, what? Two months?” Benny Mongrel nodded. “Why don’t we give it another month or so? The house will be completed then anyway, and we’ll move you on. Okay?”

  Benny Mongrel nodded again. The white man was already going back to his laptop. Then he saw Benny Mongrel wasn’t moving. The man looked up, irritated.

  “Was there something else?”

  “My dog.”

  “Now what? Do you want a new dog too?”

  “No, no, no, sir. She’s a very good dog. I was just wondering if, you know, one day I can maybe, like, buy her?”

  The man looked at him in surprise. “Jesus, Niemand, what’s your problem? We don’t sell the
se dogs; this isn’t a bloody pet shop. Now come on, get going. I’m busy here.”

  The white man was already typing on his computer.

  Constable Gershwynne Galant was sure his blood was cooking, honest to God. There was no way he could sit inside the windowless metal container that housed the satellite police station. He took a stool and placed it in the tiny patch of shade outside. His boots were still in the blazing sun, but at least his face and chest were in the shade.

  This satellite police station was the result of some visible policing initiative dreamed up by a politician who spent his life inside air-conditioned offices. Since the nearest police station was in distant Bellwood South, the residents of Paradise Park had shoved the usual rape and murder statistics in the face of local politicians. Finally, a trailer had been towed to a piece of open veld, and the satellite station opened its door.

  The plan was to have a police officer on duty from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Which was totally useless as most of the crime happened at night, but what can you do? The first night, after the cop on duty went home, local gangsters had hooked the trailer to a truck and towed it away. Red-faced, the politicians had replaced the trailer with a heavy container, like the ones used on cargo ships.

  Manning the satellite station was a punishment detail. Gershwynne Galant had made the mistake of getting caught with the takings of a drug dealer he had just busted. So he was frying like an egg, alone, day in and day out for a fucken week. Jesus.

  Galant was paging through a magazine he’d found lying outside the container when the woman and her son walked up. Galant looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He would have to listen to their story.

  The boy was holding a pair of Nikes. He was walking barefoot with a kind of skip, his bare feet burning on the hot sand. His mother looked like a bloody battle-ax.