Mixed Blood ct-1

by Roger Smith

  Mrs. Dollie’s body, wrapped in a white cloth, lay next to the open grave as the imam droned the prayers. Mr. Dollie, small and bearded, looked almost lost inside his Muslim clothing. His face was pinched and drawn, and a young man in a suit had to steady his arm, as if the wind might take him.

  Burn wasn’t sure why he had attended. He could have made an excuse, that Susan was about to have a baby. It was a valid excuse; the cesarean section was to be performed that afternoon. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt that by attending the burial, facing Mrs. Dollie’s husband, that he was at least atoning for some of his actions.

  Burn had been brought up a Catholic but had lost touch with religion by the time he was a teenager. He was surprised to find that now, in his midforties, the idea of guilt and retribution should be so present. As he stood and listened to the Arabic prayers directed at a god he was not on first name terms with, he heard a voice making a deal with some invisible force out there: I’ll face up to my guilt, I’ll take what comes to me, but just save the life of my son. It was his voice. He knew it was superstitious. He knew it was irrational. He didn’t care.

  It was all he had right now.

  That and a disfigured brown man with prison tattoos, sitting in the Jeep in the graveyard parking lot. The watchman had made it clear that he was going to shadow Burn until this thing was over, until he could get to the fat cop.

  And kill him.

  Burn had no reason to trust the watchman, which was why he stood with the bag of money between his feet, and the. 38 Colt belonging to the dead gangster in his waistband. He knew that the watchman was a killer, but for now, at least, they wanted the same man dead: Barnard.

  Men stepped forward and carried the wrapped form of Mrs. Dollie toward the grave. They lay the body on its right side, facing Mecca. The prayers moaned along with the wind.

  Burn felt his phone vibrating, and he stepped away from the mourners as he looked at caller ID. Mrs. Dollie. He was almost moved to hysterical laughter at the surreal juxtaposition of her body in the gravand her name on his phone.

  Then he took the call from his son’s kidnapper.

  CHAPTER 25

  Benny Mongrel sat beside the American, who sped through Salt River, toward Woodstock, on the frayed fringes of the city. Burn was tense, checking his mirrors, nosing the Jeep into gaps. Then he made a visible effort to calm himself, and he slowed down, dropped to the speed limit.

  Benny Mongrel had a cell phone in his hand, looking at it as if it might bite him. He’d seen people using them, sure, the guards at Pollsmoor, many people since he was released. But he had never held one in his hand. Never mind used one. Burn had given it to him earlier, saying it was a spare he kept as a backup. It would allow them to keep in contact during the drop-off of the money.

  They had stopped at a light. Burn was looking at him. “You understand how to use it?”

  “Ja.”

  “Call my phone. Just to see everything is okay.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Do it. Please. We can’t afford screw-ups.”

  Benny Mongrel shrugged and jabbed a finger at the tiny phone. Burn had showed him that he only had to push that one number, the three, and it would dial his phone. Burn’s cell, lying on the seat between them, chirped and flashed.

  “Okay, hit the red button.”

  Benny Mongrel’s finger searched, found the red button, and jabbed at it. The chirping stopped. They were driving again.

  “You clear on how we’re going to do this thing?”

  Burn overtook a minibus taxi, which suddenly veered into their lane, and he had to swerve, almost colliding with an oncoming truck, horn blaring.

  “Jesus!” When they had passed the taxi, Burn shot him a look. “You clear?”

  Benny Mongrel nodded. “Ja.”

  He was clear. Burn would drop him off just before they got to the Waterfront. Benny Mongrel would make his way to the place where he could observe the drop-off point. Burn had drawn him a map. He would watch the fat cop pick up the money and follow him. If the cop didn’t leave the boy, Burn wanted to know where the fat man was, to go after him. Benny Mongrel had no doubt the boy wouldn’t be left. The fat cop would take the money, and he would go back to his car. Benny Mongrel would follow him and kill him. He had no use for this stupid little phone.

  Burn was talking, asking him to run through details of the plan. Benny Mongrel grunted, nodded, but his hand was in his pocket. He gripped the knife, the blade honed to perfect sharpness.

  The Waterfront, Cape Town’s dockland development, attracted twenty-two million visitors every year, and it looked like most of them were there that day. Part shopping mall, part theme park, the Waterfront sprawled around the working dock. Restaurants, street musicianoat trips, and spectacular views across the city packed in the crowds.

  Burn, duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, pushed his way through throngs of European tourists, skins fried Bockwurst pink by the African sun. They strolled in their shorts and sandals, digital cameras slung around their sunburned necks, wallets bulging with euros. Burn checked his watch; he had five minutes to get to the drop-off point.

  Barnard’s instructions had been clear: Burn was to leave the bag on the stairs of the Mandela Gateway and cross the pedestrian bridge toward the shopping mall. Once the money was in place, Barnard would call his cell and tell him where in the Waterfront he could find his son. Burn’s gut instinct was that Matt was nowhere near the Waterfront. Barnard would be keeping him as an insurance policy.

  If he was still alive.

  Burn had tried to argue that he wouldn’t part with the money until he saw his son. Barnard’s counter was simple: if Burn didn’t shut up and follow instructions, he would remove one of Matt’s fingers. Burn shut up.

  Burn skirted a group of black boys stripped to the waist, doing a loud and energetic gum boot dance. They blew whistles and clapped, the boots like gunshots on the cobbles. He approached the Mandela Gateway. The area teemed with tourists, queuing up for the half-hour boat ride across to Robben Island, to see where Nelson Mandela spent twenty-seven years in jail. Shortly after getting to Cape Town, Burn and Matt had taken the trip. Susan had begged off; she was suffering from morning sickness, and there was no way she was getting on a boat. While Burn had stood and looked into Mandela’s cramped cell, he had felt uneasy. Too vivid a reminder of where he could end up.

  Burn checked his watch. Two twenty-nine. He forced himself not to look up at the first floor of the shopping area-curio shops and African theme restaurants-where he had told the watchman to take his position.

  Burn headed for the stairs. He knew that Barnard wouldn’t waste time collecting the bag. The Waterfront had been the target of bomb attacks in the late nineties, and the security personnel were ultravigilant. An unattended bag would be spotted immediately.

  Two thirty. Burn stood on the stairs, gave the area a sweep, then set the duffel bag down against a pillar. He headed off toward the pedestrian bridge, not looking back.

  Barnard sat under an umbrella at a table outside a German restaurant, his eyes not moving from the Mandela Gateway. An untouched mug of pilsner stood in front of him. He thought it made him look like a tourist. He wore his cap and a pair of sunglasses, sweating into a T-shirt. Barnard took the sunglasses off and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He checked the watch that cut into the fat on his massive wrist. Almost two thirty.

  Then he saw him. The American. Carrying a bag, heading straight toward the stairs. Barnard would let the American drop the bag and walk away. Then he would collect the money and drive over to Paradise Park. Put the Mossberg to the heads of the half-breed bitch and the American kid. Shut them up for keeps.

  He regretted that he wasn’t going to be able to kill the American. He’d made a promise to his friend U.S. Marshal Dexter Torrance that Burn would be made to pay. Well, his dead son would have to be pyment enough.

  The fat man stayed seated until he saw the American place the bag on the stairs and wal
k off in the direction of the pedestrian bridge. Barnard stood, hitched up his trousers, shifted the position of the holster under his T-shirt, and went to get his money.

  Benny Mongrel waited at the railing on the first floor, outside an African restaurant, his cap pulled low. He watched the stairs. He saw Burn drop the bag and walk away. Benny Mongrel kept his eyes locked on the bag. He was aware of somebody coming up next to him, on his right side. Instinctively he felt for his knife; then he saw it was some young white girl with blonde hair, wearing a backpack.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where I find the taxis?” To Benny Mongrel’s ear, the German accent was nearly incomprehensible.

  He turned to her, favoring her with the carnage of the left side of his face. “Fuck off.”

  She saw his face, blanched white under her tan, and did as he said.

  Benny Mongrel looked back toward the bag. It was gone. He scanned the crowd and glimpsed a fat shape about to disappear up the flight of stairs that led to the street.

  Benny Mongrel was running.

  As Burn approached the pedestrian bridge spanning the waterway, he heard a shrill blast of a whistle and the gates at the front of the bridge closed. A yacht with a towering mast approached the low bridge, en route to its mooring. With agonizing slowness, the bridge swung away from where Burn stood and traveled in an arc until it hugged the opposite bank.

  The yacht glided slowly past, a tanned man in shorts at the wheel and a ridiculously good-looking woman sipping a glass of wine on the deck, neither deigning to look at the rabble on the banks.

  Burn couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder, up to the first floor. He saw the watchman take off, running, toward the stairs to the street. On the tail of Barnard.

  Burn couldn’t stop himself. He turned and plunged into the crowd.

  The call that Disaster Zondi was dreading came as he piloted his BMW southbound on the N2, cruising toward the city that huddled at the foot of the mountain. His outward appearance of imperturbable calm belied an inner turmoil. He sensed that Barnard was close, so close he could almost smell him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was dogging the fat man’s footsteps. But how far behind he didn’t know.

  Zondi had decided to leave Superintendent Peterson and the rest of the cops at Bellwood South HQ out of the loop. He couldn’t risk a leak now. He knew it would take him more time to do everything himself, but he needed to keep control.

  His phone, hooked up to a hands-free, was yapping on the seat next to him. He sneaked a glance at caller ID. His commanding officer. He was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but at the last moment he took the call. “Zondi.”

  “Afternoon, Zondi.”

  To Archibald Mathebula, Zondi was always just Zondi. He called his other investigators by their first names, but it was as if giving voice to the name Disaster was an insult to his sensibilities. He would have fought to the death to defend Zondi’s right to the name, but it conjured up an African world that was too rural, too primitive for a man of his refinement.

  “And how is the Cape?”

  “Windy,” said Zondi.

  Mathebula chuckled. “Yes, it can be. Now I understand that you have completed your task?”

  “Well, not entirely.”

  “But an arrest warrant has been issued for this Barnard?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And you’ve made recommendations regarding the other policemen?”

  “I have.”

  “Then it’s time for you to return to home and hearth.”

  “There are a couple of loose ends, sir, that I’d like to tie up.”

  Mathebula dropped the avuncular tone. Under the genial exterior that he worked so hard to project, Zondi’s boss was a hard man. A killer. Zondi, of course, had compiled a dossier on his superior and knew that during the struggle years, when Mathebula had been a commander in the ANC’s armed wing, he had personally executed nine of his men whom he suspected of selling information to the apartheid government. No trial, just a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave in the Zambian veld.

  “Zondi, I know of your history with this man, Barnard.”

  “That is not influencing me.”

  “We don’t do vendettas, Zondi. I have cut you some slack, but now I’m losing patience. My p.a. will liaise with you regarding your flight back to Johannesburg. I want you back in the office in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mathebula was gone. Zondi cursed quietly. He was passing the Ratanga Junction Theme Park and saw that one of the rides, the cobra, had stalled in midair, people dangling upside down while men in a cherry picker battled to get to them.

  He knew how they felt.

  His phone beeped as a text message came through. Zondi drove one-handed and sneaked a look at the message. He was flying out at 8:00 p.m. He had six hours to do what he needed to do.

  Mathebula was right. It was a vendetta. He wanted to be there when Barnard was taken down, to bear witness. He didn’t yearn for the closure that the daytime TV shrinks peddled like twenty-first-century snake oil, the fuzzy notion that you faced up to things and then went on with your life. He wanted revenge. It was as simple as that.

  He wanted blood.

  Barnard shouldered his way through the crowd, deaf to the angry complaints thrown his way. Pounded his bulk up a flight of stairs and crossed an open plaza, his body as wet as if he’d walked through a car wash. He had avoided pay parking and left the Ford in a narrow road at the bottom of a ramp that led back to the city. He unzipped the duffel bag as he walked, just enough to glance inside. It was stuffed with notes. He felt like laughing. He sent a quick glance heavenward. Thank you, God.

  He would get down on bended knee and offer a prayer of thanks as soon as he was safe.

  Burn ran, dodging tourists. He lost sight of the watchman for a few seconds, then saw him heading up the stairs. There was no sign of Barnard. Burn hit the stairs, pumping his legs, racing to the top. He slowed when he hit the plaza above. The tourists were thinner on the ground here; he couldn’t risk being spotted.

  He saw the watchman, using a minibus loaded with tourists for cover, walking toward the ramp that joined the main road into downtown Cape Town. Burn speed-dialed the phone he had given to the watchman.

  Benny Mongrel shadowed the minibus, which crawled as a giant tour bus passed, waiting to swing out into a lane and accelerate. The phone in his pocket started to ring and vibrate. Benny Mongrel threw it into the gutter and walked on. The fat cop looked back, but he couldn’t see Benny Mongrel.

  Then the cop ducked off the ramp and hauled his fat ass down a narrow flight of stairs that led to the road below. The road flanked a dry dock, and Benny Mongrel could see a group of Chinese sailors scraping and repairing their rusted trawler. One of them saw the cop’s man-breasts jiggling as he humped down the steps, and he said something to his friend and they stopped scraping and laughed. The cop didn’t notice. He was heading toward a brown Ford that was parked outside the old fish canning building.

  Benny Mongrel knew he was going to be exposed on the stairs, but he had no choice. If he didn’t make his move now, the cop would be in the car and away. He hit the stairs at a run, two at a time.

  The fat cop was at the rear of his car, popping the trunk, his sweating back to Benny Mongrel. He dropped the bag into the trunk, slammed it, and turned. And clocked Benny Mongrel, who was closing in fast. Surprise, astonishment even, crossed the cop’s face. He had to get both his fat and the T-shirt out of the way before he could draw the revolver at his hip, and that saved Benny Mongrel’s life.

  Benny Mongrel closed the gap and kicked the fat cop in the balls while he was still trying to draw the gun. The cop made a sound like air escaping from a blimp and sagged but didn’t fall. Benny Mongrel kicked him again, in his ribs. And the cop was on his knees.

  The Chinese sailors were chirping excitedly, hanging over the railing of the boat. It was better than a Jackie Chan movie. Benny Mongrel had the knif
e in his hand, and he flicked the blade open on the pocket of his jeans. The fat cop was looking up at him, gasping for air, stinking. Benny Mongrel held the blade so that it gleamed in the sunlight, grabbed the cop by his thatch of hair, and pulled his head back, exposing his throat.

  Time to say goodnight.

  Benny Mongrel felt the cold barrel of a gun shoved up against the back of his head. “Drop the knife,” said Burn.

  CHAPTER 26

  Benny Mongrel wondered if he would be quick enough to cut the cop’s throat before the American shot him. He held the blade against the jowls that hung like accordion bellows from the fat man’s neck, a rivulet of blood already snaking down to the cop’s T-shirt. One motion, quick and true, and it would be done. Benny Mongrel didn’t care if he died, but there was no way he was going to die without taking the fat cop to hell with him.

  He heard the gun cocking, a sound he had heard many times before in his life.

  “I mean it,” said Burn. “Drop the knife or I’ll shoot you.”

  Benny Mongrel believed the desperation he heard in Burn’s voice.

  He looked into the cop’s eyes, saw the fear, smelled the stench of his body. Then the message from Benny Mongrel’s brain moved down his arm and reached his fingers, and he loosened his grip on the knife.

  There was a moment of absolute silence, broken only by the clatter of the knife as it hit the road. Then the Chinese sailors were jabbering again, in high excitement.

  Benny Mongrel felt the pressure of the gun barrel ease as Burn stepped back. He turned and saw Burn reach down and pocket the knife. The fat cop, still down on one knee, was moving a hand toward his ankle. Burn’s gun arced and fixed on the cop.

  “Search him,” said the American.

  Benny Mongrel found the. 32 in the ankle holster and set it down on the road. He removed the. 38 from the fat man’s hip and placed it next to the other weapon.