by Nicol, Mike;
‘Be my guest, for the luck. Take the chips.’
Vicki does. She’s on his tab. Only way off that is to be brave. Play the cards.
The opening bets go down, Cake Mullins slices cards off the pack, face-down, two to each player.
The third card he flips: an ace of spades for the nameless guy, a ten of hearts for Whitey, jack of diamonds for Jacob Mkezi frowning over his fingertips, his hands in the prayer position cover his chin and mouth. Cake turns a seven of clubs for Vicki.
Whitey opens: a twenty into the pot.
The other whisky-drinker checks.
So does Vicki.
Jacob Mkezi puts a yellow chip in the pot, says, ‘How’re you doing? Going to pull this off?’
It’s Cake’s call. He folds.
Vicki keeps her breathing steady. The thrill in her stomach, sucking the saliva from her mouth.
Second cards go round: king of hearts to Whitey, eight of clubs to Vicki, nine of clubs to Jacob Mkezi.
Whitey bets the pot.
Ditto Jacob Mkezi.
Vicki checks her hand: there’s two sevens, a club sequence seven and a six staring at her. She’s got to. She swallows. Puts a pink, two yellow chips into the stack. The pulse is working over her heart, almost electric.
Jacob Mkezi looks up, grins at her. ‘You catching fire. Chancing your luck? I like it.’ Makes his call, adds ninety to the pot.
Cake Mullins deals. Flips a three of diamonds to Whitey, two of hearts to Jacob Mkezi, seven of hearts to Vicki.
Whitey checks. Jacob Mkezi bets the pot. Vicki and Whitey call. The pot’s at three hundred and sixty.
‘Getting interesting,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Fancy your luck’s changing.’
Vicki reckons she takes this to the end, she can win. Could win. Might win. Except her next card’s a four of clubs. She pickes it up. No expression in her face, no tremble in her fingers.
Cake flips for Jacob Mkezi: a nine of hearts. He checks.
Same for Whitey.
Vicki suddenly calm, shakes her head.
‘No bet?’ says Jacob Mkezi.
Again she shakes her head.
‘Ah, what a shame!’
Cake deals the last cards face down. Whitey finishes his whisky, folds.
Says, ‘I’m out. All yours, Mr Mkezi.’
‘No problem,’ says Jacob Mkezi.
Vicki’s holding a flush. Bets the pot and a hundred raise.
Jacob Mkezi sits still, Vicki watching him, not a twitch in his face, his hands either side his cards, at rest. Strong hands. Well cared-for hands.
Vicki raises her eyes, sees the unnamed guy and Cake are focused on Jacob Mkezi. Whitey watching her.
‘I call,’ says Jacob Mkezi, matching Vicki’s chips. ‘Your moment.’
The men leaning forward, the creak of their chairs loud to Vicki’s ears.
‘Let’s see ’em, Vicki,’ says Cake.
The four men staring at her. Vicki forcing herself to breathe. Showing no tell.
She lays out a flush of clubs.
‘Not bad,’ says Whitey.
The unnamed guy, clinks the ice in his whisky.
Cake Mullins grunts, shifts his eyes to Jacob Mkezi. ‘Let’s see yours.’
Jacob Mkezi’s got a ten of diamonds, nine of diamonds, jack of diamonds, nine of clubs, two of hearts, nine of hearts, two of clubs. ‘Full house,’ he says.
He smiles at Vicki. ‘I’m pleased we could meet like this. You owe me nothing but a favour, we’ll leave it there. We should have coffee some time, I need to tell you more about your aunt.’ He stands. ‘Guys, been a pleasure.’
After the men have gone, Vicki’s still sitting there. Cake Mullins brings her a vodka.
‘Fuck you, Cake,’ she says. ‘You’ve screwed me. ‘I had my life together. Until this.’
‘No choice, princess. With Jacob Mkezi I’ve learnt you don’t bugger around. He wants something, you do it. He wanted you.’
‘For that bull story about the old man?’
‘I don’t know. It happened, right?’
‘Sure it happened. But it’s cards, Cake. Poker. Players lose.’
‘Like tonight?’
‘You set me up. That’s different.’
‘Only that I got you to the table.’
‘He was testing me.’
‘That’s Jacob Mkezi.’
Vicki takes her drink in two swallows.
‘How’m I going to find forty grand, Cake? Tell me that.’
‘You don’t have to,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘He told you: no debt, only a favour.’
‘Like that’s not worse. I’d rather pay the money.’
THE ICING UNIT, JUNE 1996
Johannesburg. Unseasonal rain hosing down. Crap miserable winter weather. Cold as rat piss. Pat Foreman in his bedroom stares out at the dripping back yard stacked with rusting oil drums. The bullet’s clutched in his fist. The stiletto’s lying on his bed.
When Pat Foreman gets the cross-hatched bullet he’s been out of rehab three months. Cold stone sober, not a drink in his room. Coffee and headache tablets the only drugs he’s got. He scratches his moustache, he grins his rictus grin but he’s not amused. He’s scared.
Foreman holds the bullet tightly. Still he’s got shaky hands but that’s not the drink. Or the lack of it. Shaky is Pat Foreman’s condition. May have something to do with the bullet at this juncture. More likely it’s early Parkinson’s. Foreman’s not a supporter of the medical profession so he hasn’t been diagnosed. But Foreman’s AA sponsor reckons it’s Parkinson’s. Not that he’s said anything to Foreman. Merely told him he should have a check-up. Guy gets to fifty, fifty-three in his case, he should have a check-up. Prostate. Skin cancer. Heart, cholesterol. Especially prostate.
‘No ways,’ says Foreman to his sponsor. ‘Not having some medic-oke sticking his finger up my bum.’ Foreman playing with his rings, jittery as all hell.
‘Doctors do it all the time,’ says his sponsor. ‘No big deal.’
But Foreman doesn’t listen. Not drinking takes all his concentration. He’s got a job with a security firm pushing beat through the night at a tyre storage depot. The most exciting thing happens there is the occasional cat fight when the ferals let the fur fly.
Fine by Foreman. He’s had enough excitement for a lifetime. Just getting through the proverbial one day at a time’s proving a ball-ache. Then comes the bullet and the blade. He finishes his shift, takes a minibus taxi home, walks into his room to find someone’s been there. Someone’s got in.
Foreman lives in a Mayfair boarding house. Five other boarders. Two of them work nights like him. Foreman collars the landlord. Landlady. A McDonald’s-size woman in a tracksuit.
‘Anything stolen?’ she asks.
Foreman says no.
‘Then what’s the big deal?’
‘It’s my room,’ says Foreman. ‘I don’t want people in my room.’
‘So how’d you know? How’d you know someone was in it?’
‘They left something,’ says Foreman.
‘What? A present?’
‘That’s my business.’
The woman snorts at him. ‘Put on your own lock if mine’s not good enough,’ she says. ‘Just don’t go calling us all thieves.’
Except Foreman thinks he needs more than a lock. He needs to skip. Do a runner. He stares at the water pooling in the yard and schemes okay, he’s walking out on three nights’ wages but he’s not going to pay fat-arse two weeks’ rent. So he’s scoring.
Pat Foreman packs his suitcase. Makes a break when he’s sure fat-arse is out of the house. A bus to Braamfontein, a ticket for the evening coach to Cape Town.
Foreman spends the day in the coach company’s waiting room. He smokes a pack of cigarettes. Drinks five coffees from the dispenser. The one occasion he leaves is to buy a sandwich at a nearby cafe. Only he throws most of it away. He’s nervous. He could do with a drink. Plenty of bars within tempting distance, but Foreman resists.
> He phones his sponsor. Blurts out the whole story. His sponsor’s a former cop too, knows something of Foreman’s past.
‘What’s this bullet about?’ he asks.
‘Getting even,’ says Foreman. ‘Revenge. I don’t know. Could be anything. Could be anyone.’
‘It’s spooked you?’
‘No joking.’ He pauses to blow out smoke. ‘I’ve been there. Done this sort of thing. I know about it.’
‘My advice,’ says the sponsor. ‘Get hold of the TRC guys. Talk to them. Ask for amnesty.’
‘You think?’
‘I would,’ he says. ‘Maybe they’ve got a protection facility.’
Foreman’s not sure. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s only been on the go a couple of months. No telling which way it’s going to play out.
‘And Foreman?’
‘Ja.’
‘In Cape Town, go to AA, hey. Get a new sponsor. There’s a guy I can recommend. Was also a cop.’
‘Thanks,’ says Foreman, smiling his rictus smile. ‘I’ll call you.’
Foreman’s edgy all day. Keeps an eye on the comings and goings at the coach station. Doesn’t believe that he’s been followed but if they’ve found him out once they can do it again. He’s well spooked. Wonders why now. Wonders where Ray Adler is. Wonders about Dommiss Verburg. And where the hell the young blond oke disappeared to. Thinks maybe it’s got to do with the TRC, stirring up all kinds of trouble. The very last place he’s gonna go knocking is on their door. Amnesty. Witness protection. More likely a ride to a lonely spot for a quick Mozambique-style: two shots to the chest, one to the head.
At six the coach loads up, heads off. The rain’s clearing, the streets are shiny. Foreman’s pleased to see the lights of Joburg blurring past in the condensation. He’s got a seat next to a man marking up a Bible, but the man’s no missionary. The man’s lucky, Foreman has a short fuse with holy rollers.
Once the coach’s on the highway with the traffic thinning, Foreman tilts back the seat for a zizz. He’s buggered. A night pulling duty, a day on his nerves, only now he feels he can relax.
He dozes. Half-sees the towns come and go: Carletonville, Potchefstroom, Klerksdorp, Wolmaransstad, Christiana, Warrenton. The neon glare of the main streets, the dark of the wide country in between. At the stops he gets out for a smoke. The man marking the Bible smoking two to his one.
Before Kimberley he has this dream: he’s standing in the passageway of a house, facing the front door. There’s a man outside the front door, inserting his key into the lock. The man opens the door, stares at Foreman, says, ‘Who’re you? How’d you get in?’
Foreman says, ‘We had an appointment, remember.’
The man says, ‘What’s your name?’
Foreman tells him.
The man closes the door, turns to Foreman. ‘It’s late,’ he says. ‘Can’t we handle this tomorrow?’
Foreman doesn’t answer, pulls out his pistol, shoots the man three times. Then has him with the stiletto: in, out, in, out, in, out. His arm working like a pump.
Foreman explodes out of this dream gasping. His mouth dry. The sweat damp in his armpits.
The man marking his Bible next to him says, ‘Thought you were having a heart attack. You should come to Jesus, my brother.’
‘No, china,’ says Foreman, ‘I need a drink. A dop ’n dam. Straight-up brandy and Coke.’
Foreman finds the trolley-jockey downstairs, orders five Klipdrift miniatures, a beer and a Coke. He guzzles off half the beer before he hits his seat.
‘You’re making a wrong move, my brother,’ says the Bible man. ‘I’ve been there. Jesus is the only answer.’
‘Zip it, okay.’ Foreman grins his rictus smile at the man. ‘Okay?’
The man shrugs. ‘Your hell.’
‘Damn right,’ says Foreman.
‘I’ll pray for you.’
‘Quietly. Don’t even move your lips.’
The man turns his cheek. ‘You wanna slap the other one, my brother?’
‘Very Christian,’ says Foreman, breaking the seal on a miniature, pouring the golden liquid into a plastic tumbler. Slopping some, he’s trembling so badly. ‘But no. You stick with Mr Jesus, I’ll stick with Mr Klippies.’ He slugs back a mouthful, swallows, grunts.
‘Heaven?’ says the man.
‘Look,’ says Foreman. ‘Shut up.’
‘You’re with Satan now, my brother. Sipping with the Devil.’
Foreman mixes Coke into the brandy. Grins at the Jesus-follower. ‘Let me tell you,’ he says. ‘The old goat’s good company. Doesn’t say a goddamned bloody word. Got this smile on his dial, keeps pointing his finger at you.’
‘You don’t scare me.’ The man licks his pencil, goes back to his underlining.
‘No,’ says Foreman. ‘But these little bottles do, hey.’ Jingling the miniatures in his palsy hands.
That shuts up the Bible-marker. Two hours later Foreman’s asleep, dreamless now. At some point he feels the Bible man climb over him but Foreman’s out for the count. Thinks the Bible man says ‘God help you’, only he’s not sure. He doesn’t respond.
He wakes as the coach comes out of the Karoo hills into Laingsburg. Blue sky, brown earth. Endlessly. His mouth is a cesspit, his eyes like pissholes, he feels sticky, he could do with a drink. The holy roller’s left his Bible open at Corinthians, a line drawn under the phrase: ‘Let no man deceive himself.’
‘Stuff that,’ says Foreman aloud, squeezing out of the seat, heading downstairs for a couple of brandies as the coach pulls into a pee stop. Foreman loads up. No deception in that. At a nearby takeaway grabs a toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwich. Bites down, getting a mouthful of packet in his hurry.
Foreman jigs about from foot to foot outside the coach, snarfing the sandwich without chewing.
He’s freezing. It’s a couple of degrees centigrade. Breath-clouding. He’s trying to keep his mind off the bullet, the blade, the dream, off a rising fear.
The dream’s left detritus. The slide and rip of the stiletto going in. The slickness, quickness. Wetness.
Foreman balls the sandwich packet in his hands, lobs it into a bin. He wants to get going. He wants to bed down. He’s got this sudden scare that someone’ll be waiting at the bus station. That they’ll have figured out his plan. Before he climbs aboard he buys a half-jack of brandy. That and the clutch of miniatures put a smile into the rictus grin.
He sips the brandy straight from the bottle, stares out at the cold veld, at the scatterings of sheep and buck among the scrub. The brandy keeps the fear level down, but not the shake from his hands. Doesn’t stop his teeth clattering against the glass when he drinks. Other passengers do eye-rolls, cluck their disapproval, concentrate on the movie: Forrest Gump.
Foreman makes a decision. Hops the bus at the Touws River stop. No one’s gonna find him in a place like this. Arse-end of the world, small town, set back on a long plain against a koppie. The only excitement’s when the Joburg and Cape Town trains come through. Once a day.
‘You paid for Cape Town,’ says the driver.
‘Changed my mind,’ says Foreman.
‘Can’t refund you.’
Foreman grins. ‘Just get my case out, hey.’
The driver grumbles. Foreman’s bag is well back in the luggage hold, a lot has to come out, all of it has to be repacked. The wind’s sharp. The cold a couple of degrees off freezing. The driver’s not pleased.
‘You shoulda told me in Joburg,’ he says.
‘I would’ve if I’d known,’ says Foreman.
He takes his suitcase, pulls out the handle. ‘Drive safe.’
The driver mumbles in Xhosa. Foreman knows something of the language. Grins, ‘And may the ancestors screw your mother too.’
He hunches into his coat, drags his suitcase up the long street into the dorp. An icy wind whips grit against his face. His eyes leak. The world blurs.
Foreman reckons a week, two weeks at the most, he can be on the mov
e again. Hit Cape Town, get a guarding job, resume his anonymous life. Meantime he’s holed up in an outside room behind a railway house. Full board – a plate of baked beans for breakfast, Marmite sandwich for lunch, chops and putu pap for supper. A dollop of tomato sauce over the mealie meal. As much tea as he wants.
Day one he doesn’t go out much. Sits in the sun in the yard watching the chickens pick through the dust. The bullet’s in his pocket, he toys with the switchblade, flicking it open. Long time since he’s had one of these blades. Once he collected them. Pat ‘Stiletto’ Foreman. A man to be relied on. Pat ‘no shit’ Foreman. How’d they find him? Why’d they track him down?
Doesn’t matter, it’s history. He’s in the wind. Albeit a bloody bitter wind off the high Karoo.
Day two Foreman finds a shebeen in the coloured quarter that suits him. A quiet place during the day. He sits in a corner over long Klippies and Cokes. He twirls his rings. He fingers the blade in his pocket, rubs his thumb over the cross-hatched nose of the bullet. The brandy takes the edge off his fear.
Right off two women offer him sex for twenty rand. Short little women with high cheekbones, dull eyes in the one, naughty eyes in the other. Naughty eyes comes down to fifteen rand.
‘You know how much it costs in Joburg?’ says Foreman.
The woman shakes her head, keeps pawing at his hand.
‘Blow job, fifty upwards. Proper screw, two hundred.’
‘Fifteen rand,’ says the woman. ‘Touws River special discount.’ She strokes his hand.
‘Don’t do that,’ says Foreman, snatches his hand away.
‘Come’n, lovey,’ says the woman. ‘My place is nice ’n warm.’
Foreman considers all his years he’s never screwed a Bushman perhaps he should do it now. ‘Later,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow.’
The woman swears at him.
He gives her five rand. ‘Buy some wine, hey?’ After that she smiles but doesn’t come on again. He’s left to himself. Just the way he likes it.
Suppertime, day three Foreman says to the people in the main house, ‘This’s the same as yesterday. Same as the day before yesterday.’
He’s standing at the kitchen door of the main house, collecting his plate of food.