by Mike Nicol
Said, ‘Ja, your statement. This’s a difficulty, Mr Bishop. You might’ve used too much force here, in the eyes of the law. Know what I mean, you weren’t under threat. Technically. Nobody about to shoot you.’
‘My client was,’ said Mace, ‘under threat. Was being kidnapped by two armed men. That piece of shit’ – he pointed at the body being zipped into a bag – ‘had already shot Pylon. Killing him wasn’t using too much force. Was the only way to go.’
‘I tell them,’ said Gonsalves, working the pellet round his mouth, ‘our legal eagles that is, I tell them that they’ve gotta change the law. Maybe not back to the good old days when we used to tell the crims run ’n shoot them in the back, end of story. Suspect died attempting to escape, your honour. If it ever got that far. Often saved the justice system, saved a forest of paperwork too.
‘No, what I mean is, we’ve gotta stop hounding the good guys. See, we’re going to have to charge you. Manslaughter. Sort of as a matter of course. Nothing personal. Usually in the end prosecution drops the charge. Calls it self-defence before it gets to court.
‘Though,’ he chewed, ‘I heard of this case, a businessman gets hijacked. Senior executive type. Also fancies himself on the shooting range. Steps out of his car like the darkies tell him, only in his hand’s a fancy target-shooting pistol. Three monkeys facing him. A Z88. A .38 S&W. A niner Browning. Dot, dot, dot, goes the executive type, takes them out one by one. The action boys don’t get a look in. Three to us, nil to them. Except the law pulls rank, hey, buddy, nobody shot at you. Two years on, two hundred grand down in legal fees, our hero is finally let off a three times manslaughter.
‘Get the picture, here’s this happy camper driving off to golf on a sunny day, a family man, responsible citizen not thinking of harming anyone, out of the proverbial he gets jumped, the good man does us a favour, for which the law skins him. That’s our justice, hey.’
A man in a yellow jacket shouted up that they were taking off the bodies. Captain Gonsalves raised an arm in response. He and Mace watching the ambulance reverse down the drive, following two cop vans. The scene suddenly quiet. Only Silas Dinsmor ranting in the house. Gonsalves pointed at the Merc slammed into the tree. ‘Got a bit graunched. Like your reputation.’
Mace sighed. ‘Like we needed either.’
‘Word’s going to get around. After the last time with the German guy taking a hit in your car, this’ll wag tongues.’
‘I suppose. We’ll ride it.’ Mace leant against a column at the top of the steps. ‘I need that gun back.’
‘You know the scene.’
‘Which is why I’m asking,’ said Mace. ‘For some leeway.’
‘Ja, Mr Bish, Mr Bish.’ Captain Gonsalves chewed vigorously, saliva glistening in the corners of his mouth. ‘Listen, man, what’s the real story with the other chappie?’
‘What Mr Dinsmor said. The stupid shot himself up.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’ Mace brushed distemper from his jacket sleeve. ‘I told you, I’m ducked down round the back of the car figuring an angle, the next thing there’s brains all over the rear window. Moment later Mr Silas Dinsmor emerges, picking the grey stuff off his lapels.’
‘No, man.’
‘Yes, man.’
‘That’s how it went?’
‘Scout’s honour.’
Gonsalves spat out shreds of tobacco. ‘Amazing.’ Touched Mace on the arm. ‘You want me to shepherd this?’
‘What else?’
‘For the usual. Say a grand.’
‘Jesus, Gonz.’
‘You heard about inflation? Rampant, I tell you.’
Mace shook his head. ‘Give me a break. All this shit hitting the fan, what I need’s stress release. I don’t need extortion.’
‘Come on,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Look at the sunny side, you shot one of the baddies.’
12
Mace checked Silas Dinsmor into a small hotel lost in a horse-and-hound suburb. A safe haven he and Pylon used for clients wanting peace and quiet. Good perimeter security, tight in-room systems. Not that Mace was taking chances, had called Tami to babysit. Tami the receptionist at Complete Security.
‘What?’ she’d said. ‘I don’t do guarding. What’s wrong with the boys?’
‘I don’t want one of the boys,’ said Mace. ‘I want you. Someone discreet.’
‘Very nice.’
‘It’s a compliment.’
‘On a Sunday night. When I’m home in my flat, warm, relaxed, cuddled up. I don’t need compliments.’
He’d begged.
She’d said, ‘You owe me one, big time.’
Mace grinned at himself in the foyer mirror. Pocketed his cellphone, steered Silas Dinsmor into the hotel’s sitting room where a log fire crackled. No one else in the room. Mace ordered brandies. The two men sinking into leather armchairs before the fire.
‘Prime fools, our consulate,’ said Silas Dinsmor, accepting a snifter, a good measure of fine amber in it. ‘We’re doing all we can, Mr Dinsmor. The South African police are doing everything possible. Huh! Does it look like it? Do you see a US presence? Do you see cops?’
‘You’re safe here,’ said Mace. ‘We know this place. Use it often.’
‘I’m not talking my security. I’m saying is this the way people take it seriously? My wife’s kidnapped. No one cares.’
Silas Dinsmor swallowed a hefty slug of brandy. Serious ten-year-old KWV, matured in French oak. He placed the glass on a side-table, stared at Mace.
‘This happen often here, these kidnappings?’
‘Not that much,’ said Mace. ‘Usually it’s straight robbery. The planes come in, a gang selects a tourist going through customs, follows to the hotel, gets you in the car park, even in your room. That’s what I thought this was. Standard procedure.’
‘Except it’s not.’
‘No,’ Mace signalled a waiter to refill their glasses. ‘I would say you’re not going to hear a word till after your meeting.’
‘Wondered about that,’ said Silas Dinsmor. ‘You’re telling me the casino people snatched her?’
‘Most probably,’ said Mace.
Silas Dinsmor frowned. ‘It has a logic.’
‘Depends how they want to play it.’
The big man rolled the brandy round the glass, sniffed the aroma. Said, ‘Mmmmmm.’ Drank off a mouthful. ‘Damn good.’ He cradled the glass in the bowl of his hands. ‘On the phone, these people I spoke to didn’t strike me as doing business that way.’
‘The problem,’ said Mace, ‘was we didn’t get the right info about you. We’d got that we’d have handled things differently. Could have advised you.’
‘I acknowledge,’ said Silas Dinsmor. ‘My fault. Veronica’s low-profile demands.’
‘Issue is, Silas,’ said Mace, ‘doing business here has complications. Lots of people want in on the act. People who maybe won’t add value, but you’ve got to have them because they’re related, you know, to government people.’
‘You talking bribes?’
‘We got another name. Here it’s black economic empowerment.’
‘No problem there.’
‘Except mostly it’s the ones that’re rich already that get the deals.’
‘This happens.’
‘They’re fronts, Silas. Stooges. Dished out shares for a buy-in. Except it isn’t a buy-in. Not a proper one with incoming cash. Instead, the company issues paper IOUs, the old directors strip out the cash assets as payment. But hallelujah, the company’s compliant with legislation.’
‘The black fellas get a hand-out just like that?’
‘Payback time. For centuries of suffering.’
‘We been through the same, didn’t get diddly.’
‘You need to write the rules.’
‘That’s a point.’ Silas Dinsmor sniffed at his snifter, took a swallow. They sat not talking, listening to the fire snap and pop, and outside, against the shutters, the tick of rain. Silas Dinsmor t
urned to Mace. ‘So what’s going on here?’
Mace pursed his lips. ‘My guess, you’re up against a local consortium who believe history owes them recompense and your dollars are foreign interference.’
Silas Dinsmor blew out his cheeks. ‘I’m Choctaw. Native American. Redskin if they want it that way.’
‘Doesn’t matter which way you put it. Maybe they’ve figured you’re fronting for white men in suits sitting in boardrooms high up a New York skyscraper. To their way of thinking you’ve come to plunder.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
Mace thought the strange thing about Silas Dinsmor was that apart from what he called hollering at the consul he didn’t seem overly cut up about Veronica’s situation. Not agitated or anxious, sitting there knocking back vintage brandy like Veronica was upstairs waiting to put out. When Christa was kidnapped, Mace recalled, the world went brittle. He’d been almost too smacked to act. He and Oumou both immobilised. Dazed. Dry mouthed. Staring walleyed at nothing. Not talking, not even able to hold one another. Silas Dinsmor wasn’t in that space. Mace wondered why not.
Said, ‘These sort of situations, kidnapping situations, generally they work out. Nobody gets hurt.’
‘Sure,’ said Silas Dinsmor. ‘We’ve been here before.’
Mace glanced at the man, nothing moving in his face. You wouldn’t want to play poker against such a face. ‘That so? You have?’
Silas Dinsmor leant towards the fire, rested his elbows on his knees. ‘About five, six years ago Veronica was kidnapped. In Bogota. Same scenario. We’re negotiating a deal with a casino, so happened some locals aren’t impressed. That time they lifted her off the street. Wanted a million bucks for her release. Myself I thought she was dead. In that country no one plays soft. In a kidnapping in Colombia, most times, the hostage dies. Also, how’m I going to rustle up a million? In two days? Or they send me her fingers, one at a time. Not original but not nice. I’m up the creek. Can’t get the money, have no way to contact them, nothing I can do. Soon they’ll send me her pretty little digits. Couple of hours before the horror show starts, I’m sweating, panting, can’t sit still, she walks into the hotel, says she couldn’t have been hosted by a nicer bunch of people. Her word, hosted. Didn’t hurt her, gave her good food, talked to her. Trusted her. We did what they wanted, cut them into the deal.’
Silas Dinsmor stared at the fire.
‘What I’m thinking this is the same play. Poker without cards.’ He stood up, turned his back to the fire. ‘You play poker, Mace?’
Mace shook his head.
‘In poker you need four things: the will and the patience, up front. The face thirdly. What you don’t need is a tell. You got that, you’re not a player.’
‘The fourth thing?’
‘Luck, Mace. Blind luck. The cards don’t fall for you, nothing else matters.’
‘The cards fall for you, Silas?’
‘Usually,’ he said. Smiled at Mace. ‘That’s why I’m not concerned. Also it’s Veronica they’ve got. Veronica has a way with these sort of people. With incidents like this. Veronica’s not somebody you want to kidnap.’ He forced a chuckle. ‘What’d she say to you? You got too much anger bottled up?’
‘Something like that.’
‘She reads people. Pushes their buttons. She looks at you sees a bundle of pain and rage. Damn right. Got to have anger to shoot someone in the head. Whup. Hey, toast’ – he clinked glasses with Mace – ‘when you said “I’ve always been lucky that way” that was the line William Munny used?’
‘It was.’
‘You had occasion to quote him before?’
‘No,’ said Mace. ‘Never anyone around who’d recognise it.’
Silas Dinsmor sat down again. Mace heard his colleague Tami making her entrance.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘meet Tami, she’ll be staying with you.’
Before they could move Tami was there. Hands on her hips glaring at them. Small package of dynamite.
‘This’s nice,’ she said, ‘on a Sunday evening.’
‘Emergency,’ said Mace.
‘Emergency! Pylon’s shot up. The client kidnapped. Fancy service we’re offering.’
‘Shit happens sometimes.’
She stuck her hand out at Silas Dinsmor. ‘I’m Tami. Usually the receptionist.’
‘You’ve been promoted,’ said Mace, hauled out Pylon’s gun, gave it to her.
‘What’s this? Acceptance into the club? One up for the sistas?’
‘However you want to think of it,’ said Mace.
‘Never been guarded by a receptionist,’ said Silas Dinsmor.
Tami slipped the pistol into her belt, snapped the American a smile. ‘Don’t think I’m gonna answer your phone.’
‘Be warned,’ said Mace. ‘She bites sore.’
13
‘Hit her. Hit her. Shut the bitch up.’
The driver ducking, fists slamming the side of his head.
‘Get her off me.’ Losing his beanie in the fray, pulling the woman’s hands off the steering wheel.
The driver turned the minivan into the industrial estate, drove slowly to a warehouse at the end of a street, stopped. Beyond was darkness, rain, vlei, bush, rapists.
The bitch, Veronica Dinsmor, Dancing Rabbit, kicking out, flailing her arms, bouncing all over the back of the minivan as the short-arse attacked her.
Short-arse showing his crack as he leant over the woman, pounding her with the butt of his gun. Didn’t seem to alter her attitude.
The driver shook his head. Went up the ramp to open the warehouse doors. He got back the woman was quiet, lying between the seats. Short-arse panting.
‘She’s dead, bru, you’re mincemeat.’
Short-arse glared at him. ‘She’s not dead.’
‘Better not be.’
Short-arse came out of the van. ‘This’s up to shit.’
‘Yeah, how?’
‘The others, my bru, we can’t leave them.’ He grabbed at the sleeve of the driver’s cammo jacket.
‘No?’
‘No.’
The driver shook free his arm. ‘Here. This place’ – he stamped his foot – ‘is where we must wait. This is the address she told me. Drive here, into the warehouse, lock the doors, wait. That’s what she said. That’s what’s happened.’
‘It’s up to shit.’
‘I heard you.’
The driver drove the minivan into the warehouse. Short-arse dragging his feet up the ramp, pulled the doors closed, locked them. Looked around. A shithole. Some crates stacked near the doors. Empty pallets. At the back end a cupboard, a gas heater, desk and chairs, small fridge, on top of it a kettle. A door onto a toilet. Piss and a cigarette butt in the bowl.
‘What’s this place?’
‘Storage.’
‘Doesn’t look like storage.’
‘Hey, man.’ The driver swore in Xhosa. ‘I don’t know. It’s what it is. This is where we are. Okay?’ Advancing on short-arse. ‘Okay?’
Short-arse holding up his hands, backing off. ‘Okay.’
The driver said, ‘You with me, my brother? I don’t want kak.’
‘Okay, my bru,’ said short-arse. ‘No problem.’
The driver told him in the cupboard was duct tape, plastic ties with grips.
‘You’ve been here?’
The driver held up his cellphone. ‘Hey, wena. What is this?’ Pointed at the phone. ‘She told me, okay. Is that clever?’
Short-arse turned away. Mumbled again: ‘This is up to shit.’
They lifted the woman out of the minivan, tied her to one of the chairs. Taped her mouth. Her face streaked with blood. Bruised. A cut in her cheek. Another, still oozing in her scalp. Blood stains on her jacket.
‘I’m gonna phone the lady,’ said the driver.
Short-arse didn’t respond.
14
Mace drove away from the hotel through empty streets. Wet, dark roads overhung with trees. Puddles glistening in the
headlights. Paint it Black still in his head. Almost midnight but he felt no fatigue. At the intersection to the highway stopped on the red, checked the approach, accelerated across. This time of a Sunday night only the innocent and the optimistic waited at red robots.
He thought of Silas Dinsmor. Brandy quaffer. Victim of a botched kidnapping. One man shot in front of him; another beside him. His wife abducted. Three hours later Silas Dinsmor could drink vintage brandy beside a fire. Like an untroubled businessman.
He thought of Veronica Dinsmor. Dancing Rabbit. Snatched away as if he and Pylon were not a consideration. Pictured her tied to a chair in an empty factory. Pictured her ordering room service in a fine hotel.
He thought of Pylon. A bullet hole in his arm.
He thought of the dead men. Tags on their toes in the Salt River mortuary.
He thought this wasn’t a job he wanted to do much longer.
Mace Bishop, disgruntled, drove into the hospital parking lot. Rain drummed on the car. He killed the headlights, the ignition, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Closed his eyes. In that moment he smelt the perfume. Her perfume. Oumou’s. He groaned. Deeply. Sadly.
Pylon was in a private ward, sitting up in bed, his arm bandaged in a sling, a drip leaking into the back of his good hand. Pregnant Treasure preparing to leave. Mace came in frowning concern.
Pylon took a look at his face said, ‘I’m not dying. Or dead.’
Treasure said, ‘It’s not a joking matter.’ She put her glare on Mace. ‘And you’re not to stay long.’ Went up on her toes, leant forward over her stomach to kiss Pylon goodbye. Pylon turning it into a smooch. Treasure pulled back. ‘Where you think you are?’ she said. ‘Our bedroom?’
‘Ah, baby,’ said Pylon.
‘Ah baby nothing.’ Treasure rounded on Mace. ‘Up to you to get Christa and Pumla to school tomorrow, mister.’
Mace shook his head. ‘No ways. How’m I supposed to manage that? Come’n Treasure, help me out. We’ve got a situation.’