Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  Mace frowned at him. Said to Tami, ‘Keep me in the loop’ and disconnected. Said to Roland, ‘China, don’t get my goat.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mace, heading for the exit, the doors sliding open to reveal a waiting crowd. He did a quick scan, picked up the woman pushing through from the back right away. Young woman in her thirties, bag over her shoulder, conspicuous in a red coat, her eyes on him. Not on Max Roland, on him.

  ‘That woman,’ said Max Roland in his ear, ‘the red one.’

  ‘Got her already,’ said Mace. ‘Let’s go’ – hustling Roland outside towards the parking garage.

  The woman in red calling out, ‘Mr Bishop, Mr Bishop, one moment.’

  Mace didn’t pause, didn’t look back.

  The woman came running past them, turned, a camera in her hand aimed at them.

  ‘How did your client, Mr Dinsmor, go missing?’ she said. ‘Has there been any contact with his wife?’

  Mace lunged for the camera.

  ‘It’s on video,’ she said, taking a step back.

  Didn’t stop Mace going for her, wrenching the camera from her hand. People around stopped in surprise but nobody intervened. Only one guy saying, ‘Take it easy, pal.’ Mace’s glare moved him on.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he said to the woman. Aware of Max Roland to the side, taking this all in, grinning.

  ‘Give that back.’ The woman trying to grab his arm. ‘I’ll charge you.’

  Mace shook her off. ‘You’re the journalist. The one who phoned me. The one writing those articles on the Dinsmors.’

  The woman fished in her coat pocket, came up with a business card. Rachel Pringle, crime reporter, Cape Times. ‘Now give that back.’

  ‘Uh-uh. Bugger off, Miss Pringle.’

  ‘We’re on the Dinsmor story. From what I hear your guys were negligent.’

  ‘According to who?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘The police were there.’ Had to be Captain Gonz had dropped him. So tit for tat.

  ‘Still doesn’t look good for your company.’

  ‘Looks worse for the cops.’

  Max Roland stepped in. ‘I am his new client. He is very good. If you want an interview, I can spare moments for a lovely woman like you.’ He held out his hand, palm up. ‘Miss?’

  Rachel Pringle flipped him a card.

  ‘No,’ said Mace snatching it out of Roland’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’ Mace shoving Max Roland away from the reporter into the multi-storey.

  Rachel Pringle shouted after them. ‘You’ve got my camera. I want it back.’

  Mace and Roland half turned. ‘Buy another one,’ said Mace.

  In that moment she snapped them both with her backup digital.

  ‘Goddamned reporters.’

  ‘Nice boobies, probably,’ said Roland, ‘under that coat. A lady wears a low plunge in winter, the lady’s got good melons.’ Nattering on all over again about being in a city where all the women wore black tents, you couldn’t see flesh, not even a shape of tits pressing against the fabric. Never a cheeky nipple.

  Mace wanted to tell the guy, look, shut up. Having to concentrate, check out the parking lot as they pulled away, keep an eye in the rearview at the cars slotting in behind them.

  As they drove out of the airport towards the highway, Roland sang the city’s praises, the clear sky, the wet smell. On and on about being pleased to be back in the city. What were the chances of getting clothes, books, music from his apartment? He was going to be shut up in a safe house, he needed some of his things.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mace to quieten him. ‘Tricky though.’ Two cars behind that’d been there from the exit booms.

  At the junction Mace took the highway out of the city, Roland getting agitated.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he said. ‘This is not the road to Oosthuizen.’

  ‘We’re not going there,’ said Mace. ‘We’re doing a jolly ride so I can see who’s following us.’

  ‘That woman?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How does she know you are on the plane?’

  ‘Search me. How do journalists know anything? Someone leaks it.’

  ‘So who did this?’

  Good question, Mace thought. For his money had to be Gonz. Maybe the cop’d heard Mace’s movements from Tami, wanted to rev him a little. Leaked it to the reporter for some favour. No problem for the reporter to get a flight list. If he could do that sort of thing, no reason why journalists couldn’t.

  As the highway opened up the two cars behind pulled into the fast lane to overtake. Single men in both, on their cellphones. Some relief to Mace but not entirely. He pushed the car a little faster, went back to the other questions buzzing him. Like maybe Dinsmor hadn’t been snatched. Maybe he’d been propositioned. Which meant what? That Dancing Rabbit and her husband were going to end up dead. Or that they’d spring a deal with the kidnappers. He’d have placed money either way.

  On a straight stretch of motorway Mace pulled into the yellow line at an emergency phone. A clear view back and front. Across the highway the shacks of Khayelitsha.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Max Roland, squirming in his seat, looking about like he expected wild men to rise from the long grass. ‘People get killed when they stop on this highway. Go on. Drive away.’

  ‘Chill,’ said Mace, watching the traffic in the rearview mirror. ‘A couple of seconds aren’t going to get us hijacked.’ Amused that the man was frightened. The scornful Max Roland shitting himself.

  ‘There.’ Roland pointed at the township fence. ‘There are men there. Look. Coming through the fence.’

  True enough, on the other side of the highway, six lanes of traffic away, young men were squeezing through the palisade fencing. Mace gave it a quick glance, more concerned with the cars behind them. No one slowed down.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Roland. ‘Definitely. Those men are coming to us. They are picking up stones. They have sticks. Quickly go.’

  ‘They’re probably herd boys,’ said Mace, ‘looking for their cattle.’

  The young men ran down the sand embankment to the edge of the highway, gathered there waiting for a break in the traffic. Four of them. Mace kept his eyes on the cars coming up behind, passing. The woman journalist not in their number, nor anyone else suspicious.

  ‘Oh crap,’ said Max Roland, ‘they are running.’

  Mace saw two of the men, boys really, teenagers, dash across three lanes into the centre island. A blare of hooters from motorists freaking out at the sight of people in their lanes. The boys hurdled the concrete barrier, readied to cross the next three lanes. The oncoming traffic suddenly thin.

  ‘Go,’ shouted Max Roland. ‘Go. They are taking the gap.’

  Mace gave it more time, pretty sure that there’d been no one following them. He heard hooters again, tyres squealing. The other two boys in the centre island now, the first two walking towards them.

  ‘You have a gun,’ said Max Roland, opening the cubbyhole, scratching through the contents.

  ‘Relax,’ said Mace, dropped the clutch, gently pulled away. The two boys chased after them for a couple of paces. ‘Probably wanted to ask if we’d seen their cows.’

  ‘That was a most stupid thing to do,’ said Max Roland.

  ‘What’s stupid,’ said Mace, ‘is panicking.’ Some triumph in his voice though. This was a score to him that kept Max Roland shut up for most of the trip to the safe house. Before they left the highway, Mace phoned Magnus Oosthuizen, told him, get to the Longbeach Mall, park in the basement, take the elevator to the shopping level and keep walking right out the door. He’d be waiting outside. And to call as he got there.

  ‘That’s miles away,’ said Oosthuizen.

  ‘Get you out and about,’ said Mace. ‘Lovely day to see the peninsula.’

  An Oosthuizen silence.

  ‘How’s Max?’

  ‘Talk to him.’ Mace handed the phone to Roland.


  He couldn’t hear what Oosthuizen said but Roland got loud. ‘I have told you I will finish before the deadline. There is nothing to be worried for.’

  He listened. Said, ‘The deadline is tonight! What is this?’

  Then: ‘Tomorrow you must make the presentation? Madness. Madness.’ Roland running into a torrent of foreign words, harsh, clipped. Eventually he stopped. Said, ‘Magnus. Magnus?’

  If Oosthuizen was talking, Mace couldn’t hear him. Saw Max Roland rub his eyes, nodding, listening. Finally he said, ‘Okay. Okay. I will see you later.’ He cut the call, gave the phone back to Mace. ‘Magnus is crazy. He thinks I am a robot. That all he has to do is click his fingers and I will perform.’

  Mace didn’t respond, sensed Max Roland’s anger and wondered what the story was. Had to be about getting the weapons system completed. Oosthuizen tightening the screws on the scientist. But that was their problem. If it kept Roland shut up for a while then who was he to complain?

  Mace cut off the highway, back around the township onto the coast road, False Bay coming up a glassy blue, the mountains bright and stark beneath a sky washed clean. On the narrow road with little traffic ahead he pushed the needle to one-ten up the cliffs, down onto the flats to Strandfontein. The stretch littered with plastic bags, dead dogs, mashed rodents. Slowed for the straight along the beach, the high tide running out metres from the tarmac. Seaweed and shells laced across the road. Ahead Muizenberg mountain yellow in the sunlight.

  He took the main road along the seafront through St James, Kalk Bay. Max Roland coming out of his funk.

  ‘This is a nice place for a safe house, Kalk Bay. Good restaurants. The deli. Theresa’s. Harbour House. You want cocaine you ask in the harbour. Did you know this?’

  ‘No,’ said Mace. ‘Thanks for sharing.’ The sarcasm not registering with Roland.

  ‘You are not stopping?’

  Mace shook his head.

  ‘Such a pity. I could work well in this place. Where is the house?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ Mace accelerated through the harbour traffic lights round the headland into the Fish Hoek shopping strip.

  Max Roland sighing despondently at the motor shops, the fast food joints, the second-hand furniture dealers, the video stores, estate agents, banks. ‘So many old people,’ he said. ‘Like the waiting room for the morgue. You do not have the house here? Tell me that. Please that it is not here.’

  ‘Not far away,’ said Mace.

  He came at Sun Valley through an estate, Max Roland moaning every kilometre. ‘This location is most dreadful. English-style houses, shopping malls and blocks of flats.’

  Mace turned into a block opposite the Longbeach Mall. ‘Got McDonalds, Ocean Basket, Spur, Mugg & Bean on your doorstep,’ he said. ‘People we’ve had here wanted to come back for a holiday.’

  They went upstairs to the flat, Max Roland bitching that he expected something better. In the city bowl maybe.

  ‘Listen,’ said Mace, ‘we’re talking safe house, okay. Usually that means a shithole in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Be content.’ He opened the door. The place hadn’t been aired for a couple of weeks, exhaled a musty breath.

  They walked into a small lounge, low ceiling, cream walls of stucco plaster. A brown carpet wall-to-wall. In the centre a two-seater cottage couch and an armchair staring at a television set and DVD player. In a corner a pine table and hard-back chairs.

  ‘People want to come here again for a holiday?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mace. ‘Close to amenities.’

  Max Roland drew the curtains on the view: over the street an empty car park fronting a facebrick mall. Behind that the Noordhoek mountains.

  ‘Plenty of roads for you to jog,’ said Mace. ‘You’ll love it.’ Thinking he could join Dave the estate agent, the spiel he was giving.

  Roland flopped onto the couch, looked up at Mace. ‘How long must I stay here?’

  ‘Couple of weeks. But you’re not a prisoner.’

  ‘That is where you are wrong. Until the contract is paid I am a prisoner. I could be here for a long time.’

  ‘We don’t work like that.’ Mace stood at the window. A car had pulled into the parking lot, Herbie’s Driving School decals on the side panels. The instructor got out, placed red cones on the corners of a parking bay. ‘We move you around every two weeks.’ Down below, the driving lesson started, the learner reversing slowly towards the cones. ‘Gives you some variety, gives us peace of mind. We have four places we use. Five at a pinch.’ The learner drove over a cone. The instructor, maybe Herbie himself, clasped his head with both hands, turned his face to the sky.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘More or less. One of them’s a rental. The owner, he’s a pensioner, moves out for us. Gives him some welcome bucks every now and then.’

  ‘Mein Gott,’ said Max Roland, rolling his eyes.

  Magnus Oosthuizen phoned fifteen minutes later. Mace told him again: leave the car in the mall’s underground parking, take the elevator up, he’d meet him there. Said to Max Roland, ‘I’m taking the key.’ Couple of minutes later returned with Oosthuizen carrying Chin-chin the Chihuahua in a tartan coat under one arm, a laptop in a leather case gripped in the other. Mace hadn’t figured Oosthuizen for a moffie. Still wasn’t sure, Afrikaner men having such a thing for Chihuahuas.

  Oosthuizen put the laptop on the table, the dog on the carpet. The two colleagues shook hands. Mace watching, noticed no love lost between them. Out the corner of his eye saw Chin-chin cock his leg at the couch, squirt a yellow marker.

  Oosthuizen saying, ‘I am glad you are safe, Max. I was worried. You go missing for days. You turn up in Yemen. You don’t wait for proper protection. This is crazy behaviour.’

  Mace said, ‘Your dog’s pissed against the couch.’

  Roland talking over him. ‘You are worried that they would kill me before I had finished the program?’

  ‘Worried about your safety, yes, I was.’

  Roland sniggered. ‘Ja, Magnus, that is what you say. But the reason is different. Now you can stop the worrying. I am protected here.’ He gestured around the room. ‘In this ugly dump.’

  Mace said again, ‘Your dog’s pissed against the couch.’

  ‘What?’ said Oosthuizen. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your dog has pissed against the couch.’ Mace bent down, pointed at the wet stain on the brown fabric. The dog leapt at this hand, needle teeth sinking into his finger. ‘Chrissakes.’ Mace pulled his hand free. Kicked the tartan bundle under the armchair.

  ‘Don’t kick my dog.’ Oosthuizen bent to retrieve his pet, making kissing noises, cooing ‘Come to papa, liefie.’ Master and dog came upright, the Chihuahua licking a long tongue over Oosthuizen’s chin.

  ‘I will ask you to show more respect to animals, Mr Bishop,’ said Oosthuizen.

  ‘It bloody bit me,’ said Mace. ‘That means a goddamned tetanus shot. You going to pay for that?’ Mace holding up a finger oozing blood from two punctures.

  ‘Love bites.’

  ‘My foot.’

  ‘You should be kind to animals, Mr Bishop, then it won’t be a problem.’ Oosthuizen turned to Max Roland. Said, ‘Max, you need to work.’

  ‘I’m tired now.’

  ‘Rest. Take a sleep. But get the work finished. Tomorrow first thing I need it for the presentation.’

  ‘You said that to me already. On the phone.’

  The two men glaring at one another.

  ‘And you said you could do it.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘So then? We’ve got to get the contract signed, Max. They’ll see me tomorrow morning. I am told they favour us. Now is our opportunity. If they like what I tell them they will sign. The sooner they sign, the sooner we relax, the sooner you go home. Panic over. I can pay off Mr Bishop.’

  Mace going, ‘Hey, hey, hey, one minute. I thought you wanted our service for an extended period? That was the story.’

  ‘I did,’ said Oosthuize
n, stroking the dog’s head, ‘yesterday. But not any more. You have been efficient, Mr Bishop. Professional. The circumstances have changed. As you know, this happens. We live in dynamic times. What I thought might drag out, the government suddenly wants to finalise. This is excellent news and I must seize the opportunity. Carpe diem, not so?’ He kissed the top of the dog’s head. ‘Your services are needed for another day, two days maximum.’

  ‘And that’s all you’re going to pay for?’

  ‘Of course. What else?’

  ‘We had an agreement. You wanted protection for some time.’

  ‘We talked about that, I will concede.’

  ‘You lied. Right from the start, you lied to me about what you wanted.’

  ‘Come, Mr Bishop, that is a harsh statement. I didn’t lie. I had facts at my disposal, I responded to them. The facts changed. Like the weather.’

  ‘Bullshit. You dollied it up, the contract. Came over big time. Bring in your man. Protect him. Gave out it’s an extended service, didn’t haggle about the fees. I’ll see you right, Mr Bishop. Bloody pack of lies. Well, up yours, china. Give me a reason I shouldn’t kick you out. Both of you. Right now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘Not with the press you’re getting.’ He gave Mace a thin smile. ‘Do the job. Earn the money. Move on.’

  Mace took a step towards Oosthuizen. The dog bared its teeth. Snarled.

  ‘Careful, Mr Bishop,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘Let us keep this professional.’

  Mace stopped, caught the smirk on Max Roland’s face. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘And what about protection?’ Oosthuizen still fondling the dog’s ears. Chin-chin’s rapture drooling on his sleeve. ‘That is what I’m paying for.’

  ‘That’s what you’re getting, pal. I might get angry but I don’t break deals.’ Mace wagging a finger at him. ‘You’re lucky I’m doing anything for you.’ He walked to the door, opened it. ‘Stay put, Roland. One of my staff will be here. Eventually. Till then, you want anything to eat, ask Mr Oosthuizen to get it.’ He pointed at the shopping mall. ‘All you want’s in there.’

  38

  ‘I have been to this city before,’ said Jakob. ‘Also on a job. That time it was to find someone, a witness. For this person I have two addresses: at the first one there is an old lady, at the second one a family. The old lady makes me tea and cake. Very nice banana loaf cake. She doesn’t know about my fellow. At the family they don’t know about my fellow. He is a witness, I tell them. The mother of the family I am sure is not telling the truth. She knows about my fellow. For two weeks I wait. Sitting in my car in the street in the cold. Nothing. Bah, a dead end.’