Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  The room reeked of cigarettes: ash and two crushed butts in the saucer on the desk. Mace opened the window. It made no difference.

  Matthew kept his eyes on his game. ‘Th-the ma-macho with his gun?’ he said.

  Mace had a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 in the pocket of his chinos, a loose shirt and denim jacket meant to hide the outline. He sat down where he’d sat down before. ‘Don’t annoy me Mattie-boy. It’s not a good idea.’

  Matthew flicked a head of ash into the saucer. ‘D-don’t call me Ma-Mattie-boy.’

  Mace considered this. ‘How about you try growing up first.’

  Matthew put down the cellphone, still didn’t look at Mace. ‘Wha-what’s with you ol-old guys? It’s l-like you all sucked p-piss from your ma’s tits. Li-lighten up, ar-sehole.’ He made to pick up the cellphone again, Mace leant forward to stop his hand.

  ‘One thing you have to watch, Mat-thew,’ he said, tightening his grip, ‘is your language.’ He squeezed the pressure point behind Matthew’s thumb until he yowled. ‘You’re playing in the big world, Mat-thew. You’ve got bodies to your name. You need help. At the moment I am that help although I do not want to be. I want to walk out of here and leave you to Sheemina February. Except that again your daddy prevailed upon me. And now you owe me, understand?’

  This time they had not heard Sheemina February coming up the stairs, walking along the corridor. This time she came alone and she came on soft-soled shoes. She was standing in the doorway.

  ‘I am not interested in boys, Mr Advisor,’ she said. ‘I prefer men.’ She came in, sat down across the desk from Matthew but angled towards Mace. Crossed her legs with the faint rasp of pantihose. No briefcase. A shawl about her shoulders. Throughout, Mace was the object of her gaze. Not once did her eyes acknowledge Matthew. She tapped the fingers of her gloved hand on the desk, then said to the club owner, ‘Do you mind not smoking.’

  Matthew crushed out what was left of his cigarette.

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’

  Her Nordic eyes came back to Mace, and he held them. The smile remained, a hint of white teeth behind her gloss plum lipstick.

  ‘Mr Advisor I’m pleased you could make it. I’m pleased Matthew’s father prevailed upon you, even if you don’t want to be here. Even if you don’t ever want to see me again.’

  Mace snorted a laugh. ‘I wish. Except our paths seem to cross from time to time.’

  ‘It’s a small town.’ She ironed creases from her skirt with the palm of her right hand. ‘That is why we live here, isn’t it? Our sense of being Capeys?’

  ‘What do you want, exactly, Miss February?’

  She held up her gloved left hand. ‘I could be wearing a wedding ring, but I’m not. A good guess, Mr Advisor. Once, though, I was married. You even know my ex-husband.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Make some enquiries. You’ll no doubt be amused. You’ll hear that I tried to kill him. You probably won’t hear that he tried to kill me too.’

  ‘I’m fascinated.’

  ‘You will be.’

  Matthew toyed with his cigarette packet, itching to light up, flicking his Bic. In a voice that came out a note too high, said, ‘Li-like he asked, wha-what’s it you w-ant?’

  ‘Don’t do that.’ Sheemina February pointed a red-nailed finger at his lighter. ‘Like your Mr Advisor advised, Matthew, this is the big world, you have to control your nerves. Now.’ She again tapped lightly on the desk. ‘You are about to open your new club. Our conditions are the same as before. If you are not a drug dealer, Matthew, you will accept them.’

  ‘Or-or you’re go-onna blow us up again?’

  ‘I’m not going to answer that, Matthew.’ She turned to Mace. ‘Mr Advisor you will have to explain to him the laws of resistance.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘That’s what this meeting was really all about. The laws of physics.’

  Mace said, ‘You heard him, he’s not going with PAGAD, what next?’

  ‘Stalemate. Back to the laws of physics. What happens when an unstoppable force hits an immovable object?’ She glanced at Matthew. ‘School science isn’t that far back in your life.’

  Matthew had no answers.

  Sheemina February sighed. ‘Pressure builds up.’

  They sat staring at one another: she at Mace, Mace at her, Matthew concentrating on his packet of smokes. Nothing Mace could read in her blue eyes about where this was going. What did change on her face was it relaxed, small lines at the corners of her eyes faded. He waited. Breaking such an impasse was unwise.

  Matthew didn’t know that. ‘Wha-what’s with you?’ he said. ‘Wha-what’s it you g-guys have got in for me?’

  Sheemina February didn’t even look at him. Smiled at Mace. ‘You’re a drug dealer, Matthew. This’s common knowledge.’

  ‘It’s bull-bullshit,’ said Matthew. ‘What a-bout other clubs?’

  She turned her head towards him. ‘We’re working on it. From the top of the alphabet.’

  Matthew did his ‘Ca-ca-ca-Christ!’ number. ‘Yo-you’re fucking thre-threatening me.’

  ‘Advising, Matthew. Advising.’

  Mace stood. ‘Then we’ve got the picture.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sheemina February. Matthew took Mace’s lead, got to his feet. ‘Mr Bishop,’ she said, staying sitting, ‘don’t you want to know about my client’s colleague? The one you shot.’

  ‘Nope.’ He moved to hold the door open. ‘Like you’re not concerned about the kids you killed. The ones left with bits missing.’

  Sheemina February ignored him. ‘Whether or not,’ she said. ‘He’s recovered well. Back doing his daily workout at the gym. Amazing how some people snap back. A good man, my client says. Nice guy, too, I’m told. It’s surprising you haven’t bumped into him.’ She stood. ‘At the Point, I believe is where he trains.’

  ‘Miss February,’ Mace said as she went through the door. ‘What was this all about?’

  ‘Setting the ground rules.’ She winked at him, touched her hair, laid a hand briefly on his arm as she went out. ‘Getting to know one another better. See you around, Mr Bishop.’ In the corridor she stopped. ‘Oh yes, Abdul sends his regards.’

  That was supposed to mean what? Mace wondered. A wink. A touch. Like she was flirting. What for, for Chrissakes? Like she was on the prowl with her doubletalk.

  Mace waited five minutes, watching Matthew get through a smoke and fire a second. ‘Remember you owe me,’ he said, as he headed out the door, Matthew calling after him, ‘Wh-why’s she got it in for me-me?’

  He paused, looked back. ‘Get real, Matthew. You’re a bloody drug dealer no matter how you want to spin it. This she doesn’t like.’

  ‘It’s n-not about me,’ he said. ‘It’s a-about you.’ He laughed. ‘She’s ho-hot for you. I can see.’

  Mace shook his head, left Matthew sitting behind his empty desk with his empty filing cabinet and his plastic chairs. ‘Pop something, Mattie-boy,’ he called back to him, ‘you’ll feel better.’

  Outside, the Xhosa stood at the Harrington Street entrance to the parking lot, laughing with two others wearing orange car-guard bibs. Mace gave him back his card as he walked past, knowing he’d follow him to the Spider expecting a tip. Cupcake sat strapped in the passenger seat, waiting.

  Before he could open the car door his cellphone rang, no number listed on the screen. Normally he wouldn’t answer those calls, this time he did. Sheemina February, which wasn’t a surprise.

  She said, ‘I forgot to mention, Mr Bishop, that I’m pleased you’re over the prostate problem.’ She disconnected before he could say anything.

  The car-guard stood up against the rear bumper of the Spider, watching him.

  ‘Let me have some space a minute, hey!’

  The man backed off three paces, no change to his expression, said, ‘My name is Oupa K, chief.’

  Mace acknowledged him, then phoned his doctor on his cell knowing he would take the call when he saw who was making
it.

  ‘I’m in a consultation,’ he said. ‘What’s it?’

  ‘How’re you too?’ Mace said.

  He heard the doctor heave a sigh. ‘Mace, get to it, please.’

  ‘Quick one: have you been burgled recently? Your surgery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any of your patients called Sheemina February?’

  ‘No, again. These’re strange questions, Mace.’

  ‘Forget about them. Tell your patient my apologies.’ He thumbed him off.

  The Xhosa stepped nearer as Mace got into his car.

  ‘You said your name was?’

  ‘Oupa K,’ he replied.

  Mace dropped a two buck coin into the man’s cupped hands. Buggered if he was giving him five rand.

  18

  Sheemina February opened the balcony doors to smell the ocean. And paused, breathing deeply, listening to the rasp of gulls and the smack of small waves against the rocks. How good was this place during the day? Yet she seldom saw it.

  She turned into the apartment, draping her shawl over the arm of a couch on her way to the fridge for mineral water. Her cellphone rang but she let it go to voicemail.

  She came back to settle on the couch that faced the horizon, kicked off her shoes, curling her legs beneath her as she sat. On the glass coffee table lay her briefcase. In it, more photographs of Mace Bishop and a recording of his voice.

  She brought out the tape recorder and played through to the moment he said, ‘Miss February, what was this all about?’

  Remembering the frown, the intensity of his eyes challenging her. Then how her wink had made him tilt his head yet he’d not moved his arm when she briefly, lightly placed her hand on it, feeling the solidity through the denim jacket.

  She took out more photographs. In all of them he was at the pool alone. Most often he wore only the Speedo. Stood wet: his muscles pumped from the exercise, his stomach six-packed.

  In four sessions he’d not noticed her. Not paid attention to the figure in the gown, reading, her towel bundled beside her on the bench. Hadn’t imagined she was there because of him.

  Once she’d even swum with him. Watched from beneath the water the easy crawl of his arms, the steady movement of his legs hardly churning bubbles. She’d matched him stroke for stroke for half a length until the effort ached.

  But that was over now. She had the photographs, his voice.

  Sheemina February looked up at the horizon, long and blue. Uncurled from the couch and walked onto the balcony. On the rocks below she could make out broken glass.

  19

  Could only have been that Sheemina February ordered a rifling of his doctor’s surgery, Mace decided. No great accomplishment. That sort of service could be ordered up from the Yellow Pages. Guy goes in, gets the necessary, slips out, nobody’s the wiser. Question was: why? Why the mind games? Mace had no answers there. Nor did he and Sheemina February cross paths over the following week. At least not that he was aware of.

  Meanwhile Pylon got some background on the woman. Turned out she’d been married to their buddy in the arms trade and now high-flyer, Mo Siq. This, half a dozen years back for half a dozen months.

  ‘In the first flush of the new country,’ was how Pylon put it. ‘Old comrades tying the knot in celebration. Sweet sentimental touch.’

  ‘Except it didn’t last.’

  ‘This’s true. Then Mo likes dipping into new things.’

  They stood beside the big Merc at the entrance to the arrivals hall, Cape Town International. On the tannoy the Airport Company said they were pleased to announce the arrival of the Atlanta flight. On it their new clients. He was going tunny fishing. She was having a boob job. They didn’t want muscle but they wanted protection.

  ‘No nasty incidents, Mr Bishop,’ he said over the phone. ‘We have a couple of days’ holiday in your fair city, we want good memories. Going to do a little shopping, visit some tourist spots, maybe spend time on the beach, eat your best food, hit some late-night venues, some clubs. This the sort of service you offer?’

  Mace told him it was. Also told him it was autumn, maybe he would want to skip the beach. He laughed.

  Pylon zipped up his jacket. Anyone giving the two men half a glance would have said security. The black shoes, the black chinos, the white golf shirts, the short jackets, the shades. Which was the point. One way to put out the signal: no nasty incidents.

  ‘Mo has nothing but bad words for her. Calls her a bitch. Bitch of the first water, to be precise.’

  ‘How’s Mo?’

  ‘Important.’

  ‘Friendly?’

  ‘You know Mo. Hi Pylon, what’s happening? You got three minutes, I’m waiting on the minister. I say we’re having some trouble with a woman called Sheemina February. He says, she told you we were married that I tried to kill her? I said that’s what we’d heard. He said, “I woke up one night that bitch was about to slit my throat. Huge kitchen knife. Afterwards, she laid an assault charge on me. She’s disturbed. The sort of girl pulls wings off of flies. Some advice: you want to make the problem go away, shoot her.”’

  ‘Ever the sweet-hearted Mo.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Pylon beeped the automatic locking on the Merc. They headed into the knot of people waiting on the concourse. ‘Another thing I found, her family’s Christian. No one’s ever been Muslim. No one’s ever heard of Sheemina converting. She got married to Mo, they did it in a registry office.’

  ‘So what’s the attraction to PAGAD?’

  ‘Search me. She likes pulling wings off of flies.’

  So what’s the attraction to me, Mace was going to add but didn’t.

  The first-class passengers were dribbling out. They spotted their clients: late thirties, she Max Mara, he Lacombe. Difficult to guess why she needed a boob job. Perfect looking at a glance, Mace thought.

  ‘Also, Mo was seriously concerned for a couple of weeks she would do him. Was stalking him. He’d see her behind him. She’d pitch up where he was. Restaurants. Coffee bars. Sort of chance encounters, except too many to be chance. Weird stuff like that.’

  Mace and Pylon moved into their clients’ line of sight, saw the relief on their faces.

  ‘This I got from one of the guys that watched his back. He said Mo was freaked she’d get into his house.’

  ‘Not something you associate with Mo.’

  ‘Not usually.’

  The men greeted the clients, took their luggage. At the car the clients remarked that spring in New York was colder than fall in Cape Town. ‘All I see is blue sky and sunshine,’ he said. She said, ‘Where’s the Cape of Storms?’

  Mace pointed at the peninsula chain. ‘Other side those mountains, a butterfly’s flapping its wings.’

  They got the couple to the Mount Nelson, arranged a schedule for the next five days. That sorted, Pylon and Mace agreed to meet at the Club Catastrophe at ten for the grand reopening. Pylon took off to get some family hours, Mace headed to the Point swimming pool. As he pulled into the parking lot his cellphone cheeped: Ducky Donald. He’d taken a call from him every day since the meeting with Sheemina February.

  ‘She’s phoned,’ Ducky said, ‘the cow.’

  Mace switched off the ignition, waited. On Signal Hill the grass flared tawny in the dying light.

  ‘She says her clients wanna know if we’re opening tonight. Her clients, for god’s sake! Bombers. Killers. These are the lowlifes she calls clients.’

  ‘Anything like a direct threat?’ Mace heard ice clink, said, ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Come’n have a drink, Mace?’

  ‘I’m about to go swimming, Ducky.’ He got out of the car, lifted a tog bag from the boot.

  ‘What’s with this swimming? You didn’t used to be into men’s health. Anyone offered a drink you took it.’

  ‘Still happens when I’m in the mood.’

  Two women came out of the gym, glanced at Mace. He held the door, went in to sweat and doof doof musak.

  ‘Chr
ist,’ Ducky Donald said in his ear, ‘sounds like hell.’

  Mace nodded at trainers and familiar faces, threading through to the change rooms. His swimming mates, Tyrone and Allan, were already costumed and waiting.

  ‘I must go, Ducky. See you later.’

  ‘Wait,’ Ducky Donald shouted. ‘Mace, Mace, I’ve got a lotta money invested here. Another bomb I don’t need.’

  ‘She make any threats?’

  ‘She’s a goddamned lawyer, for goddamned Chrissakes.’

  ‘Call the cops. Talk to Gonsalves. You got high-up friends. Speak to Mo.’

  Ducky Donald spluttered in his drink. ‘Thank you, Mace. Thank you for that advice.’

  Mace disconnected. Tyrone and Allan looked quizzical. ‘Man with a problem he wants me to share.’ Mace grimaced. ‘What’s in it for me I don’t get.’

  They hit the water, striking the rhythm and pace that took Mace’s mind off the world and Ducky Donald. No reason to think here: just follow the black line across the tiles, roll into the turn, kick against the side, straighten for the return and as his left arm came up suck in air. At that moment he glimpsed Tyrone matching his actions stroke for stroke. On his right Allan would be similar. These guys knew nothing about his prostate problems, and if his performance dropped during the months he was popping pills, they made no comment. Now, though, he was fit, easy, even when Tyrone powered it on for the last stretch. They ended clutching the sides, heaving for breath.

  ‘Killer,’ gasped Allan. ‘Have to cut back on the cakes.’

  Mace could feel last night’s chocolate mousse oozing from his shoulders.

  They showered, changed, ordered energy drinks at the bar counter. On the TV was a replay of a Tri-Nations rugby match. One of those the Boks had thrown away. A depressing spectacle.

  ‘Enough to send you home,’ said Tyrone draining his glass.

  The three men went out into a parking lot as dark as it was the night the street kids packed Mace. There’d been no incidents since, plunging any moves to get lighting to the bottom of the gym’s agenda.