Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  Oumou nodded.

  ‘Is it like that? Colourful?’

  ‘Non,’ said Oumou. ‘Different without the colour. More like the colours of the desert and the shape is thinner.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Elizabeth Tlali. ‘You must send me an invitation.’

  To Mace said, shaking his hand, ‘We like to help our customers, Mr Bishop. Support them too in their activities.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said.

  On Adderley Street, Mace headed Oumou down a block towards the flower sellers, their alley of stalls cool and damp in the shadow of the tall buildings. ‘We need flowers,’ he said. ‘In celebration.’

  Oumou stopped, mock-amazed. ‘Mace Bishop is going to buy flowers?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, his arm round her shoulder. ‘We got extra time. Anything can happen. The bank can lose the file. We can win the lotto.’

  ‘Maybe we must try to save some money.’

  ‘Like how? Stop eating Norwegian salmon? Give up chocolate? I don’t think so’ - Mace buoyant with relief.

  The flower sellers saw them coming, yelling out prices and offers, thrusting roses at Mace. He shook his head. ‘Not roses, some other flowers, not roses.’ The women laughing at him, ‘Ag shame, Mister Gentleman, roses is for love. You got such a beautiful woman you supposed to listen to the poets.’ Two of the women insistent, holding out bouquets wrapped in newsprint. ‘Over there,’ said Oumou, pointing at buckets of carnations. The women rushing to their stock. ‘Oui, that is what we want.’ She chose two bunches of carnations and daisy mix. Mace paid. The woman smiling at him while she scratched for change in a bag: the gums where her front teeth should have been bright pink. ‘Flowers for the hours,’ she said.

  Mace laughed, taking hold of Oumou’s arm walked down the alley into Parliament Street, each carrying a bouquet, Mace saying, ‘Did you notice her watch, the woman in the bank?’

  ‘It was expensive,’ said Oumou.

  ‘Raymond Weil. I have clients wear those watches.’

  They came round the post office and onto the Parade, Mace grateful to be out of the shadow and into the sun, even in November the shade cooler than he wanted.

  They stopped at their car. Mace opening the back, the two of them laying down the flowers like they were sleeping children. Before he closed the door Mace said, ‘We could probably get more finance. If we wanted.’

  Oumou said, ‘That is not the problem, Mace. The problem is the first payment.’

  3

  ‘It’s fantastic. I come in here every morning, I look out the window, I think, fantastic! In all these years I didn’t notice the Twin Towers, now they’re gone, every time I look out there I know they’re gone.’

  Francisco turned into the room.

  ‘What d’you think, Paulo?’

  Paulo slurped at his coffee. ‘I think it’s weird.’

  ‘Weird? This isn’t weird, this is terrible. What I’m saying is who noticed the Towers until they’re gone?’

  ‘That’s what you said.’

  ‘Like you only see them when they’re not there.’

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘Two great buildings! You don’t see them. The terrorists destroy them, you say, hey, that all looks so sad. But you ask me if I ever saw the Towers, I’d say, no, never.’

  Francisco shot his shirt cuffs so that they rode about two centimetres out of his jacket sleeves. The way he liked it. Smart casual. Open-necked shirt, gold chain with the small crucifix just visible there dropping into his chest hairs. Informal. Relaxed. He glanced at the guy sitting drinking his coffee. His brother-in-law. A serious punk. Why Isabella didn’t divorce him, get him outta their lives was a mystery. But no. Kicked him outta the home but kept him dangling. More than a little nastiness in Isabella. Francisco shrugged, examined his fingernails. The cuticles pushed back, half-moons showing. The thing about Salazar’s index was that the half-moon showed. This was what Francisco noticed straight off when he saw it in the Ziploc. Before he plopped it into the bottle with the others. Wasn’t often men in their middle years had the half-moon showing. A mark of distinction to do so in Francisco’s reckoning.

  ‘Paulo!’ said Francisco, getting Paulo to come to the window, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the aftershave. ‘You see that?’ - waving at Ground Zero. ‘It’s like dentistry. You get two teeth knocked out side by side you have a huge gap. You never thoughta those teeth as individuals. You thoughta them as part of your set. Brushing your teeth in the mirror you didn’t even see them.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Yeah. So it’s only when they’re gone you know they were there.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What I’m saying is sometimes we don’t appreciate things till they’re not there.’

  Francisco headed round his desk, sat, leaning back. Paulo standing like a kid being stared at by the teacher.

  ‘All we need’s a bit of dentistry, we can fix it.’ Francisco gestured at a chair. ‘Take a seat.’

  Paulo sat, the two of them opposite one another.

  ‘So?’ said Francisco and stopped. Not saying a word more, letting the silence drag.

  Paulo dry-swallowed. ‘I need about fifty G.’

  Francisco clasped his hands behind his head. ‘You asked Isabella?’

  ‘Like that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I dunno. You outta pocket, she’s your man. Your wife too.’

  Francisco laughed. Paulo managed a weak grin, forcing it across his face.

  ‘What you need it for?’

  ‘Obligations.’

  ‘Wheel debts? White devil?’

  Paulo nodded, not wanting to go near the words.

  ‘Which?’

  He grimaced, Francisco reading this as both.

  ‘What’d I tell you, Paulo?’ Francisco unlaced his fingers, put his hands down on the table. Olive hands. Hands like Isabella’s. The nails well-groomed. ‘I told you, you handle that stuff. You want to run a line of business, while you’re parta the family you come to the family. You need to open an investment, you come to the family. Isabella. Me. It doesn’t matter. Wherever you’re comfortable. You run the numbers by us, if we can, we help. Where we don’t help is paying wheel. That’s not business. For your account only. Similarly powder. That’s entertainment. For your account only.’

  Paulo slumped, let his eyes down to the carpet: grey with a pattern of small lighter grey squares. Every now and then an orange one to give some lift. Standard office wall-to-wall. Francisco kept focused on his brother-in-law. The telephone buzzed, he lifted the handset, said, ‘Paulo, something comes up, I’ll call you.’ He leant forward to shake the guy’s hand, at the same time saying, ‘Yeah, send them in.’

  As Paulo stood, Isabella and Ludovico came swinging in, Isabella wearing one of those ethnic gypsy numbers with tassels and bells. A waft of Chanel No 5.

  ‘How about this?’ Bright and perky from Isabella. ‘A family gathering. Why’n’t you tell me, honeypie? We coulda cooched-up in the same cab.’

  ‘You bend to him?’ Isabella wanted to know, the instant the door closed behind Paulo.

  ‘I’m going to do a thing like that?’ Francisco retorted.

  ‘I told him …’

  ‘Sure you did. So give him a divorce.’

  Isabella laughed. ‘Against my religion.’ She flopped down in the chair warmed by her husband. Estranged husband. ‘This’s how I want it till I’m ready.’

  ‘Him ‘n that bitch? What’s her name, Victoria?’

  ‘Vittoria.’

  ‘Yeah her exactly.’

  ‘It suits me.’

  ‘Well. To each his poison.’ Francisco sighed. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Her,’ she said, inclining her head, hair shimmering at the movement. Bright eyes. ‘Her poison.’

  Reminded Francisco of a tiger’s, those eyes. He smiled at Ludo sitting down to the right of Isabella. Decided to open with the pity of Señor Ramon Moraga Salazar’s death. He tipped back
in his chair until the people sashaying down a path in the picture behind his head seemed about to step into his hair.

  ‘Señor Ramon Moraga Salazar’s dead.’

  Ludo flicked lint from his trousers.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Isabella.

  ‘Was a business associate in Santiago,’ said Francisco. ‘Who turned bad. Who Ludo whacked. Then what happened: we get a message per email the merchandise is dispatched.’

  Ludo shrugged. ‘He shoulda done it earlier.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Francisco put his elbows on the desk, made a bridge of his forearms, rested his chin on the platform of his hands. ‘What happened, Isabella,’ he said, ‘was we paid Señor Salazar for a big shipment, ex Colombia. Up-front transaction. We knew him so no hassles. Only this time we start picking up static as the mission proceeds. When he doesn’t produce, we sympathise. We give him time to make good. Lotsa time. Still he makes excuses. We tell him, look, Señor Salazar, this is not the way we’re used to doing business. He says, he’s sorry. This is not the way he does business either. He says his people are giving him a hard time. We tell him that’s his problem. Nothing to do with us. We tell him go away and talk to his people, sort them out. He goes away, never comes back. We phone. We email. We fax. We even use the mail. He won’t talk to us. So we send Ludovico.’

  Isabella turned to Ludo. ‘You get to the ballet in Santiago?’

  ‘Sure. Swan Lake. You wanna see the programme?’

  ‘Thought you didn’t like Swan Lake?’

  ‘I didn’t. Maybe still don’t. This was good though.’

  She shook her head, swivelled back to her brother. ‘And the consignment’s where?’

  ‘Sailing to Africa.’

  ‘Nice one.’ Isabella moistened her lips. Lips the colour of iced mocha. ‘Where in Africa?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter where in Africa, Bella.’ Francisco back with the furrow-brow. ‘Anywhere’s a catastrophe. This isn’t wartime goods. This is goodtime goods. Africa’s not a place people have a good time.’

  ‘So where’s it going? Lagos?’

  ‘Lagos. Saints no. It was going to Lagos we wouldn’t even be talking about it.’

  ‘So where’s it going?’

  ‘Cape Town. Right down there at the bottom.’

  ‘You figure you can’t do business there?’

  ‘Dunno. I checked out the Rough Guide, says it’s a pink city. Does a gay pride party round Christmas time.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had a problem with gays.’

  Francisco flopped his wrist. ‘No problem, sweetie. Except these are African homosexuals. African’s the part I got trouble with. Also’ - he pulled open a desk drawer, took out a Wall Street Journal folded to the exchange rate page - ‘it says here you need almost ten of their rands. Worse, two days ago you only needed seven of their rands to buy the dollar. Traders say next week you could need eleven. Which tells even the saints, the rand is no currency you want to hold. Even if we sell the shipment to the African homosexuals, all they’ve done is feed us peanuts.’

  ‘Umm,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Big umm,’ said Francisco.

  Isabella tapped the desk with her fingernails. Dark mauve varnish. The men listened to the clicking, usually a prelude to some kind of solution.

  ‘Okay,’ said Isabella. ‘First problem is how much’re we talking?’

  ‘Somewhere about ten kilos,’ said Francisco.

  Isabella smiled. ‘Paulo’s good for that. We send him. Second problem, we have to take on-site delivery of the merchandise. So send Ludo too to keep things steady. Third problem where to pitch the sales. Maybe try the local clubs. How about Paulo works them. And the beaches. It’s their summertime, right? We’re talking international holiday destination. The world gone there to party. Afrotrash, Eurotrash, Brit lager louts all mixed up sun and sand and speed. Paulo’s good for that.’

  Francisco held up his hand. ‘You giving Paulo a long run on this?’

  ‘Why not?’ She let another smile twitch her lips. ‘He’s family. Also he’s good at schmooze.’

  ‘Fine.’ Francisco pulled at his ear lobe. ‘Problem number four: how d’you turn the whatsits into hard currency?’

  Isabella winked at him. She knew a guy in Cape Town with the emotions of a shark. Had known him pretty well, once. Said, ‘Give me a moment,’ sliding a laptop onto Francisco’s desk. Googled the name Mace Bishop, came up with Complete Security’s website and email address among a list of Anglican pastoral missions. Sent him a mail with the words ‘nostalgia and money’ in the subject line. Below the message, she attached a photograph.

  4

  Paulo was hardly out of Global Enterprises than his phone rang: Vittoria. In Milan.

  The reason she was in Milan was because back in the spring he’d said, ‘Ria, suges, how’s your fertility?’

  ‘You want to have babies?’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ve got a better proposition.’

  She had fertility tests done. The results came back positive. He wanted a copy of the actual report.

  ‘What for?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Opening discussions,’ he’d replied.

  ‘You’re into selling your lover’s body?’ Half-joking, half-appalled. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Is $200 large joking?’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Nine, ten months work max. Not even work, really.’ Paulo triumphant, gazing at her as if he was about to score a serious deal.

  Vittoria laying it on the line: ‘Let me understand this clearly. You’re suggesting I have some guy’s baby?’

  ‘Short and sweet of it, yeah. For $200 000.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should’ve talked about this first?’

  ‘The $200 thou?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘We went through that.’

  ‘Talking about my fertility is not talking about it.’

  Paulo standing up from the couch, going over to the window. Her apartment, two floors up a Brooklyn brownstone, the street below empty this time of night: gone 12 a.m.

  ‘Jesus, Vittoria, when’s somebody laid this sort of money on you? Wasn’t for me passing down some bills, you wouldn’t have this!’ A hand gesturing round the room, an expensive room, the sort of room she couldn’t afford. By herself.‘I’m saying here’s good money.’

  ‘And your cut?’

  He acted hurt. ‘We’re an item. I don’t take a cut’ - wheeling towards where she sat on the other couch, leaning down on her with his hands on her shoulders, their faces close. ‘What d’you say?’

  She pushed him away. He straightened, his eyes holding hers.

  ‘I’m listening. Tell me the small print.’

  Paulo sat down alongside her on the couch, laid an arm on the back, almost reaching her.

  ‘Basically,’ he’d said, ‘an apartment in Milan for the duration. Monte Napoleone district. Classy stuff, I’m talking. High-end fittings. Use of an Alfa exclusively. House staff. Two flights home, business class.’

  ‘For which I must?’

  ‘Have his child.’

  ‘How’s the issue, Paulo?’

  ‘Basically, artificial insemination.’

  ‘He gets to screw me?’

  Paulo shifting his eyes to the carpet.

  ‘The guy’s queer, Ria. He’s not gonna want to screw you.’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘In the unlikely event, the contract limits it to days of ovulation only. Three days max at each event.’

  ‘Event!’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Like a ball game?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Vittoria reaching for the wine on the side-table behind the couch, filling her glass.

  ‘He can screw me three days a month?’

  ‘He’s a homo.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘What d’you mean how many times?’

  ‘How many times a day?’


  ‘For Chrissakes. Once.’

  ‘It’s in the print?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m not a whore.’

  The two of them staring at one another.

  ‘So who’s this?’

  ‘Camillo Medardo.’

  ‘Medardo! The fashion Medardo? He’s gotta be seventy!’

  ‘Sixty-five. Looks sixty.’

  ‘Big deal!’

  ‘Listen, Ria, I’ve wrapped this for you. The guy’s had two heart attacks. He goes before the contract ends you get the full payment.’

  ‘And the kid?’

  ‘The kid gets raised by his partner. Guy called Dieter.’

  Vittoria thought about other issues, such as, Camillo Medardo’s sperm count.

  ‘What happens if I don’t fall pregnant?’

  Paulo shrugged. ‘Always a possibility. He gets six ovulations. If he doesn’t score the deal’s off, you’re home with $60 000.’

  ‘$60 000! That’s all?’

  ‘The best I can do. Chances are you’ll go the deal first time out.’

  ‘Bah!’ Vittoria hit her wine. ‘$60 000. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘One other thing, you’ve got to marry him if he knocks you up. For the Italian laws. Also for the life insurance to kick in.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Divorce proceedings start on termination of contract. No cost to you.’

  This was back in the summer. Things had moved on since then, gone wide. The main reason Vittoria was phoning Paulo.

  ‘Hi, Ria babe,’ he said, pressing the down button for the elevator.

  ‘I want you to kill this fuck,’ she said, no niceties. Corrected herself: ‘These fucks.’

  ‘Hey, is it good to talk to your lover, or what?’

  ‘Your contract’s a load of shit,’ she said next. ‘They just wanted a whore.’

  What happened the first time was that Camillo and Dieter actually drove her to the clinic. In his Saab. Champagne, chocolates, flowers in the private ward, made her stay there three days while they hoped the miracle of conception occurred. Or rather kept her on her back so that none of the stuff could dribble out. During this she decided Paulo’s idea was not a bad deal, that she could even get to like these two queers fussing over her.