by Mike Nicol
‘Sure, your Rough Guide says lotsa clubs. It’s big holiday time. No reason why not.’
‘You keep an eye on him. Any way to scam it, he will. I’ll send you a present.’
‘Sure,’ said Ludo, crushing the butt in Francisco’s clean ashtray.
Francisco rang the receptionist to have the dirty ashtray removed. While the receptionist was doing this, took a file from his desk, shifted it across to Ludo. Ludo yet again amazed Francisco let people smoke if he hated cigarette butts that much.
‘That’s the paperwork,’ said Francisco. ‘You go to the port, find Customs. Find a Vusi something. Give him ten thousand local, one per kilo is how they work it, he’ll give you the merchandise. All you need’s in the paperwork.’ He tapped the file.
Ludo took it, stood up.
‘Have a good flight,’ said Francisco.
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo, thinking New York to London, five hours. Change in London wait two hours. Flight to Cape Town eleven hours. Sixteen hours flying time in economy. Also no chance of a cigarette. Some good flight.
‘Ludovico,’ he said to the woman who answered the door. Coloured woman about fiftyish in a blue housecoat. Steel-grey hair, glaring at him over frameless glasses. ‘This is the house we’re renting.’ Not a question but a statement. Paulo getting out of the Grand Cherokee stretching, exclaiming, the woman staring at them, seeming bewildered.
‘You speak English?’ asked Ludo.
She nodded.
‘Good. Like I said, my name’s Ludovico. L-u-d-o-v-i-c-o.’ He pulled an email out of his jacket pocket. ‘It says here this is the place we rented.’ He looked at the view: beach below, surfers pulling moves on the waves, sea for a hundred miles, sky forever.
The coloured woman stepped aside to let him in. He and Paulo squeezed past. Inside the place shone. The woman must have been cleaning all night.
‘Spotless,’ said Ludo. ‘We can eat off the floor.’
‘We have plates for you,’ said the woman.
Paulo whistled. ‘Nice one.’
Huge picture windows straight on to the exterior picture. Rim-flow off the patio. Maybe even better than California. Interior: white softpile carpets. Leather suite. Open-plan lounge and dining room. Ten-seater table. He went to the kitchen through a door, big black dude in there dressed all in white, even the shoes, beaming at him.
The dude said, ‘I am Sibusiso. How are you?’
‘Doing well,’ said Paulo, stretching out a hand. They shook. ‘How do you spell that?’
Sibusiso spelled it, ‘S-i-b-u-s-i-s-o.’
‘That Italian?’
‘Zulu,’ he was told. ‘I am the cook.’
Paulo called out to Ludo, ‘We order a cook?’
‘Seems,’ said Ludo. In the meantime he’d talked to the woman, found out her name was Mrs September, housekeeper. She’d told him she and the cook had premises off to the back. Hadn’t smiled once during the exchange.
‘Right, Mrs September,’ he said, ‘here’s the plan. One breakfast at seven. One breakfast at eleven. You clean the rooms eleven to noon. We have lunch say three o’clock. You do any other cleaning you need to anytime you can, mostly when we’re out. Five you’re gone. Same with Mr Cook. We want you to do dinner we’ll make advance arrangements.’ He smiled at her, she didn’t return it. ‘How’s that sound?’
‘Suitable,’ she said.
Ludo was wondering why she hadn’t mentioned anything about a delivery of packages. Didn’t want to ask, because he didn’t want her to know he knew. Wanted it to seem like a surprise. Maybe best to let it unfold in its own time, he reckoned. This Mrs September was pure clam. The sort of reserve he liked. Twenty minutes later she came out with two gift-wrapped bottles of wine, gave one to each, also a box for Ludo.
How Francisco had organised this was amazing. Fedex’d over the greeting cards, got a local wine boutique to do the rest. The message to Paulo clearer than if he’d written it: I can do things everywhere.
‘Nice one,’ said Paulo, thinking, Jesus the guy never lets up.
Ludo fancied the rim-flow. Fancied everything about drifting round the pool looking at the ocean. Liked Sibusiso and Mrs September, especially Sibusiso bringing him coffee, Illy espresso through a Saeco wonder of wonders, the moment he sat down. All told a better deal than he could have imagined and he’d had high hopes to begin with.
La bella casa. He gazed up at it from the pool. Nice house. His room on the upper floor with the best views. Off the patio a TV lounge with a bigger flat-screen than he’d ever seen in New York. All wired up for DVD. Best of all a good sound system for his blues CDs. If there was a downside, no summer ballet season. What sort of city was this for Chrissakes? No ballet. He swam over to the side, lit a cigarette. Smoked it, supporting himself on the rim tiles, his body in the water. As he relaxed there, saw Paulo come out all smarted up, wearing wrap-around shades.
‘You coming?’ he wanted to know.
‘Chill it,’ said Ludo leaving the pool. Emerged ten minutes later jacket over his arm. Paulo looked like he was going to give him lip but didn’t.
They took the Quattro. Paulo driving, well orientated to the left-hand side of the road. Both of them smoking. When they stopped at a traffic light a blue haze of smoke flowed from the windows.
‘You know where we’re going?’ said Ludo.
‘No problem,’ said Paulo, ‘until we get to the small stuff. That’s why you’ve got the map.’
Ludo let this go. The only other words spoken before they got to Customs was Ludo giving directions down a street that crossed car parks, went under an elevated freeway through a gate into a fenced yard. Paulo parked.
‘This’s it?’
‘Smells like it,’ said Ludo. ‘Docks smell of fish ‘n oil. Everywhere in the world they smell like this.’
Turned out their man at Customs, Vusi Themba, had an office of his own, three floors up, good side of the building with a view of the docks. Other side of the building, third floor was level with a motorway.
Vusi Themba was easy-going. Big friendly face, coffee-coloured, nose looked like it’d been squashed onto his face. Gold Rolex weighing down his left wrist. He greeted them, shaking hands. Invited them in, shut the office door, sat them down, poured coffee from a filter machine, asked how they liked the city?
Paulo told him it was a great place.
Ludo asked if he minded people smoking.
Vusi brought out a pack and offered it round. Lit their cigarettes with a Zippo. Then wanted to know if they were going to visit a shebeen, spend a night in one of the township B&Bs, like an experience of a lifetime, man. Not to be missed. They wanted partying, then a township shebeen was the place for it. Okay, the city clubs were good. The type of clubs you found anywhere in the world though. You wanted something different, you hit a shebeen.
What’s he saying here? Paulo thought. Paulo wanted clubs like you found anywhere in the world. On the other hand maybe this fella was dropping hints. Laying out a business plan. Opening up a new market. Maybe he wasn’t so much Customs as Trade and Industry, Paulo thought.
Ludo thought, suave. Very suave. Ludo also thought, What’s he saying here? Ten thousand isn’t enough? Decided to give him the envelope with twelve grand. For the advice.
Vusi grinned at them both, stubbed his cigarette, scooted his chair across to a wall safe. Keyed in a code, not even trying to hide it. Ludo noted the numbers out of habit. Vusi reached in, brought out a cardboard box wrapped in brown paper tied up with string, the knots sealed with red wax. A battered cardboard box.
Jesus, thought Ludo, wasn’t that the most obvious package you’d ever seen? No two ways about what was in there.
‘Here’s your coffee,’ said Vusi, whisking it onto the desk. Ten kilos no effort in the arms of a big guy like him.
‘Much obliged,’ said Paulo. Judging by the state of the box they were lucky it hadn’t broken.
Ludo opened his leather shoulder bag, flipped through the paperwork to one of
the envelopes he’d prefilled, offered it to Vusi.
‘Thanks,’ said Vusi, searching round his desk for a paperknife, finding a silver one with the handle a naked woman. Very tasteful.
‘Nice paperknife,’ said Paulo.
‘Carrol Boyes,’ said Vusi. ‘Local artist. Advance Christmas present from an importer. Jewish guy, brings in fashion accessories.’
Vusi counted through the notes while they watched. Stashed the envelope in the safe, closed it.
‘So, gents,’ he said. ‘Have a good time’ - taking them through the drill of a brother’s handshake on the way out.
13
Paulo went in clean the first night. Smack on the witching hour.
That morning had checked out the clubs’ whereabouts. Cruised in the Quattro. Found Club Catastrophe up a side street, the sort of urban terrain he recognised: at midday not much activity. Other side of the street from the club’s metal door a motormac’s garage, some cars on the pavement being repaired. Small-time stuff. Two doors down a junk dealer’s store. Overhead premises either storage or cheap office space, he reckoned. Other doors on the street grilled up.
‘Rave here, you rave among the movers and shakers, the bright young things,’ Paulo read from a club guide. ‘On any night there’s more financial muscle getting down than you’ll find in the office blocks during the day.’ How about that?
‘My kind of market,’ he said aloud.
Midnight the traffic was chaotic. Kids everywhere. The glitzy off the beaches, more diamond belly-button studs than Paulo had seen in the jeweller’s tray when he went with Vittoria to buy hers. Average age in the street probably mid-teens. Good enough trade on a slow night but not capable of the sort of turnover he needed.
Paulo parked a block away, ramping the Audi onto a traffic island. He angled back through the kids, assessed the situation, believed it was worth a G local between the car and the club door. Saw two coloured heps dealing and a black dude, large snapper, hung with gold chains, shades, cut-away T-shirt, gold-studded belt, black jeans, boots, moving leisurely, a boy-tart clutching at him. Two markers, less conspicuous, tracking them. The black making no contacts. The kids opening before him like the Red Sea. Paulo took note.
He kept the smart and his entourage in mind, picked out a couple of other sales points. Nothing major. Dope, mostly, Ecstasy for the desperate.
Getting through the bouncers was easy, cursory wave of the magic wand, not even a pat down. Paulo was all smiles, could bring in a kilo of powder no one would know. Thought, Jesus, man, kiddy city, yes. Good scene. Gothic graphics on the walls. Serious tendency towards cats. Some evil felines with luminous eyes painted everywhere, watching. You’re freaking they’d be howling at you, scratching your eyes out. Paulo shook his head. Freaking cats. Had to be an acidhead you went for freaking cats. Tuned out these thoughts, zipped to the music pitched to the range of loudness he preferred, blocking all other sound. Blocked your thoughts if you let it. He got down to dancing.
By five he’d cased five clubs, decided to abandon the sixth to another night. He was hopping. He’d done two Es from the black, more particularly from the fella’s markers. One straight off in the Catastrophe, another in number four, the Jean Pool. By then he and the schwarzer were on eyeball terms. Picking one another out each club they hit.
Either the guy was cool or a cop. In Paulo’s estimation, the dude was a dude. The way he figured it, a potential outlet to get rid of a big pile of shit in one easy go. He had thirty days. Minus Christmas and New Year holidays and Sundays he had maybe twenty-four. The way the division came out that was four hundred singles a night. That was working. That was slave labour. So what he had to do was to move a big pile. Sweeten the dude.
He was standing next to the car still ramped up the traffic island. The city quiet. Early light. The frigging great big mountain looming up behind. The clubbers gone, the workers not awake yet. He fixed two short lines on the bonnet. Rolled a brown twenty and zoomed.
‘A for away,’ he said, pinching his nose, licking the grains from his fingertips. Had to give it to the big F, he sourced grade-A shit.
He drove off, his plan to sink a few beers on the patio, take in one of Sibusiso’s English breakfasts, crash for the day.
* * *
Three early mornings later, about three-tenish Paulo phoned Vittoria. He was outside the Catastrophe. Flying. Her voice came on sleepy.
‘Babe,’ he said. ‘Babe, I love you.’
‘Jesus, Paulo,’ was the response this got. ‘It’s two o’clock.’ Vittoria not wanting to wake.
‘You gotta be here, babe,’ he said. ‘You gotta see this kind of wonderful.’
The sleep thick in her head. Where the fuck was Paulo? What the fuck was he doing? Then she remembered, Cape Town. He was in Cape Town. She looked again at the radio clock. Fucking two o’clock.
This voice going in her ear: ‘You gotta see this, babe. You gotta see this huge mountain. All the kiddies dancing in the street. Thanks to the sugar they buy from Uncle Paulo. Dance kiddies dance.’
‘Paulo,’ she said, raising her voice to break through his chatter. ‘Paulo listen to me. It’s two o’clock, I’ve gotta sleep. My tits are sore, I’ve got a headache. I feel like hell. Premenstrual. You heard of PMT?’
‘Ah baby,’ he said. ‘Poor baby.’
‘I’m going to disconnect you now,’ she said. ‘Phone me when you’re going to sleep?’
‘Baby,’ he soothed. ‘Babe, I love you.’
‘Ciao, Paulo,’ she said.
‘Babe, I just shot the moon,’ he said.
She thumbed him off. Four days she’d be there. Get rid of the fruits, get her life back.
Why Paulo was flying, why he’d just shot the moon, was because Paulo had scored big-time.
He’d gone in there the second night and dished out loss-leaders, half-gram sweeteners. Dished them out for free. Punters poked their noses once in that direction they were hooked. Wanted more. Tomorrow, guys, promised Paulo, trying to keep the scene cool. On the tomorrow he came back all set up to do business, pushed three hundred and fifty units. And did a deal. Which was why he’d come on to Vittoria all hyper at three in the a.m.
‘Unreal man, unheard of,’ he told Ludo back at the palace.
Ludo said he was impressed. This was after the second breakfast sitting, Paulo too wound up to sleep. He and Ludo lounging under an umbrella.
‘Phone the man. Tell him,’ said Paulo. ‘Tell Francisco I’m going to move a kilo unit. A single deal.’
‘That right?’ said Ludo.
‘Damn right,’ said Paulo.
What had happened was he’d met up with the Xhosa of the bling. Club Catastrophe, the chill room. Paulo danced watching-not-watching, dazed. The jig came in, minus the tart. Minus the markers. They nodded. The guy put a hand on his shoulder, not rough, not gentle either, forceful, and squeezed.
Paulo said, ‘You carry on doing that man, I’ll put six inches of Carrol Boyes in your stomach.’
He’d really fancied the paperknife he’d seen in the Customs office so had bought one, sharpened it up. Its handle a naked nymph all tits and fanny. Fitted in his hand like the real parts. Paulo wore it sheathed to his wrist.
The Xhosa laughed.
‘A Yank,’ he said. ‘Chief,’ he said, ‘you have just scored me a hundred note.’
He sat down next to Paulo.
‘I told them only a Yank could come in the way you did.’
He held out his hand in greeting.
‘You want to know about me, you ask anyone about Oupa K,’ he said, flashing gold teeth. ‘What a Yank doesn’t know is Oupa stands for grandfather, K stands for kaffir. I hear a white man use that word he gets six inches of bicycle spoke poked through his lungs. Such a tiny hole it doesn’t even bleed. All the air goes out whoosh.’
He grinned at Paulo, who grinned back, shook his hand, said, ‘Paulo.’
‘So who’s Carrol, Paulo?’
Paulo slipped her from his slee
ve.
Oupa K said, ‘Stylish.’
Paulo slipped her back, took out one of his sweetener sachets.
‘This is what we have to indaba about, chief,’ said Oupa K. ‘What a Yank can probably guess is indaba means par-lay. Talk the talk.’
Two guys tried to crash the chill room, without looking up Oupa K told them, Get. They did.
‘Chief,’ he said, stretching back, eyes closed, ‘I don’t want you here.’
Paulo said, ‘Run this, then we’ll what you call indaba.’
Oupa K opened lazy eyes that said, you’re full of shit. Nonetheless wetted a finger, dipped it in the powder, sucked it off. Fine fine granules. Paulo lined the remainder with his Amex on the seat. Oupa K vroomed this in a quick snort.
They both sat back watching-not-watching the dancers on a TV screen.
Paulo said, ‘What they indaba at business schools is partnerships. Win-win situations.’
Oupa K said nothing.
‘The sort of partnerships I’m exploring here,’ Paulo was saying, ‘would extend brand reach.’
Oupa K burst out laughing. Paulo joined him.
Oupa K said, ‘Lay it on me, chief.’
Paulo outlined a deal. Oupa K bought a kilo at a knockdown price for sale in the shebeens. Only in the shebeens. In addition, he, Paulo, would cut him a five per cent commission on all local sales. For the right to trade.
‘Ten per cent,’ said Oupa K.
‘Five,’ said Paulo, figuring if he doctored the stock he could recoup the five per cent, easy. Ten per cent started lessening brand edge. In a tight market not a wise strategy.
‘Five,’ he said.
Oupa K said, ‘You could bullshit the commission.’
‘I could,’ said Paulo.
They watched the camera dollying along over the heads, people shuddering below in the strobe light like they were puppets.
‘End of the day,’ said Paulo, ‘it comes down to trust.’
Oupa K gave him a quick glance. ‘For a whitey you have a strange idea of business.’