by Mike Nicol
As a way of detailing this strangeness, Paulo let him take the price down fifty thousand, privately calling it a discount. Unsure of how he was going to recoup, knowing it would fire up Ludo. Oupa K thinking the Yank must be holding out on something to be fixing so low for such quality.
They set the exchange for Mouille Point, in the car park next to the lighthouse, a position Paulo had cleared for major deals. Good visibility. Enough people about walking themselves, their children, their dogs. Anonymous. The Xhosa sure to send his markers, not likely to pitch himself given his image in the context. It came to it, an environment Paulo and Ludo could handle.
Oupa K stood up. They went through the brother’s handshake.
‘Keep the air in your lungs,’ he said, heading out the chill room.
‘Phone the man,’ said Paulo. ‘Tell him.’
Ludo crushed his cigarette, picked up his cellphone, clicked into the contacts menu, selected Francisco, thumbed on, exhaled a grey breath.
Francisco went straight into a spiel about how the playboy better get his act together because Isabella was lining up a major major deal mid-January, cash, no bullshit, so the playboy better have changed the white devil into rand bucks like tomorrow. This didn’t happen there was going to be huge shit. Mega important contracts being flighted here.
‘Sure,’ Ludo said. ‘D’you wanna hear some good news.’
But Francisco had thumbed him off.
They used the Quattro for the getaway, Ludo parked it in a bay facing the ocean, grassy side of the parking lot an hour early. He then wandered along the promenade to take a seat on a bench not far from the vehicle. Man his age sauntering around like that wouldn’t scare a pigeon. Ludo was packing. Boos were boos, you didn’t take chances.
Paulo parked the Cherokee in a back street, waited until ten minutes before the agreed time. The charlie was in a packet that’d held white flour an hour ago, this in a 7Eleven bag. In another bag a litre bottle of Coke. Looked like he was just coming back from the store. He headed off between the blocks of apartments along the beach road, crossed the lawns, coming onto the promenade far enough away from the lighthouse to be unnoticed, should anyone be watching out. Which he doubted. Oupa K’s style, he reckoned, would be more like get there, do the trade, split. Don’t anticipate, deal with what goes down. What worried him as he strolled along the seaside was that they’d take the powder and not hand over the money. How good were Ludo and his nine mil going to be then?
Ludo saw Paulo when he was crossing the lawns. He had no specific thoughts about the arrangements. He’d watched enough of them transact to know that give or take a bit of verbal, a bit of aggro posing, mostly what happened was what was supposed to happen. Paulo’s fears he considered extreme.
Paulo stopped on the promenade, in front of the Quattro as agreed. Leant against the railings, put the bags at his feet, lit a cigarette. After a few draws reached down for the Coke, unscrewed the top, took a long pull. Anyone watching would see a man going home with his shopping, taking a break to admire the view.
Ludo strolled to a closer bench, sat down, fired up too. Right on the appointed time. His presence didn’t disturb a single pigeon, some gulls circled though, cried at him.
Fifteen minutes they passed like this. Then another ten.
Paulo went through four cigarettes, drank most of the Coke.
After half an hour Ludo thought, no, it wasn’t going to happen, or it had the makings of a cop bust. Paulo could be ID’d but the difficulty for the cops would be connecting the pieces. Worst-case scenario was the loss of a major portion of the income. Technically this happened Paulo would be dead come the end of the job. Ludo scoped the cars and the people, couldn’t pick out anything that suggested a bust. In this situation the plan was, drift away, meet behind the apartment blocks. He was about to do just that.
Paulo moved a pace off the powder. Was within grabbing distance if he needed to run. Like Ludo he was thinking cops. Like Ludo he couldn’t spot one. Should the passing power-walkers turn to drug squaddies he knew nothing about the 7Eleven bags. He was pissed, though. He hadn’t had Oupa K for a bullshit artist. He’d had Oupa K for genuine. Fuck was the Big F going to say if they lost the candy? Have his ass. Paulo grabbed the bag, started to move off per the plan.
Ludo saw him do this. Thought he’d give him a few minutes, then drive off in the Quattro when a van grumbled in. Tinted windows. Graffitied sides top back front. Requiem music at full volume.
The panel door slid open, out stepped Oupa K. Shifted up his shades, squinted at Paulo, shouting for him to bring the stuff. Some soprano motor-mouth on the sound system giving a full Ave Maria. Not a person within fifty metres wasn’t watching. Ludo included, fascinated by the style.
Paulo came up. ‘What goddamned time is this?’
Oupa K said, ‘African time.’
‘Jesus,’ said Paulo. ‘I say five. I don’t mean quarter to six.’
‘Chief,’ said Oupa K, stretching for the shopping bag, ‘remember what I told you.’
Paulo held the bag away, said, ‘Where’s the money?’
Oupa K smiled. ‘In the van. Come listen to the music.’
‘Nah,’ said Paulo. ‘You bring it out here.’
‘Chief, my Yankee chief, where’s the trust, brother?’
Paulo shrugged.
They swapped packages. Paulo held the money.
‘It’s all here?’
Oupa K grinned at him. ‘Have faith, my brother.’
A guy in the van weighed the 7Eleven bag, no attempt to hide the obvious. Oupa K tasted the contents, nodded.
Paulo thought, must be someone watching this about to call the cops.
Ludo was thinking similarly. On the other hand such in-your-face audacity froze the spectators. Nobody really believing their eyes. He heard Paulo say, ‘I’m not sure.’ He heard the jimbo say, ‘Trust, chief, we gotta do this on trust.’
The schwarzer got into the van. The van exited. So did Paulo in the Quattro. Ludo was pleased he’d changed the car’s plates.
As he got up to leave a white woman with her grandchildren said, ‘What’s that all about?’
‘Dunno,’ said Ludo. ‘Drugs, I reckon’ - ambling off, the granny going, ‘Fucking munts.’
14
Leaving Milan was not a hardship. It couldn’t happen fast enough. Early-afternoon Vittoria was packed. Sitting on the bed, agitated, plugged into Bon Jovi on her Discman. Enough devil left for two hits, one like now, the other as soon as the cabs arrived.
She did the line on the dressing table, went back to lying on the bed, Bon Jovi wound up loud.
Twenty minutes later Vittoria was coming off the monkey. Paulo better have shit waiting, she thought, after all the bragging he’d done. Worried her, being without it. By her count door-to-door would be, maybe, sixteen, seventeen hours. Two hours check in at Milan. Forty-five minute flight. Two hours wait in Rome for the connection. Ten hours onwards. Then Paulo. Pop the assholes, enjoy the holiday.
When she heard the taxis arrive she chased the last line, every bit of it, like a vacuum cleaner. Grinned to herself at the image. Left the suite without a backward glance.
On my way to a killing was the thought running round her head going down the stairs into the hall, hefting her own suitcase. A single suitcase. The entrance hall stacked with luggage like there was a fashion shoot about to happen. The effect weird in the mirrored walls. Suitcases ad infinitum. Made Vittoria laugh.
‘They got no washing machines in Cape Town?’ she said, one step off the ground, surveying the luggage.
Dieter snapped back. ‘You shut up, bitch.’
The taxi drivers humping the suitcases into the cabs, grinned at such love and happiness.
‘Temper, temper,’ Vittoria chanted. Dieter was flustered with the last minute demands, Camillo barking from up the stairs: ‘Have you got the air tickets? Where are our passports? I can’t find the talc. Why are you not taking the white suit? This is summer we’re going to
. I like you in the white suit.’
These sort of questions and niggles when they’d been packing for two days, never mind that half the suitcases were now locked and in the cabs.
In English Vittoria said softly, but loudly enough for Dieter to hear, ‘Dorky fags.’
Hadn’t expected a fisted backhander that caught her on the cheekbone. Dieter pirouetting half ballet-dancer, half kick-boxer in the action. The blow stung, staggered her, even had the taxi drivers protesting on her behalf. Vittoria lurching against the mirrors hand to cheek, eyes darting for a weapon, seeing umbrellas, making a grab for one. Would have run Dieter through, fencer-style. Except Camillo coming down the stairs shouted in German, ‘What are you doing? Stop that! Stop that!’
Vittoria checked the lunge, went at Dieter in Italian for a cock-sucking latex Nazi.
Dieter shouting that it was time Camillo sent the useless bitch back to New York. That the cunt was as fertile as house dust. This last in Italian for the benefit of the taxi drivers.
‘Get in the taxi,’ Camillo said, meaning both of them.
They rode out to Linate in silence, Dieter sulking, sitting in front staring out the windscreen at rain pouring down. Vittoria happy to be leaving Milan, just wishing she could spit on the pavements. Her cheek throbbing.
Camillo said, ‘Aren’t you pleased we are going to the sun?’
Vittoria thought, You better be good for it, Paulo. Answered, ‘Delighted.’
Cape Town International, Camillo had arranged security: two dapper guys in black introduced themselves as Mace and Pylon from Complete Security. Friendly, good-looking types who gave her the once-over, Vittoria happy to preen. On the drive into the city, Mace and Pylon up front chauffeuring a minibus they’d had to hire at the last minute. Camillo asked her, ‘How do you like this?’
‘Wonderful.’ Vittoria saying it offhand, her attention on the glowing mountain, a sky of sunshine over it like she hadn’t seen in months. ‘If it wasn’t for the shanties.’
‘The blacks are a problem,’ said Dieter. ‘Too many children.’ When Vittoria didn’t respond he said, ‘Moreover they are with AIDS.’
‘But our child will not be,’ said Camillo. ‘He will have everything. Perhaps we can start trying for baby tomorrow, don’t you think?’
Vittoria thought, Like hell we can.
‘What do you say?’ said Dieter, turning round to snigger.
‘Get stuffed,’ said Vittoria, watching a black guy on the centre isle of the highway making to run across. Dieter glared at her. The black man started running. Vittoria shut her eyes, heard behind them the screech of tyres, long blasts of hooting. She checked the scene behind: the black man safely across, waving at the traffic.
The house was way up the mountain slopes above the city. The security men carried the luggage piece by piece into the mansion.
Camillo held out a tip. The one called Mace said, no it was part of the service.
‘You want to go out, just call,’ said the other one with the funny name. ‘Any time.’ Further explaining that if it was a dire situation, the armed response control panel was a better bet than a cellphone call. Or to push a panic button. ‘Two minutes and the armed response’ll have men with guns here,’ he said.
They left, both giving Vittoria another once-over.
Vittoria headed for the swimming pool, sat on the edge with her feet in the water, soon on her cell to Paulo, desperate for freedom and charlie.
Was saying, ‘That prick, Camillo, wants to start tomorrow, but it’s too early. Anyway, I told you not again.’
‘What’s the worst case?’ Paulo wanted to know. ‘One lay more, that’s all.’
‘No,’ said Vittoria. ‘You come here and fix it. Now.’ At the edge of her nerves, ragged for a hit.
She heard Paulo sigh. ‘Not that easy, suges.’
‘Hell Paulo.’
‘Like the piece is Ludo’s. I’ve got to sneak it. Without the gun the homos’re not gonna be serious.’
‘So sneak it. Just get here.’
‘Okay. Okay. Wait. Okay, wait.’
‘I’m waiting.’ She gave him the street address, disconnected. It felt like she had glass in her eyes.
Vittoria got up, went back to the house. Dieter standing on the patio eyeing her all the way in.
‘Nice view,’ he said.
‘Fabulous,’ she replied.
‘Enjoy it, darling. You’ve only got four days.’
Vittoria stopped. ‘Meaning?’
Dieter waved a floppy hand at her. ‘Bye, bye Vittoria. When we’re finished. You’re going home to mamma.’
Camillo came out, showered, changed, fresh. Like an advert for first-class air travel.
‘What’s this?’ she said to him.
‘Mmmm?’ he said.
‘This four days shit.’
‘Better for all of us, don’t you think?’ said Camillo. ‘We don’t like you. You don’t like us.’
Vittoria thought, so far so good. ‘In four days I only start ovulating.’
Dieter said, ‘Shit.’
Camillo considered this, said, ‘Alright we have to wait a bit longer. Why not?’
‘If I get pregnant?’
‘If,’ said Camillo. ‘We do DNA testing. If it is my baby, I will honour the contract.’
Dieter popped the champagne. Camillo said to her, ‘Isn’t it romantic?’ - took a sip of the Moët looking at her while he did.
Vittoria thought, to hell with this. Fully understanding the expression on his face, why he kept moistening his lips while he poured her a glass of champagne and handed it to her, toasting, ‘To your success.’
‘I’m going to rest,’ Vittoria responded, leaving the two fruits sitting there in the cane chairs taking in the view.
An hour later the intercom bell rang. She got up to answer. Paulo said, ‘I’m here’ - and she buzzed him in.
15
They sat on a tartan blanket among the Sunday concert crowd at Kirstenbosch Gardens: Mace, Oumou, Treasure, Pylon, the girls, Christa and Pumla, reading books. The hell was it with kids, Mace wondered, that they did so much reading? He stretched out, his head against Oumou’s thigh, his bare feet nudging at his daughter, irritating her. Christa smacked at his ankles, not breaking her concentration, not using any force, more as if she were brushing off an insect.
‘Mace,’ said Oumou, ‘leave her’ - also telling him in French to stop annoying the girl.
About them the crowd had thickened, not a patch of lawn visible beneath the blankets and the cotton throws. People snacking on picnics, quaffing down wine like it was an obligation in the city of the grape. Oumou and Treasure drinking sparkling from long-stem glasses, Mace and Pylon tooting beer.
‘So what d’you think, Oumou?’ said Treasure, ‘about their taking a weekend away.’
‘It’s business,’ said Pylon, his voice high in protest.
‘You said. Like you’re going to go somewhere in a plane if it’s business? Mace does the flying.’
‘Protecting the high ‘n mighty,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s what we do.’
‘Both of you, over a weekend?
‘I think it’s alright,’ said Oumou. She glanced down at Mace, smiling.
‘There’s a festival on,’ said Treasure. ‘They’re going to party.’
‘In Luanda?’ said Mace. ‘I don’t think so. I could think of better places.’
‘A festival?’ said Oumou.
But Mace didn’t get a chance to explain as the Blues Broers in dark suits and shades drifted onto the stage: base guitarist Big Rob in a floppy hat, the Doc with his pork-pie; Big Rob going into a harp conversation with Albert Frost’s lead guitar, Agent Orange bringing up the keyboard with a riff that had Mace gazing out across the sunlit suburbs towards the cooling towers and the urban sprawl beyond, high burnished windows in the office blocks.
There were risks, he knew, about this sort of deal. There always were. But if it came off and no reason why it shouldn’t, they’d be
home and dry. Not bond-free perhaps, but getting there. The world beginning to look a decidedly less scary place. Mace shifted against Oumou, excited at the possibilities.
At the movement Oumou ran her palm over his short hair, put fingers onto his scalp and massaged. Mace closed his eyes, brought his attention back to the song Agent Orange sang about a guy taking a train ride, coming to the end of his journey, entering a dark railway station in a distant city. Feeling a stranger where everyone else was at home. Been a long time since he’d had those sorts of feelings, Mace realised. Which was the way he preferred it these days: the family man.
At the end of the song Oumou bent down to him and said, ‘What is this festival?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mace, sitting up. ‘Not a clue.’
Above the applause, Treasure said, ‘Any other time they could choose, they choose one with a festival.’
‘Wasn’t our choice,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s when the client’s got his meetings. What can we do?’
‘You jealous, Treasure?’ said Mace. ‘The two boys out having some fun.’
Oumou smiled at the tease.
Treasure said, ‘He could be at home helping me in the garden.’
Mace wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. From the look on Pylon’s face could tell he wasn’t either.
The band went into a run of songs back to back that had the audience on its feet jiving to the music like cultists at some summer rite. Mace hoisted up his daughter and Christa slung her arms around his neck and Oumou’s and they balanced her between them, her legs dangling, a rhythm in her body even so.
When the band was through Mace went off in search of Cokes for the girls. Left Oumou and Treasure stretched out on the blanket, Pylon with his eyes closed. Probably dreaming of money, Mace reckoned. He wandered down the lawns to the café, the gardens in shadow and the mountain dark behind. Everywhere people enjoying the twilight and the warm air.
On the bridge over a stream, someone touched his arm from behind and he glanced back to find the ice eyes of Sheemina February glinting at him.