by Mike Nicol
Christa replied: Reading Harry Potter. What u do 2day?
Major shit, he thought. Thumbed back: Saw some people. Walked in Central Park. Very very cold. Had supper in a little bistro.
The message sent, he unscrewed a third miniature from the minibar, filling this with soda. Hoping as he sipped it to hear again from his daughter. The queasiness still in his stomach. The room phone rang. Isabella.
‘Just to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘See you in Cape Town.’ Her voice light with laughter.
I’ll bet, thought Mace, entirely sure having Isabella in the same city as Oumou was a bad idea. ‘Till the 18th,’ he said, a silence opening between them. His cellphone beeped twice.
‘Such a busy boy,’ said Isabella. ‘Keep the faith, Mace, you’re still a good screw.’ She hung up before he could think of a reply.
He checked his messages.
The first was from Pylon: Found her in Llandudno.
The second from Christa: Poor daddy all alone. Should have taken Cupcake.
20
When Mace got back from New York the first thing he checked on was Vittoria Corombona. Found her on a packed Llandudno beach under the noonday sun.
‘No question,’ he said to Pylon.
‘Pleased I got it right.’ Pylon handed Mace back a photograph of Isabella’s husband. ‘Makes this a bit messy.’
‘No kidding. Gonsalves on her tail and we’re supposed to do business with him.’
They watched the couple walking in the shallows hand-in-hand.
‘Question is how soon’s Gonsalves likely to find his way here?’
Mace slipped off his shoes, rolled up the bottom of his chinos. ‘Perhaps he needs delaying.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Search me. Maybe something like a contribution to his pension.’
Pylon wiped a hand over his face, said, ‘How about an ice-cream?’
They bought mint-chocolates on a stick from a vendor sitting on his coolbox eyeing the tanga babes.
‘The problem with mint-chocolate,’ said Pylon, ‘is it tastes like mouthwash.’
‘Only to you. My ice-cream of choice.’ Mace took a bite, letting the chocolate and mint fuse in his mouth. ‘The trick is catching the chocolate before it falls off.’
They ambled onto the sand towards the water, feeling overdressed among the sun worshippers.
‘You think Gonsalves might be tempted?’
‘Possibility. I seem to recall retirement held some terrors for him.’
At the far end of the beach Vittoria and Paulo reached the boulders that shaped the bay and turned, heading slowly back.
‘She’ll recognise us,’ said Pylon, watching the couple. ‘Which would not be a good thing.’
Mace picked at the remains of the chocolate coating his ice-cream, freed a sizeable piece and dropped it into his mouth. Crunched it, said, ‘We’d not be asking much of him. Just a postponement.’
‘And the reason?’
‘No reason. Why’s there have to be a reason? The money’s the reason he won’t be interested in any other reason.’
Pylon flicked his ice-cream wrapper and stick into a dirtbin. ‘If you say so.’
Top down in the Spider they drove back to town, getting into a bumper-to-bumper along the Camps Bay strip, the traffic moving slower than the bikini moms pushing prams under the palms.
Mace said, ‘What I hate about the season is traffic jams. Every beach round the peninsula there’s a snarl-up.’ He pressed the hooter to get the driver in front concentrating on the road instead of the beautiful bodies playing volleyball.
Pylon said, ‘How much were you thinking of?’
‘We could start low. Say ten K. Raise it to a max of say fifteen. I wouldn’t be comfortable going beyond that.’
Pylon whistled. ‘Just to keep him off for a few days?’
‘Actually almost three weeks.’
‘Almost a thousand a day!’
‘Sounds attractive, doesn’t it?’
‘No kidding.’
They met Gonsalves at the Long Street Café. On a stinking afternoon the day after New Year the place was empty, everybody headed for the sea. Mace and Pylon flopped onto two couches in a corner. Ordered Kahlúa Dom Pedros and tall sparkling waters. As the order arrived Gonsalves came in, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, his shirt stained with sweat at the armpits. He gave off a blast of tobacco and BO.
‘I’ll have two of those,’ he told the waiter, pointing at the Dom Pedros. ‘With whisky, not the fancy stuff. Oh ‘n hey, you got an ashtray for me?’
‘Sorry, sir, smoking’s outside,’ said the waiter.
‘Who said I’m gonna smoke?’ - Gonsalves collapsed into an easy chair, fished in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. ‘Heat I can’t take.’
‘Sir…’ stammered the waiter.
‘It’s alright,’ said Pylon, ‘he’s not planning to smoke it. Just bring the drinks, okay.’
The waiter backed off dubiously.
Gonsalves said, ‘So what you want?’
Mace cleared his throat. ‘More or less to find out how things’re going.’
‘In a nutshell: up to shit.’ Gonsalves stripped paper off the cigarette. ‘I got the commissioner wanting to know every second day where’s the poppie? His word. Poppie. You ever heard anyone wasn’t an Afrikaner use that word? Meet my commissioner. A black man. Been in the force as long as me, now he’s a commissioner, I’m a white man with a foot in the marble foyers. What the French say c’est la vie. Never mind. The commissioner’s point is how come a poppie can go missing in our fair city? Because this is not good for tourism, captain, this is not the sort of incident what they call the gateway city, the mother city, wants riding on its name. We’ve got a brand here, captain, he tells me, this brand can’t be tarnished or all the lovely Germans, English, Americans, Japanese gonna take their lovely euros, pounds, dollars, yen off to Malaysia. Find the poppie, captain. Find the killers. Get the Italians off my back. Know what I mean. This is pink city, captain, we can’t have gays being butchered. Think of the brand. Get out there, captain, talk to people.’ Gonsalves balled tobacco between the palms of his hands. ‘This commissioner, Khumalo, talks of whistle-blowers. Somewhere there’s gotta be a whistle-blower. Find the whistle-blower, captain, help him blow his whistle.’
The waiter brought the two Dom Pedros and an ashtray.
Gonsalves popped the plug of tobacco into his mouth, surveyed the mess of tobacco bits strewn over his trousers and the floor, said, ‘Bit late with that’ - indicating the ashtray. He reached for a Dom Pedro, sucked down half of the mix without coming up for air.
Mace wondered how he did that and kept from swallowing the tobacco.
‘Another thing,’ Gonsalves wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘you ever heard of irritable bowel syndrome?’
Mace and Pylon shook their heads.
‘Well that’s what the commissioner’s given me. It’s virulent. I wake up about two, three in the morning with this pain like someone’s got their fist in my gut. I lie there breathing shallow ‘cos this fist’s pressing against my lungs too. Then the pain starts in my side, sharp, like a stitch except worse, slowly it slides down into my colon and I know okay it’s going, soon I’m gonna be okay again. Except sometimes it goes on for six hours. Khumalo’s gut-ache I call it.’ He finished the Dom Pedro, sucking noisily around the ice. ‘Sorry you asked, hey?’
Mace said, ‘That’s a pity.’
Gonsalves glanced at him. ‘More’n a pity, china. Hope it’s not in your destiny.’ He licked ice-cream from the straw. ‘So what’ve you got to tell me?’
Pylon said, ‘Just wanted to know if there was some way we could be of help.’
‘Such as?’
Mace leant forward. ‘Such as, letting you in on some information.’
‘Meaning you know where she is?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Only problem is there’s a time issue involved.’
‘What sort of perio
d are we talking?’
‘Till, say, the middle of January.’
Gonsalves swirled the straw through the mixture. ‘You’ve got a good reason for this?’
‘We have.’
‘Which’s obviously confidential?’
‘That sort of thing.’
The captain sucked at his Dom Pedro. ‘What if I get to her before then? In the normal course of events.’
Mace said, ‘Maybe we could talk about it. At that point.’
‘Anything’s possible.’ Gonsalves finished the drink, ran a finger round the inside of the glass and licked it clean. ‘We in the service’re open to discussion as long as justice is served.’
‘It will be.’
‘Splendid.’ Gonsalves wiped his fingers on a serviette. ‘What’ve you got in mind?’
Pylon moved a leather briefcase across the floor until it bumped against the policeman’s leg. Gonsalves looked at him, them, for a long time. ‘I’ll have your balls,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’
‘It’s cool,’ said Pylon.
Gonsalves chewed at what was left of the tobacco wad in his mouth, staring at them both. ‘Don’t get me wrong, about this. I can make you think car-guarding’s a good option.’
Mace said, ‘We’ll deliver. Tuesday 21 January. Scout’s honour.’
Gonsalves ignored the humour. ‘If we need to talk again, we need to talk again.’
‘Of course.’
Captain Gonsalves rose, hawked the tobacco into the ashtray, dusted his trousers. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘Likewise,’ said Mace.
Pylon nodded. ‘Don’t forget your briefcase.’
‘No intention of doing that.’ Gonsalves smiled at the two men, stooping to grip the briefcase by its handle. ‘Real leather.’ He patted it. ‘How thoughtful.’
21
Five days into the New Year, Mace and Pylon set up a logistics meeting with Mo Siq.
‘Make it my apartment,’ he said. ‘Come’n be jealous of my view.’
Getting to the Waterfront was a nightmare, Mace and Pylon pulled in twenty minutes late. Mo waved aside their apologies. Mo was expansive, until Mace and Pylon explained the situation. Then Mo, in shorts and a flashy Madiba shirt worn loose, was not relaxed. Paced the balcony of his apartment most agitated. Mace and Pylon standing, beers in hand, letting the man adjust to the information. Typical Mo, Mace thought, the ostentatious address. Rich Jews his only neighbours. From three floors up good view, though, across the V&A to the harbour and back to the mountain. Nothing to be jealous about, given his own aspects. When he beat the bank off.
The situation they’d outlined to Mo ran: cargo scheduled for loading Wednesday afternoon, Duncan Dock, Berth D, ship sails that night, deposit paid the next day.
Mo stopped to take a swallow of a single malt he’d splashed with water. ‘Again. I’m dispatching early Wednesday morning, therefore loaded Wednesday afternoon, and your boat sails away with my goodies and only twenty-four hours later do I get to see some money.’
‘As agreed,’ said Pylon.
Mo stared at him. ‘I took it you were joking. I thought in this day ‘n age you’d do business better. Professionally.’
‘It’s straight,’ said Mace. ‘You have our word.’
‘Word’s not what I care for. What I care for is this’ - he held up his right hand, rubbed his thumb against his fingers. ‘Moolah, Mace Bishop. Moolah.’
‘The arrangement’s solid,’ said Pylon.
‘Yeah sure it is. I’ve got to take the say-so of security guards.’
Mace said, ‘What? What’d you say?’
‘Goons. Thick necks. The word of guard dogs.’
‘Up yours, Mo.’ Mace feeling heat rising in his face, taking a step forward.
Mo smirked. ‘The boy’s flushing. Macey the hammer. Good to smash fingers, the only thing he could do. You’re nowhere, Mace. Nowhere ‘n no one.’ Mo gesturing like he was throwing corn to chickens. Turned away.
Mace angled to get past Pylon, reaching to get a grip on Mo’s fancy shirt. ‘Don’t come the high and mighty.’
Mo squirmed out of Mace’s hold, keeping Pylon as a shield. Pylon blocking Mace.
‘You cheap shit-’ but Mace got no further, Pylon shouting, ‘Okay, okay, let’s cool it.’
Mo grinned. ‘Touched a nerve, hey! Bit raw there.’
‘Stuff off,’ said Mace.
‘Guys,’ said Pylon. ‘Guys. Help me out here. Wind it down.’
Mace shrugged free of Pylon’s hold. ‘This was the deal, Mo. This was the deal in November. This is the deal now.’
‘Except in November you were gonna pay me on delivery.’
‘A deposit.’
‘On delivery. Now you tell me one day later. Like I’m smelling a set-up. I’m thinking you’re hanging me out here. I’m feeling done over.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Pylon.
‘Convince me.’
Pylon set his beer bottle on a table beside the remains of Mo’s breakfast. ‘What more can we say?’ He faced Mo, holding out his hands. ‘This is the way it is, bru. We’re all taking a risk. Me and Mace most of all. It’s our lives on the table.’
‘My career,’ snapped Mo.
‘Sure it is. But you wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t consider this worth the pot.’
Mo grunted dismissively. ‘Get me,’ he said, putting a finger in Pylon’s face. ‘Understand me word for word. I find out something else’s going down here, you’ll become unhappy. You will want your life to end.’
Pylon stared him out.
Mace said, ‘Oh shit.’
‘Try me,’ Mo said.
Going down in the lift Mace thought, we do things for people, what thanks do we get? Nothing but grief. Said, ‘It’s not as if he’s even putting out personally. So what’s with the heavy stuff?’
‘Can’t help it,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s part of Mo. In the old days, in exile, Mo was paranoid all the time. Never went to London because he reckoned someone would stick him with a poisoned umbrella.’
The lift doors opened onto what would be a marina but was still a building site. ‘Bloody paranoid,’ said Mace, imitating Mo’s accent. ‘Why doesn’t he bugger off back to the curry basin, I ask you?’
22
Isabella slept off her jet-lag before she called Paulo. Stood now at the hotel window looking over the trees towards the city’s downtown. What she’d seen coming in from the airport a nice place for an African city, if you ignored the squatter mess either side of the highway: tin shacks, igloos of black plastic sheeting, goats, cows. You turned away from that, not a bad place to spend your last days as Paulo was doing. She thumbed in her husband’s cellphone number. He came on groggy in the middle of the afternoon.
‘Honeypie! Did I wake you?’
Paulo’s voice coming over irritated: ‘Why’re you calling?’
Isabella loved it. ‘Oh, hon, I’m concerned. I’m here to cheer you.’
‘Here?’
‘Same place you are. Think you should come to mamma quickly. Leave the little bimbo for a couple of hours, huh!’
She smiled at the silence. Paulo eventually saying, ‘Ludo told you?’
‘Hon, Ludo tells me everything. I told Ludo, relax, no harm done, if she’s gonna make you work better then wonderful.’
What she’d also told Ludo was to make an arrangement for Paulo and Vittoria for after. Which made Ludo happy.
‘So surprise, surprise, hon. Here I am. Bit earlier than expected but a wife has to support her hubby too. Come ‘n talk to me.’
‘Where?’
‘Pink place called Mount Nelson. Say in an hour?’
‘Jesus, Isabella.’
‘Jesus nothing,’ said Isabella. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
Next she hit Mace Bishop in her contacts list.
‘Was wondering when I’d hear from you,’ he said.
Isabella laughed. ‘Such a welcome to your beautiful city. You’re sounding a bit
stressed Macey-boy.’
‘Just a little,’ said Mace. ‘Mostly about a payment that’s due.’
‘Relax.’ She turned from the window. Slipped into her shoes. ‘In about an hour you’re going to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Really. From your husband?’
‘The great man himself. All the details. So how about dinner?’
‘Could be arranged,’ said Mace. ‘Where’re you? The Nellie?’
‘If that’s Mount Nelson.’
‘I’ll pick you up. About eight?’
‘Oh, and Mace,’ she said before he could disconnect, ‘go easy on my beloved. Paulo’s Paulo, that’s one thing he can’t help.’
Vittoria shifted onto an elbow, watching Paulo head for the shower. ‘That Isabella?’
Paulo’s affirmative coming over the toilet flush.
‘She’s in town already? Where?’
‘Hotel called Mount Nelson.’
‘Think we should do her now?’
Paulo came back into the bedroom. ‘Too many complications. We gotta sell the snow. Get the cash to her, sort it out after. What we don’t want is Francisco on our ass.’
Vittoria dipped a wet finger in her bedside supply. ‘Thing is, Paulo, what if she flies away again?’
‘Let me find out, okay? Get her schedule.’
Vittoria sucked her finger. ‘Best thing’s to kill her now, Paulo. Statistics say a tourist’s gonna get killed it’s gonna happen in the first forty-eight hours.’
Paulo shook his head. ‘You take too much of that stuff.’ He disappeared into the shower steam, still shaking his head.
‘You not gonna go soft on me, baby?’