Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  Paulo didn’t answer.

  Vittoria lay back wondering if Paulo had the balls or was he going to move out of this the way he’d tried with the queers.

  When his cellphone rang she took it. ‘Yeah!’

  Isabella’s voice: ‘Where’s Paulo?’

  ‘Taking a shower.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’

  Vittoria thought, screw you, said in mock posh English, ‘Of course, ma’am’ - and took the cellphone to Paulo, lobbing it over the glass panel, ‘Catch, Paulo.’

  Isabella heard Paulo swearing, the sound of the shower, the phone bouncing around. The noises stopped.

  ‘Honeypie,’ she said, ‘bring the money with you.’

  Paulo got to Isabella’s room and she hit straight into the stuff he was jumpy about. Counted the money, wanted to know why he was so far off the target.

  Had him wound up with her bitchy voice. ‘Paulo, honeypie, this is me, your wife, on the line here. Not you, or Ludo, or Francisco, but me.’ Talking down to him, really talking down to him as if he were ten years old. Paulo having to sit on the edge of the bed while she played teacher. ‘So Francisco would be disappointed. Nobody likes to lose money. But Francisco loses this, he doesn’t notice it. Not really. People who notice it are people like me. My agents. People who’ve really got their asses in the flames. They’re the ones going to get burned, Paulo. Not just third degree. I’m talking full-on cinderisation. Full-on black stump and crispy. And why? Because my little honeypie didn’t pull his finger out. Kept it waggling in his girlfriend’s pussy when he should’ve been out there pitching, pitching, pitching.’

  Paulo shifted uneasily.

  ‘You stop being useful, Paulo, you’re finished. Worm chow.’

  She went to stand at the window so he could see nothing but this black spectre against the light. Thinking, Vittoria’s right, the bitch’s at the end of usefulness. Time for an accident. Time to move on. After the job.

  ‘You want to listen now, honeypie, hear a thing or two about the loop you’re working?’

  Paulo nodded. What options?

  ‘Let me hear you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Tell me.’

  Isabella smiled. ‘What you’re doing, hon, is not simply turning chemicals into money. What you’re doing is setting up a stream. Cash becomes hardware. Hardware becomes diamonds. Diamonds become dollars. As I said, a lot of people’re drinking from this stream. Mostly people who don’t drink from your cut-glass crystal. What I’m saying is, you don’t set up the stream you’re the man who gets fingered first.’

  She came away from the window took her cellphone off the dressing table, put in a number, and listened. ‘Who I’m phoning is a guy called Mace Bishop. I’m going to tell him you’re the money man for the down payment and the whole deal. You’re going to tell him your landline number and address. That address is where he comes to collect the cash.’

  Turned out Mace Bishop was cool about this arrangement. Isabella gave the phone to Paulo.

  ‘Hey,’ said Paulo.

  ‘I’m listening,’ came the response.

  Paulo gave the Llandudno address and the house telephone number.

  Mace said, ‘I’ll be round to collect the down-payment Saturday morning. Say about eleven. Be waiting.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Paulo.

  ‘That’s not the line you want to take,’ said Mace. ‘Be nice and friendly.’

  Paulo disconnected.

  ‘I wouldn’t say things like that to him,’ said Isabella. ‘The guy’s a hyena.’

  ‘Like everyone,’ said Paulo, handed the cellphone back to Isabella. ‘What if I don’t make the down-payment?’

  Isabella tapped the phone against the palm of her hand. ‘I don’t think you won’t. Four nights to go, one of those a Friday. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Paulo thought, shit, she’s hanging me out. Said, ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Course you can. Dealer like you this is no hassle at all.’ She gave him a dazzler, flash of teeth, lips thinned. Dangerous as a snake Paulo had always found that smile.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  She grimaced. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t go there’ - held out her hand to him, ‘How about a cream tea?’

  Paulo dabbed the scone first with strawberry jam, then cream. The only problem with the English habit was how to get it in your mouth without hoovering cream up your nostrils. Not an issue for anyone else he’d noticed. A lounge of them going at the scones and cream.

  ‘What you think?’ Isabella said. ‘Something else, you must admit.’

  Paulo took the serviette to the cream smearing his upper lip. He swallowed. ‘What would be a help, would be getting say ten days out of your friend. Five days is tight.’

  ‘Nothing I can do, hon. Out of my hands. The deal’s going down Saturday. Why’s there a problem here?’

  Paulo thought, a problem here! A problem like how to get four hundred K from three hundred K max worth of powder. In four days. Pushing it in every sense of the word. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  Isabella leant across, holding out a serviette. Paulo pulled back. ‘There’s a tag of jam on the end of your nose,’ she said, blotting at it. ‘Better’ - and sat back. ‘Don’t you love this place?’ - gesturing round the hotel lounge, popping what was left of a scone into her mouth. ‘Probably they didn’t even have to theme it colonial.’

  ‘Maybe I should drop the money with you?’ Paulo watched Isabella top up his coffee, coffee that was as piss poor as instant. ‘Would make sense. He’s your friend. Your contact. Maybe you should close the deal with him.’

  ‘Ordinarily, that’s how it would’ve gone. Except this time I want you in the loop. Prove something to Francisco. I want you to handle this all the way.’ She brushed crumbs from her lap.

  ‘What about Ludovico?’

  ‘Paulo, hon. I told you. You want in with Francisco, you do this. Ludo’ll be around.’ She reached across to stroke his hand. ‘It’s just a pick-up. You worried, get your girl on the scene. Mace goes weak at the sight of a babe.’ Isabella’s fingers curled over his, she stood.

  Paulo looked up at her smiling down at him. ‘Poor honeypie.’

  Afterwards Paulo felt like shit. Walked back to his car thinking, Christ, Christ, Christ, why’d he let her dangle him like that? Freaking bitch. To hell with her.

  He Zippo’d a smoke. His hands shaking. Anger, humiliation, the indignity of obeying her giving him the sweats the more he thought about it. He needed to be calm, to consider this thing through. Sat in the car staring down the avenue of palms to the fella in the pith helmet at the bottom directing a 4x4 between the pillars. An entrance like a Greek temple: columns and plinths. The 4x4 roared up in low gear, a Grand Cherokee, Ludo at the wheel.

  The shit was going on? Paulo about to find out, half-opened the car door when his head cleared: Nah, to hell with them. Time to go on safari. See the Big Five. Chill in an African lodge. Yeah! Up yours Francisco. He fished in the pockets of his chinos for his cell, found Oupa K’s number.

  ‘Oupa K, it’s Paulo.’

  ‘You’re saying, chief?’

  ‘Paulo. You remember …’

  ‘What you want, Paulo?’

  ‘What’s happening, man? How’re you doing?’

  ‘Hanging.’

  Paulo laughed. The Xhosa playing so hard he must be desperate for stocks. ‘You got a moment?’

  ‘You’ve had a moment. What you want, yankee?’

  ‘Maybe we can talk again?’

  ‘That’s what we’re doing already.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So talk.’

  ‘About our arrangement: I’m thinking half as candy, half as rocks.’

  ‘That right, chief? You worked out a tag?’

  ‘Sure. I’m thinking three, four hundred K.’

  ‘Crap, yankee.’

  ‘I’m doing the chemistry, man. You’re going to put that out at double. Maybe more. You’re scoring here. Way I�
�m looking at it you’re turning a profit here close to two hundred thou. Maybe more. You hearing me, dude? You comprehensive here? Listen up again: half powder, half rocks, four hundred K. Sweet?’

  Was when Paulo realised he was talking into the ether. ‘Motherfucker,’ he yelled, hitting the redial. The voicemail came on after ten rings, telling him to leave a message. ‘Jesus, assholes,’ he screamed, banging the steering wheel with both hands, almost smashing the cell. Fired up another cigarette. Halfway down the stick he crushed it. Redialled.

  Oupa K came on, saying, ‘Alright.’

  ‘You hung up on me, man. Nobody hangs up on me.’

  ‘I said, it’s good.’

  Paulo heard this for the first time.

  ‘Friday morning, yankee. There at the lighthouse. Ten a.m.’

  Paulo eased the Quattro down the avenue, shaking another cigarette from the pack. At the gate the pith helmet snapped him a salute as he swung into the traffic without a rightward glance. In the rear-view mirror caught an on-coming car flashing lights at him.

  Heading out of the city up the Nek, over, the Atlantic wide below, down into the coke strip of Camps Bay with all the chic coffee bars along the sidewalk, Paulo was scheming: get to work on the crack, Vittoria to check out the safari operations. Only problem remained getting rid of Isabella. Wouldn’t be any problem at all to walk out on Ludo. He wouldn’t know they’d gone for like ten, twelve hours. Meantime he and Vittoria would be blowing the bucks. Five-star safari time.

  Paulo’s mood was singing when he pulled into the Llandudno drive. Ran into the house shouting, ‘Ria, suges, I’ve worked it out, babe’ - the intercom bell rang catching him in the entrance hall. He answered. On the screen was a guy in a white open-necked shirt, chewing a cigarette.

  Paulo said, ‘How can I help you?’ On the patio he could see Vittoria, bare-boobed to the sun.

  The man said, ‘Ja, um.’ Stared up at the camera, shifted the cigarette round his lips with his tongue. The cigarette was unlit.

  ‘There something you want?’ said Paulo.

  ‘Mr Ludovico?’ asked the man.

  ‘He’s out,’ said Paulo.

  ‘Mr Paulo Cave-dag… Cavedag-na?’

  Paulo thought, cop. Thought, be cool.

  ‘Sure. You’re?’

  ‘Captain Gonsalves. Maybe I can come in for a moment?’

  ‘There’s a problem, captain?’

  ‘No. No problem.’

  Big problem, thought Paulo.

  ‘You got a badge? Some ID, captain?’

  The cop grinned at the camera. ‘This is what I always tell people, Mr Cave-dag-na. Don’t open the door till you’ve seen some ID. Do like the Americans do in the movies. Ask for ID.’ The captain held a card up to the camera, Paulo couldn’t read a thing written on it. ‘You an American, Mr Cave-dag-na?’

  ‘One moment, please,’ said Paulo, turning off the intercom, calling, ‘Vittoria, Vittoria.’ Thinking, this is a cop. He knows my name, he knows Ludovico’s. He’s gotta be looking for Vittoria.

  ‘What’s it?’ Vittoria said, sitting up. ‘Give me a break won’t you?’

  ‘Cops,’ said Paulo which got Vittoria inside and up the stairs fast.

  Paulo pressed the intercom button. ‘Come in, captain.’

  He stalled the policeman in the driveway.

  ‘Captain, I’m Paulo Cavedagna’ - shaking the captain’s hand, guiding him towards the front door, showing him inside to the living room.

  ‘Nice place for a holiday,’ said Gonsalves, looking about.

  ‘Been a wonderful vacation,’ said Paulo.

  ‘A good thing coming to an end?’

  ‘Yup. We’ll be Stateside next week. But you got a great country, captain, we’ll be back. For sure.’

  The captain took out a notebook, flipped to the last page. ‘There somebody called Vittoria Corombona with you and Mr Ludovico?’

  Paulo shook his head. ‘Was. She came for Christmas. Flew home a week ago.’

  ‘She a friend of yours?’

  ‘A relation. Why? You looking for her?’

  ‘I believe she can help me,’ said Gonsalves. ‘In an investigation.’

  23

  Come the afternoon of Tuesday 14 January, when Mace took the call from Isabella, he couldn’t decide if he was pleased or not. The excitement and fear he’d known in New York. Except with a cold edge: Isabella in the same city as Oumou was tricky. The woman a loose cannon on any deck. Still, he set up a dinner date. Better to keep her humoured than feeling spurned. Somewhat of an hour later he had Paulo, confirming the collection details. A whine to his voice. The guy trying some tough stuff, which amused Mace.

  When Mace disconnected, Pylon stood in the doorway to his office, grinning at how the exchange had ended.

  ‘What a prick,’ said Mace.

  ‘It happens.’ Pylon couldn’t stop the grin. ‘Got your goat didn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe you should call Mo tell him the deal’s good.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘Cut me some slack, hey.’

  Pylon sighed. ‘Sometimes you must face your demons’ - at the same time flipped open his cellphone.

  Mo Siq answered right off. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Midnight my trucks are rolling. What about the money?’

  ‘Tell him Saturday morning half past eleven,’ said Mace. ‘His apartment.’

  Pylon did.

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘On the Monday.’

  Mo gave his grunt, disconnecting.

  Pylon stared at his phone, said, ‘Have a nice day to you too Mr Siq’ - and clipped the phone shut. ‘It’s so rewarding doing business with him.’

  Mace chuckled, suggested why didn’t they take a break, have a Coke float at the café in the Gardens. Surely a good idea on a long and hot day with something to celebrate? Especially as come Saturday they were headed for a place where it’d cost a month’s salary in hard US for a Coke float. Or they wouldn’t be able to order one at all.

  Pylon said, ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Mace, ‘it’s a short flight.’

  ‘I don’t do any sort of flying. Remember.’ Pylon slipped his phone into the pocket of his slacks. ‘That was our agreement. You fly. I stay on the ground.’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’

  They shut the office, ambled up Barnet, down Dunkley, crossed Hatfield into Avenue behind the Gardens Commercial High, the school shuttered for the holidays, and turned right into Paddock beneath the oaks. Dappled shade but no relief from the heat. Both men breaking a sweat in their armpits. At the fish ponds they came out of the shadow into the heaviness of the sun, the light blinding even through sunglasses. In Government Avenue the tree canopy took the weight off their heads. Mace glanced up the avenue at the distant pillared entrance to the Mount Nelson, wondering what Isabella was doing with that jerk, her husband. Considered too that he, Oumou and Isabella hadn’t been in the same town in twelve years, since their last days in Malitia. The thought brought out a flush behind the perspiration. Caused a nervous cough.

  Pylon thumped his back. ‘You alright?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mace. ‘Nothing a swig of Coke won’t wash down.’

  They took a table where the shade was deepest, near the bird cages, the canaries in loud song, untroubled by the sweltering afternoon. Only other people on the terrace were a couple eating burgers and a group of backpackers in the full sun like cancer wasn’t an option. Next time he looked a woman, her hair covered by a shawl, had taken a table on the far side of the terrace. She was bent over a document, a highlighter clasped in her right hand. Mace felt something about the woman seemed familiar but he wasn’t troubled enough to mention it.

  The Coke and ice-cream went down smoothly, Mace not saying much, Pylon getting into his stride about Treasure wanting to adopt an AIDS orphan. Didn’t want to have one of their own because of these kids s
tacking up in the shacks and huts, being looked after by grandparents. Was alright for her to talk, she had Pumla. But what about him? He didn’t have a kid of his own. His own blood. Instead she’s uptight about social responsibility. The new black middle class in their rich houses and SUVs not showing any compassion. What Arch Tutu called ubuntu. Like she expected differently?

  Mace listened with half an ear, his eyes drawn to the quiet woman at the far table. She looked up, smiled at him: Sheemina February.

  At the same time his cellphone rang, a new number on the screen.

  ‘I’m standing at a public phone kiosk in Llandudno,’ were Captain Gonsalves’s opening words. ‘The one just before you go onto the beach. Just had this interesting talk with a Mr Cavedag-no. Name mean anything to you?’

  Mace told him no. Asked where did Mr Cave-dag-no stay?

  Gonsalves gave the address.

  Mace said, ‘Maybe we could sort this out the same way as last time?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘Always does,’ said Mace. He could hear the cop’s slow chewing. ‘Anything specific you have in mind?’

  ‘I’ve got the commissioner on my back you have to understand. The man wants the poppie because the Italians are about to send people out to show us up.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Mace.

  ‘We agreed next Tuesday. I can’t do next Tuesday anymore. This’s drawing in.’

  ‘Can you do Saturday?’

  ‘Saturday would be easier.’

  ‘That would suit us.’

  The line went quiet, Mace could hear excited children shrieking, the noise blocking Gonsalves’s voice. ‘Normally I wouldn’t be doing it this way, Mr Bishop,’ he was saying. ‘Normally I would go straight in there with a warrant, get the mess cleaned up.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mace. ‘I appreciate that. I appreciate your call. Listen, let’s say you can go knocking there from eleven-thirty Saturday morning. How would that do?’

  ‘I can live with that.’

  ‘We can maybe ease the waiting too. Like by three grand.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Gonsalves.

  ‘Next Tuesday we’ll sort you out,’ said Mace. ‘Adios.’