Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Three large,’ exclaimed Pylon. ‘We’re not a bank.’

  Mace shrugged. ‘The commission we’re pulling, we’ll not miss it.’

  ‘Long as it ends there.’

  ‘He’s a cop for Chrissakes. He’s honourable.’ The two men laughed. Mace looked over at the table on the edge of the terrace. Sheemina February had left.

  ‘Sheemina February was behind you,’ said Mace.

  Pylon turned round. ‘Where?’

  ‘She’s gone. Seems to me we’re bumping into her a bit too often.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Pylon. ‘Lawyers hang out here. Huguenot Chambers is full of lawyers. High Court’s round the corner, it’s to be expected.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Mace.

  At five Mace was home to pick up his daughter for their swimming session. He called downstairs to Oumou in her studio that they were off and heard her call back, ‘Oui. Enjoy the water.’

  Christa, in a black Speedo under one of Mace’s T-shirts, ears glittering with studs he’d bought her, closed her book, said, ‘Let’s go, Papa. Let’s go, we’re late.’

  Mace scooped her up from the couch and carried her through to the garage where the Spider ticked quietly. She was still a child’s weight although he sensed the strength of the muscles in her arms hugging his neck. She squeezed.

  He mock-gagged. ‘You’re strangling me?’

  ‘We’ve got to move,’ she said, setting Cupcake on the dashboard as a mascot.

  ‘What’s it? There’s some boys you want to impress?’

  She giggled. ‘Papa!’

  Mace plopped her in the Spider, fitted her wheelchair into the space behind the seats. Before he could start the engine Christa slotted a Britney Spears CD into the player, saying, ‘Don’t even say aargh,’ but Mace did and she slapped at his shoulder.

  He drove fast down Molteno, the city spread below them, Christa singing Britney’s words, both of them exhilarated by the speed. At the Annandale traffic lights he bought a joke sheet from a cross-dresser in a blonde wig and an orange miniskirt, the trans squealing at him ‘Hello, how are you, what a sweetie,’ poncing and pouting all the time it took Mace to dig out some change. He gave the photostatted sheet to Christa, said, ‘Read us a joke.’

  She read two, neither funny, and scrunched up the sheet in disgust.

  ‘Bit of a waste of time,’ he said.

  ‘I know better ones,’ she replied, going back to singing with Britney.

  At the gym Mace wheeled her through to the pool, running a shower of greetings along the way, his daughter a hero with everyone. And she was. Maybe she couldn’t walk yet but there was movement in her legs when she swam and he lived in hope that each session in the pool brought her a day closer to walking. He got her out of the chair into the water, watched her take off for the other side in her dragging crawl, her legs mostly trailing. What he admired in her was the fierce determination. Like her mother she didn’t give up.

  Mace changed and hit the water, getting into sync with his daughter until she tired. Then they stopped and he held her by the arms while she tried to coax a kick into her legs. A year they’d been doing this. In the beginning she hadn’t the strength to hold her body out, and her legs had drooped down, useless. Now she floated easily, legs out, gently rising and falling, her little bum tight with effort. The thought of her grit choked Mace.

  When she was tired he piggy-backed her to the side and set off for a couple of lengths at a pace way off what he’d managed with Tyrone and Allan. After Tyrone’s death in a car crash eighteen months back, the sessions at the pool had petered to a halt. He hadn’t seen Allan in a while; the guy could’ve left the city for all he knew.

  Ten lengths later he surfaced beside his daughter. ‘One more for luck?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘A smoothie?’

  She nodded. Mace caught a change in her mood. ‘Something’s wrong?’ Again she shook her head but he could see she wasn’t far from tears. In the end they skipped on the smoothie and went straight out to the car.

  Neither of them noticed Cupcake wasn’t where they’d left him until they were almost home.

  ‘Cupcake? Where’s Cupcake, Papa?’ Christa pointed at the dashboard. ‘Someone’s stolen him.’ This time the tears came.

  Mace reached a hand across to comfort her, thinking, had he or hadn’t he locked the car? Sure that he had. But the bear was missing.

  ‘Cupcake’s gone. Someone stole him out of the car,’ Christa told Oumou, the tears coming again as Mace carried her into the kitchen and eased her onto a stool at the centre island where Oumou stood preparing a salad, a glass of chardonnay at hand.

  ‘Ma puce,’ said Oumou, hugging her daughter, looking at Mace. ‘This is terrible. Maybe he fell out.’

  ‘No,’ said Mace. ‘I couldn’t have locked the car.’

  ‘And there were no car-guards watching?’

  ‘Gone home already.’

  ‘Oh ma puce,’ said Oumou, wiping her daughter’s tears. ‘This is sad on a day when Maman has a celebration.’

  ‘What celebration?’ said Christa.

  ‘Yeah, what?’ said Mace, picking at the calamari strips and black mussels simmering on the gas hob, shooing off Cat2 from clawing his leg.

  ‘You have to congratulate me.’

  ‘For what, Maman? For what?’ Cupcake’s loss temporarily put aside.

  ‘For my exhibition that is all sold out.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Christa.

  ‘Hey!’ said Mace. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Today,’ said Oumou. ‘This afternoon quite late a tourist bought everything that was not sold. The gallery phoned to tell me a cash payment.’

  ‘A sell-out.’

  ‘What is best for me is the exhibition is only open a week.’ She clutched their hands. ‘This is wonderful. It will be something to shut up the bank woman.’

  Mace hugged her, said, ‘We should celebrate but I can’t. That’s a pity.’

  ‘You are going out?’

  ‘Aah Papa.’

  ‘Dinner with clients,’ he said. ‘I have to be on the schmooze.’ He saw it took the smile off Oumou’s face but she said nothing.

  Mace and Isabella had dinner at the hotel.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make a night of it. We can hit the town some other time.’

  ‘The hotel’s fine,’ said Mace wondering when that other time would be. He wasn’t sure two nights on the trot with Isabella would be a good idea.

  They took a drink first in the bar with a guy called Ludovico who Mace couldn’t remember meeting back when he’d agreed to the deal. Ludovico didn’t have much to say, seemed distracted, Mace thought, and a bit uptight even in his bright shirt and white slacks.

  ‘My brother’s watcher,’ Isabella reminded him over dinner. ‘Keeping an eye on business.’

  ‘Like the money?’

  ‘The money’s fine.’

  Mace took a mouthful of grilled fish. Before he’d swallowed it, said, ‘When do I get to know the details? Of who we’re selling to.’

  Isabella set her knife and fork neatly on her plate, the only remains of her meal a grey jacket of fish skin folded to the side.

  ‘Not a bad fish,’ she said. ‘Needs the sauce though.’ She sipped her wine, dabbed her lips. ‘What’d you call it, a kind of cob?’

  ‘Kabeljou,’ said Mace.

  ‘Would’ve risked being bland otherwise.’ She sat back to let the waiter take the plate. When he was gone, said, ‘It goes like this, Mace. A man called John Webster’s going to be in touch. Probably at your hotel. Old-hand trader. Guns, diamonds, even ivory, at one time I heard. Art too. Masks and carved figures. Some of my best stuff in New York came through him. He’s got this contact, politician, chief, warlord, I don’t know what exactly, who needs to improve his standing. This consignment he reckons will do that. Shouldn’t be a hassle at all.’

  ‘And the diamonds come via Webster?’

&n
bsp; ‘In him we trust.’

  ‘Like you say, no hassle then.’

  They finished the bottle of wine and ordered espressos.

  Isabella said, ‘Macey-boy what I’d appreciate doing while I’m here is to see where you live, maybe meet your daughter?’

  Mace felt the chill of that suggestion in his veins. He shook his head. ‘Not a good idea. I don’t want Oumou to even suspect you’re here.’

  Isabella smiled. ‘I bought out her exhibition. I’d say for that you owe me one small favour.’

  Mace looked down at the black surface of the coffee, mottled with golden froth. Thought, Christ, didn’t she ever stop. ‘I should’ve guessed.’

  ‘She excited about a sell-out?’ Isabella couldn’t keep the smirk from her voice.

  Mace glanced up at her. ‘Why’d you do it?’

  ‘I liked the stuff. She does good work. Hell, Mace, why not? What was left? Some bowls, plates, vases.’

  ‘About fifty grand’s worth.’

  ‘In dollars, peanuts.’

  ‘That’s not the point.

  ‘No? But she’s happy, I’ll bet. Flying.’

  ‘Because she thinks some stranger walked in and snapped it up.’

  ‘That’s about right. There hadn’t been a flyer for the exhibition on the concierge’s desk I wouldn’t have known. She wouldn’t have sold out, I wouldn’t own some of her pieces. What’s the big deal here? I’m not allowed to buy her pottery?’

  ‘It’s patronising. What you did’s like taking the piss.’

  Isabella laughed. ‘Come on. Lighten up.’ She opened the foil on the round of Belgian noir that came with the coffee, popped it on her tongue, sucked loud enough for Mace to hear. ‘Not bad.’ Sipped coffee over the chocolate melting in her mouth. ‘So what d’you say, Mace?’ - leant across the table to stroke his cheek.

  24

  Mace and Pylon spent Wednesday running ragged, juggling their time between two sets of clients. The one couple about to head off for their post-op safari, both of them surgically sculpted and still a little puffy and bruised about the gills. Neither much concerned about their war wounds.

  ‘Hell,’ the husband said, ‘like I should give a damn.’ His wife adding, ‘These people on the safari we’re never going to meet again.’ Predictable attitude in Mace’s experience, yet always amused him seeing as appearance was the nip-and-tuck brigade’s major motivation. While he got them to the airport in the big Merc, Pylon logged in a gay couple for their detox at a hydro in the winelands.

  On the highway back to town Mace took a call from Isabella.

  ‘So, when’re you gonna pick me up? Show me your fair city.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Mace. ‘I’m flat-out, Bella. Also we’re taking over the consignment this afternoon.’

  ‘Count me in.’

  ‘Don’t want to disappoint you again, but no.’

  ‘Sweetie! So macho. Dinner then?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mace, thinking what he’d do was cancel in the late afternoon. Maybe fob her off with lunch on Friday.

  They agreed a time and disconnected. For sure, Isabella in his home town was big-time maintenance.

  Mace and Pylon met up at the quay to watch Mo Siq’s trucks unload twenty wooden crates marked engineering equipment. All the paperwork stamped, the ship’s captain relaxed, happy to share a beer with them on the bridge. The wind freshening through the afternoon, the mountain under a tablecloth of cloud, and the harbour water choppy. A murky green, ominous looking. Across in Duncan Basin the wharf cranes loaded containers onto a trio of ships. Back of that the city skyline floated low in the wind haze. The sight gave Mace a charge, like this was the old times.

  Going down the gangplank he said, ‘Maybe we should do this more often.’

  Pylon stopped. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’

  ‘Just a thought. Hitch a ride with Mo’s Opportunity?’

  ‘Forget it. We don’t need the exposure.’

  ‘Good bucks though.’

  ‘We’re doing alright last time I looked.’

  They reached their cars. Mo’s trucks were already gone. Some sailors huddled out of the wind behind a container playing cards, a long-haired dog beside them.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mace. ‘May as well head home for an early one.’

  Pylon beeped his car’s remote locking. ‘Give Isabella my best.’

  ‘I’m not seeing her.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. A family evening.’

  Pylon held his gaze. ‘I’m pleased. I was wondering there.’

  Mace laughed. ‘You don’t think …? Come on. No.’

  ‘Have to admit it crossed my mind.’

  ‘You mean you would’ve?’

  ‘For the nostalgia. I might’ve taken a night out. That sort of thing’s tempting.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Mace opened the Alfa’s door, staring over the car at a white Toyota coming fast along the quay. ‘This situation’s worth a lot of money but it’s not worth that, blowing it with Oumou.’ The Toyota stopped, out jumped a nifty dresser, all smiles. Came forward, his hand extended.

  ‘You’re Mo Siq’s guys,’ he said. ‘My name’s Vusi Themba, Customs and Excise.’

  ‘That so,’ said Mace, shaking the offered hand. Pylon approached, did the brother’s clasp.

  ‘Establishing that everything went as it should.’ He grinned from one to the other, giving them a lot of teeth behind thick lips. Mace thought his nose looked like it’d been beaten onto his face. A round friendly face.

  ‘No problems,’ said Pylon.

  Vusi said, ‘I’ve just passed the trucks heading out. Couldn’t have taken more than forty-five minutes to unload.’ He hauled up a heavy Rolex to check the time. ‘Yeah, forty-five, fifty minutes.’

  Neither Mace nor Pylon made a comment.

  Vusi took out a pack of Marlboros, tapped the base and offered it. The two men shook their heads. ‘I’ve gotta stop,’ he said, picking out a white, firing it with a Zippo. He blew the exhale from a corner of his mouth, the wind bringing it back on Mace and Pylon. Vusi gestured at the ship. ‘Argentinian?’

  Mace nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Heading up the coast?’

  ‘Haven’t asked their schedule. The captain’s up there if you want to know.’

  Vusi turned his back to the wind, the strength picking up, getting unpleasant and gritty. ‘Sailing tonight I believe.’

  ‘If that’s the schedule.’

  ‘According to the harbour log, it is.’ Vusi flicked ash. ‘Once I’ve signed off the paperwork.’ He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, pulled out a sheaf of forms from his jacket pocket, said with the Marlboro bobbing on his lip, ‘Wouldn’t want to lose these in the breeze.’ The documentation fluttered in his hand.

  ‘What’s it you want?’ said Pylon switching to Xhosa, knowing the answer all too well.

  The custom’s officer stuck to English. ‘To talk. Mo said I should speak to you.’

  Pylon looked at his partner, gestured his head at the big Merc. Mace nodded, said to Vusi, ‘We’d appreciate no smoking in the car.’

  Vusi grinned, dropped the remains of the cigarette and crushed it.

  Mace held the front passenger door open for him then slid himself in along the back seat. Pylon went behind the wheel.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Vusi, ‘leather, hey, really smooth,’ patting the seats, turning sideways so he faced Pylon and could see Mace behind the headrest. ‘Look, guys,’ he said. ‘This is awkward for me. My understanding is you’d have been expecting me. Maybe even have come in to see me. In my office. We could’ve had coffee. That would’ve been easier. More comfortable.’ He spread his hands. ‘Mo should’ve told you the way it works.’

  ‘Maybe you should now,’ said Pylon.

  Vusi nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right. Okay. Okay. Take it this way. The way this works is you wouldn’t be here without me. You understand what I’m saying?’ He glanced from one to the other.

 
‘Sure,’ said Pylon. ‘Continue.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that I’m the link that makes the chain. Otherwise you got two bits dangling in your hands.’ He laughed. Nervous, cutting the laugh short at their non-response. ‘Mo should’ve told you that.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes Mo’s not good on the detail.’

  ‘Seems like it,’ said Pylon. ‘So how much is the bribe?’

  Vusi grimaced. ‘Commission,’ he said. ‘Same as any professional consultant.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘How about twenty grand?’

  ‘How about it.’

  ‘My estimation. As this’s for Mo, that’s a base rate.’

  ‘So maybe you should talk to him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Vusi. ‘I should, normally. Except he said to talk to you.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand, tops’ said Mace. ‘Saturday midday at Mo’s flat. You know where it is?’

  Vusi nodded. ‘Now would be better.’

  ‘Now we don’t have it. Ask Mo. This thing’s structured on trust.’ Mace leant over, touched Vusi on the shoulder. ‘We’re grateful for your help, Mr …’

  ‘…Vusi. Vusi Themba …’

  ‘… Mr Vusi Themba. But this’s how things are. Till Saturday.’ He opened his hand and the custom’s officer hooked his arm up awkwardly to shake it.

  Mace and Pylon saw him into his car, watched him drive off.

  ‘How come we’re always the suckers paying the hired help?’ said Pylon.

  Mace headed for the Spider. ‘This sort of thing all comes out in the wash.’

  On his way across the docks Mace put through a call to Isabella.

  ‘You’re cancelling?’ she said when she heard his voice. ‘You’re taking the chicken option.’

  Mace smiled, Isabella always getting in ahead of the game. He gave her the excuse of clients needing a run around.

  ‘Nanny work,’ she said. ‘When’re you going to get a proper job?’

  ‘It buys the beer.’

  Isabella laughed. ‘You’re a bad liar, Mace. Go’n, run home to mommy.’ She hung up.

  He considered ringing back, then had second thoughts. Better to head for the Hot Wok and get takeout Chinese. Put him into Oumou’s and Christa’s good books.