Payback - A Cape Town thriller

by Mike Nicol

  25

  Mace woke with Christa’s screams, and found her sitting up in bed, eyes screwed shut, mouth open, hands in tight fists over her ears, shrieking. He and Oumou dropped either side of her, Oumou clutching her, Mace holding them both while Christa subsided into deep sobs.

  ‘Shoosh, ma puce, shoosh,’ said Oumou, the three of them rocking gently while the echo of the screams bounced around Mace’s head. The vision rising of Abdul Abdul shooting, Christa’s cry, and the gun coming back on them again. He closed his eyes, felt the trembling of his daughter and pushed away the memory. It’d been a while since she’d woken screaming, so many months back he’d hoped the nightmare was over. But no. Some things didn’t end.

  For a long time they held one another until Mace said, ‘I’ll get you a drink of milk’ - and went through to the kitchen to warm a glassful, stirring in a teaspoon of honey. He brought this back with a tranquilliser popped from a blister pack.

  Christa said, ‘It was that man. I could smell him.’

  ‘What smell?’

  ‘Like cinnamon.’ She finished the milk, handed the glass to Mace.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘just your mind playing tricks.’

  Oumou fussed with the pillows and the sheet. ‘Come, ma puce, lie down’ - easing her back, Christa’s face softening under her mother’s hands.

  ‘I can still smell the cinnamon,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no cinnamon,’ said Mace.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Christa reached up to both of them.

  ‘You must sleep,’ said Oumou.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Okay.’ Oumou and Mace stretched out either side of their daughter.

  She’ll get through it, Mace thought, it takes time. And what time was three years? Not much. What he couldn’t fathom was what triggered the flashback. Yesterday she’d been laughing. Rough and tumbling with him in the swimming pool before supper. Ravenous for the Chinese takeout, giggling over their game of rummy. A happy young girl. Except she was paralysed. Except she’d once been shot. Because of him. The thought worked into his mind: a splinter under a fingernail.

  It was gone eight when Mace got up, shifting Cat2 from where she was curled behind his knees. He’d slept badly off and on, aware of Christa’s every move beside him. In the kitchen he spooned coffee into the Bialetti and set it on the hob. Stared out at the city, already bright and growling. He heard Oumou come down the passage and pause in the kitchen door.

  ‘She alright?’

  ‘Of course, why not?’ Oumou hugged him from behind.

  ‘When is it going to stop?’ said Mace.

  Oumou rubbed her chin between his shoulder blades. ‘Maybe it will take a long time. Maybe it won’t go away. It is not over for me. I can still see the man with the knife. What is it Pylon says? There is a way of things, no?’

  Mace turned in her embrace. ‘I don’t go with that stuff. We make our lives.’

  ‘I didn’t make what the men did to me.’

  ‘But look at you now.’

  ‘And look at Christa. One day she will walk again.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She will.’

  Mace reached behind to unlock her hands. ‘I’m going to take a swim at the centre,’ he said. ‘Work off some of this.’

  ‘If you wait till Christa wakes, she could go with you, no?’ Oumou took the coffee pot off the hob, poured two cups. ‘This will be good for her.’ She handed Mace a cup, her eyes on him.

  He met her gaze and smiled. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Oumou took his hand. ‘Then we can go back to bed.’

  Mace stood, eyes closed under the shower, thinking, this was on the edge, this wasn’t New York. The unease in his gut again. He let the water run full in his face, water restrictions or no water restrictions. The city could be drying up in the heat, he needed water. Turned to get the jet on his back, adjusted the rose until the water was hard and sharp. The cascade drummed against him. He switched off the hot tap, let the cold water bring out the gooseflesh before he tightened that tap too and stepped from the cubicle.

  ‘Any longer and you’d have run the hotel dry,’ Isabella said, leaning now against the bathroom doorway, flicking a comb through her wet hair, watching him. ‘This thing with you and water. Very mother’s womb.’

  Mace towelled himself. ‘We all have our hang-ups.’

  ‘Some more than others.’ She stood aside to let him into the bedroom. ‘Still, lunch and a fuck in a strange city’s always something to be appreciated.’

  Mace stopped at the tone, halfway into a T-shirt, his arms in the sleeves. ‘What’s this about?’

  Isabella looked at him. ‘My requests, Mace. Two small things. A drive past your house. A chance to say hello to your daughter. Not much to ask, I’d have thought.’

  ‘No.’ He pulled on his T-shirt. ‘I told you. Out of the question.’

  ‘What you don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is that girl, your daughter, is just a name to me. I want to meet her.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then she’s real. We have a connection, Mace. The four of us. You, me, Oumou, Christa.’

  Mace snorted. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘I could be a client for all she has to know.’

  ‘Not going to happen.’ Mace fastened his belt, sat down next to her to put on his shoes. ‘Accept it, Bella. I’m not going there.’

  Isabella launched off the bed to stand at the window with her back to him. Her shoulders rigid, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

  ‘You need help, Mace. A full-time shrink. Give you back some feelings.’

  Mace looked at her silhouette. Mistake. It’d been a mistake in New York, a lapse, a moment’s weakness. Which he’d deeply regretted. This wasn’t a mistake. This was foolish. Utter craziness.

  ‘Come on, be reasonable,’ he said.

  She turned to face him. ‘Do me a favour, Mace Bishop. Fuck off.’

  Mace did, slamming out the room, thinking, up yours too Isabella.

  26

  Saturday morning Vittoria lay listening to Paulo’s breathing. Rhythmical. Like the guy hadn’t got a care in the world. Amazing thing about Paulo was he’d done a number. Cut the crap. Got focused. Got a life. Started with him getting rid of the cop, smooth-talking him back out the gate. So where’d this come from? Little Paulo the rollover suddenly become the schemer, the dealer, the action man. The lover. The. Lover. This Paulo. Twice a night in the last three nights. The stud was stoned on adrenaline. Didn’t even need to chase a line.

  Had done a huge deal with the schwarzer, Oupa K, selling him a portion cut seventy/thirty with baby powder. Rat poison laced into the rock. A self-concocted and made recipe. Paulo over the moon that this was better than a pure pipe. He went out alone, walked away with four hundred K in a five-minute transaction. Not good enough for Paulo the dealer. He set up a run of drops with small-timers that pulled down close to sixty grand. The dude was a hero. She wondered, where’s this Paulo been all my life?

  She asked him: what about Isabella? He came back, Isabella’s toast. Maybe babe I just been wiped over one go too many. Like, enough man. So here’s the plan: once the diamonds come in we’re going on safari. Give Isabella the finger. Francisco too.

  The guy was serious, he was talking giraffes, lions, crocodiles, hippopotamuses. Not only talking, he dropped a bundle of game lodge brochures in her lap, said, whichever one you want make the booking. How long? He’d shrugged. Coupla three, four days?

  Vittoria dipped a wetted finger in her bedside candy bag, rubbed it over her gums. The clock radio gave 9:41.

  The powder ritzing her, she stuck her tongue in Paulo’s ear to wake him. He was hard, ready for a quickie before he’d opened his eyes. What the hell, she thought, it was making for that sort of day. Sat astride him. He reached up, tweaked her nipples, that silly smile on his face.

  ‘You okay?’ he said.

  She angled forward to float her boobs across his chest.


  He asked what the time was?

  Almost 9:45 she told him.

  ‘You ready?’ he said.

  ‘Getting there.’

  He slid a finger in and that did it for her.

  10:45 heading downstairs, Paulo was all joy and light. Called to Ludo on the patio, ‘What’s happening man?’ Ludo busy on his phone held up a hand to hush Paulo.

  ‘All good,’ he said, disconnected. To Paulo: ‘You got the money?’

  ‘Right upstairs. That was who? Isabella?’

  ‘Francisco.’

  Paulo walked off two paces as the intercom buzzed.

  ‘Has to be the collection men,’ said Ludo plonking himself down in front of the television. ‘All yours pal.’

  27

  Eleven on the nose, Pylon brought the big Merc to a stop before the gates of the Llandudno house, he and Mace on their cells.

  Mace to Isabella, ‘The flowers weren’t a good idea.’

  ‘What flowers? Like I’m going to send you flowers after Thursday.’

  Mo to Pylon, ‘You get the guy to ring me and tell me how much is in the bag. Then you get here chop chop.’

  ‘That’s our schedule,’ Pylon said, then said, ‘Hang on’ - and buzzed the intercom, telling the person who answered they’d come to collect.

  Mo said, ‘Another thing, I got a call from Vusi.’

  Isabella to Mace, ‘I don’t even know your address to send you flowers. You’ve got a secret admirer. Or Oumou has.’ She laughed. ‘Who got them, you or her?’

  ‘She did,’ said Mace.

  ‘And she thinks they’re from you?’

  The gates opened. Pylon drove in pulling up close to the front door. Mace caught the movement of someone at a window, thought, no, the weasel wouldn’t try it surely. Wondering whether to take the Ruger from the glove box. He and Pylon got out, leant against the car to finish their conversations, scoping the grounds and the house.

  To Isabella he said, ‘She does. Thinks I’ve given them to her because she sold out her exhibition.’

  ‘How sweet.’

  Mo said to Pylon, ‘I don’t like Vusi. Vusi’s a slimeball. I don’t want him coming here.’

  ‘Have to go,’ said Pylon, disconnecting.

  Isabella said to Mace, ‘No bad blood?’

  ‘We’ll survive,’ he said.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ she said. ‘And Mace, bon voyage.’

  Mace pocketed his phone, then he and Pylon walked up to the front door, rang the bell.

  Paulo buzzed them in: a big black Merc. Two guys got out: smart types in jeans and T-shirts, shades. Both on their cells, leaning against the car finishing their conversations, watching the place while they talked. Difficult to tell which was the man, the white one he supposed. Paulo waited for them to ring the doorbell. The bag with the money on the table. Ludo tuned to a sports channel. The doorbell rang, Paulo opened.

  ‘You’re Paulo?’

  ‘That’s the name I’m known by.’

  ‘This is Pylon. I’m Mace.’

  ‘The money’s on the table,’ said Paulo, letting them follow him into the dining room.

  ‘Nice place.’ Pylon, nodded at Ludo, asked what was the cricket score?

  ‘Fifty-seven for two,’ said Ludo. ‘Pakistan bowling big-time.’

  Mace opened the bag, took out some bundles of notes at random. ‘These in thousands?’ he said.

  Paulo nodded.

  ‘Can you get me a damp sponge?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I do.’

  Paulo fetched one from the kitchen, by the time he returned Mace was sitting at the table, the elastic bands off a bundle, ready to be counted. The guy Pylon chatting to Ludo, saying, he didn’t know Americans were into cricket.

  ‘Couldn’t tell a stump from a six before I got here,’ said Ludo, laughing.

  ‘What they say about travel broadening the mind.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Ludo.

  Mace counted off notes into a stack of fifteen grand, stuffed them into an envelope, slipped an elastic band over the rest of the bundle. Everything went back into the bag.

  Pylon brought out his phone, connected to Mo Siq. To Paulo said, ‘When the man answers, tell him how much is in the bag.’

  Paulo took the phone and headed back into the kitchen, not wanting them to hear the figures. He returned shaking his head. ‘Who’s that guy?’ - gave the phone to Pylon.

  ‘Not someone you want to meet,’ said Mace.

  ‘Enjoy the cricket,’ said Pylon to Ludo on his way out. Mace walking ahead with the bag of money, Paulo on his heels.

  At the front door Mace turned to Paulo. ‘You Isabella’s husband?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mace, with that bopped Paulo two power punches: the first on the mouth, the second on the cheekbone, both split skin, drawing blood. Paulo staggered back, hands going to his face. Mace dancing forward, arms like lightning dealing two short five-finger stabs to Paulo’s ribs.

  ‘Oof,’ the breath knocked out of Paulo, doubling him up.

  Ludo scooted to the door at the sound of the scuffle. ‘Hey, hey, hey, guys, what’s the problem!’

  ‘No problem,’ said Mace. ‘Nothing that a block of ice and a Band-aid won’t sort out.’

  ‘Yeah, well let it go,’ said Ludo, stepping in front of Paulo.

  ‘Obliged,’ said Mace. ‘Give my regards to your wife.’

  Paulo dabbed at his lips, blood smeared over his face.

  ‘Serious people,’ said Ludo, conjuring his cellphone from a trouser pocket as the Merc pulled out. Thumbed a number, said, ‘Deal’s done.’

  ‘That was Isabella?’ asked Paulo.

  ‘Francisco,’ said Ludo, very elegant today: white shirt, pale avocado slacks, suede slip-ons. He disappeared upstairs came back down carrying a suitcase.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yeah. I were you, I would too. Given the cop’s interest in your ladyfriend, you don’t wanna be hanging around here anymore. Either you or her.’

  Paulo waited for more explanation, none was forthcoming. ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘Best you don’t know. Find a little B&B. Keep in touch.’

  ‘I wanna see Isabella,’ said Paulo. ‘You tell her.’

  ‘Tell her yourself.’ Ludo headed for the Jeep. ‘She’s your wife.’

  28

  At the Mount Nelson Isabella upgraded to a luxury suite with two separate bedrooms, the second for Ludo. This her idea while they waited for the collection. ‘May as well treat ourselves,’ she’d said. ‘Also better for security.’

  The situation gave Ludo a rush yet he pretended nonchalance at the thought of getting to sleep that close to the woman of his daydreams. That she had him in the next room as muscle was not a reality he let infringe on the fantasy.

  The first thing that spoiled the fantasy for Ludo was he couldn’t find his gun. Here he was in this paradise room over the trees, bright swimming pool down below, four days with Isabella ahead, he couldn’t find his gun. He unpacked some shirts, put underwear into a drawer, hung up jackets, he couldn’t find his gun. It was there when he packed. Sure it was there when he packed. He went through jacket pockets, trouser pockets, laid out his clothes on the bed. No gun.

  He shook out a smoke, lit it. The punk. The gigolo punk.

  From the other room came Isabella, ‘You smoking, Ludo?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry.’ He pulled twice quickly, then stubbed the Camel and went through to the suite’s lounge. ‘Paulo’s got my gun,’ he said to her bare-foot image in the mirror. She was changing, had on unfastened jeans and a cream camisole, a bead choker round her neck.

  She looked at his reflection in the mirror. ‘This’s a problem?’ Isabella came out of the room, fixing diamond clip-ons to her ears. The flies of her jeans still undone. ‘Probably makes him feel macho.’

  ‘He said he wanted you to call him.’

  ‘Sure he does.’ She closed the
zip. ‘He knows where I am. He wants to talk to me he’ll call.’ She fastened the belt, shook her head, giving Ludo a broad smile of amusement. ‘Would you credit it. Paulo pulls a move. The punk I thought was a jerk.’ She went over to a mirror, applied lipstick. Chuckling, mmmed her lips, padding back to her bedroom.

  ‘He’s got my gun.’

  ‘What you think he’s going to do? Shoot someone?’

  Isabella strapped on sandals, slung a small bag over her shoulder, Ludo watching her in the mirror: some cool woman this.

  ‘Let’s go get a coffee.’ As they were leaving the suite said, ‘You think the pussy gave him the balls?’

  Ludo patted his pockets for the reassurance of a Camel packet, desperate for a cigarette the moment they hit fresh air. ‘Probably.’ He pressed for the lift. They travelled down two floors in silence.

  Halfway through their coffees, Isabella’s phone rang. Ludo watched her reach for it on the table, the phone vibrating across the glass top. She flipped it open. ‘There we go. The little man on cue’ - and gave her husband a bright ‘How’r you, hon?’, smiling the while at Ludo sprawled in the cane chair opposite.

  Ludo thought, not for the first time, strange game she played with the asshole, listening patiently while the jock mouthed on.

  ‘More than talk I would think,’ she said eventually, studying the nails of her right hand. ‘What’s that? A coffee shop. Mugg & Bean? You think that’s the best place to discuss this sort of thing, hon?’

  Ludo signalled to her that the hotel would be good, but she shook her head.

  ‘How about one o’clock? You want to do it when there’re lots of people, that’s alright.’ She lent over to spoon froth from her cappuccino, paused with the teaspoon halfway to her mouth. ‘Alone? Hubby and wifey doing lunch, how sweet.’

  Now Ludo shook his head, pointing at himself then at her to say no ways would she be going alone. Tell him, he mouthed, tell him I’ll be with you.