by Mike Nicol
Isabella put the teaspoon in her mouth and swallowed the froth, put the spoon back on the tray. Ludo made a pistol out of his right hand, held it up to catch Isabella’s eye. She nodded. Tell him I want it back, he mouthed.
‘Another thing, hon, ‘fore you go. Bring the gun. It’s what Francisco would call crucial. And crucial is best to swing with.’ She disconnected before Paulo could respond, and flipped the phone closed.
‘A Mugg & Bean,’ she said. ‘Can you take seriously a guy that wants to talk money in a Mugg & Bean?’
29
Mace and Pylon in the departure lounge ordered filter coffees at a stand-up bar. Pylon wanting to know what was it that they couldn’t serve it in a china cup and saucer or even a china mug? Why’d it have to be this polystyrene nonsense? The cashier told him the price without a smile.
‘What d’you call it?’ he said. ‘Not a mug, it’s a container, even has a lid on it. Like where else will I drink this but standing here, hey sisi?’
The cashier scratched at a stain on her apron, flaking off a white powder.
Pylon turned to Mace, ‘A two-plane airport like Malitia’s, no more’n an airfield and a hangar, they served coffee in proper cups. Back then.’ He fidgeted change from his pocket.
‘When they served coffee,’ said Mace taking away both containers to a counter that’d still to be wiped clean, littered with an assortment of polystyrene cups stacked into one another.
He prised off the lid, sipped at the liquid. That it was hot was about all you could say for it.
Pylon said, ‘Look at all this shit. Can’t they get it right to clean when the customers leave? You could put your elbow in a coffee ring if you weren’t watching.’
An attendant came up, swept the empties into a black bin liner, wiped a damp cloth over the counter top.
‘This’s too late,’ said Pylon. ‘The time to’ve done this was before we got here.’ The woman apologised. ‘It’s important,’ he said, ‘otherwise the place feels dirty. Everything’s sticky where people’ve spilt sugar and slopped their drinks. You can feel it.’ He patted his hand on the table top where she hadn’t wiped. Held up his palm. ‘See there, there’s sugar sticking to it. See what I mean?’
Mace said, ‘Pylon.’
Pylon said, ‘No, this’s an issue. Here’s a place with a captive market but just because of that they’ve still got to treat people properly. What’s needed here is some competition. Get everybody on their toes. Or decent management. Someone who’s concerned. Gives the staff some training, keeps the customers satisfied.’ He popped the lid on his coffee, tore open a sachet of sugar and poured it in. Before he’d stirred it he said, ‘I have to go again. Excuse me’ - and headed for the toilets at a clip.
Mace took another swallow of coffee, noted twenty minutes to boarding time. Gazed across at the Hottentots Holland mountains hazed by the heat and the strengthening wind, and thought, thirty-six hours he’d be home and dry with enough moolah to shut up the bank chick. Goddamned woman. What a moment that would be.
His cellphone rang, no caller identity on the screen. Normally he didn’t take those, this time he did. The voice he recognised straight off: Sheemina February.
‘How’d you like the flowers?’
‘Very nice,’ said Mace.
‘Bit confusing, maybe,’ she said and clicked her tongue. ‘After the way you left Isabella maybe you thought they were from her. All these women in your life.’
Mace stayed calm. ‘You’re bugging hotels now?’
‘I don’t have to. Still, with the CIA it’s not a bad idea.’
‘Ex.’
‘Ex? Not from what I heard, Mr Bishop. From what I heard you had a lapse for old time’s sake. So maybe the lovely Isabella’s not ex-CIA either.’
‘What’s your point?’ said Mace.
‘A courtesy call. To wish you well on your trip. And a cautionary: drop it with Isabella before word gets out. I mean to Oumou.’
Mace took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. ‘Then one courtesy deserves another.’
‘How wonderful.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, okay. Or my wife.’
Sheemina February laughed. ‘That’s not my style.’
Mace said good, and Sheemina February said have a pleasant flight and that brought Mace back to the thing she’d first said: to wish you well on your trip.
‘And what trip’s this I’m supposed to be on?’ he said. Could sense her shaking her head.
‘Oh come now, Mr Bishop. There’s no need to pretend with me. Please’ - and she disconnected, leaving Mace to thumb his phone off thoughtfully.
‘How much more?’ said Pylon, coming up. ‘Three times since we’ve got here, I’ve still got the squirts.’
‘I’ve just had a call from Sheemina February,’ said Mace. ‘She knows about this trip.’
‘Hey?’ said Pylon, stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon, frowning at Mace. ‘She’s saying what?’ He put the spoon on the counter, took a mouthful of coffee. ‘She’s saying she knows about this?’
Mace nodded.
‘Bloody save me Jesus.’ Pylon drank again, dabbed at his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘It won’t be from Mo she heard.’
‘I wouldn’t imagine either. But it makes you wonder where she did hear.’
‘Maybe,’ said Pylon, ‘it’s not so much where as how.’
30
Paulo stood at the French doors leading onto the deck: the rim-flow at the far end, Vittoria topless in a tanga stretched on the boards, wired for sound, a bottle of sparkling stuck in a cooler bucket close to hand. He dropped the cellphone into the pocket of his shorts, touched the swelling on his cheek and winced. Didn’t hurt as badly as his ribs, but to the touch, burnt like hell. The cut on his mouth stung too. Still, nothing to how Isabella was going to hurt. Taking a glass off the bar, he joined Vittoria, filling both their glasses.
Vittoria unplugged her ears. ‘You fix it with the bitch?’
‘For one o’clock.’ Before he could click his glass against hers, his phone rang.
‘My name’s Dave Cruikshank,’ said the voice, ‘from City Bowl Properties. I am phoning to make sure everything’s to your liking.’
‘Yeah, great,’ said Paulo. ‘Great place.’
‘Well, enjoy. Any problems big or small you need attending to, you’ve got our number. Whatever hour of day or night.’
‘Appreciate it,’ said Paulo. ‘You’re who again?’
‘Dave Cruikshank. MD City Bowl Properties.’
How about that? Paulo put down the cellphone and sipped from his glass. ‘The MD himself of the rental company. Nice service touch. Here’s to the best fuckpad in the city, Mr MD. What you think, huh, babe? Tell me it’s not goddamned paradise.’ This their new self-catering in the City Bowl, mountain rising behind, the view from the deck across the city to the bay.
Vittoria took half her wine in a swallow. ‘Paulo the organiser.’
‘You better believe it.’
‘All we need’s some white to keep the devil smiling.’
Paulo dug into his pocket, flipped a Ziploc of powder onto her stomach. ‘Like that?’
‘Hey!’ Vittoria sat up. ‘There’s a babe.’
‘Numero uno?’
‘You got it.’ She laid out a line on the deck. ‘You want one?’
Paulo sipped at his wine, shook his head. ‘Monday we take possession on Francisco’s behalf, we can be on safari the very next day. With his stones.’
‘Whatever, baby.’ Vittoria snorted the coke.
‘Lions under every tree.’
‘What about giraffes?’
‘It’s got them,’ he said, reaching for the brochure of the place Vittoria had chosen. ‘Says here lions under every tree. The big five. Night-time we take a ride with spotlights, get up close.’
Vittoria rubbed at her nose. ‘Surprising where a few hours can take you. You walk out of one life, you walk into another.’ She rolled over to sun her backside, plugging
Massive Attack into her ears.
‘Want me to cream your back?’ Paulo knelt beside her, slid his hand over the curve of her ass. The pain at his ribs cut through the movement so fast he couldn’t stop the groan, sat down hard on the deck.
‘Poor baby,’ said Vittoria, turning her head towards him.
Paulo collapsed on his back, the pain beading perspiration over his body. The hell reason the guy had to get physical made no sense. Except if Isabella had suggested it as a cautionary. Unwise of her under the circumstances. Isabella about to get her’s big time. He lay still, eyes closed letting the pain recede, Vittoria’s fingers stroking his arm.
31
Ludo stared up at the mountain, cloud starting to roll across its top. What he’d learnt in five weeks, the cloud meant wind. Hard, shrieking south-east wind that scraped along your nerves. No escaping it. Even in a house wind-howl chewed at you, after five days you wanted to scream enough already, stop for Chrissakes. Going to be no hardship kissing this place goodbye.
The trouble Ludo had been mulling over was the little dipshit, Paulo, and the discomfort of being without his nine mil. Especially with Isabella insisting on the meeting alone.
‘This is a marriage thing,’ she’d told him two hours back. ‘I know how to handle it.’
They’d gone up in the lift Ludo thinking the Paulo situation felt all wrong. Something else going down. In the suite Isabella said what she was going to do was take a taxi to the café, listen to Paulo, offer him a lifestyle.
‘The guy’s a prick,’ she’d said. ‘I tell him something he believes it.’
Ludo had watched the cricket on television till he got antsy. Two hours gone and she wasn’t back. He told himself cool it, go take a drive. Drove up the mountain past the cable station to the lookout under Devil’s Peak. At the lookout a bunch of coloured heps toting reefer and quarts of beer, their sound-system thumping techno. Ugly types, not one of them with front teeth. How that improved their looks a mystery to Ludo. He stopped a way off from them: they caused a hassle he’d leave. A pity the trash always spoilt the magic spots. Tourists came here for the view of mountain, city, bay, they got human detritus.
He lit a cigarette. In the distance a plane lowering to the airport. Which was the moment Francisco called wanting to know what was happening. Ludo did the pacifying number, once they’d disconnected dialled Isabella. Got her voicemail.
The coloured scum were starting to pay him some attention now, lined up like the wild bunch, grinning toothless. Ludo fired the Cherokee, spun off the lookout point in a shower of gravel. He could hear the bastards laughing. He had the gun he’d maybe handle it differently.
At the hotel, no Isabella and her phone still on voicemail. The same with Paulo. He uncapped a beer from the minibar, pacing the room while he drank from the bottle: the question was what to do? Start at the Mugg & Bean he reckoned. If they weren’t there wasn’t a circumstance he wanted to contemplate. But the chances were Isabella wouldn’t go wandering off somewhere quiet with the guy.
Ludo finished the beer in a swallow, leaving the empty on the counter top. By force of habit he felt along his belt for where the nine would usually be. That Paulo had it and he didn’t was a major concern.
32
Paulo walked into the Mugg & Bean, took a table near the outside door. He waved to Vittoria waiting in the Merc two parking bays down. The plan was that as soon as he and Isabella stood, she would drive up and they’d be off. Isabella persuaded to the venture by the barrel of Ludo’s short nine in her back, in a worst-case scenario.
Ten minutes later Isabella came in from the mall side of the café, Paulo watching her confident long-legged stride that didn’t deviate for anyone, people getting out of her way like a sixth sense told them to move. That was the thing about her - arrogance. As if nobody else mattered a flyblown damn. She caught his eye as she passed the wait-here-to-be-seated notice, waving at the waitress that they could do with service. Paulo smiled in response. Why not? She was the one hadn’t the merest notion of what was playing out.
‘Hon,’ she said, standing next to him, ‘isn’t this sweet. Like a married couple on holiday in foreign climes.’
He pulled back from her attempt at an air kiss. ‘You could say.’
‘Except I won’t.’
‘Ease up, Isabella,’ he said. ‘We got things to discuss.’
‘Hey,’ she said, sitting down opposite him, ‘you walk into a wall?’
Paulo touched the bruises on his face.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘You have nice friends.’
‘Mace Bishop did that? What for?’
‘I thought I’d find out from you.’
‘How should I know?’
‘You could’ve asked him to, is what I suspect.’
‘Hon, you’re off beam. Way off.’
‘Maybe,’ said Paulo and ordered two Americanos from the waitress hovering beside him.
‘That’ll do me fine,’ said Isabella when the waitress looked at her for confirmation. ‘He reads my mind.’ Her eyes locked on Paulo’s face but he kept his gaze past her at Vittoria watching from the Merc. ‘You haven’t done a clever thing, hon, taking Ludo’s gun. So let’s hear where you’re going so we can make some sense of the situation.’
Paulo said, ‘Don’t patronise, okay. That’s a start.’
Isabella reached across to stroke his hand. He grabbed hers and squeezed hard. ‘Don’t.’ He released her.
‘Hey, hon, that’s a grip you’ve developed. You grab her tits that hard?’
Paulo felt the pressure come up in his chest, told himself not to rise to her. What she wanted was for him to lose it, right here in public. Instead he grinned, looking her smack in the eyes. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ And revelled in the sharp glance she gave him.
Their coffees arrived, the waitress telling them they were bottomless cups, all they had to do was get a refill from the spigot. As the girl backed off, Isabella said, ‘So what’s your opening gambit, hon?’ She twisted the top off a sachet of sugar, poured half into her cup. ‘I’m assuming that’s what we’re about. Sitting here.’
‘Something like that,’ said Paulo.
‘So what’s it to be?’ Isabella gave her coffee two quick stirs. ‘Give me some idea of where you’re heading in the figure work.’
‘Sixty per cent of the arms sale.’
Isabella sat back. ‘Not a bad opener, hon. Way over the top, the sort of figure would give Francisco the apoplectics. If you wanted advice I would say ten per cent would be good. A regular agent’s commission. For that you get a divorce.’
‘I’m not a regular agent.’
‘Say fifteen per cent then?’
‘Say sixty.’ Paulo sipped at his coffee, intrigued by the frown furrow on her forehead that he’d never noticed before. ‘Sixty’s because of all the work I had to do to make this possible for you.’
‘For Francisco.’
‘Whatever. Sixty’s the opener. Sixty’s the closer.’
‘Hon, that’s unreasonable.’
‘Sure. But also you’re paying to keep me shut-up about all the stuff I’ve gathered over the years. Also this way Francisco gets his money back. All I’m asking is the profits.’
‘Francisco’d be pissed about that, he didn’t make any interest.’
Paulo shrugged. ‘This isn’t a bother to me.’ He watched Isabella sip at her coffee, put the cup down, dab at her mouth with a paper serviette taking off her lipstick gloss in the process.
‘Think what you’re walking away from. The sort of position Francisco could give you.’
‘Never gonna happen, I know that. This way he gets rid of me, you get rid of me, I get rid of you, everybody’s happy. To Francisco this is small change we’re talking.’
‘You think that’s the settlement between us? For a divorce.’
‘I do. Maybe I’m even short-changing myself.’ Paulo finished his coffee. ‘New life, Isabella. For all of us. Hey, you should be
thanking me.’ He called over the waitress for the bill. ‘Finish up, hon, we’ve gotta get this show on the boards.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We’re going to a place where you can tell Francisco how the game’s shaping.’
‘No,’ said Isabella. ‘We do it here. I guarantee you fifteen per cent and the divorce.’
Paulo paid the bill and told the waitress to keep the change. He rose and circled the table as if he were to help his companion out of her chair. In Isabella’s ear he said, ‘Sometimes you can be stupid. This is not about fifteen or twenty or twenty-five, this is about sixty per cent. Read my lips: sixty.’ He straightened and grinned at her. ‘You want to stay outta trouble, you have to come and conference. One of those phone sessions with Francisco.’
‘Wait.’ He felt Isabella’s hand clutch at his arm. ‘That’s it? You’re walking away?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Paulo moved off a pace.
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Doesn’t matter, I have.’
He left her without a backward glance, moving to the door and pushing out through it as a Merc slid alongside him. Paulo opened the passenger door wondering whether the hell Isabella was calling his bluff when he heard Vittoria say, ‘She’s coming.’ All the same he didn’t look round, much as he wanted to. He got in, closed his door. ‘Okay?’ said Vittoria.
‘Sure,’ said Paulo, ‘we’re gonna win this one.’
The rear door opened and Isabella peered in. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘We’re waiting,’ said Vittoria, releasing the brake to let the car roll forward.
All the way back to their self-catering Isabella was on about how this was going to annoy Francisco. How she’d have to explain away Paulo’s duplicity. No matter what kind of deal they settled on there would be collateral. Unquestionably. Indubitably. Francisco was a businessman only the stupid crossed. All Paulo had to do was ask Ludo what happened to the guy in Santiago, just the latest in a long list of Francisco’s ex-associates. Best thing here was to go with Francisco’s generosity.