by Mike Nicol
That was exactly the problem Mace could foresee: being in the line of something meant for Ducky Donald.
They weren’t halfway down the block when the horde realised the man in the long black raincoat, advancing with his hobble gait towards them, was none other than the hated developer. This gave them new vim and vigour. Unleashed some stones but nothing Mace and Ducky couldn’t dodge. The cops got active; even the mob’s leaders called for calm. Didn’t stop the chanting though.
Gathered at the entrance to the site were the people Ducky Donald was to meet. Not a happy crew. Clustered under golf umbrellas clutching their plans and files.
Among the enemy, a priest Mace recognised from television and a man he didn’t, started calling to Ducky, the police restraining them.
Ducky said, ‘What’s your problem reverend? We’ve got channels for this sorta stuff.’
‘See how angry people are,’ said the man in a soaked kurta. ‘You have desecrated a grave.’
Ducky waved him aside. ‘Yeah, yeah. We’ve been through this, Ahmed. We’ve gotta move on. Do me a favour, hey. Find somewhere new for your bones. Okay? Then we can talk.’ He turned away from them, started shaking hands with the people he’d come to meet.
Mace kept facing the horde, saw the half-brick lobbed from the back but was too late in pulling Ducky aside. It caught the developer on the shoulder, staggered him into the arms of his architect. Unleashed a roar of outrage. Ducky Donald swung round on the pack even as it surged forward, his wounded hand raised, shouting, ‘You bastards. What’s your bloody problem, you bastards?’ While Mace bunched a fist into his jacket and hauled him inside the site entrance.
‘Lemme go. Jesus damnit, Mace. Lemme go.’ Ducky found his feet. Straightened the clothing Mace had pulled awry. ‘The bastards. The bloody bastards.’
‘Alright,’ Mace said restraining him again. ‘Let the cops deal with it, okay. They’re breaking it up.’
‘They want war,’ he said. ‘They’ve got war.’
The second time Mace had heard him threaten this, but believed Ducky was probably a three-bells man.
He quietened down, the consultants grouped around shuffling nervously.
While they held their meeting on a platform suspended over the hole, Mace stood at the entrance, admiring the police efforts. No hardline tactics, a gentle pushing and shoving, moving the people up the street. Nor were the leaders putting up any resistance. Everyone went peacefully enough, still singing. Eventually only the priest was left, a wet figure at the top of the road holding a sodden newspaper over his head. He made a cellphone call during the time Mace watched but he couldn’t have said more than a dozen words before he disconnected. Nor did he move from that spot or change his stance until Ducky appeared. Then he was gone onto Somerset Road.
‘Who’s the priest?’ Mace asked Ducky in the car. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘Oh,’ he raised his bandaged hand dismissively. ‘Holy called Thomas Carney. Got a huge chip on his shoulder. Got huge chips on both shoulders actually. Does TV stuff.’
Mace eased into Prestwich Street, drove slowly past the building site. No action any longer, even the cops were gone.
‘All this bloody rain, how’re you supposed to get a bloody building built?’ Ducky stared at his fence of corrugated-iron sheeting surrounding the excavation. ‘You take a look down there at all the water?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Like a swimming pool. Seeps up from underneath. Buckets down from the heavens.’
‘You wanted to be the developer.’ Mace turned into Chiappini, heading towards Somerset. There on the corner was the reverend. ‘Want to give your friend a lift?’
‘Of course, yes, why don’t we? Dump him to hell ‘n gone in the Karoo. Let him walk outta the desert like a prophet.’
Mace stopped at the traffic light. The priest came quickly at them, slapped his sodden newspaper on the bonnet of the car. Shouted, ‘Damn you to hell Mr Hartnell.’
Ducky lowered the side window. ‘Not very charitable, reverend.’ The man glared at him. ‘Can we give you a lift?’
‘Fuck you. Just fuck you.’ And the reverend hit the car again, taking off towards the city in long strides.
‘Crazy man,’ said Ducky bringing up the window. ‘A priest saying things like that. Jesus Christ!’
The light changed and Mace drove across to where he’d had the altercation with the grey Camry. Got stopped again at the intersection into High Level Road.
‘What sort of priest?’
‘Anglican. Church of England, whatever you call it. In the struggle days saw the insides of prisons more than the insides of churches. A righteous man. Starved himself when the Boers locked him up.’
‘He did?’
‘A hunger strike got him on the front page for ten days. I checked.’
‘Always hoping for an angle.’
Ducky chuckled. ‘Why not? You never know.’
Mace turned into High Level, accelerating up the hill.
‘He’s just a poor rev nobody can even bum money off. So when the bones come up he jumps to the frontline. Something to vent his spleen. Get him back in the news. Gives me crap all the time without let-up.’
When Mace next glanced in the rear-view mirror there was the blurred front end of a grey Camry, a lone driver.
‘We’re going for a little ride,’ he told Ducky, shifting forward to draw the Ruger from his belt. ‘Don’t look back. Let’s keep it calm.’
Ducky hit the dashboard, nonetheless. ‘I don’t bloody believe it.’
‘Mightn’t be anything but a little more aggro. To let you know they’re watching.’
‘Bugger them. This is war now Mace. Know what I’m saying? War.’
He kept rigid in the seat though, facing forward. All the way along High Level, down Fresnaye into Queen’s onto Victoria, slowly along the coastal curves through Clifton, through Camps Bay, the Camry keeping steadily behind them, not too close, until the road opened under the Apostles, then narrowing the distance. Mace let him come up, figuring not too many options in his hand.
The weather was black and raw here: breaking in squalls off a high sea. Spume and debris on the road. The wind tugging the wheels. Mace let the Camry move out to overtake, changed down, put foot.
‘Are you bloody mad?’ yelled Ducky, as they went into the first bend, the cars sliding on the wet, side by side. For any on-coming traffic the Camry was solid in their lane. Also he had the drop-away to the sea at his elbow. Mace edged closer, but the driver didn’t frighten, kept his speed until the Camry was door for door. Swept through a left curve, a right, a tight left, the Camry twinning his moves.
‘Goddamned maniac,’ Mace shouted.
Ducky going, ‘Jesus! Fuck! The bugger’s got a gun.’
Mace caught this out of the corner of his eye: the driver’s grin, the pistol and damaged hand raised in profile. A face he recognised. Glanced ahead, the road wide and rising on a straight.
The BM had power to spare, would outstrip the Camry in a few hundred metres. Instead Mace braked, stood hard on the pedal, the ABS kicking in, even on the wet the car not fishtailing. It got him a couple of seconds, the Camry braking too but sliding right, loose on the road. Mace jerked the handbrake, brought the car round in a tight left. Slapped down the gears and watched the needle climb.
He remembered the face. And the hand. Mikey Rheeder.
In the rear-view saw the Camry slew to a stop across the road, saw muzzle flash as Mikey pulled off two rounds but he and Ducky were laughing, could hardly hear the retorts. Saw the Camry make a three-point and come after them again.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Ducky, skewed in the seat to look back. ‘Would you bloody believe it? Doesn’t this guy know when’s enough?’
‘Seems not.’
Mace ran the speed higher to Camps Bay, taking Geneva up to the Nek and back to town, losing the Camry.
‘And now?’ said Ducky when they drove into Dunkley Square.
‘And now,
’ Mace said, ‘we’re going to organise a meeting with your priest and the imam and whoever else’s got themselves frothing at the mouth. Right here. Right today.’
‘Nothing more to be said with them.’
Mace parked the BM on the square. ‘Bullshit. For starters, they can pull off the heavies. Maybe you can offer some concession.’
‘Oh yeah. Like what?’
‘Hell, Ducky. How should I know? A plaque in the entrance. For Godssake. Anything.’
They made a dash through the rain for the office. Stood shaking off like wet dogs in the hall. Pylon came downstairs holding a rose in a box, grinning at Mace.
‘For you,’ he said.
A deep purple, long-stemmed rosebud.
Mace took it, opened the attached envelope: no name, no message on the florist’s courtesy card. ‘Any clues?’
Pylon shook his head, still grinning. ‘The florist delivered. Poor guy on a motorbike. On a pissing-down day like this. But, hey, it’s for the irresistible Mace Bishop.’
‘Seven months off Valentine’s,’ said Ducky.
‘And Gonsalves is after you. Wants to know why you don’t answer his calls.’
8
The meeting was set for 5:00 p.m., Mace and Pylon hosting. The reverend and the imam not overly keen. A quiet chat they were told, to sort out some issues.
On the phone, the Reverend Carney got up on his hind legs. ‘We will not be bullied. ‘You cannot intimidate us.’
‘I don’t imagine so,’ Mace said, ‘considering your tactics.’
‘Protest is not intimidation.’
‘Trying to kill us is.’
‘People are upset. They throw stones when they’re frustrated.’
‘I’m not talking about stones, reverend.’
A silence. Then: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. And it wasn’t very Christian either.’
‘God’s gonna get you,’ Ducky Donald shouted from where he sat across the room.
‘What’s he say? What’s he say?’ said the reverend. ‘We will not stand for any abuse.’
‘Till five,’ Mace said, disconnecting.
‘They won’t rock up,’ said Ducky. ‘I’ll bet you.’
Mace didn’t respond.
Pylon said, ‘They will. They can’t afford not to.’
They took Ducky Donald home, giving him a lecture on the way about the need for a concession.
‘That’s why I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘So I don’t have to do that. What you want’s a PR job ‘n since when’ve you been experts in that field, huh?’
‘Think about it,’ said Pylon. ‘It might save your life.’
Ducky Donald wasn’t happy at the prospect of thinking about it but Mace wasn’t happy about grey Camrys on his tail. Also if Gonsalves was agitated Mace needed to clear some space. His voicemail message: ‘Get back to me asap, Mr Bishop, some serious shit’s gonna hit the fan about those Americans.’ Undoubtedly, Mace believed. But first things first.
The florist turned out to be a boutique high up Kloof. You went in a bell tinkled, a young man sucking his pencil behind the counter, said, ‘Hi there, can I help you?’
Mace held up the rosebud in its box. ‘This was delivered to me. I’d like to know from who.’
‘Ooo,’ he said. ‘You are Mr …?’
Mace told him.
He licked his thumb, paged back in his delivery book. ‘A lady bought it for you. Yesterday.’ He sucked his pencil, smiling. ‘A lovely lady.’
‘Help me out,’ Mace said, ‘what’s her name?’
‘Ooo no, sir. I don’t have her name. Cash payment. Secret admirers never use credit cards.’ The pencil went back between his lips.
‘How about a description?’
‘Lovely, but I told you. A bit shorter than sir. In a beautiful coat with a hood. Swanky boots too.’
‘The colour of her hair?’
‘I would say dark.’
‘You didn’t see it?’
‘She kept on the hood, sir. So cool. Black gloves, Ray-Bans. Even in the bad weather. I can’t tell you. Very juze.’ He tapped his teeth with the pencil. ‘Ringing any bells for sir?’
In the car Pylon said, ‘What’d that get you?’
‘A female monk by the sounds of it.’
‘What can I say?’ He accelerated down Kloof. ‘Beware of cloisters.’
Back in the office, Mace settled with a coffee and the gas heater punched up to three panels, and phoned Captain Gonsalves.
‘Whyn’t you answer your phone more often?’ the captain said.
Mace sipped coffee, watched steam rising from his socks. ‘Busy life. You know, clients to satisfy.’
Gonsalves snorted. ‘Come down, we need to talk.’
Mace told him, ‘Sorry, captain, no can do. I’m up against it.’
Gonsalves chewed on this. ‘The busy life, huh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Listen, Bishop, we’ve got a bad situation developing. They’re gonna subpoena you tomorrow.’
‘Oh yeah?’ The news gave Mace’s heart a kick though. ‘For all the good it’ll do they could subpoena the president if they wanted. It’s my word against theirs that I was even there.’
‘They can put you there Bishop. Airplane ticket to and from. Car hire. One cellphone SMS from the local point of presence, I believe they call it, to your wife.’
‘So what? I was in the district. Doesn’t mean squat. A coincidence that’s all.’
‘Helluva coincidence two and a half thousand kilometres from your home.’
‘Happens all the time. First thing: it’s a fact I was there somewhere but the court wants facts of where exactly I was. Second thing: a subpoena’s not a charge, captain. I don’t have to lay out an alibi.’
‘Remember the guard on the gate. Guy called Zwide something or other, Ramatlhodi. He ID’d you.’
‘No chance.’
‘It’s an affidavit. Time in, time out. Registration of the car. Colour and make. Logged up on their book in his handwriting. All that’s missing is your name.’
‘And he ID’d me. How?’
‘From a photograph included here. Looks like you’re coming out of your office door. Doesn’t flatter you but it’s good enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Sharp lawyers they’ve got. People’ve been snapping you when you’re not paying attention. Scary hey?’
‘Not possible that he could’ve made a positive ID. I had on sunglasses. A floppy hat. He’s a black for Chrissakes. He didn’t look me in the eyes.’
‘All the same. It’s here: sworn and attested.’
‘But full of holes.’
‘Admittedly. But what a story for the papers. Investigating officer gets a mysterious call that natural born killers are relaxing in a game lodge. The boys in blue shoot over, find our NBKs dangling from the rafters. Not literally but you know what I mean. Standing there tied up with nooses round their necks. Question is, who did this? Deduction suggests the man in the hire car. The hire car that came in at sunset ‘n went out at sunrise, half an hour before the investigating officer got his anonymous call. Know what else?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Zwide says this guy in the hire car told him they were in the same line of business: security. Now, was that a smart thing to say?’
‘And the point is?’
‘What point?’
‘The point of all this? They’re nailed. You’ve got the case tied up. What’s all this supposed to get them?’
‘A lighter sentence. Maybe some sympathy.’
‘They killed four people.’
‘Allegedly.’
‘Ah for heaven’s sake!’
‘Exactly. Point is Bishop, this isn’t gonna help me. There’re other questions here the lawyers are gonna bring up. Like why we didn’t find who did this to them? That’s what they’ll put to me. Make me look incompetent. Or worse, colluding.’
‘Nasty,’ said Mace.
‘Bloody nasty.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So what about fixing it.’
‘Shit, Bishop. What d’you think I am?’
‘A good man.’
The captain disconnected. Mace thought, cops. Sometimes you had to spell it out for them.
At 5:00 p.m. the doorbell rang and there was the Reverend Carney and the Imam Ahmed Jabaar on the front stoep shaking out their umbrellas. Pylon opened for them, Carney starting immediately, ‘We will not be lectured to. We have come in good faith. We have a mandate.’ Mace heard Pylon pacifying, ‘It’s exploratory, okay. To work something out.’
Mace had collected Ducky Donald already, set up a tea-and-scones sideboard in the room with the round table. Told him, no war. Alright they’ve stirred the shit to start with, but enough. No more drive-bys, no more car chases, no more skop, skiet en donder. And no funny stuff.
‘Me! What’ve I done? Except stay calm under the worst provocation.’
‘Keep it that way.’
Pylon ushered in Carney and Jabaar.
Ducky held up his bandaged right, ‘Hey, I’d shake hands if I wasn’t shot.’
Before Carney could answer, the doorbell rang again.
‘Someone else?’ Mace asked the priests.
‘Our lawyer,’ said Jabaar
Mace went to the front door, opened it to Sheemina February.
‘Mr Bishop,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this cosy.’ Stood there, wearing a coat she hadn’t bought in Cape Town, leather briefcase in her right hand, rain beaded in her hair, those pale blue eyes levelled at Mace. ‘Such a small city.’
‘You weren’t invited,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Client’s request.’ Looked over his shoulder down the passage. ‘Perhaps we should get started. I assume my clients are waiting?’
‘So what?’ Mace keeping the passageway blocked, the air between them saturated with her perfume. Nothing subtle about it.
She said, ‘Let me through’ - waving her left hand to move him aside. ‘Please.’ Not subservient, ironic.
Mace nodded, keeping eye contact, drawing out the moment. ‘Okay.’ He stepped aside. ‘Oh yeah, my condolences on the death, the murder, of your ex-husband.’