“What did he say?” Jesse asked. “He asked me if everyone in America is crazy. Mister, do you still want the tour?” Jesse stared at a group of children waving at him. “Forget the tour. Take me back to the airport. Sorry, I got carried away.”
***
The archaic DC-9 landed with a thump at the Victoria Falls Airport. The terminal was in need of paint. The airport's baggage handlers were barefooted and could have passed for beggars. They fought over the more expensivelooking luggage. One of them tried to strike up a conversation with Jesse, but he ignored him.
As Jesse stood in line with the other disembarking passengers he saw the man who had been described to him. Rigby Croxford stared back at him. They acknowledged each other with smiles. Croxford was bigger than he had expected. Deep laugh wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes. His hair was clipped in a buzzcut. He wore khaki shorts and sandals. Jesse wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.
Rigby felt out of sorts and he didn't know why. Jesse Spooner was lighterskinned than the Africans standing around him. Rigby shrugged off his reluctance and stepped forward. “You must be Spooner. I'm Rigby Croxford.” They shook hands, but their eye contact was brief.
“I can't believe your flight made it,” said Rigby. “It's bloody amazing. There's not a spare part in Zimbabwe. Our planes are held together by bailing wire and electrical tape like everything else on this buggered continent.” Rigby omitted the local joke about the perils of flying with black pilots. He handed Jesse a warm bottle of beer. “This'll help settle your nerves. We better collect your luggage before someone pinches it. Let's hope they put your bags on in Joburg.” He omitted another local joke, about the idiocy of Africans running the airlines.
“They can't lose my luggage with only five passengers.”
“This is Africa. Anytime something can go wrong, it usually does.”
The men walked over to the suitcases. “I see my bag.”
“Grab it. I'll bring up the vehicle,” Rigby yelled over his shoulder.
The road to Victoria Falls had no traffic except for one donkeydrawn cart hauling firewood. Heat waves curled up from the tarmac like gas fumes. The dry wind made Jesse's eyes feel sandpapery. Both men had practiced what they would say to each other, but had trouble cracking the silence. “How's Lynn doing?” Jesse asked.
“She's fine. How was your stopover in Johannesburg?”
“It was interesting. Look Rigby, there's something I need to get off my chest. I hope you're all right with me coming over here. I mean, with the blackandwhite thing.”
“It's not a problem. C'mon, man, you're in Africa now.” Rigby stuttered slightly as the words lodged in his throat. “I'm glad that's over. I can't tell you how much I worried about meeting you. To tell you the truth, I never thought a woman like Lynn would ever give me a second look. She's very special.”
“She is indeed. Do you mind if I smoke?” He lit a homemade cigarette before Jesse could respond.
“Those things will kill you.”
“Spooner, you'll discover that everything on this bloody continent is keen on killing you. Smoking is about the safest thing we do in Africa.”
Jesse's confession released the tension. He propped his head against the window and closed his eyes. Rigby glanced over at him. He remembered his wife's words, “Please, just give him a chance.” Helen hasn't got a clue, he thought.
They drove over the Masuie River Bridge just as a troop of baboons were crossing. The dominant male lagged behind giving his troop time to cross. His redbottomed females slung their babies under their bellies and loped down the embankment. The troop leader swaggered behind them. Without warning, he sounded a thunderous bark, which evoked panic in the troop. When they reached the river bottom the flareup ended.
Two skinny women waved from the far end of the bridge. They had babies strapped to their backs. Rigby pulled over, and said something to the women. They jumped up into the back of the truck.
“They're members of the Shona tribe.
“Interesting,” said Jesse, glancing back at the women.
Vic Falls had atrophied in recent years. The road ran downhill and disappeared into some mopani trees. Beyond the trees there was mist rising from the waterfalls. “The Shona named this place Musi oa Tunya— it means the smoke that thunders,” Rigby explained. When he slowed down at a railroad crossing, the hitchhikers swung down off the back of his truck and merged into the throng of natives.
Croxford drove at a snail's pace, giving Spooner time to absorb the primal scenery. Raggedly dressed women carried bundles of firewood and sacks of cornmeal on their heads; their bowed legs seemed too frail to support their loads. Their husbands, unburdened by portage, led the way. Feral children harassed white tourists with offers to exchange currencies. I wonder what he's thinking, Rigby thought glancing over at Jesse.
Jesse stuck his head out of the window. Strange odors fought for supremacy of the air, but to Jesse the town smelled like a musty barn. “My God, it's wonderful, isn't it?” Spooner remarked.
“Wonderful? Say, let's stop by the Vic Falls Hotel for a drink. You do drink?”
“Of course I drink. What did Lynn tell you about me?”
“She said you were a serious football player. I've never liked soccer. Rugby's my game.”
“American football is like rugby. I've never played soccer in my life.” Jesse sensed a combative tone in Rigby's remark. He looked at Rigby and thought, so this is how it's gonna go down.
***
The Victoria Falls Hotel had dark mauve window frames and doors contrasted against creamcolored walls. Mango trees heavy with green fruit shaded the front lawn and gardens. African women, some carrying babies on their backs picked weeds from the flowerbeds by the entrance.
“How about ordering me a whiskey? I need to use the loo,” Croxford said.
The rain tree behind the hotel had sprinkled its purple-colored flowers on the lawn. Hand-watering had sweetened the grass, making it green and lush. A family of warthogs grazed on the lawn. The rumbling sound of the Zambezi River ascended from the gorge below the hotel. When Jesse walked on the lawn, the warthogs stopped eating and took notice.
The patio bar was decorated with mounted animal heads and framed blackandwhite photographs. The only customers were two white men and their black ladyfriends. One man's shirt was unbuttoned to his navel. The women wore wigs and heavy makeup. Both had long, hooked, purple fingernails. No longer willing to endure their pointy highheeled shoes, they had placed them on a table. One woman giggled with her bare feet in the larger man's lap. The other couple stood next to a piano, where an elderly African wearing a tuxedo struggled with his rendition of the Horst Wessel Song.
The hotel manager met Rigby as he emerged from the loo. He shrugged and nodded over his shoulder at the men. “What's going on?” Rigby asked. “Those two Germans and their hooker friends are giving my bartender a hard time.”
“Barkeep, another round, ndapota,” Rigby yelled. He held up two fingers to confirm the drink order. “Say, friend, are you a local?” the larger man slurred in a German accent. “I am indeed. I was born here, actually. Rigby Croxford, at your service.”
“How about telling this kaffir we want some good German lager.” His remark evoked hysteria from his friend. The hookers giggled nervously.
“I'll take care of this,” Jesse whispered.
“Spooner, if something happens to you, my wife will kill me. If either kraut talks to you, I want you to say the word, ‘Arschgeige.' Think you can handle that?” Jesse nodded as Rigby stood up.
“I take it you're both from Germany,” Rigby said, getting up and walking over to the men. The Germans' faces were locked in inebriated grins, but both managed affirmative nods. The piano player stopped playing. The bartender suspended polishing a wineglass.
“We're from Hamburg.”
“I see. I'll bet you both have families back in the Fatherland. Did you know forty percent of the people in this part of Africa test positive
for HIV?”
“What's this got to do with you?” the big man snarled.
“Of course that wouldn't matter to a couple of pigs like you two,” Rigby said, sitting down at the Germans' table. The two hookers grabbed their shoes and ran for the door.
“Is your pet rhesusaffe along for protection?” the big German asked, glancing at Spooner, who yelled “Arschgeige.” The German seemed unnerved at being called an asshole by someone he had just called a pet monkey.
“Him? Oh, I won't need him. You see, I'm a man of few talents, but one of them is flogging men. During our war, I killed men a hell of a lot tougher than you two baboon turds. Funny thing about killing men, once you get over the horror, it's extremely exhilarating. Steven will back me up,” Rigby said, looking at the bartender.“ Steven, am I telling them the truth?”
“It is true, sah,” the bartender said. The piano player nodded in agreement as did the manager.
“My only regret was that I was too young for the Second World War. I could have had the distinct pleasure of killing Germans. Let me ask you both a question. Have either of you been swimming in the Zambezi?”
“Nein, the river is full of maneating crocodiles.”
“I wouldn't worry about the crocs. This hotel sits above a three hundredfoot gorge. When I throw you both over the cliff, your bodies will be crushed on the rocks.”
The color drained from the Germans' faces. They pushed and shoved for access to the narrow doorway. One of the hookers reappeared to retrieve a shoe. The piano player started banging out Lili Marlene. Rigby walked back to the table where Jesse was waiting. “Let's get out of here before I end up in jail. Cheers, Steven.”
“Lisale kuhle, Baba,” the bartender said.
“I didn't know whites and blacks fought on the same side in the Rhodesian War,” said Jesse, climbing in the truck. “What did that Nazi prick call me?”
“Of course we fought on the same side. The bartender fought on the other side. He was an insurgent, and a damn effective one, I might add. We captured him in Mozambique. As far as what the German called you, I haven't the slightest,” he lied. “If it's any consolation, you called him an asshole.”
It wasn't enough, Jesse thought.
***
Jesse slept for the first part of the drive to the Matetsi hunting camp. A bonecrushing bump in the washboard road jarred him out of his catnap. A Land Rover drove up behind them. The driver flashed the headlamps and waved them over. Croxford looked in the rearview mirror and cursed. “Shit. I wonder what he wants. Spooner, you're about to meet Zimbabwe's worst nightmare.”
Ian Rhodes had been a South African military advisor during the Rhodesian War. After he received a confiscated farm, it was widely suspected that he had been a mole working for the Russians. He was especially despised by the natives, who nicknamed him ‘Fisi,' which means hyena.
The English, having never been a particularly attractive people, sent some of their more unsightly daughters to India and South Africa in search of husbands. Rhodes was the byproduct of such a union. He had inherited the ugliest features from both of his homely parents. He had more hair growing out of his nose and ears than on top of his head. Thick eyeglasses magnified his watery eyes. His face was dotted with blackheads and ruptured blood vessels. A network of acne scars stretched like a spider web across his forehead and cheeks.
Both trucks screeched to a halt. Armed soldiers ran forward and surrounded Croxford's truck. Croxford got out and told Spooner to stay put, but a soldier pulled Jesse out and pushed him to the ground at gunpoint. After the dust settled, Rhodes walked forward.
“Sir Fisi, what brings you out to the bush? Did your bla— mistress run away again?” Rigby almost said ‘black mistress,' but stopped in deference to Jesse.
Rhodes's attempt to camouflage his crooked teeth would have been more effective had he not used such a toothy English accent. “I'm afraid you're both under arrest.”
“What's this rubbish you've cocked up?” demanded Rigby.
“I received an urgent communiqué from the police in South Africa. Seems your friend's carrying a concealed handgun. You're both guilty of weapons trafficking. Search their vehicle,” Rhodes ordered his men.
“Spooner, what's he talking about?”
“I have an international permit to carry a pistol. It's in my wallet.”
“Sergeant, bring me his wallet.” Rhodes spread the contents of Spooner's wallet on the Rover's bonnet. “We have a law against handguns in Zimbabwe. As I suspected, this permit is worthless. Your friend might survive an African prison sentence, but you won't, not at your age,” he said, smiling at Croxford. “Bind their hands and put them in the lorry.”
“Wait just a minute, Rhodes. I wonder what your friends at Central Intelligence will say when I tell them about your illegal ivoryexporting business.”
“What are you talking about?” Rhodes's brow knitted from irritation. He looks too nervous not to be guilty, Rigby reasoned. “Fine. Let's let the authorities sort this out.”
“Croxford, I'd be careful about making inflammatory accusations. Concerning your friend, I might be willing to look the other way.”
“Good. Don't look so worried, I'm no squealer.” Rhodes had one of his men cut the plastic tiewraps on Spooner's wrists. He tossed Jesse's wallet on the ground and walked away. His truck made a Uturn and disappeared over an incline.
“Bugger, I was saving that ivory scam. Spooner, you can get up now, he's gone.” Rigby started the truck and began to pull away. “My friend, you've got some explaining to do. Let's start with Max Turner.”
“It's a two-way street. You haven't been straight with me, Croxford.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You really aren't wild about me coming over here, are you? Just be honest with me.”
“Why Jesse, you've got that American civilrights chip on your shoulder. This is Africa my friend, not the United States.”
“So you're saying—there's no racism over here?”
“Not like there is in the States.”
“I see. I understand your daughter's a doctor and she lives in South Africa. What if you found out she was seeing a black man?”
“That wouldn't happen in a million years,” Rigby blurted out.
“I rest my case,” Jesse responded. He sighed and shook his head.
The silence was uncomfortable.
Jesse was the first one to speak. “My mother said I was crazy coming over here. Are your parents alive?” he asked, trying to bridge the discomfort.
“They're both dead. My mother died of a broken heart after my father was beaten to death by terrorists during the war.”
Well, that's just great, Jesse thought.
“Look Jesse, the war was a long time ago. Tell me what you know about Max Turner? Lynn said something about you investigating Turner's Chinese business partner,” Rigby said, changing the subject.
Jesse told him about his recruitment by the Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms Agency. As a special agent, his assignment was to gather intelligence on Nelson Chang. Chang was an international arms trafficker. Turner had been Chang's silent partner for twenty years. Because of his law degree, Jesse was selected to work undercover at Turner's firm. When Jesse mentioned losing his job because of his affair with Turner's exwife, Lynn, he sensed Rigby didn't believe him.
The silence returned as Rigby digested the concept of Lynn and Jesse's involvement. Finally, he spoke, “Maybe I should have lied when you asked me about my daughter. You think I'm a bigot. I'm afraid it's not that simple in Africa. Let's get to know each other before we make judgments.”
“Fair enough,” Jesse answered. He was sure Croxford was a bigot, but for some reason, he trusted the man. “Tell me about this buffalo hunting business. It can't be that dangerous. They look like dairy cows.”
“A year ago, my partner, Hansel Martin, was gored by a buffalo. His hunting client was a French Baron. After what happened we changed his title to ‘the Bar
oness.' The buffalo hooked Martin in the groin and tore a massive gash. Stuffed his testicles all the way up to here,” Rigby said, pointing to a spot below his chest plate. “Spooner, does this sound like a dairy cow?”
These people are crazy, Jesse thought. “So, what happened to the Frenchman?” he asked.
“The Baroness climbed a thorn tree. Took the camp boys an hour to coax him down. Martin reaches down and finds his balls are missing. That's when he begged his tracker to shoot him. Martin's a real ladies man and he figured his life without testicles would be somewhat limited. The tracker tried, but couldn't pull the trigger. Eventually we get Martin medivacced to a hospital. Indian doctor specializing in animal trauma wounds puts him all back together again. While he's recuperating, we organized a party to celebrate his recovery. After some hard boozing, we decide to move the party to Martin's hospital room. When we get there, he's knocked out from the drugs. His girlfriend pulls the sheet down to take a look at his wound. Christ, his scrotum was the size of a rugby ball. After he comes out of the anesthesia, we tell him his doctor has performed the first testicle transplant in history. He now had the balls of the buffalo that nearly killed him. It was one hell of a party.”
I was right; these people are crazy, thought Jesse. “Don't look so concerned. Most of these buffalo hunts are routine,” said Rigby. “I was thinking about a friend. He got himself killed shooting pigeons.”
***
Few landscape painters are gifted enough to capture an African sunset. The rustcolored iron dust from the African deserts transforms the setting sun into a vivid orange ball. The sky comes to life in blushes of lavender brushed over shaded streaks of pinks and reds. Rigby parked on a cliff overlooking the Zambezi Valley. In the stillness of dusk, they heard voices. The chatter came from the hunting camp that lay nestled in a grove of umbrella acacias. Jesse was spellbound, which was disconcerting for Rigby.
Rigby's partner met them as they climbed out of the truck. The cook handed out glasses of whiskey. Spooner wolfed his down in two swallows.
“You must be Spooner,” the man said, leaning on a cane with one hand and reaching out to shake hands with his other. “I'm what's left of Hansel Martin. I guess Rigby told you about my episode with the buffalo.”
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 13