Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  Arseholes. Mighty fine. The arseholes thought they’d nailed him. The arseholes would find out about Obed Chocho. Mighty fine they’d find out. If they were still alive.

  61

  Spitz, watching a high-speed boat-chase through the canals of Venice, popped a painkiller wondering how one small finger could hurt this badly. Wondering what kind of sadist had to go all the way when you’d told him what he wanted? And then take you to hospital. Say, sorry, pal, no hard feelings. And steal an iPod. What sort of person was this?

  The speedboat doing the chasing entered a bad situation ramping over a small boat to land on a flat-bed barge loaded with vegetables. The thieves in the getaway boat grinned at one another, powering up towards open water.

  Would the brother have done it? Spitz thought probably yes. Maybe wouldn’t have broken the bones. Not hit with such force. As if he enjoyed causing the pain. Spitz aimed the remote at the TV screen, getting back to the main menu.

  In tens of jobs, never a comeback. Always clean contracts. In out. Money in his account. Never any of this mess Never people tracking him down. Never physical violence. Even threatening to kill him.

  He clicked on-scene selection: there’s Charlize cracking the safe the moment before the cop steps up and you realise it’s not for real. He had to smile at the concentration on the girl’s pretty face.

  This job was bad from the start. The changes. The add-ons. Now mighty-fine Chocho telling him, ordering him, to make a hit on his own account. Or he’d put a hit on Spitz-the-Trigger.

  On screen, the cop came into the frame and the tension went out of the scene.

  Spitz phoned Sheemina February. Told her the story.

  She said, ‘Join the club.’

  Spitz said, ‘I am not sure which club this means.’

  ‘The reason, Spitz,’ she said, ‘that I wear a glove in case you’ve ever wondered is because they smashed my hand. Like that, with a mallet.’

  ‘How could this happen?’

  ‘Years ago. In the guerrilla camps. Different world, same modus operandi. Mr Bishop and Mr Buso are not nice men, Spitz.’

  ‘I must kill them?’

  ‘If that’s what Obed wants.’

  ‘You have changed your mind?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About the white man. You want him to die now.’

  ‘I think so. Yes. This time.’ A silence. Then: ‘Tell me, Spitz, why’d you keep my name out?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I think you do. I’m asking why you didn’t tell the thugs that I work with Obed Chocho? That I was the one made the arrangements with you.’

  Spitz scene-hopped to the lovely Charlize in overalls conducting the recce in the fool’s mansion.

  ‘There are some reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You are like me. You work for Mr Chocho. You are doing his business.’

  ‘That’s one reason.’

  ‘Another one is that they did not ask me about your name.’

  He could hear Sheemina February clicking her nails on the desk.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Click, click. ‘Let me tell you what another reason might be, Spitz. How about you thought that out of gratitude I’d put down a bonus. Not so? How much were you thinking, Spitz? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty even?’

  Spitz didn’t answer. Sheemina February gave a soft laugh.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Mr Triggerman. I don’t hold it against you. Same circumstances I’d have had similar thoughts. Only now you’ve got to kill them the leverage falls away.’

  Spitz flicked back to the main menu, selected Charlize getting some driving lessons in a Mini Cooper. He could imagine Sheemina February in such a car.

  Sheemina February saying, ‘No hard feelings, Spitz. Go ahead, make your arrangements. Call me when you’ve booked into a hotel and we’ll take it from there. I have some information you’ll find useful.’

  ‘I will need a weapon.’

  ‘There was a time when your targets were a source of weapons. Poetic justice, isn’t it, that the gun-runners should take a bullet? A nice idea.’

  ‘A point twenty-two with a silencer.’

  ‘I know, Spitz. Relax.’

  ‘Then we can have a drink on the town. You will show me some of your places.’

  Sheemina February laughed. ‘You’re cheeky. Give it up, Spitz, I’m not available. Understand what I’m saying.’

  ‘One drink.’

  ‘Maybe afterwards.’

  Spitz said, ‘Is that a promise you are making’ – realised she’d disconnected. He aimed the remote at the screen, flicked back to watch Charlize waking up to her daddy’s phone call. Paused the movie to give full appreciation to Charlize’s body. Sheemina February he believed would have a body like that.

  62

  ‘That,’ said Pylon, ‘was the great Obed Chocho.’

  Mace and Pylon on a stroll up Government Avenue through the Gardens heading back the long way to their offices. Kids running on the lawns, people on the benches enjoying the sun.

  ‘Wanting?’

  Pylon dug out peanuts from a jacket pocket, threw them to a squirrel. ‘To offer a deal.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’

  ‘So he says.’

  ‘When ‘n where?’

  The squirrel stuffed its pouches, sat up waiting for more.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. At the west coast site, the Smits’ old cottage.’

  ‘Should be interesting.’

  Pylon bent down, some peanuts rolling in the palm of his hand. ‘For me.’

  The squirrel approached, paused with a paw in the air, sniffing. Pylon kept his hand still.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’m going alone.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I am.’

  The squirrel snatched two nuts, scampered off and up the base of a tree, hung there looking back at the two men. Pylon dropped the remaining nuts on the ground, straightened.

  ‘No way. This’s Obed Chocho we’re talking about. A guy puts out hits easy as we buy lattes. He’s not wanting to deal, he’s wanting to whack you.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He knows I’ll tell you, probably that you’ll be waiting not far off. He’s not going to pull a number. This’s to sort something. Buy us off.’

  ‘Sounds bloody dicey to me.’

  ‘Nah. Not a big deal.’

  ‘I’m going to ride backup.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Every need, china. Just don’t even argue the toss.’

  The squirrel leapt off the tree trunk, snatched at the nuts, retreating into the undergrowth.

  ‘You like this action? Prefer the edge.’

  ‘Makes the day more clear cut. Brighter. Sure. But between this and getting out, I’d still take getting out. Okay there’s fun here. Except I’d rather have other kinds of fun. Where it’s not deadly.’ Mace gave a chuckle. ‘Never thought I’d say that.’

  ‘Never thought I’d hear it.’ Pylon laughed too.

  Vagrants laying out their clothing over benches cackled with the two men, calling after them, ‘Hey, my larneys, two rands for a drink, ek sê. Lekker, lekker. On this lovely day.’

  Mace waved a hand. He and Pylon swinging behind the school across Hatfield and down Dunkley to the square. The cafés on the square doing good business. Buzzing talk and laughter.

  ‘You’d swear this city was on holiday,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Rain’s coming,’ said Mace. ‘People getting in some sun.’

  Pylon stopped, gazed across at the scene. A quick Stella?’

  ‘Why not? Think we should get Tami over?’

  Pylon shook his head. ‘Nah. Gives too much lip.’

  They found an empty table, ordered two draughts. Mace stretched out. Looked up at the mountain stark and solid above the city, a cut-out against the azure sky. Days like this you wanted to go on forever.

  63

  Cape Town wet and miserable. Grey murk across the city bowl. Lights on in
houses, the sort of damp cold that made Spitz think of Germany. The old GDR. Training in gloomy dawns. Loneliness and grim barracks.

  Spitz stayed well back from the red Alfa Spider. He’d picked it up on the steep downhill street, Molteno, as per the note. Correct to a minute on the outside. Someone had done their homework. Whoever it was Sheemina February used.

  ‘He will drop his daughter at school and proceed to the office on Dunkley Square,’ read the note. The note that had been delivered to his hotel. With the gun.

  This morning was no exception. Spitz followed the car through the wet streets to a school, where the girl got out, joined other girls bolting through the drizzle into the building.

  At Dunkley Square he parked in a bay with his back to the offices of Complete Security, angled the rearview mirror so he could see without being seen. He was ahead of Mace Bishop. He watched the Spider slot into a kerbside space outside the building. The driver get out, unhurried, unfazed by the drizzle, head for the front door.

  ‘Fifteen to twenty minutes later Pylon Buso will arrive in a Mercedes Benz. He will park in the street in a reserved bay behind the Alfa Romeo. It is usual for them to have coffee in a guest lounge downstairs until 09h00. The only other occupant of the building is their administrative assistant, Tami Mogale. She arrives at 08h25 on foot. The security officers employed by Complete Security very seldom report to this office. In the five days to date these three people were alone in the building between 07h50 and 10h00. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays a cleaning organisation, Dust Busters, services the offices at 15h00 for forty-five minutes.’

  With the note was a diagram of the building. Front door leading into a long hallway that ran through to a kitchen at the back. Two paces in, a door on the right into the lounge. Three paces beyond that another door on the right where the assistant had an office. Opposite that door a staircase to the upstairs offices of Bishop and Buso. A boardroom on the left before the kitchen. A toilet opposite the boardroom. A door in the kitchen to an outside courtyard.

  Spitz’s idea was: knock, and the young woman would open. Brush past her, swing right into the lounge doorway: whop, whop, and out. How the woman reacted determined whether she stayed alive. Back to the hotel, check out, catch a midday flight to Jozi. Spitz’s idea.

  Twenty minutes later Pylon Buso had not arrived. Shortly before half past eight a minibus taxi pulled into the square, let out half a dozen people. Among them a young woman who ran to the row of offices. Tami Mogale, Spitz believed. Another ten minutes no Pylon Buso. Mace Bishop came out, took off fast in the Spider.

  Spitz sighed. Reached down, pulled out the Browning Buck Mark from underneath his seat. Unscrewed the can. Ejected the clip. Distributed the parts in the various pockets of his jacket. Phoned Sheemina February.

  ‘And?’ she said. A slight huskiness to her voice.

  ‘Mister Buso didn’t arrive here,’ said Spitz. ‘Now Mister Bishop has left.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Sheemina February, the strength coming back into her voice. ‘Never mind, Spitz, there will be other occasions today, if not tomorrow morning. Use the opportunity to familiarise yourself with our fair city.’

  ‘I know the city.’

  ‘Not well enough and not the parts they frequent. These are not easy men to kill, I must remind you.’

  ‘That is not necessary, a reminder.’

  ‘I know, but it’s worth saying.’ She paused. Spitz could hear the clink of a teaspoon stirring a cup of tea. He did not think Sheemina February drank coffee, only herbal tea. ‘Another thing, could we meet tonight. At your hotel, about eight.’

  ‘For a drink on the town?’

  ‘Not exactly. I have other business, Spitz. For which there’ll be a disbursement. So your trip is not without its compensation.’ She disconnected.

  Spitz clicked on the rear window wiper: saw the offices of Complete Security showed a light downstairs and one upstairs on this grey and dismal morning. He fired the white Citi Golf. Went in search of breakfast.

  64

  The judge held the young man’s hand lightly in his own. They sat side by side on the bed, the young man, his trainer, Ricardo, his hair wet from the shower, a bath sheet wrapped round his waist. The judge naked. Their shoulders touching, flesh against flesh.

  The judge lifted Ricardo’s fingers, brought them to his lips. He could smell herbal hair shampoo, cleanliness. He kissed Ricardo’s fingertips, lowered his hand until it came to rest on the young man’s thigh.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said, his eyes not leaving Ricardo’s face.

  ‘Ag, judge,’ said Ricardo.

  ‘Telman.’

  ‘Telman,’ said Ricardo, withdrawing his hand, standing. ‘It doesn’t sound right.’

  Telman Visser laughed. ‘I can’t make love to a man who calls me judge.’ He looked up at Ricardo, beckoned him to step closer. ‘Now drop the towel.’

  ‘It’s late,’ said Ricardo. ‘We can’t do this now.’

  ‘We’re not going to do anything, I just want to look at you.’

  ‘In half an hour I have to be at the gym. For my shift.’

  The judge tugged at the towel, loosened it. ‘The Constantia ladies can wait. They only want to lech at you, Ricardo. Dream of biting your bum.’ He admired the dark crotch, leaned back on his elbows. ‘In a Cavafy poem a young man throws off his unworthy clothes “And stood stark naked, impeccably handsome, a miracle”. Like you.’ He smiled. ‘Turn around, my sensual boy.’

  Ricardo did. Judge Telman Visser leaned forward, nipped at the young man’s rump.

  Ricardo yelped, skipped away.

  ‘Aaa hah,’ said the judge. ‘By the look of things you don’t want to leave just yet.’

  ‘No, I’ve got to,’ said Ricardo, searching among a pile of clothes for his boxers. ‘The gym’ll fire me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. If I had a word.’

  Somewhere in the house a phone rang three times, an answering machine took the call. The judge sighed. ‘Next it’ll be my cellphone.’ When it rang he gestured at Ricardo. ‘Bring it to me. Please. There on the bedside table.’

  ‘See,’ said Ricardo, handing him the phone, ‘it’s very late.’

  Judge Visser glanced at the screen, connected. ‘Sheemina February. What is the problem?’

  He heard her say, ‘Are you alone?’ – covering the mic with his thumb asked Ricardo to leave the bedroom.

  ‘Without my clothes?’

  ‘Dress in the bathroom. Close the door.’

  He watched Ricardo scurry into the bathroom, a last glimpse of the firm backside.

  ‘Ms February.’

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘My work on the commission.’

  ‘I’ll be brief.’

  He imagined the woman with the black glove and the ice eyes somewhere in a public place by the sound of it, wondered if Sheemina February was ever anything other than brief.

  ‘The issue is this, judge,’ said Sheemina February, ‘there is more paperwork to be ratified. Relating to the sale.’

  ‘What paperwork?’

  ‘A question of capital gains tax. Nothing out of the ordinary. Revenue needs their pound of flesh.’

  ‘Don’t they always.’ He caught himself about to sigh again but stifled it. ‘Send the documents over to my chambers.’

  ‘I can bring them right now, if you like.’

  ‘I’m not there,’ said Visser. ‘I won’t be there today.’

  ‘Then how about this evening? At your house? You could invite me for a drink.’

  Judge Telman Visser considered this, a drink with Sheemina February being a low priority. In fact not a priority at all on his agenda.

  Before he could answer Sheemina February said, laughter in her voice, ‘That didn’t set you alight.’

  The judge coughed. ‘I have other engagements to juggle.’ Mostly the other engagements concerned Ricardo. Wining him. Dining him. Screwing him.

  ‘It will take fi
fteen minutes, judge. You won’t have to juggle anything.’

  Judge Telman Visser arranged for her to call at eight. He disconnected, called out, ‘Thank you, Ricardo. Please come through.’

  The bathroom door opened, Ricardo standing there in chinos and his gym T-shirt, his hair combed. Still bare feet though.

  ‘What a pity,’ said the judge. ‘There are few people I would rather see naked than dressed. You are one of them.’ He patted the bed. ‘Sit next to me while you tie your trainers.’

  Ricardo did.

  ‘Tonight,’ said the judge, ‘I wonder if you could make it a bit later than usual. I have an attorney calling at eight, she’ll be gone by eight thirty at the latest. Perhaps we should make it nine. What do you say?’

  ‘That’s okay, judge, anytime.’

  ‘I will arrange prawns. A quick easy supper. But a messy one. Hands on. Tactile.’

  ‘Prawns are good.’

  ‘Queens, I think.’

  65

  Pylon turned the big Merc off the coast road onto the dirt track that led towards the sea. A grey sea, wild with wind and scudding foam. Clouds rolling off it, dashing rain against the windscreen. He drove slowly, rank thorn scratching the low hang of the car, a Merc the last ride you wanted on dirt. He checked his cellphone: no signal.

  What was it with Chocho, they couldn’t do this in an office? He knew the answer. Obed Chocho wanted drama. Couldn’t resist being out on the contested land. Rubbing in the prospects.

  The track turned down towards the cottage, Chocho’s black SUV hunched in the clearing at the back door. The SUV his dead wife Lindiwe had driven. No sign of Chocho. He’d be listening for a car’s engine, Pylon suspected. Sitting in the lounge, waiting. Waiting with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands? Unlike Mace, Pylon doubted it. Wasn’t Obed Chocho’s style. This was about buying time.

  He stopped beside the other car. Sat for a moment alert to any movement around the house. Nothing moved, nothing human. The northwester shook the scrub, whipped sand across the clearing. Pylon killed the engine, withdrew the keys from the ignition. Got out, shrugging into a fleece. The back door was open. He knocked, calling out as he entered, getting no response.