Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Warm from the oven.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why’s she say it?’

  ‘It’s what waiters say. To give you that special feeling.’

  Mace shook his head, spooning froth and chocolate dusting from the head of his coffee. ‘I never believe them.’

  ‘Very middle class. Treasure loves it. Falls for the bullshit every time, like they’re baked just for her.’

  The waitress brought the muffins, steaming.

  ‘Probably been nuked,’ said Mace, halving his, spreading butter melt over it.

  ‘One problem with blueberry,’ said Pylon, ‘is that it looks so good. Flavour’s so good. Afterwards you wonder what’s this metal taste in your mouth. Was it chemicals you ate.’

  ‘You still eat it though.’

  ‘That’s the other problem.’

  They shut up to eat, getting through half a muffin each before Mace said, ‘So what’s your take on the judge?’

  ‘Assisted suicide.’

  ‘Meaning someone had a gun to his head.

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Could’ve been arms deal related. Powerful figures involved there. The talk I hear’s even fingering the president. One of the sidebars on Obed whacking Rudi Klett was as a favour. For someone near the top of the food chain.’

  ‘Why not just do a Spitz special on the judge, shoot him.’

  ‘Too obvious, maybe.’

  Mace took a long pull at his cappuccino, wiped froth from his upper lip. ‘This’s not about the arms deal.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Who then, rather.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Sheemina February.’

  ‘Ah come on.’ Pylon stuffed the last of his muffin into his mouth, spoke through the chew. ‘She was Obed’s sidekick.’

  ‘Maybe she reckoned the judge pulled the hit on Chocho over the farm killing. Got his bucks and blotted the evidence. Maybe she didn’t like that. Having a major money source terminated. I don’t know. What do I know? Everything’s weird. Except, I know, yesterday, when we saw him, wasn’t a flower in his study. Today there’s a rose.’

  Pylon swallowed. ‘He grows roses. All over the garden.’

  ‘Most of them shrivelled and brown. This one was a rosebud. Aren’t any rosebuds anywhere in his garden. Plum coloured.’

  ‘Like those she sends you.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Which proves what?’

  ‘Christ knows. Doesn’t even prove it was her. Unless she wanted to tell us something.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like look how powerful I am.’

  ‘Bit macho.’

  ‘We’re talking Sheemina February.’

  They finished their coffees. Pylon called for the bill.

  ‘Probably we’ll never know,’ said Mace. ‘Doesn’t matter anymore. All the baddies are dead.’

  Crossing the parking lot to their cars Mace said, ‘This sort of day I could go up the mountain and hunt the maniac.’

  ‘Two hours time we’ve got clients to collect.’ Pylon put his hand on Mace’s arm. ‘Do me a favour, calm down.’

  Mace laughed. ‘I like it this way. Bit like the old days. I couldn’t give a shit.’

  ‘Save me sweet Jesus,’ said Pylon ducking into the Merc.

  Mace said, ‘You’re right about the blueberry. Tastes like I’ve been sucking bullets.’

  74

  Sheemina February told Spitz to meet her at Rhodes Memorial. At the bottom of the steps. That way she could watch him approach for no reason other than she wanted the drop on him. For the hell of it. Wanted to clip down the steps towards him saying, ‘Bang, bang, Spitz boyo, you’re dead.’

  She got there fifteen minutes early. Banked on being five minutes ahead of him. Knowing he’d case the area first as a matter of habit. She left her car in the upper parking lot near the restaurant, took the path to the memorial, waited in the shadow behind the columns. Gazed across the suburbs and the industrial belt towards the Durbanville hills, beyond that to the Hottentots Holland and the winelands. Thought about money. That of all human inventions money had the measure of each person’s heart. Hers was expensive.

  She watched Spitz drive up in his white hire, park beneath the stone pines in the main lot. He got out, looked around for her black Beemer. Only seven cars there, none of them a BM. At this hour of the morning no one hanging around either. Too early for tourists. Probably the car owners were walkers, strolling the contour paths, enjoying themselves.

  Spitz walked quickly to the lower entrance that led onto the flagstones below the steps. A viewpoint with a wider aspect than the memorial. Almost a bay-to-bay sweep: west coast to Hangklip. He took this in, pivoted to look at the memorial, Devil’s Peak rising behind it. Sheemina February wondering what he’d make of a classical folly with columns, steps leading up flanked by walls, eight lions at rest on them. In front, on a plinth, a horse and rider, the rider shading his eyes, squinting at the hinterland. Spitz turned back to the view.

  Sheemina February watched him. An elegant man, the crease on his trousers exact. Black polished shoes. The bandage on his little finger encased in a leather sheath. A slender man, and graceful.

  She waited until his back was to her before she came out of the shadows and down the steps, her heels clicking on the granite. Spitz spun round almost immediately.

  ‘Do you know, Spitz,’ she called out, ‘there are forty-nine steps. One for each year of his life.’

  ‘Who is this?’ said Spitz.

  ‘Cecil Rhodes. Used to come up here to contemplate, according to the tourist guides. Stare out at the dark continent and think of money.’ She came level with the hitman. ‘Worked for him.’

  ‘But he did not make even fifty years.’

  ‘Neither did Obed Chocho.’

  Spitz looked away. ‘I was not able to…’

  ‘Oh, I’m not blaming you Spitz.’ Sheemina February touched his sleeve with a gloved hand. ‘Things have worked out better than I planned. And for this I have you to thank all along the way. Last night especially. Without you the judge would not have been so… accommodating. Men are much more inclined to listen to other men I find. Particularly to one who’s pointing a gun.’

  She paused. The dull growl of the city filled her silence, and closer birdsong, insistent sunbirds.

  ‘Up here,’ she said, ‘you can understand his point. Old Cape-to-Cairo Cecil. The birds make it peaceful.’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’ said Spitz.

  She sat down on the low parapet, faced the memorial. Patted the stone alongside her. Spitz sat.

  ‘Obed had a contract with you on Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso, how much was that for?’

  ‘There was no money.’

  ‘You were doing it for free? You?’

  ‘Because I had spoken his name to them.’

  She crossed her legs. ‘Obed getting his payback. Fair enough. And now, are you going to honour it?’

  ‘There is no point.’

  ‘I suppose not. But there would be a point if I offered you money.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, I will offer you one hundred and fifty thousand, not to kill them, but to kill the wife of Mace Bishop.’

  ‘That is more than my fee.’

  ‘I know. There is a catch.’

  ‘What is this catch?’

  ‘I don’t want you to use a gun.’

  ‘My weapon is a pistol.’

  ‘I know, Spitz. But think about it. You kill her with a .22 or any other calibre and Mace Bishop will not even stop to think who did it. He will think Spitz-the-Trigger. What’s more he knows exactly where to find you. Before you got home he’d be waiting inside your apartment.’

  Spitz stroked his bandaged finger to ease the throbbing. ‘Which is the weapon you want me to use?’

  ‘A knife.’

  ‘I do not use a knife. It is too dangerous.’

 
‘That is why I’m paying you a lot of money.’ She smiled at him. ‘Let me be generous. How about two hundred thousand? I can afford it.’

  She watched Spitz think about this. Not a twitch on his face. No frown. No tightening of the lips. She liked that, the calm contemplation.

  ‘Once,’ she said, ‘you used a knife.’ She drew a finger across her throat. ‘Your trademark. No noise. Spitz the silent steps out of the shadows and ssssh the blade slits open the jugular. I know about that Spitz.’ She reached out, lightly squeezed his forearm with her gloved hand. ‘I might, too, Spitz, have a position for you. In my organisation. A career change. The comfort of a salary. Medical aid. Shares. A pension. The full rooty tooty of the late-bourgeois world.’

  Smiled at Spitz staring at her, his lips glistening.

  Eventually he said, ‘Alright for that much I will use a knife.’

  ‘There is another condition,’ said Sheemina February. ‘It must be in her pottery studio.’

  ‘It has to be in some place.’

  ‘The pottery studio is underneath their house.’

  ‘I do not like that.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. I’m willing to pay a lot of money for this, Spitz. Offering you a future. There have to be some risks.’

  She waited. When Spitz made no comment, held out a photograph: Mace, Oumou, Christa eating breakfast beside a swimming pool.

  ‘Happy family. They live on the mountainside. The studio has access onto the lower garden. The only other access is a spiral staircase inside the house. A man with your resources shouldn’t have any problems getting in.’ She dangled some keys from her gloved hand. ‘But these may be a help.’ Spitz reached out, she dropped them into his hand. From a coat pocket took out a barber’s razor. ‘As might this.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘this is not a knife.’

  Sheemina let it lie bone-white against the black leather of palm. ‘You thought differently once, I am given to understand.’ She closed her fist, used the fingers of her good hand to open the blade. ‘This is a special razor. It is not something I picked up in a junk store. It has provenance, Spitz. A history. A memento you should leave at the scene.’ She held it towards him.

  ‘When I used knives I was a younger person.’

  She laid it against his hand, the blade’s edge lightly on his skin. ‘Take it. This is how I want it.’

  ‘You are a demanding woman.’

  ‘Not demanding, Spitz. Insistent. But generous too. I pay for that over the odds.’

  Spitz closed the blade into the handle. Lifted it from her fingers.

  Sheemina stroked his arm. ‘I’m impressed. Now listen.’ She gave him more details: access, the Bishop routine, the best time to do it. ‘I must go now, Spitz.’ Stood looking down at him. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get to have a drink on the town but under the circumstances this would no longer be a good idea.’ She held out her hand. ‘I must say you have been an easy person to work with. My offer remains open for the future.’

  ‘Please,’ said Spitz, keeping a grip on her hand even as she gently pulled away.

  ‘No, Spitz,’ she said, using her gloved hand to free herself. ‘Some things are not to be.’ She headed for the steps. ‘When the job is done, you’ll get the money in cash at JB’s. Special courier. While you’re drinking a latte. After that I’ll be in touch.’ She pointed at Devil’s Peak. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to get up the mountain this time. It’s a wonderful view from the top.’

  75

  Pylon, palms down, felt the heat over the coals, said, ‘This’s mighty fine.’

  ‘I reckon,’ said Mace, giving the nod to the Obed Chocho jibe. Took a plate of sausages and lamb chops from the table, stripped off the foil covering. Gave Pylon a dish of ribs in marinade.

  They laid the meat on the grid.

  ‘Has to be Sheemina February, doesn’t it?’ Pylon licking sauce from his fingers. ‘Not bad. This one of Oumou’s specials?’

  ‘Deep desert recipe.’

  ‘Nice.’ He swigged the last of his beer. With tongs repositioned some of the ribs.

  ‘Your money’s on her?’ Mace picked up his beer.

  ‘Isn’t yours?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Think of it.’ Pylon shifted square on to Mace. ‘The guys are dead two days, she’s head of Zimisela Explorations. Even gets airtime for the announcement. Has to say something.’

  ‘That she manipulated it? Even the judge’s death?’

  ‘Has to be.’

  Mace finished his beer, put the empties on the table.

  ‘Treasure’ll freak at that,’ said Pylon. ‘You bin empties. Don’t leave them littering the place.’

  ‘Our domain,’ said Mace. He grinned, fiddled with his tongs at the coals, spreading the heat.

  ‘Myself,’ said Pylon, ‘I believe she knew their connection, Obed and the judge. Somehow she’d worked it out ‘n sidled up to Chocho.’

  ‘It’s possible. Knowing her.’

  ‘For sure. Comes over all sharp mover ‘n shaker to impress the darkie meanwhile she’s putting together the leads. Writing contracts to sew things up. Should something happen to Obed Chocho or the judge, heaven forbid.’

  Fat sizzled from a split sausage. Mace moved it to the side.

  ‘Pork sausages, I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘If it’s best to prick them. You don’t prick they burst, you do you lose the juice.’

  ‘I prick,’ said Pylon. ‘One small hole is enough.’

  Mace opened the cooler box, took out two bottles of beer. Uncapped them, handed one to Pylon.

  ‘Something I do reckon, the mining magazines came from her. Part of her grand plan.’

  ‘She did that she did everything else.’

  ‘I’m not arguing.’ Mace tipped back two swallows of beer. ‘Years ago, in the camp, we should’ve done ourselves a favour, had her shot.’

  They moved a couple of paces away, out of the smoke.

  Pylon saying, ‘Always she’s stirring the shit. You can just see it: once the paperwork was done, stuff had to start happening otherwise what was the point?’ He reached down, extracted Cat2’s claws from his jeans. ‘Maybe didn’t happen the way she thought. But she got the result.’

  Mace stuck a fork in the split sausage, lifted it off the grid. Clicked his fingers to call the cat, broke off small pieces and cooled them. Cat2 curled about his legs, giving her strangled whisper. He dropped the sausage bits on the patio.

  “N there’s squat we can do.’

  ‘Unless we figure an angle.’

  ‘Pah!’ Mace turned the ribs to even the browning. ‘Fat chance.’

  Crouched among a cluster of boulders, Spitz looked down on the house. He’d watched the black Merc arrive: Pylon, a pregnant woman, a girl get out. He could see Pylon and Mace now at a Weber cooking meat. The girl and Mace’s daughter on loungers beside the pool, reading. No sign of the pregnant woman and the woman Oumou.

  He smoked a menthol, considering his options. Go away, come back later. Sit it out, watching them have their fun. His backside getting stiff and sore on the damp ground. This was not an option. Not where it stank of urine. Was littered with broken glass, tins, bottle necks, stompies. He ground out his cigarette among the butts.

  On a day such as this. A Saturday. He thought of JB’s. The beautiful people coming in for eggs florentine, tall lattes. His people. His city. Not this place under the mountain. The mountain always over everything.

  Spitz stood, eased the cramp out of his muscles. Decided waiting was what he did. Sometimes waiting was most of the job. You got on the job you didn’t leave it. That was the way he operated. He stretched. Except no point to waiting where bergies and derelicts wasted their lives. Her studio would be more comfortable.

  Only he needed the Browning too. A situation like this there could be difficulties. The necessity of self-defence being one.

  Pylon said, ‘Pumla tells me this joke last night. Something she heard
at school and wants to know why’s it funny.’

  ‘I know why.’ Pumla indignant, not looking up from her book.

  Christa saying, ‘We’re not stupid.’

  Mace and Pylon laughed.

  Mace said, ‘You better tell your mothers the meat’s cooked.’

  ‘Burnt, you mean,’ said Christa. ‘I can smell it.’

  ‘It’s juicy,’ said Mace. ‘Pink and tender.’

  ‘Yuk,’ said Pumla.

  ‘Black and crisp, probably,’ said Christa.

  The girls heading indoors.

  ‘The joke?’ said Mace.

  ‘Right.’ Pylon stacked sausages onto the plate. ‘The traffic cops’ve mounted a safety check one night on a highway. Pulling over all the cars. A sort of Arrive Alive thing.

  ‘So this traffic cop walks up to a smart Jetta. Black car, tinted windows, new model. He can see two young guys in the front seats. The window comes down, zzzzs. The young guys are both buckled up.

  ‘The cop’s impressed. “Hey, guys,” he says, “you’re the lucky ones tonight.” Tells them Arrive Alive’s running this surprise reward, they’ve won five thousand bucks for wearing seatbelts. He’s got this envelope bulging with big notes in his hand, gives it to Sipho, the driver.

  ‘“Yo, wow,” goes Sipho. “That’s so cool, I’ve never won anything before. This’s magic.”

  ‘“So what’re you gonna spend it on?” says the traffic cop, all friendly, doing good PR for the department.

  ‘“I’m gonna buy a driving licence,” says Sipho. “Be legal.”

  ‘“No, china, china, china,” says Hendrik, in the passenger seat, “what’re you saying chommie?” He leans across to speak to the traffic cop. “Don’t listen to him, sir officer, he always tries to be funny when he’s drunk.”

  ‘The traffic cop’s getting a squinty look on his face.

  ‘Sipho’s saying, “I’m not drunk. Strues, officer, you can test me.” Running his words together.

  ‘This wakes Ravi who’s been sleeping on the back seat. He pops up, sees the cop and groans, “Oh shit, I told you guys. You gotta keep off the highways in a hot car. There’s always roadblocks.”