by Roger Smith
He didn’t reply, watching her. Her accent and clothes branded her as a lamb that had strayed very far from the flock.
He’d come across Sue Kruger, of course, in his research into her father, and found the details of her estrangement from Magnus Kruger and her rebellion against Afrikanerdom and its Calvinist strictures and the toll it had taken on her sadly predictable.
But seeing her in the flesh piqued his interest.
“You’re not close to your father, are you?”
She tapped her cup with an unvarnished, bitten finger nail. “I hate his fucking guts.”
“Then why did you come up here?” he asked.
She squinted at him. Her eyes were blue, with dark rings beneath, that hinted at an unwholesomeness and dissipation that Zondi had always found erotic.
No, he said to himself.
Never again.
“I came up for the air,” she said.
He dragged down the side of his mouth. “Ja?”
“Ja. You know us Boers: we’re all about the wide open spaces and the dust and the cattle shit.”
“You don’t speak like a Boer.”
“Ek kan as ek moet.”
I can if I must.
Her voice dropping and coarsening, the accent as thick and heavy as a muddy stream.
“So you’re a performance artist?” he said.
“Oh yes. Seriously fuckin avant-garde.”
She drummed her long fingers on the table and he saw just the hint of a twitch in her face and, being something of a connoisseur of these things, wondered if it was held in check by medication, and guessed that it was.
“And you?” she asked.
“As I said, I’m an investigator.”
“But that name? Disaster?”
His turn to shrug, holding her gaze.
“It’s in your ID so it’s real. It’s not some street name,” she said.
“No. It’s real.”
She sucked her teeth—she had a slight overbite—and looked at him.
“Okay, let me guess: nobody calls their kid Disaster deliberately, so your parents were illiterate, right, and thought it meant something else? Something good?”
He widened his eyes. “Impressive. You’re the first person ever to figure that one out.”
“Comes of being the child of an alcoholic sociopath. You’re hyper fuckin vigilant and you learn to put two and two together super quick.”
“So, what do you think about this accusation against your father?”
“The murder thing?”
“Yes.”
“Why ask me? I haven't spoken to him in years, I know nothing.”
“I understand that. I’m just curious. What’s your gut feel?”
“I think he’s innocent.”
Zondi sneered. “Hardly.”
“Of this crime he’s innocent.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s a coward. He’s good at bluster and terrorizing women and children and unarmed black men when he’s got his apes with him, but to shoot somebody, with a handgun, up close and personal? Nah, that’s not him. He’d get somebody else to do his dirty work.”
Zondi shrugged. “The murder weapon was found in his truck.”
“Doesn’t that seem just a bit too convenient?”
It did but Zondi lifted his palms to the ceiling and said, “It doesn’t change the facts.”
“You want it to be true, don’t you? You want him to go down?”
“Don’t you?” he asked.
“You mean why don’t I just accept it as karma? That he’s getting what he deserves?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because it would be a lie.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, it matters. It matters to the family of that dead boy.”
“They wouldn’t know. They’d think they were getting justice,” Zondi said.
“But you would know.”
Zondi stared out the window at the ugly little town and the red nothingness that stretched beyond it and then he looked back at her and shrugged. “I think I’m with karma on this one.”
NINETEEN
At dusk Steve Bungu, wearing a blue coverall over his trademark golf shirt and check shorts, drove a fucked-up old Toyota through the rush hour traffic along the N2 out of Cape Town, looking like just another poverty-stricken black sucker on his way home to Khayelitsha after a day making some white man rich.
The bodywork of the Toyota was a rusted patchwork of colors, but the engine ran sweet as sugar beneath the dented hood. He’d borrowed it from an old connection whose illicit business required a mixture of anonymity and speed, a man who knew better than to ever speak of this favor.
The minibus Bungu was following had zipped off along the taxi lane, but he wasn’t stressed, he knew that it would take the Vanguard Drive exit.
When he took the off-ramp he saw a red light had caught the taxi. The light went green and Bungu followed the minibus across the bridge, a long train snaking beneath, the windows a yellow blur.
As he tailed the taxi through factories as heavily fortified as C-Max prisons—a buffer between the suburbs and the ghetto—the wind, which seemed to have blown itself out, picked up again and blasted acrid smoke and black ash into the car.
The factories gave way to a sprawling shackland. The sky over the shacks was red with boiling flame, the wind twisting and scattering the sparks of a million embers. Almost pretty if you don’t know better. In this weather these shanties, sheet iron held together by plastic and pulp board, burned like barbecue firelighters, leaving the survivors—who had fuck all anyway—with only the rags on their backs.
Bungu passed a conga-line of people throwing buckets of water onto the flames, and followed the taxi away from the inferno, navigating by the sodium towers as he entered the cramped matchbox house maze of Paradise Park.
The smoke thinned as he got farther from the blaze and he could see the pointy roof of a KFC in a grim strip mall, its red sign like a streak of blood against the dark sky.
He knew the taxi would stop outside the strip mall to unload the bulk of the passengers he’d watched boarding in the city, near the Cape Town train station, and cruised past, already parked and pulling a ski mask over his pitted dome by the time the minibus shuddered to a halt beneath an orange light.
Bungu was out of the car, holding the Uzi close to his body, moving fast toward the open driver’s window of the taxi. He killed the driver with a short burst, glass shattering like confetti and the brown man’s brains sent in a wet rain onto the windshield, and kept on moving, around to the side where the skinny co-driver had clattered open the sliding door, passengers screaming, some trying to run, others trying to hide behind the seats.
Bungu was pleased to see that Mercia Booysen was out of the taxi, the wind tugging at her cheap brown dress—her kitchen-worker uniform back in her locker at Genadendal—as she stared at him, opened-mouthed, clutching her bag to her chest as if that would save her.
A couple of dollied-up office girls flanked her, screaming like shrikes as they fell off their heels trying to get away.
Bungu killed Booysen and the two women, seeing a froth of blood spray against the side of the minibus and rammed in a fresh clip and raked the taxi again: cries, breaking glass, the stutter and whine of the rounds and the ping of the empty shell casings almost musical as they hit the blacktop.
His work done, Bungu walked back toward the idling Toyota, maneuvered his gut behind the wheel and drove away into the night.
TWENTY
“Angry?” Ross Murker, a big red-faced guy, balding, dressed in a creased check shirt and khaki chinos, reared up from the table in the small conference room, staring down at Pam Hughes, the facilitator, refusing to look at Louw. “Fuckin right I’m angry. Angry as all hell. He killed my wife.”
“Joe’s sitting opposite you, Ross. Why don’t you talk to him direc
tly?” Pam said.
It was all fake buddy-buddy here, everybody using their first names, introduced by Pam who was as plain and nondescript as these cramped offices in the city, the furnishings shabby under the fluorescents. They were the sole inhabitants, Louw only agreeing to this meeting if it was after hours, as private as possible.
“Because this joker just doesn’t bloody get it,” Murker said.
“What don’t I get?” Louw said, keeping his voice level, calm, like he had all those years in interrogation rooms.
The man addressed him for the first time. “That there’s not going to be any forgiveness here, buddy. Fuck forgiveness.”
“That’s okay.”
“Ja?”
“Ja,” Louw said, feeling a twinge of anger. “Because I’m not here for your forgiveness, man. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Wrong? Wrong! You killed my wife!”
It was difficult to feel sympathy for this guy, but Louw held up his palms in surrender. “I’m sorry, man. I’m truly sorry for what happened. But it was an accident.”
“And what must I do with this sorry of yours?”
“Hey, that’s up to you. You asked to meet me.”
Murker looked at Pam. “What must I do with this sorry?”
“Ross, please sit down,” Pam said, professionally calm.
The man obeyed and slumped into his seat, blowing his nose loudly into a tissue.
Ross and Rose, Louw thought. That must’ve been something that started off as cute and ended up a pain in the ass, the cause of endless unfunny jokes over the years. At least Rose MacDonald had kept her own last name when she’d married.
“Try and understand where Joe’s apology is coming from, Ross,” Pam said.
“I know where it’s coming from. It’s coming from the guy that killed my wife.”
“Joe also lost his wife.”
“What’s with this ‘lost’ shit? This fucking euphemism? Why is someone ‘lost’? Why is someone ‘late’? I did not lose my wife, she is not late—I mean she was late, late for our picnic on the beach—but that’s because she was dead.” He pointed a finger at Louw. “Because he shot her.”
“What I’m trying to say, Ross,” Pam said speaking slowly, as if to a child, “is that Joe’s wife also died. He has also experienced grief.”
“Did I kill his wife?”
“Ross—”
“Did I? No, I bloody well didn’t, so forgive me if I don’t want to hear his fucking sob story, okay?”
“Abuse isn’t constructive.”
“Okay, then what is constructive?”
“You tell us, Ross. What would help you?” Pam said, steepling her fingers.
“Not words. Something real. Something concrete.”
“Like what?”
He stared at her. “How about money?”
“Money?”
“Ja, money. My wife’s business died with her. I’m out of work. No wife. No job. No income.”
“And I should pick up the tab for all of that?” Louw said.
“No, you’re picking up the tab for nothing.”
“Rose’s death was ruled as accidental, Ross. You’ve known that for nearly two years, so there is no point continuing to demand financial compensation from the police or from Joe.”
“So he just slides? Just carries on?”
“Joe’s not just carrying on. His life was also severely impacted by the death of Rose. He resigned from the police force, Ross.”
“They pushed him out because they had to. He was an embarrassment.”
“That’s both untrue and uncalled for,” she said, fighting impatience.
“Look,” Louw said, “maybe this isn’t such a great idea. Perhaps you’re still a bit raw.”
“Raw? Raw? What am I now? A fuckin steak?”
“Jesus, man, it’s just an expression.”
“And you? Are you raw?”
Louw looked at him. “What happened to your wife—”
“What you did. What you did to my wife.”
Louw held up a big hand. “Okay, what I did, it really freaked me out, man. Took me down. And then my own wife died.”
Murker leaned into Louw’s face. “I’m glad your bloody wife died. Maybe you understand a little of what I feel.”
Louw had to clench his fists to stop himself from punching the asshole.
Pam stood, palms flat on the table. “This session is over, Ross. You’ve crossed a line.”
“Line? Line? Fuck you and your line. I’m out of here.”
He bulled his way from the conference room, slamming the door.
“Please wait a moment, Joe,” Pam said and left the room, closing the door softly.
Louw stood and went to the window, staring out at the lights of the city, his fingers finding the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
Why had he agreed to this farce?
He could tell himself that it was to try and make peace with the guilt that he carried like rocks in his pocket, but he knew that wasn’t it.
It wasn’t about the past.
He’d come here to punish himself for what he was doing now.
The door opened and Pam Hughes returned alone.
“I’m sorry about that, Joe. Ross used this session to vent. I can only apologize that you had to subject yourself to that kind of abuse.”
He shrugged. “I get where he’s coming from. I’d be angry as all hell, too.”
“It doesn’t excuse his behavior.”
“I was a cop for over thirty years, I’ve seen worse.”
“But this was personal, directed at you. You’re not shielded by a uniform.”
“No.”
“I was surprised you agreed to this meeting, to be honest.”
“Ja?”
“Yes. I reached out to you because his therapist asked me to. Kind of a professional courtesy. But I thought you’d refuse.”
Louw shrugged. “Well, here I am.”
She stared at him and her eyes narrowed.
“What?” he said.
She shook her head and started gathering her paperwork from the table. “It’s not my place to do a headshrinker number on you.”
“No, talk, please.”
She looked up at him with those shrewd blue eyes, and he saw how foolish it would be to underestimate this dowdy little woman.
“Guilt can be addictive, you know?”
“Ja?”
“Yes. You have a life, live it. You’ve atoned. Take off the hair shirt. Move on.”
He nodded and they walked out of the room together.
In the reception area she said, “I’ll say goodbye, I have a bit of work to do.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“For what? Dragging you in here to listen to that tirade?”
“You were doing your job. I know all about that.”
He went out into the corridor and pressed for the elevator. It chimed and slid open and he stepped in, waking his cell phone. He had a missed call from Steve Bungu.
When the doors oiled open and Louw stepped out into the underground garage he saw Ross Murker, squeezed behind the wheel of a ridiculously small Fiat Uno, squeal and rattle his way up the ramp to Adderley Street.
Louw hit the remote that unlocked his rental Hyundai and as he sat behind the wheel and slid the key into ignition the radio blared.
CapeTalk news.
A gabble about the president’s wife. Some smarmy commentator saying, “Even the enemies of the president have been quick to praise his office’s handling of the events. Bringing in Joe Louw was a PR masterstroke.”
The newscaster went on to describe another chapter in the ongoing war between rival taxi factions on the Cape Flats: seven people killed and four wounded, two critically, in a shooting at a rank in Paradise Park just minutes before.
Louw’s cell phone rang and when he saw Bungu’s name he felt a flash of dread. He muted the radio and took the call.
“Ja?”
“Know t
hat problem?” Bungu said.
“Ja?”
“Not a problem no more.”
Bungu was gone and Louw sat in his car staring out at the scuffed wall. He felt suddenly ill and threw open the door and puked onto the concrete floor of the garage.
Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he sat with his eyes closed, sweat dripping from his hair, thinking about the second promise his wife had extracted from him on her death bed.
The promise that had brought him here, to this moment.
The promise that he would take care of their only child, their useless fuck-up of a son who had turned his back on his family, on everything that was constructive and decent, to go and live in Magnus Kruger’s godforsaken volkstaat, where his most toxic behavior was encouraged and applauded.
Even when he murdered a man.
PART TWO
Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.
ANDRE MALRAUX
ONE
Leon Louw, his scrawny body greasy with sweat, stood up naked from his bed and went to the open window of his room and stared up at a sky so thick with stars that it scared the living shit out of him.
Made him feel small, insignificant, like he could be gone in the blink of an eye.
Growing up in the city with all its light pollution you didn’t see night skies like these and it was the one thing that he’d never gotten used to in the five years he’d lived up here.
He found himself scratching at the swastika tattooed on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, a nervous tic he couldn’t shake. It was the tattoo that had started everything, self-inflicted with a darning needle and Indian ink in the bedroom of his parents’ house in Tableview, seventeen-year-old Leon out of it on booze and speed, knowing it would seriously piss his father off.
It had.
It had been a fuckin straw and camel’s back situation.
After an introverted and nerdy childhood and early adolescence, Leon—a dark-haired wimp growing up stunted in the shadow of his big, blond, hero father—had hit fifteen and something hormonal had erupted, and when he’d started getting into dope and booze and trouble (stolen cars and drug busts) his father’s cop buddies had covered for him, kicking him loose out of respect for the mighty Colonel Joe Louw.