Bait

by Nick Brownlee

  Jesus Christ, he thought. This fucking ulcer was going to be the death of him. Unless he was already dead first, of course. And that was now a distinct possibility.

  There was an urgent knock at the door and Loftus the concierge entered, the usual expression of utter terror on his face.

  ‘What do you want?’ Getty demanded, staring at his reflection in the mirror with as much composure as he could muster.

  ‘The lady - Miss Bentley - ’

  Getty spun round to face him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She has returned, sir.’

  The hotel owner felt a spasm of relief pass through his body that was almost as powerful as the nausea earlier.

  Then Loftus said, ‘She is with a policeman from Mombasa’ - and Getty’s ulcer almost bent him double again.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Get out of the way,’ Getty snapped, pushing past Loftus to hurry downstairs to the floor of the hotel atrium with the concierge following him like a scolded puppy.

  Thank God! he thought, vigorously spraying his mouth with peppermint. He’d been expecting to find Martha Bentley dishevelled, bloodstained and damn near hysterical - but instead she was standing at the reception desk, looking tired but nevertheless calmly waiting for her room key. Next to her was a small black man in an ill-fitting suit who was gawping at the atrium like a small child in a sweet shop.

  ‘Miss Bentley!’ he exclaimed, almost breaking into a run. ‘I got a call from the police. They told me what happened!’

  Martha looked up. ‘Good evening, Mr Getty. This is Inspector Jouma from Mombasa police. He gave me a lift back.’

  Getty shook Jouma’s hand almost as an afterthought. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Martha said. ‘How’s Harold? It looked like a nasty head wound.’

  ‘He’ll live,’ Getty said, then, realising how dismissive he must have sounded, added, ‘He’s receiving the very best treatment as we speak. But I simply can’t believe this has happened! That you should be caught up in an attempted robbery!’

  ‘Sadly it is becoming all too common,’ the policeman said. ‘Once lawlessness becomes widespread, certain people believe it is common practice.’

  Getty snorted. ‘Well, they got their comeuppance, at least! Of course, as soon as I learned what had happened, I immediately sent one of our boats up to Flamingo Creek to collect you, Miss Bentley. I assumed - But, anyway, the important thing is you’re back safely. Perhaps you would care to join me at my table for dinner tonight. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Getty,’ Martha said. She took her key from the girl behind the reception desk. ‘But I’m pretty bushed, so, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go straight to my room.’

  She thanked Jouma for the lift and Getty watched impotently as she headed for the doors.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Getty?’ the policeman was saying. ‘You really don’t look at all well.’

  There were three missed calls on Martha’s cell, and she tensed when she saw the number. Patrick had also left voicemail, asking her to call him. By the third message, Martha could detect the hurt in his voice and she could imagine him staring at his phone, wondering what he had done to upset her. Her lover was worldly wise in so many ways, and yet in others he was like a little boy in need of constant maternal reassurance.

  He was also fiercely protective. Martha knew this - which was why she decided not to call him right away. Not until she’d had time to think about what she was going to tell him. Not until she’d got her own head round what had happened. She stripped off and showered, then lay on the bed in the knee-length cotton T-shirt he had brought her from one of his trips to Europe. Only then did she dial his number.

  ‘Where have you been, baby?’ Patrick asked her.

  ‘I got back late from Dad’s boatyard.’

  ‘Are you OK? You sound kind of tense. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘It’s been one of those days.’

  ‘Martha. I know that voice. Tell me what happened.’

  She told him. And, when a long time passed and he still hadn’t spoken, she said his name.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m coming out there.’

  ‘No, Patrick - there’s no need. It was just some spaced-out guys.’

  ‘Dammit, Martha! These guys had guns!’

  ‘They have guns in New York. Please, Patrick. The cops said they were ramped up on chang’aa.’

  ‘What the hell is chang’aa?’

  ‘The local brew. Like Scotch, but boosted with industrial methanol.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Again there was silence. She could picture his face, the way it seemed to darken when he was angry.

  ‘And this guy with the boat,’ he said. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s just an English skipper who works out of the creek. He knew Dad.’

  ‘Sounds like Captain America to me.’

  ‘Are you jealous, Patrick?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  He laughed and Martha felt the tension ebb from her body.

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to come out there, honey? I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Let me finish what I have to do. Anyway who’s going to feed Chico?’

  ‘I swear you think more of that goddamn cat than you do about me.’

  ‘Chico’s been on the scene a lot longer than you have.’

  ‘Does Chico buy you tickets for U2? Does Chico take you to Sardi’s on your birthday?’

  ‘Does Chico leave his clothes scattered across the bedroom? Does Chico leave the toilet seat up after he’s been for a pee?’

  At the other end of the phone he laughed again.

  ‘You think you’re some Manhattan hotshot, Martha, but deep down you’re just a typical woman.’

  ‘And you’re a smartass son of a bitch.’

  ‘Yeah, well that may be so,’ he said. ‘But I’m the smartass son of a bitch who feeds your cat.’

  He was still laughing as he ended the call. Martha was pleased. The last thing she wanted was Patrick to be brooding about her. Because if he brooded too much he was just as likely to get on the next flight to Kenya - and that was something Martha did not want. Patrick was a nice considerate guy; but he was also someone who, she had suddenly realised, was on the very periphery of her life. Even in the short time she had been in Kenya, Martha had felt a far deeper connection than she had with the superficialities of New York. For her, this was a place of questions that needed answering.

  And the more time passed, the more Patrick was just the guy who fed her cat.

  Day Six

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  With its sweeping panorama over Lake Tanganyika and the Congo mountains beyond, Whitestone found the Presidential Suite of the Hotel Tanzania far too ostentatious for his tastes. He was not averse to luxury. Far from it. When you were brought up by parents who regarded numbing mediocrity as an achievement, you came to demand the finer things in life when they came within your reach. Had it been up to him, however, the breakfast meeting with Colonel Augustus Kanga would have taken place somewhere less obtrusive, where business could be discussed discreetly and without attracting unnecessary attention.

  But discretion had never been Kanga’s style. The fat Angolan seemed to wallow in the opulence of the Louis-Philippe furnishings and the spectacular view across the lake. Whitestone watched, mildly revolted, as he spooned Beluga caviar on to a wafer of toast and shovelled it into his large pink mouth, grunting with pleasure as he did so.

  Caviar for breakfast. How crass could you get? Almost as crass as calling yourself Colonel when you hadn’t been in the army for over a decade.

  ‘So our Russian friend was pleased with his little appetiser,’ Kanga said, his slow rumbling voice sounding even more imbecilic through a mouthful of food. ‘That is good. And who are these friends of
his who are so interested in our merchandise?’

  ‘Only he can answer that,’ Whitestone said.

  It was typical of Kanga to ask such a stupid question, he thought. Even after all these years, he had yet to grasp the fundamental rule of the business he was in.

  Kanga used his finger to scoop some caviar that had spilled on to the napkin he wore tucked in the collar of his shirt in order to protect his silk tie. He jammed the finger in his mouth and sucked greedily. Then he pushed away his plate and eased his bulk back against the plump cushions of the chaise longue. He looked, Whitestone thought, like a sated and debauched Roman emperor. All he needed was a toga instead of the tailored suit.

  ‘I have studied your latest inventory,’ Kanga said, swatting at a fly that had targeted the scraps on his plate. ‘And I can’t see any problems about procuring the relevant items.’

  ‘Good. Then we need to discuss schedules. There is no time to lose.’

  Kanga raised a hand. ‘One moment, Mr Whitestone. Not so fast. There is the question of payment.’

  Whitestone’s eyes narrowed. ‘The arrangements are the same as always.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it strikes me that perhaps this arrangement is in need of updating.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Colonel?’

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Mr Whitestone, is that perhaps the arrangement as it stands is loaded in your favour. After all, it is my people who are responsible for procuring the merchandise. As I see it, your job is merely to arrange distribution to our friends in Europe.’

  Whitestone chuckled. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That is so.’ His breakfast over, Kanga lit a Cuban cigar and exhaled a plume of thick blue smoke in Whitestone’s direction. ‘Now I respect you, Mr Whitestone. But perhaps it is about time we rationalised our working relationship a little.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m talking about a partnership. Fifty-fifty. I know that you are a good operator. The best. But, if truth be told, so am I. And, as things stand, our arrangement does not reflect this.’

  Whitestone steepled his fingers and stared at the Angolan for several moments. ‘Fifty-fifty, you say?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty.’

  ‘You know that is out of the question.’

  Kanga exhaled smoke and raised his hands in resignation. ‘You know, Mr Whitestone, I thought you would say that. And it breaks my heart. But, you see, I think that, without me and my people, you don’t have a leg to stand on. A pimp is only as good as his whores, after all.’

  Whitestone shrugged. ‘So what do you propose?’

  ‘I’m proposing to cut out the middleman,’ Kanga said. ‘Move the goods straight from the warehouse to the customer, if you take my meaning. And I’m sure our Russian friends would appreciate the significant saving in household expenditure.’

  ‘I see.’ Whitestone ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how many more strangled clichés he would have to endure before this interminable breakfast meeting drew to a close. ‘You have a habit of referring to my clients as your friends, Colonel Kanga.’

  Kanga laughed. ‘It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? Listen, Mr Whitestone, I am offering you a chance to get in on the action first. After all, we go back a long way and I would hate to go behind your back.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘More than anything else, Colonel Augustus Kanga is a man of honour. I respect my business associates.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So I’ll ask you again. A partnership. You and I. Fifty-fifty. What do you say?’

  Whitestone smiled. ‘You make a persuasive case, Colonel. But I will have to consult with my superiors. ’

  Kanga seemed surprised. He plucked the napkin from his collar and placed it next to his plate of caviar. ‘I am delighted that you see things the way I do, Mr Whitestone. You know that I would never try to undermine you.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  ‘Just to show you that I’m a man of my word, I shall get my people working on this latest inventory right away.’ Kanga levered himself to his feet and proffered a hand. ‘It remains a pleasure working with you, Mr Whitestone.’

  Whitestone smiled back at him. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Colonel.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was 10 a.m. and Harry had been licking his wounds at Suki Lo’s for the best part of twelve hours. He was only marginally drunker than Jake. Last night, Jake had wanted to take Harry to the hospital, but Harry had insisted his injuries were superficial, and nothing that a couple of bottles of Jack Daniel’s and a bowl of Suki’s chilli noodles wouldn’t cure. In any case, he added, they couldn’t go to the hospital because the muggers who had beaten him up and taken two grand out of the safe had also driven off in his Land Rover.

  ‘Mind you, they wouldn’t get far in that old bus,’ he said. ‘There’s a knack to driving without a clutch, you know.’

  The stolen Land Rover had also provided them with a tenuous excuse to remain in Suki Lo’s bar all night. With Harry’s broken ribs and swollen knees, it had taken the two men nearly an hour to walk here. The prospect of walking back was just too terrible to contemplate for both of them.

  ‘Still, who am I to complain?’ Harry announced to Suki Lo, who had enthusiastically joined in the marathon drinking session and still, somehow, looked bright as a button. ‘My muggers were only armed with baseball bats. Jake here - his had fucking guns!’

  ‘Fucking Uzis,’ Jake pointed out.

  ‘Well, there you go! So you see, Suki, my pet, everything is relative.’

  ‘Sometime you talk shit, Harry,’ Suki said, lighting her sixtieth cigarette since midnight. ‘In fact, all time you talk shit.’ She took a swill of Bacardi and Coke and tottered off to the kitchen.

  ‘You should give the cops a description,’ Jake said. ‘Before you forget what they looked like.’

  ‘No offence, old chap, because I know you’re pally with that inspector from Mombasa, but I’ve never put much faith in the boys in blue. Especially not this lot. Besides, Chief Inspector Mugo would only say it was an accident.’ Harry laughed, then winced with pain.

  ‘You could always tell him that the bastards cleaned us out of every last penny we’ve got. Not to mention our only means of transport on dry land.’ Jake stared mournfully into his glass. ‘Admit it, Harry - it’s over. We’re finished.’

  Harry glared at him across the table. ‘Now you listen to me. Harry Philliskirk doesn’t know the meaning of the word finished. This is our business, we’ve worked bloody hard at it, and I’ll be damned to hell in a handcart if I’m going to watch it fold because of a pissing two grand and a clapped-out Land Rover.’

  ‘We owe the Arab seventeen grand,’ Jake pointed out. ‘At twelve per cent interest.’

  Suki appeared from the kitchen with an ice bucket and a concerned look on her face.

  ‘Your eye really swollen now,’ she clucked, her thin fingers gently probing his swollen face. ‘Aw - they make a fuckin’ mess of you, honey boy.’

  ‘I think it gives me gravitas,’ Harry said. ‘I look like Gentleman Jim Corbett.’

  Jake grimaced. ‘Did Gentleman Jim Corbett wash dishes for a living?’

  Suki looked at the two Englishmen with a puzzled expression.

  ‘You know, Suki,’ Harry said, ‘I don’t think I ever told you this, but Jake here was the only one who answered my advert for a partner to run the boat business. The only one. I remember when I first brought him here from the airport. Showed him that old shed and told him that one day we’d have a place just like those swanky buggers in Malindi. Anybody in their right mind would have turned straight round and got back on the first plane back to Heathrow. But Jake kept the faith. And I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘Jake is a good boy,’ Suki said.

  Harry looked at him. ‘And that’s why I’m asking you to keep the faith one more time, old pal.’

  ‘I will, Harry,’ Jake said. ‘But where the hell are we going t
o get seventeen thousand dollars?’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  That morning the air was gritty with dust blown overland from the vast expanse of the Masai Mara. In the heat and toil of Mombasa Old Town the tourists were hiding indoors, which for Kenneth Kariuku meant that business was slow to the extent that six of the eight shillings in his open guitar case were those that he’d tossed in earlier.

  As he tugged on the tuning pegs of his five remaining guitar strings, ear cocked to the body of the battered instrument so he could hear above the roar of traffic, he silently cursed the parsimony of Mombasa’s tourists. OK, he was no great shakes as a guitar player - but what did they want? At least his self-penned folk songs were more culturally valid than the tacky carved elephants and fake Rolex watches being peddled on every street corner.

  No, Mombasa was not what he had expected at all when he’d arrived two days ago on the weekly matatu minibus from his home village in the Taru desert.

  ‘Go to Mombasa and play your music, Kenneth,’ his mother had told him. ‘Within a week you will have made your fortune!’

  How wrong she was. In two days, he had made precisely three shillings profit - barely enough to catch the next matatu home.

  Well, Kenneth thought, if it was tourist tat they wanted, then that’s what they would get. Tuned up, he slipped the guitar strap over his head and began to sing.

  Kenya ni nchi nzuri, Hakuna matata.

  Nchi ya kupendeza, Hakuna matata.

  Nchi ya maajabu, Hakuna matata

  Nchi yenye amani, Hakuna matata.

  Yet, even as he sang, Kenneth’s heart sank. Was this what he was reduced to? Popular ditties that appeared on a million and one cassette tapes of traditional Kenyan music? It was no good. Tomorrow he would head to Nairobi. He had heard talk of a club there whose owner actively encouraged young folk singers such as himself.

  ‘That is a very nice song, boy.’