by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 68
Driver Mitchell had been knocking on the metal door of Rocki General Supplies warehouse for so long that his knuckles hurt.
"Shit, shit," he muttered, increasingly worried he'd have to return having failed to accomplish his mission. In his pocket was the little black box with a wire hanging from it and he knew exactly where he was going to stick it if he got inside. Then he shouted, "Mr Moses!" through the gap by the hinges.
"You looking for big boss Moses, my man?"
The voice came from behind - from a tall, thin man in jeans and tee shirt, a ring hanging from his left ear, a colourful, close fitting, hand- knitted hat and a burning cigarette fixed between his thumb and first finger. The dense blue smoke was blowing in Mitchell's direction. The man, it seemed, had just arrived in a rusting old Peugeot car, its passenger door hanging open, loud music blaring from inside. Another man was in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers and shaking his head in time with the heavy beat.
"Ah, yes," said Mitchell. "I have an urgent delivery."
"Moses, he's gone away, man."
"When is he coming back?"
The man shrugged and looked at Mitchell through the smoke but said nothing. Mitchell scratched his head and muttered half to himself. "I cannot leave these boxes outside. Come back later? Tomorrow?"
"You wanna open the door, my man? Go inside?"
Mitchell looked at the man who was now smiling broadly. He was also dangling a big bunch of keys. They rang like church bells in front of his beaming face and white teeth.
"You work here?" Mitchell enquired.
"That's so, my man. Today anyway. You wanna go in or you wanna stand outside all day? What the fuck's your business?"
"A delivery of water purifiers," said Mitchell.
"Them paid for already?"
Mitchell nodded.
"That's OK then. Let's do the business man." He jangled the keys once more, pulled a shiny one out, showed it to Mitchell. "That your truck?"
"Sure, mon." said Mitchell thinking he recognised a Nigerian and deciding to try speaking like one. "You like Fela Kuti, my mon?" Mitchell added and he nodded towards the blaring noise coming from the dilapidated car.
"Wotsa Leoni doing liking Fela?" The thin man laughed and puffed on his cigarette. "Unload your boxes my friend while I open this fucking old tin shop."
As the man in the hat disappeared inside the warehouse in a cloud of smoke, Mitchell went to his truck, piled up four boxes, carried them in, put them down and went back for the rest. Then he recovered the paperwork from where he'd stuffed it behind the steering wheel."I need a signature," he shouted into the dusty darkness of the warehouse.
"I'ze in the office, driver."
The Nigerian was sat in Mr Moses' chair, surrounded by the usual piles of files, paperwork and boxes and rifling through the contents of a drawer. The air conditioning was on full. "So what's to sign, my man? Give." He beckoned with his hand.
Mitchell handed over the paperwork. "Sign there please," he said and, as he did so, he felt in his back pocket for the little black box. Standing, looking around as if admiring the luxury, Mitchell stuck the device exactly where he'd intended if Mr Moses had been sitting there. Slid in the crack between the two halves of the desk and covered in files, it was already invisible.
The Nigerian didn't look up from whatever it was he was pulling from the drawer, but he scribbled something and handed it back to Mitchell.
"Is Mr Moses on holiday?" Mitchell asked as he stuffed the useless paper in his pocket.
"Yeh, long one."
"Coming back soon?"
"Nope."
"Aww. So you the new boss?"
"Nope." He now looked straight at Mitchell with red, watery eyes but still puffed out more clouds of pungent smoke. "Moses is gone, my man. We took over his business."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"To visit the fucking angels."
"Waaah! Was he so sick?"
"No, someone shot him."
"Waaaah jeez" said Mitchell again, holding his hand to his mouth. "So sad. I liked Mr Moses. Would you like to negotiate a contract with Mambolo Transport Enterprises?"
"What's your terms my man?"
"Anything, anywhere, anyhow," said Mitchell rubbing his eyes because of the smoke.
"Come back tomorrow. I gotta go - my driver's outside."
"So is it still called Rocki General Supplies?" asked Mitchell.
"No, no. It's now Freeways Investments."
"So, you the big boss of Freeways Investments?" laughed Mitchell, edging towards the door.
"No, man, they are in Switzerland. Big shots, big power, no nonsense. One big, white Dutchman arrive - make commands like big soldier - point finger here, point finger there - they took over everything - all the business and all the boats by the river - one same day. Same day someone shot Moses. Co-incidence huh? I work for Freeways in Nigeria. Freeways don't stand no messin' about, man. No what I mean?"