Killer Country (8 page)

‘This job,’ said Spitz, ‘it is a cock-up. I do not work on cock-ups.’

Manga said, ‘The tunnel or the mountain?’

Spitz looked at the mountains closed about them. ‘How long is the tunnel?’

‘Twelve kays.’

‘That is a long way to be inside the mountain. It is better to take the passage over the mountain.’

‘Captain, there’s no time. You wanna check out this place first, we’ve gotta take the tunnel.’

‘In Switzerland a car catches fire in a tunnel and then everybody dies. This accident happens all the time.’

Spitz toggled Manga’s cellphone to open the sms again: 25 Gary Player Close. He said, ‘A golf estate has got two hundred houses, maybe more that are close together. They have security. This is not a place where we can drive into. Not a place we can wander about in the dark trying to find number twenty-five.’

They went into the tunnel, Spitz focused on the car ahead. On the red taillights that brightened and dimmed as the driver toed the brake when there was no need.

‘Why is this man driving like this, doing that braking?’

Manga shrugged. ‘He’s nervous. Probably doesn’t like tunnels. Relax, captain, fifteen, twenty minutes we’re outta here.’

The tunnel stank of petrol fumes. The blue swirl of exhaust so dense in the headlights it reflected the beams. Manga switched the air conditioning to interior. Didn’t stop the stench of fumes. He forced a cough. ‘Worse than cigarette smoke.’

Spitz sat rigid, the tinny sound of guitars leaking from the headphones in his lap. What he didn’t like was the casualness. No attention to detail. An address in a golf estate wasn’t a help at all. When a job got changed there was always shit to pay.

He said, ‘Tell this woman February we want a map.’

‘You tell her,’ said Manga. ‘I’m driving.’

Spitz dug his cellphone from his pocket, pressed keys to unlock the pad but got no signal. ‘If you catch fire how are you supposed to phone?’

Manga pointed at an emergency phone set on the tunnel wall. ‘They got them all along here, every hundred metres.’

Spitz snorted.

They drove in silence for the remaining distance coming out of the tunnel onto a double-lane highway that curved across a bridge, the valley far below.

‘Where is this place? This golf estate?’ said Spitz. 

‘Down the peninsula.’ Manga waved at the mountains ranged against the horizon. ‘Where the mountains curve. In that corner. I know this place. We don’t need a map.’

Spitz keyed in Sheemina February’s number. She answered on the third ring, saying his name.

‘Ja, this is Spitz,’ he said. ‘I require some more details about this job tonight.’

‘There isn’t anything more you need.’

‘For me I think there is.’

‘Like what?’

‘In a golf estate there are maybe two hundred houses. With no directions, no map, we must find one. You want us to drive up to security to ask them for directions?’

‘Exactly. You’re expected.’

‘This is a joke.’

‘Popo’s told security he’s expecting a delivery. Nine o’clock.’

Spitz let this sink in, wondering if he’d heard correctly. ‘I do not understand. Come again.’

‘Nine o’clock, Spitz.’ She spoke slowly enunciating each word. ‘Popo is expecting a delivery. The security know this. They will let you in. Tell you where to find his house. How much more simple do you want it?’

Spitz laughed. ‘No more simple than that.’

‘Excellent. Nothing has to be complicated in this world, Spitz. Just takes a little planning. A little attention to detail. I do attention to detail. You do the service delivery.’

Spitz thought here was a woman he could work with. ‘In a moment you were going to tell me this arrangement?’

‘If you asked.’ He could hear Sheemina February clinking ice in a glass. ‘If you had some other way I wouldn’t have interfered.’

He was about to disconnect. ‘Oh Spitz, one more thing. Go in the main gate and out one of the others. I would, if I were you.’

The city below stood bright as bones in the afternoon sunshine, some shadows starting across the tower blocks, the sea taking on a deeper blue. Had to be paradise on a windless day. Better to be grilling fillets of yellowtail on the gas Weber, Mace thought, than taking a flight to Berlin.

Bloody Rudi Klett so jumped up these days wanted men in black with him all the time. Then again two exploded cars, three attempted kidnappings, some 9mm rounds smacking into the wall behind your head probably enough to convince you protection was needed.

Mace went down Molteno slowly, his foot tapping lightly on the brakes. He’d have preferred the hardtop off but wasn’t going to leave the Spider in the airport parking lot like an open invitation, help yourself.

Strange thing was no matter how many times he did this drive to the airport, and he did it once a month, sometimes more, he got onto De Waal under Devil’s Peak and into the turns, the Spider’s engine a low basso accelerating, and he’d catch a thrill like flying into Malitia on an arms deal, a crate of guns in the transport’s belly. Same excitement. That moment when anything can happen.

Not that he missed the gun-running, not the actual transactions, but the times around them in strange and foreign places had fed his restlessness. Like waking to the muezzin’s call in Sana’a as if God had torn back the sky, demanding vengeance. The calls answered mosque to mosque across the city. A city where men strapped up with guns before putting a foot in the street. A good city to do business in. The memory brought a smile.

Mace pushed up the speed coming over the curve behind the hospital touching one twenty down the straight, into the S-bend that funnelled him onto the highway. Gave the Spider more juice drifting right behind a minibus taxi and flashed his headlights. The  taxi stayed solid. Mace flicked the lights again, tempted to hoot.

Except his cellphone rang: Pylon, loud on the hands-free, launching straight in with ‘These are two bastards, the Smits.’

Mace changed lanes to get past the taxi on the left. Glared a black look at the call-man squeezed against the sliding door. The man grinned, gave him the finger. Up yours too, Mace said.

‘Hey what?’ said Pylon.

‘Taxi,’ said Mace, as if that explained all, which it did. ‘How so they’re bastards?’

‘We’re talking twenty, thirty somethings. Young smart people: the wife’s a lawyer, the husband’s a fund manager. Saab cabriolet that she drove. The place they want to meet is Den Anker for a Belgian beer. You know how much Belgian beer costs? Three blackies per three fifty mil. They both have two, and I’m paying. I say to her I didn’t know many women into beer. She tells me no, she’s not. Only Belgian. A brew called Leffe blond. Very nice, I have to say.’

‘How’d you know it was a cabriolet?’

‘I followed them afterwards.’

Mace laughed. ‘Part of your new PI routine?’

‘Just getting the information.’

‘So where to?’

‘Clifton apartment, below Victoria. Very zhoozsh. Has to be a couple of million. Maybe kiddies, but sharp rich kiddies. Not only playing with daddies’ money I would say. Probably quite a lot of their own too, which is why they’re holding out.’

‘Still holding out?’

‘I had to bring them in. Yes, they’ll sell but what they want is shares. Okay, we don’t have to pay out initially, that’s good, except the cake just got smaller.’

‘And if the other bidder sweetens the deal?’

‘Obed Chocho?’

‘Him, yeah.’

‘What if? Not what if, he’s going to. Same deal I’d say with frills. The difference is, at the end they’re in with a crook.’

‘They don’t know that, unless they read the news. Don’t know you’re not a crook either.’

‘I told them I wasn’t.’

‘Oh smart move.’

Pylon laughed. ‘I’m holding one more card. Rudi Klett. They talk to Rudi and he’ll bring them over. Obed Chocho’s got a sweet tongue, but you’ve got Rudi whispering in your ear the world changes. Everything you see has the colour of money. Because it is money. Euros, dollars, sterling. With Chocho everything’s on paper.’

‘Government letterhead some of it.’

‘This is true. But you’re streetwise that’s not going to fool you.’

‘For your sake I hope so,’ said Mace, taking the slip road onto the airport approach.

‘Just bring me Rudi Klett,’ said Pylon.

Mace parked under shade-cloth opposite the international departure and arrivals halls. Checked in, got stamped through customs, bought a can of Coke, took a seat near the boarding gate. A Coke float would’ve been good but too complicated for the waitress. Especially take-away.

He thought some more about Pylon’s offer, believed he would take him up, keep the arrangement secret from Oumou and Treasure. No point in stressing them. ’Cos if it stressed Oumou it would stress Treasure. Yet what a difference it would make. Not only a tidy sum down the line but an out. Goodbye Complete Security. Goodbye guarding the neurotics. Nothing wrong with that. And if Pylon offered, he offered because he wanted to. Wanted out too. Would be almost an insult not accepting.

Half an hour later in the boarding queue, Mace’s phone rang: the name Rudi Klett on the screen. Mace stepped out of the queue to get some privacy. 

‘We are going to breakfast tomorrow,’ said Rudi. ‘I will meet you at your hotel.’

‘Sure,’ said Mace. ‘Were am I staying?’

‘Kempinski. I remember this is your favourite. For you and Isabella.’ Rudi Klett gave a laugh.

‘She’s dead,’ said Mace. ‘Didn’t you know?’

The silence answered the question. ‘No. This is very abrupt.’

‘Shot by her husband. Here in Cape Town actually about three years ago.’

‘She was married to a South African?’

‘Long story,’ said Mace. ‘But no, an American.’

‘I will change the hotel.’

‘No need. If I stop going to all the places I went with Isabella, I’m going to have to stay home.’

‘Very well,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘We will remember her with champagne. And how is the beautiful Oumou?’

‘Beautiful.’

‘And my Christa?’

‘Fully recovered.’

‘Good, good. You know, my daughter is gone. We do not talk anymore, not even a card for my birthday. She thinks I am a merchant of death. A Mephistopheles buying the souls of African presidents. Do you think I am taking your president to hell?’ He laughed. The hard wicked laugh Mace remembered. The sort of laugh Mephistopheles would make at the hour of collection. ‘We will talk tomorrow, ja. Catch up.’ And the laugh again. Still loud in Mace’s head when he rejoined the queue.

At nine, Manga stopped at the security boom to the golf estate. Main entrance. He told the guard he had a package for Popo Dlamini. The guard checked a clipboard, handed it to Manga to  fill in his details. Manga wrote his name as Manfred Khumalo, gave his company as One Time Delivery, mixed up the numbers of the car’s registration plate. The guard told him first right, second left, go down counting to the fifth house on the right. Bottom of the close. Manga said thanks, was about to say something else but stopped himself. Gave back the clipboard.

He pulled off slowly, leaving his window down.

‘You almost made a mistake,’ said Spitz.

‘What?’

‘By calling the man captain.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘It was very close.’

‘Close doesn’t matter. Saying it matters.’

The streets were lit, but the streetlights too dim to reveal anything about the car. At a few of the houses people sat out to enjoy the evening. Their voices and laughter carrying to the two men.

‘You fancy living on a golf estate, captain? With all the larneys.’ Manga took the first right, the indicator flashing and clicking in the dashboard. Loud, insistent.

‘No,’ said Spitz.

‘A cousin I know does. Cousin like me. Ordinary guy. Has this flashy house, upstairs, downstairs, three bathrooms.’

‘Sure,’ said Spitz.

‘Estate’s called Blue Hills, in Midrand. You ever heard of it?’ He glanced at Spitz. In the darkness couldn’t say if he responded. ‘He tells people he won the Lotto, and they believe him, strues. I won a million rand, he tells people. Maybe so. Maybe he got in there before everything cost two million rand. What I can’t add up is I know how much I get, I know how much he gets, and my house is in Soweto.’

‘Maybe he did win the Lotto.’

‘Maybe. Maybe it’s something else, captain. You know, like a retainer. Cousin’s maybe an impimpi. Hotline to the fathers. I get  that feeling sometimes on a job that the cops’re waiting.’ Manga leaned forward. ‘Passing first left.’

‘There are people like those,’ said Spitz.

‘Other thing. You got money you don’t show it. No fancy stuff. Cars, houses, jewellery. No, no no no, no. No, captain, you keep a low profile.

‘The turn is coming,’ said Spitz. On his lap he had an envelope and under it the Ruger, the can screwed on. The iPod in his pocket, the earphones round his neck. Wearing his brogues, black chinos, green golf shirt. ‘Go to the bottom, turn round and pull up so I am next to the curb.’ He worked his fingers into black leather gloves.

Manga saluted. ‘Yes, captain.’

‘And switch off the car.’

‘Hey?’

‘Off,’ said Spitz. He saw the house, number twenty-five, set back about twenty metres from the street. No fencing, low shrubs either side the path to the entrance porch. Open shutters at the windows, the curtains drawn. Lights at two windows and a light in the porch.

Manga said, ‘Not a good idea, captain. Having the engine off.’

‘Off,’ said Spitz. ‘If you keep on the engine there will be faces at every window in the street.’ He racked the pistol. ‘Only when I tell you, must you switch on.’

Manga made the turn in the close and came back to twenty-five, killed the engine. As far as he could tell, no one in the street. All the houses fronted onto it. Which was useful. ‘Feel free, captain,’ he said.

Spitz got out. Scanned the street up and down, walked to the front door. He pressed the intercom, heard a bell chime. A woman opened the door. Not a detail he was expecting.

‘A delivery,’ he said. ‘For Mr Dlamini.’

‘I’ll give it to him.’ The woman held out her right hand for the envelope. In her left a glass of wine.

‘He must sign for it. That is my instruction.’

The woman frowned. ‘That’s bullshit. I’ll give it to him. I’ll sign.’

‘Sorry ma’am.’ Spitz kept hold of the envelope with both hands.

The woman swore. Shouted out, ‘Popo. Popo. You need to get this.’

Popo called back that he was coming.

The woman moved away from the door and Spitz stepped into the house, with his elbow pushing the door closed behind him. He followed her into the lounge. She stood there beside a coffee table, watching him, about two metres away, sipping at her wine. He could see the room opened onto a patio, and a man out there grilling meat over charcoal. The man flipped two steaks, took a drink from a bottle of beer. He came into the lounge carrying the meat tongs. Relaxed in shorts, bare feet.

Spitz said, ‘Mr Dlamini?’

Popo Dlamini said, ‘That’s me.’

‘Please to sign on the paper, sir.’

Spitz fired as the man moved towards him. Brought his arm up to shoulder height, popped Popo Dlamini between the eyes. Popo Dlamini dropping backwards against a couch. Spitz swung left to shoot the woman and caught a glass of wine in his face. The woman jumping him. He kneed her crotch and pulled away, shot her once in the chest. Again in the face. Too close for comfort. He had blood on his golf shirt and splashes of wine. The stains looked the same.

Spitz left the house, closing the front door with his hand bunched in his T-shirt. Lights had come on in one of the houses, a curtain shifted and a man looked out. Spitz got into the car. Manga had the engine on idle.

‘The engine is running,’ said Spitz.

‘For sure, captain. After three bloody shots.’ Manga eased off sedately from the curb, the man at the window still peering out.

‘You could not hear the shots.’

‘If you were listening for them, you could hear them. Pop. Pop pop.’ 

Spitz hauled off his T-shirt, reached for another on the backseat.

‘I was contracted for one,’ he said. ‘Nobody told me about two.’

‘Two what?’

‘One, two.’

‘Right.’ Manga caught the drift. ‘Collateral. Shit happens.’

‘Shit does not happen,’ said Spitz. ‘My fee is for the hit. Anybody can add up: one and one is two: double fees. Obed Chocho owes me for another one.’

Manga slowed down at the security gate. ‘You dressed for this?’

Spitz adjusted the collar on the clean golf shirt. ‘No problem.’

Manga said to the security guard, ‘We came in at the top. One Time Delivery.’

The guard didn’t leave the security kiosk, waved them through.

Manga took the forest road, playing cool, wishing Boom Shaka was booming through the sound system. Wishing too for a brandy and Coke, chased with a Black Label. Sitting in the dimness of the bar at the City Lodge, sport on the TV, men and women getting pissed left and right. Talking Kaizer Chiefs or Mamelodi Sundown, keeping an eye open for the good-time sisters, the young ones. He could do with that: a young one without tits. No fuzz. Smooth. Like after a job you get a virgin. Good for HIV. That gasp they make when you go in. Oh wena, baby. This wasn’t gonna happen here. One thing he knew: driving Spitz didn’t add up to the best time of his life.

Spitz on the cell to Sheemina February said, ‘There was not enough detail that you gave me.’

‘How’s that?’ she said, not asking anything about the job.

‘I am charging my rates for the head. Not for the job.’

‘I’m not with you, Spitz. What’re you on about?’

‘The woman.’

‘There was a woman?’

Spitz thought, you are lying to me. Said, ‘Yes. A surprise for me and for her. But maybe it wasn’t a surprise for you.’ 

A pause. Sheemina February coming in with, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow we can talk about it. Nothing to get steamed about, Spitz.’

Before Spitz could reply, she disconnected.

Manga said, ‘Not good.’

‘The problem in this business,’ said Spitz, ‘is you never know what is the true story. For most of the time I do not care. I do not care now. Only I get angry when someone wants a job done without paying.’

He searched in his pocket for his iPod. Felt round his neck for his headphones, the wires dangling. Spitz thought, Nein, donner! Said, ‘I have lost my music.’

‘Oh shit, captain,’ said Manga.

‘All that music.’

Manga glanced at Spitz, shook his head. ‘No, captain, don’t even think it. You’n me, neither one’s going back.’