Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Behind the counter sat a massively obese black man. He wore a dark green three-piece suit and a purple shirt and tie. His face was covered in a slight sheen of sweat despite the glacial air. Petrus and he stared at each other for a while. Eventually the large man spoke.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Petrus smiled. ‘Hello, Gatsha. How are you, my friend?’

  ‘I’m not your friend. Go away. If I’d known that it was you at the door I wouldn’t have let you in.’

  Petrus laughed. ‘Garrett, this is my good friend, Gatsha Mazibuko.’

  ‘Stop saying that I am your friend, what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Pay no attention to him,’ Petrus told Garrett. ‘We’re like brothers, that’s how close we are.’

  Gatsha shook his head, jowls wobbled and sweat dripped. He held his hand out to Garrett who grasped it. The strength of the grip almost took the ex-soldier’s breath away. It took a great effort of will not to rub his hand when it was delivered back to him in a slightly rumpled, shop-soiled condition.

  ‘You look like a semi-intelligent person,’ said Gatsha. ‘What are you doing with this degenerate?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘Someone has to take care of him.’

  Gatsha chuckled. ‘Well, Garrett, please don’t assume that this is some sort of good-natured banter that Petrus and I have going in order to cover our deep friendship. It isn’t. I can truly say that I can’t stand the fucker. He’s trouble. Big trouble. But I owe him my life and it sometimes seems as though my debt will never be repaid.’ He shook his head again. ‘Sometimes I wish that he had just let me die, then I wouldn’t have to put up with his stupid requests. Anyway, Petrus, what do you want this time?’

  Petrus took the cartridge from his pocket and laid it on the counter.

  Gatsha picked it up and studied it. ‘Desert Eagle 50 caliber Action Express.’ He placed the shell back on the counter. ‘I don’t sell these. What do you want with it?’

  ‘Where did it come from?’ Asked Petrus.

  Gatsha picked it up again and peered closely at the base.

  ‘Look,’ he pointed. ‘See the imprint? IMI. Israel Military Industries. This is an old cartridge. IMI stopped making these back in the 1980s. Speer took over after that. I think I know where this came from. There’s a guy, goes by the name of Sakkie Rebonowitz. His father was a Cape colored, mother was a Jew. Real Israeli one. He goes by his mother’s maiden name, says it’s better for business. He’s small time, deals drugs, ecstasy mainly, also pimps out girls. Real young ones. He brought in a batch of these Desert Eagles a few years ago. Couldn’t sell them for a while because they’re such an impractical piece of shit, good for hunting bears maybe, that’s all. You need to visit him.’ Gatsha pulled a scrap of paper from a drawer and scribbled an address on it. Slid it across to Petrus. ‘Here, it’s in Hillbrow. Be careful, this is one bad motherfucker. Really slimy piece of work.’

  Petrus pocketed the paper and the empty cartridge. ‘Thanks, Gatsha. Now, I need a favor.’

  ‘I just did you a favor.’

  ‘Well, I need another one. A bigger one. We need some weapons.’

  Gatsha shook his head. ‘No ways. Fuck off. It’s not like the old days anymore. Gone are the times when you could buy an AK on the street corner, the government have cracked down big-time on illegal weapons. It’s a worldwide thing since 9-11. Anyway, since when did you start using guns? What happened to your steel?’

  ‘The assegai is still my weapon of choice, but Garrett prefers a firearm. Also he needs that.’ Petrus pointed at a 22” long cold-steel made panga-machete hanging on the wall behind the counter.

  Gatsha took it off the wall together with a matching cor-ex shoulder-sheath and handed it to Garrett. ‘No problem. Here.’

  Garrett took the steel. Stood for a while, his eyes closed as inside him the beast fought for ascendancy. The smell of the jungle, hot and wet. Blood. People screaming for mercy as the steel blade rose high. Finally. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Try it on,’ said Gatsha. ‘Take you jacket off, loop it over your shoulder.’

  Garrett did so. The panga rode comfortably under his left armpit, handle facing down and ready to draw. ‘It’s good. Comfortable. Thanks again.’

  Gatsha threw another sheath at Petrus. ‘Here, you savage. It’ll fit that assegai of yours as well.’

  Petrus removed his light denim jacket and strapped on the sheath. After a few adjustments it fitted as well as Garrett’s panga.

  ‘Nice, my friend, but now, come on, Gatsha,’ said Petrus. ‘Gun for the man. And don’t give me that can’t be done shit.’

  Gatsha pulled his chair to one side, then squatted down, lifted the carpet and pulled open a steel trapdoor. He picked up a steel box and dumped it on the counter. Then he waddled to the door and pulled a blind down to prevent anyone seeing into the shop. He took a key from around his neck, opened the box and pushed it across to Garrett.

  Inside were two rusty Taurus .38 specials. Six shot. There was also a large selection of various gun parts and barrels. Garrett started to pick parts out of the box, seemingly at random. Within minutes he had a pile in front of him. Within another four minutes he had a fully assembled Colt 45 model 1911.

  ‘I’ll take this.’

  Gatsha laughed. ‘Well, fuck me. I didn’t even know that I had one of those in there.’

  ‘Ammunition?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Sure. Ammo’s no problem. No one keeps a good record of it. How much?’

  ‘Two hundred rounds.’ Garrett poked around in the box a bit more and then took out an extra magazine. ‘I’ll take this as well.’

  Gatsha replaced the box under the floor, took four boxes of FMJ colt ammunition from the shelf and gave them to Garrett.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. That will be three hundred Rands for the panga and lets say five thousand for the gun and ammo. I’ll throw in the sheaths for free.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ll pay you next time. Now we need to get going. Goodbye, my friend.’

  Gatsha sighed long and loud. A steam train leaving the station. ‘Not your friend.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Petrus.

  The door buzzed and the two men left.

  Gatsha pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. Until now, Petrus had always been the scariest person that he had ever met. Until he had seen the look on Garrett’s face when he had first held the machete. A deep-seated fury held in check by the slenderest of ties. Ferocity covered over with the thinnest of veneers. A savage beast tethered by strands of silk and conscience. A man to be feared.

  He hoped that no harm came to Petrus. Because, whatever he said, he liked that boy. Truly he did.

  ***

  Kobus rose with the sun. He had a headache brought on by hunger. He drank his fill of water from a bucket that he kept in his shack, splashed himself awake and stepped out into the street.

  Then he shook a cigarette from the packet that he had been given, took a book of matches from his pocket and lit up. He drew the smoke in slowly. Savoring the pleasure of such a luxury. The hit of unaccustomed nicotine left him slightly dizzy and he squatted down while he smoked the rest.

  They approached him while he was still sitting down. Three of them. Late teens. Perhaps early twenties. Young men made hard by a life of little worth. Petty thieves. Bullies.

  ‘What you doing here, white man?’

  Kobus said nothing. But he prepared himself. Slow deep breaths. Concentrating on what little strength his starving body still had to offer. Letting years of training and violence flood through him. Because he had seen similar situations to this before. These men were bored. They were dangerous. And they were looking for a distraction from their own shitty lives. He had seen other men in the township being beaten to death for little more than an alleviation of boredom. No disagreement. No theft. Merely a bit of sport.

  He stood up. Registered the momentary shock in their faces as he stood six feet and
seven inches high. At least a foot taller than all of them. He also saw the dull sheen of a knife in the one tsotsies hand. And he knew that he was fighting for his life.

  The big man unleashed a straight right at the leading aggressor. Three foot of bone, sinew and stripped down muscle. A poetry of mechanical force. His fist struck the knife wielder on his nose. The nose disintegrated with a sound like a foot crunching on a gravel drive. The excess energy carried on through the nasal concha and into the adjacent zygomatic bones, smashing both his cheekbones and snapping off his two front teeth. He dropped like he had been headshot.

  Kobus stepped over the fallen man and grabbed the second attacker by his ears. Then he arched his back and pulled the assailant into a vicious head butt. At the last moment the man tilted his head to the side. Kobus’s forehead struck him just above his eye, smashing the sub-orbital bone and knocking his eye out of the socket. It dangled against his cheek like some obscene parasite. Feeding off the host’s blood supply and giving naught in return.

  The third attacker turned and ran.

  Kobus stood still for a while. Chest heaving as he struggled to take in enough oxygen to fuel himself. Waves of nausea flooded through him as his adrenal glands pumped him full of adrenalin. Too much. Too late to use. The fallen assailants lay still on the ground. As still as death.

  The big man picked up his crutch and staggered off. He needed to get to his spot. Find work. Or food. His vision wavered as he walked. Sound came and went. The fight had drained his last reserves of energy.

  He kept moving.

  Slowly.

  Not enough energy left to fuel his basic autonomic movements.

  He knew that he was dying.

  He did not care.

  Chapter 9

  Petrus swore.

  ‘What?’ Asked Garrett as he climbed into the pick-up.

  The Zulu passed his cell phone to Garrett. ‘Sipho just sent this. It’s Freedom.’

  Garrett looked at the screen. Sipho had forwarded the last few seconds of a video. A video of Freedom suffering the most appalling beating. He handed the phone back. ‘At least we know that he’s still alive.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Petrus in a shaking voice. ‘But the men who did that are dead. All of them.’

  Garrett leaned across, grasped his friend by the shoulder and nodded. ‘All of them. Now let’s go to Hillbrow, find this Sakkie and get some info from him. Do you know the way?’

  Petrus pointed.

  Garrett started the pick-up and drove, following his friend’s monosyllabic directions.

  ‘Turn here,’ instructed Petrus. ‘See the Lamunu hotel there? I know the guards. We’ll park there and then walk to Nugget Street where Sakkie’s offices are. If you leave the vehicle on the streets here it’s gone for sure.’

  Garrett pulled up to a boom-controlled access. The armed guard recognized Petrus, gave a quick wave and opened the boom. They parked in the first space they came to.

  Petrus had a chat to the guard and then they left. The Zulu had his assegai in its shoulder-sheath. Garrett had his panga and, nestled in the small of his back, the old Colt 45.

  Petrus took the lead, walking through the crowded street with a swagger and arrogance that drove through the throng like a sawfish through a shoal of sardines. Garrett followed in his wake. Alert. Pulse raised. The body readying itself for action. And in a city where violent action was a way of life the lesser predators slinked back into the shadows as the Alphas stalked by.

  They stopped outside a huge concrete and steel high-rise.

  ‘Up there,’ said Petrus. ‘Tenth floor.’

  As he was talking a television set smashed onto the pavement not five feet away from them. Glass and electronic chips buzzed through the air like shrapnel. A young woman fell to the floor, a gash over her eye pouring blood.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Shouted Garrett.

  ‘TV,’ answered Petrus.

  ‘I can see that. Why?’

  The Zulu shrugged. ‘They’ve probably got a new one. Getting rid of the old one.’

  ‘By chucking it out of a thirty story window?’

  ‘Hey, man. It’s Hillbrow,’ said Petrus with a grin. ‘Come on, let’s go up.’

  They entered through a glass door, remarkable for the simple fact that it was still intact. On the right hand side of the reception lobby was a bank of three elevators. Petrus pushed the call button and they waited. After a minute or so one of the doors opened. The two men moved forward and then pulled back. In the corner of the cab was a pile of human feces filling the elevator with the most appalling stench.

  ‘No ways,’ said Petrus. ‘Let’s take the stairs.’ They jogged up the ten flights, taking the steps two at a time. Neither was breathing hard when they got there.

  ‘End of the corridor,’ said Petrus. ‘Number one-oh-seven.’

  They walked down to the end of the corridor. The door was sheathed in iron sheet metal and had three Yale locks running down the side. There was a stainless steel intercom on the wall next to the door. Garrett pressed the button. They heard an electronic squawk from inside the office. The intercom crackled into life.

  ‘What?’ Asked a voice.

  ‘Here to see Sakkie Rebonowitz.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The intercom went quiet. Garrett pushed the button again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let us in.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on Sakkie. We want to do business. We got your name from a mutual friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Let’s talk inside Sakkie.’

  ‘Wait.’

  There was a pause as they heard the locks been turned and bolts being slid back. The door opened slightly, still on a chain. A man with a face like a beaver peered through the gap. Garrett kicked the door as hard as he could. The chain shattered and beaver-face was thrown back into the room. Garrett and Petrus ran into the room and closed the door behind them. It locked automatically.

  Before Sakkie could get up Petrus walked over to him and held out the 50 cal cartridge. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Shouted Sakkie. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you people? You broke my door.’

  ‘Listen and look, Sakkie,’ continued Petrus. ‘I need to know who bought this off you.’

  ‘Get out of my office.’

  ‘Sakkie, you don’t seem to appreciate that this is a life threatening situation that you find yourself in. Now, answer my question.’

  Sakkie stood up and walked over to his door. ‘Look at what you’ve done. Now I’m gonna have to call a locksmith and you know how hard it is to get a locksmith to come to Hillbrow?’

  Petrus pulled his assegai from its holster and held it up in front of Sakkie’s face. ‘Listen, you moron. Start telling us what we want to know or I’ll use this.’

  Sakkie stared at the spear for a while and then he shook his head. ‘I’m very upset. I think that you should leave now.’

  Petrus looked at Garrett, his face a picture of puzzlement. Garrett shrugged, he was also baffled. The two of them were used to causing instant fear in their opponents and now all that was happening was that they were being treated like a pair of naughty schoolboys who had broken the classroom door.

  Garrett decided to try a different approach. ‘Hey, Sakkie, we need some information and we’re willing to pay for it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘One hundred thousand Rands.’

  Before Garrett could answer Petrus lost his patience. ‘Oh for fuck sakes,’ he grabbed Sakkie by his collar, swung the assegai like a cleaver, and chopped the drug dealer’s right ear off. It fell to the floor and lay there, small and pale. A mollusk without a shell. Or a large comma of flesh.

  Sakkie immediately started to talk. ‘I sold the Desert Eagles to a man who owns a private security company. He took the three that I had left and all of the ammo. Ten boxes. His name is Sampson Sabelo. Company is Do
berman Security. Please don’t chop my other ear off.’

  ‘Where is the company?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  Petrus raised his assegai again.

  ‘Wait, wait. Krugersdorp, not sure exactly but it’s in Krugersdorp. It’ll be in the phone book. There, on the desk. Take a look. Don’t hurt me.’

  Garrett went to the desk, flipped through the book until he found the number and address. He tore out the page and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Oh, great. First you break my door now you vandalize my telephone directory. You guys are real assholes.’

  Garrett turned to Sakkie. ‘Shut up, little man.’

  ‘What? Sorry, I can’t hear you because some savage chopped my fucking ear off with a spear. Christ, I think that I might bleed to death.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Garrett. ‘Wrap a towel around your head and go to the hospital. Take the ear; maybe they can sew it back on. Come on, Petrus, let’s go.’

  The Zulu re-sheathed his weapon, opened the door and the two of them ran down the stairs. As they emerged from the building there was the sound of a shot and a car window next to them exploded into shards of glass. Garrett looked up. Sakkie was leaning out of the window with a handgun taking aim for another shot. But before he could pull the trigger the sidearm slipped from his grasp and fell to the pavement, breaking up as it hit the concrete.

  ‘Oh, shit. Now I’ve lost my gun. I hate you guys. You’re like the prince of fucking darkness. I hope you get AIDS and die. Assholes.’

  Petrus started to laugh and, within seconds, both he and Garrett were doubled over with mirth. After almost a full minute they pulled themselves together.

  ‘Man,’ said Petrus. ‘That Sakkie is one seriously weird dude. Come on, let’s go.’

  They both took off at a fast walk.

  Chapter 10

  Precious Marwala had been Manhattan Dengana’s personal secretary for over four years. He was a good boss. He treated her with respect, he remembered her and her husband’s birthdays and, although he demanded long hours and absolute dedication, he paid very well.