Petrus nodded.
‘Okay, make that seven family feast buckets and twenty fries. There’s cash on the table there,’ he pointed at a coffee table next to the door. The guard grabbed a handful of notes and left, closing the door behind him.
‘Talk to me, Petrus.’
So Petrus gave the Fat Man an abbreviated run down on the last few days events, ending with that fact that the police force were now after them – although they were buggered if they knew why.
As Petrus finished his tale there was a knock on the door and two of the young men from the lobby walked in laden down with buckets of chicken and fries and large bottles of green soda of some type. They lay them out on the low table that was in front of the Fat Man’s sofa.
‘So,’ said the Fat Man. ‘You have already met my lost boys.’
Petrus nodded.
The Fat Man chuckled. ‘They seek to be American street thugs. Niggas. All bling and bullshit, but they’re good boys. Faithful.’ He rubbed one on the head. A pet dog.
They left and closed the door behind them.
The Fat Man tore open a bucket of chicken and started eating. It was plain to Garrett and Petrus that conversation was over until consumption had finished so they took a bucket each and ate as well, swilling it down with super-sweet mouthfuls of the virulent green pop.
Fat Man ate like a man driven by exterior forces. An automaton. Chicken flesh was stripped neatly off the bone to be ingested and fries were bundled, dipped in ketchup and thrust in after. He was neat. He spilt neither crumbs nor fat, stopping every now and then to pat his lips delicately with a paper napkin. In the same time that Garrett had eaten two pieces of chicken, Fat Man had polished off a family bucket of twelve pieces and was starting to get into his stride, working two handed. One shuttling the chicken back and forth and the other bundling, dipping and inserting handfuls of fries. It was like watching a well-engineered machine at work. Silent, efficient and impressive.
Within twenty minutes Fat Man had finished all. He opened a half gallon bottle of the green soda, put it to his lips and downed it without taking breath. Then he burped mightily, patted his stomach and continued the conversation as if they had not paused.
‘Right, you guys can stay here in the hostel for a while. I’ll get my boys to try and find out what’s going down with the cops. But I tell you, Petrus, this doesn’t sound good. I’m not a conspiracy nut but this smacks of some sort of plot.’ He pointed at Garrett. ‘Please ask one of the guards to come in.’
Garrett stood up, opened the door and asked a guard to come on.
‘Sampson,’ said the fat Man. ‘Take Petrus and his friend, find them a room. They can use one of the rooms where the people are working night shift. Okay, guys, I’ll see you in the morning.’
Garrett and Petrus followed Sampson from the room. They walked down the corridor and across the lobby to a set of stairs. They went up the stairs to the next floor. Another long, badly lit corridor. Half way down Sampson stopped and opened a door.
‘Here. This room is empty tonight. The occupants are working nightshift at the city morgue. Sleep here.’ He turned and left without another word.
The room was small. Two iron beds, covered in rough gray blankets. A stainless steel sink. Plywood cupboard with a broken door. The floor was bare concrete polished to a shine with red floor wax. The light, a dirty forty-watt bulb. A window, steel bars.
Garrett sat down on one of the beds. The bedding stank of old sweat. Rancid. Sour. The threadbare pillow was shiny with grease. There was a spot of dried blood on the blanket. He didn’t care. He had slept in places far worse. And he was tired. He took his jacket off and spread it over the pillow and then lay down on top of the blanket, fully dressed.
‘Good night, Petrus.’
‘Night.’
Within minutes the two were asleep.
***
Pete and four of his men had spent the night sleeping in the offices of Phoenix Building Supplies. Today was Sunday so the premises were deserted.
Isaac had given them a set of keys as well as the weapons and ammunition. He had explained the situation regarding Petrus and then he had left.
After coffee Pete got the men together in the main office and led them in Sunday prayers. He thanked the Lord for the opportunity that they had and asked for his help in finding the Zulu and capturing him alive. He also thanked the Lord for their unknown benefactor and the guns and ammunition. Finally he asked that the lord guide them and help them to a new white homeland.
All five of the Afrikaners were dressed in shabby jeans, dark shirts and sneakers. On their heads, covering their hair, were knitted watch caps, pulled down low. They had all used black camouflage cream to darken their faces and hands a uniform black. This would prevent them standing out as a group of white boys in the Alexandra Township. All wore long coats to conceal their assault rifles.
They were good to go.
***
The four-seater Eurocopter MBB BO105 hammered through the early morning air. The pilot and gunner sat in the front two seats. In the back seat was sergeant Fumba. In the fourth seat was a cardboard box. It was full of printed leaflets. A5 size. On them a simple message printed in English, Afrikaans, Zulu and Xhosa.
WANTED – ALIVE.
Petrus Dlamini
REWARD – R200 000
Fumba pointed at the hostel. ‘Start there, that’s the Zulu controlled area. That’s where they’ll be.’
The pilot took the helicopter over the hostel and slowed down. Sergeant Fumba grabbed a handful of leaflets and chucked them out of the open side door. The downdraft snatched at them and scattered them like giant snowflakes.
‘Go back around,’ said Fumba. ‘I’ll throw some more out.’
‘Be quick,’ shouted the pilot. ‘If we hang about in one place too long the Zulus start shooting at us.’
‘Why?’ Asked Fumba.
The pilot shrugged. ‘No reason Just for fun.’
They turned and did another pass. More leaflets filled the skies. Then the pilot took the machine in a slow circle around the township. Fumba threw out leaflets until the box was empty and they left, heading East towards the police heliport.
Meanwhile, on the ground, colonel Zuzani had called in a long list of favors and now had, under his direct command, two hundred and fifty well armed policemen and six Casspir armored cars.
He had used the two hundred new men to completely cordon off the Alexandra Township. Every outgoing road had been blockaded and all major roads had one of the Casspirs to provide armored support.
This show of force combined with the cash reward made Zuzani certain that someone would bring in Dlamini very soon. The whole operation should be over in a couple of hours, if not sooner.
***
Garrett sat on the edge of the bed and used his fingers to shovel the stiff boiled maize meal porridge into his mouth. One of the lost boys had brought the porridge and two mugs of industrial strength coffee with at least five spoons of sugar in.
As they were finishing they heard a helicopter clatter over them, flying low and slow. Minutes later one of the lost boys rushed into the room.
‘Fat Man wants to see you. Now.’
The two of them grabbed their weapons and followed the lost boy to Fat Man’s rooms.
Fat Man was sitting on his leather sofa. The place looked the same. Blue and red from the myriad of bubbling lava lamps. The fried chicken buckets had been cleared away and in their place was a mountain of egg McMuffins. Garrett guessed at maybe forty. Maybe fifty. Next to them a few gallons of the ubiquitous green soda.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Sit. Eat.’
Petrus shook his head. ‘Just eaten, thanks.’
The Fat Man downed a huge draft of green fizzy liquid straight from the bottle and then ate a few more McMuffins. He would put a whole one in his mouth at once and then chew stolidly. A set look of concentration his face. Each one went down in under ten seconds. An industrial McMuffin disposal
unit.
He lent forward and grabbed a handful of leaflets. Threw them at Petrus.
‘Check this out. This is big shit, man. Big shit.’
Petrus scanned one of the papers. ‘Two hundred grand. It’s a fucking insult. Back in the day, the apartheid government had a price of five hundred K on my head, dead or alive.’
The Fat Man laughed. High pitched. Feminine. ‘Maybe so, but you know what it costs to hire a hit on someone nowadays?’
Petrus shrugged.
‘Two grand. Two thousand lousy Rands. Two hundred dollars American for a life. Two hundred grand is four year’s salary for a street hit man. They are going to come crawling out of the fucking woodwork. Armies of the fuckers. Big shit.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ Asked Petrus.
The Fat Man ingested a few more egg McMuffins while he thought. His jaws ruminating like a cow chewing the cud.
‘What would happen if you died and your father found out that I might have been able to prevent it?’
It was not a rhetorical question so Petrus gave it some thought before answering.
‘He would consider it an insult. He would rally his shields to him, put them on buses and come here to chastise you.’
‘How many?’
Petrus laughed. ‘All of them. He would raze this place to the ground.’
Fat Man sighed. ‘Petrus, I want you to know, I would help you anyway but it’s not as though I have any choice in the matter. You are the son of my chief. I will do all that I can, as will my people.’
Petrus bowed his head in thanks.
‘You,’ Fat Man gestured at Garrett. ‘Call a guard.’
Garrett opened the door and summoned Sampson.
‘Sampson,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Take the lost boys, start here in the hostel and then work the streets. Show them these leaflets and tell everyone that if we even see someone holding one we will kill them and their family. Make examples. Okay?’
Sampson nodded. ‘I will need more people; there are only ten lost boys. I need another ten men.’
The Fat Man waved his hand. ‘Take. Whatever. Start now.’
‘That should sort things out,’ said Garrett.
The Fat Man shook his head. ‘No. It will stop any of the Zulus from running you in, but my influence dwindles the further one goes from the hostel. The Xhosas control the other side of Alex. They will use this as an excuse to attack us.’ He rammed another McMuffin down. Chewed. ‘This is the beginning of a war. Bad shit. Very bad.’
Petrus stood up. ‘We can take them, Fat Man. We can take them.’
The Fat Man shrugged. ‘Probably. But last time we had a war they burned down the McDonalds. I had to have fried chicken for breakfast until they rebuilt. I hate having chicken for breakfast. It just isn’t right.’ He picked up a bottle of green soda, took a gulp and stood up. ‘Right, gentlemen. Let’s prepare for battle.’
Chapter 25
Her real name was Mary Morgan. She hated it. But she liked the initials. MM. Like the candy. It had a hook. So she kept the initials and called herself Misty Malone.
Misty had worked her way up from local cable weather to state cable weather. She was good at her job. Five seven, blonde, blue eyed with a figure that is seldom seen in reality. But she didn’t want to be a weather girl. Even the name was a denigration. Channels had weather men, not weather boys, so why girls?
Misty wanted to do serious news. She wanted to be a political correspondent. So, while she had been chirping away every day about the sun, sun, sun in California, she had also been taking night classes in political economy through Cornell University and she had graduated in the top five percent of her class.
And, because she worked hard and was good at her job. And also because the gods of television are a cruel bunch, Misty got her wish and was promoted to the position of Foreign Correspondent, Southern Africa Division. What this meant is that she had been sent on a three-month mission to South Africa. The company had booked her into the Gauteng, Sandton Holiday Inn Plaza, outside Johannesburg and they had hired her a part-time cameraman. A forty-five year old Afrikaner called Bartholomew. Street smart and tough as nails, he was her guide and assistant as well as cameraman.
Misty had now been in South Africa for three weeks now and she had worked hard. But none of her material had been used. The simple fact of the matter was; no one cared any more. The days of South Africa being news were long gone. Nelson Mandela was on his deathbed. The political set up had become yet another African caricature of itself, fraught with endemic corruption and nepotism. The endless hi-jackings, rapes and murders were bad, but America had its own surfeit of those crimes so, although the actual preponderance might have been news, the crimes themselves were not.
Misty knew that unless she got some real story, something with some meat to it, when she flew back home it would be to a severance check, a pat on the back and a curt goodbye. Television had no time for losers.
And then her cell rang. It was Bartholomew.
‘Howzit, Misty?’ He greeted her with the standard South African shortening of the phrase, how is it going. He continued without waiting for an answer. ‘Listen, girl, there’s some weird shit going down in the Alexandra Township. The cops have cordoned off the whole area and there’s helicopters dropping leaflets. I’m on my way to you. We need to get down there.’
He disconnected before Misty could answer.
She grabbed her travel bag with her microphone, makeup and money and headed for the hotel lobby.
***
Pete and his four men were in Alexandra. They had pierced the police cordon with ease, ghosting past them before sun up. Quiet and deadly.
But they were in very unfamiliar surroundings. Instead of the fresh open farmland that they had trained in, there was cramped squalor. Tin shacks placed so close together that their shoulders brushed on each side as they walked.
Pete spoke five African languages fluently so he was not worried about finding Petrus. It was simply police work, albeit in a slightly different guise. Knock on enough doors, ask enough questions and, in time, you would get the answers.
Pete did not know which area of Alexandra the Zulus, or Xhosas or Sothos or Tsongas controlled. He also did not fully appreciate that, with almost three quarters of a million people jammed into the area, nothing could be done quickly. The simple magnitude of the task would ensure that it took time.
He pushed the door of the first shack open and stepped inside while his men stood guard.
A mother and two children were crouched in the corner of the tiny room. Dirt floor, no windows. Some threadbare blankets piled on a square of plastic sheeting. They stared at the huge, armed white man in terror. Eyes opened impossibly wide.
‘I am looking for the Zulu Petrus Dlamini. Do you know him?’ Asked Pete.
The children whimpered and the mother shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’ Asked Pete again.
There was no answer. The mother was now shaking with fear. Pete turned on his heel and left. Onto the next shack.
It was empty. The next had a whole family inside. Father, mother, three children. If they all lay down at the same time they would fill the floor space wall to wall. Pete asked the same question. The father answered.
‘There are no Zulus here. This area is Xhosa controlled. If there were any Zulus here they would be dead ones.’
Pete frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Zulus live that side,’ the man pointed. ‘By the Madala hostel. They don’t come here and we don’t go there. If people here see strangers then they shoot at them. There are snipers in all of the tall buildings.’
Pete backed out of the shack. His men were waiting for him. One of them stepped forward; he had a piece of paper in his hand.
‘Kommandant, you need to see this. I found it on the ground. There’s lots of them.’ He handed the leaflet to Pete who scanned it quickly. It was one of the reward notices. He shook his head.
‘What the fuc
k is going on here? Who the hell did this? Who else is looking for the Zulu?’
He felt a momentary flutter of panic. Things were starting to unravel. Without Petrus there would be no arms cache. Without the arms cache there would be no possibility of military action. And without that, his dream of a white homeland would be gone forever. And now someone else was looking for Petrus.
‘Right, boys. We need to find the Zulu before anyone else does. Let’s get to it. We need to go that way,’ he pointed in the direction that the shack dweller had said.
The group set off at a jog. Pete in front and the four others running two abreast behind him.
As they started to run the air was rent with the sound of a high velocity rifle and one of Pete’s men fell to the ground. The rest of them went down and scuttled close to the shacks.
Pete grabbed his fallen man by his collar and dragged him into cover. He had been hit in the chest. It looked like a .308 round. Standard hunting rifle. He would have been dead before he hit the ground. Pete scanned the area. In the distance was a row of four story apartments. The walls streaked with filth and smoke stains. Windows broken and boarded over. The shot must have come from there. They had obviously stood out as strangers, regardless of their blackened faces and attire, the assault rifles were new generation and would be noticed. Pete wished that they had been given AK47s but beggars can’t be choosers.
He glanced across at his boys. They looked nervous. Quick of breath and shaking slightly. Pete didn’t mind. That was normal. It was their first real contact. He had chosen his best and now, he hoped, they would prove his choice correct.
‘Listen up, boys,’ he said. ‘Garvey is dead. Nothing that we can do. We’re exposed out here. We’ll come back for him later. Be very wary. Eyes open, there’s more than snipers out there, this place is crawling with uglies and there’s someone else looking for Dlamini as well. We don’t know if they’re friendly or not so stay cool. What we need to do now is head towards the Zulu controlled area and find Dlamini. The best way to do that is to go straight through these fucking shacks. Follow me.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 36
