Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  'And Jovito? What's his story?'

  'His father left for another women when he was two. When he was nine his mother died and he moved in with his father and seven stepbrothers and sisters. He had to sleep outside the front door and when his father was at work because he wasn't allowed in the house. But he had no school uniform so was not allowed to attend the local school. When he was twelve he stabbed his oldest stepbrother over an altercation about his mother. He had to leave and fend for himself. He was strong and showed no mercy. Now he is the big man around here. Also, he knows Petrus so people fear him even as they fear Petrus.'

  'Why?' Asked Garrett. 'Is Petrus also possessed by demons?'

  Pulani shook his head. 'No. Only you are. People fear Petrus because they say that he cannot be killed. Many have tried. He has been shot and stabbed countless times. Others say that he is dead already.'.

  'What do you believe?' Asked Garrett.

  Pulani shrugged. 'I think that it does not matter either way. All know that, if you even try to kill Petrus, then his father will bring his impis and that will be the end.'

  'Fair enough,' admitted Garrett. 'I think that you are probably right.'

  Before Petrus could comment Jovito walked back into the room.

  'Talk to me,' said Petrus.

  'There are many so called Russians,' answered Jovito. 'Some are Russian, others are Croatian, Serbian, Ukrainians. The people call them all Russians. Then, of course, there are the Marashea. It might be them.'

  'The who?' Asked Garrett.

  'The Marashea,' answered Petrus. 'They're Basothos from Lesotho. It's a shit place. Full of mountains. They're all mad. Fight all the time, treat women like shit.'

  'Oh, and Zulu's don't fight?' Quipped Garrett.

  'That's different,' argued Petrus. 'We fight for a reason. These little buggers have an expression; they say, "We are fighting the world." And they believe it. You don't want to cross them. They call themselves Marashea, which is a bastardisation of the word Russians or Ama-Russian. It's like the whole country belongs to one huge street gang. You insult one and you insult all. The rest of us tend to leave them alone if we can.'

  'You think that it could be them?'

  'I hope not,' said Petrus. 'Would make life really difficult for us. I know one of their elders. Guy called Ramajato. I reckon that we go visit him. See what he has to say.' The Zulu stood up. 'Thanks, Jovito.'

  The young gangster smiled. 'Always and anytime, baba.'

  Chapter 13

  Chief superintendent Hung Gwok of the Hong Kong Customs and Excise was trying his best not to appear intimidated. And afraid.

  Tai Zeng sat at his desk and stared at the customs officer. Tai's face was blank. There was no hint of the anger that roiled within him. To show emotion in front of a weasel like Gwok would be improper and would ultimately involve loss of face or mian zi.

  'Thirteen horns, chief superintendent,' said Tai. 'Almost half a million dollars American.'

  'But, Chiang Tai,' interjected Gwok, using the honorific, chiang to show his respect. 'You must understand my position. As the chief superintendent I am responsible for the search and seizure of all contraband that comes through Hong Kong harbors and airports. If I do not show occasional results then those higher up will become suspicious.'

  'Yes, superintendent' said Tai. 'I agree. But half a million dollars? If you needed a show of efficiency you should have spoken to me and I would have supplied a shipment of a single horn. There was no need to steal five hundred thousand dollars from me.'

  Once again, chiang Tai,' answered Gwok. 'I offer my most sincere apologies. But I must add, kàn qíngkuàng, please see things from my point of view. The risks that I take are exceptionally high. The penalty for what I do is death. Perhaps, and, once again chiang Tai, I impart the greatest respect upon you, but perhaps, if my remuneration was to be increased then there would be less chance of things like this happening again.'

  Tai Zeng was absolutely incredulous. So much so that, for a shameful few seconds he lost his control and, with it, his mian zi.

  'Are you threatening me?' He questioned. 'Are you attempting to horse trade with me? You fucking mainland peasant, how dare you?'

  Gwok smirked at both Tai Zengs loss of control and of face. For the first time in his dealings with the triad enforcer he felt that he had the upper hand. He was in a position of power and both of them knew it.

  'How dare I? I am a chief inspector. If I were in the army I would command the rank of senior colonel. And what are you? A drug smuggler and a dealer in fake medicines and fables. No, Tai Zeng, I say, how dare you? From this month onwards my stipend will be raised by five hundred percent. If not then I foresee that many more shipments of horn will be discovered and confiscated.' The superintendent stood up. 'Our meeting is over. I trust that you have seen my point of view and agree.' Gwok bowed. 'Now, I bid you goodbye.' He left the room.

  Tai watched the customs officer leave.

  For a long while the enforcer did not react. He sat still. Silent.

  Finally he leant forward and pressed his intercom.

  'Mingyu, contact mister Hubert. Set up a meeting at his earliest convenience. I will see him here, at the office. Afterwards, come through to my office.'

  He sat back in his seat. His anger at Gwok roiled in his gut but he controlled it. Mister Hubert would sort the problem out.

  And as for his anger…for that there was Mingyu.

  Chapter 14

  'Different sort, those youngsters,' said Garrett.

  'And then some,' agreed Petrus. 'The strange thing is that some of them are from privileged backgrounds. Middle class parents. Good schools. Now their lives are all about whether to wear Pierre Cardin or Rocco Borroco. Whether to steal an Audi or a BMW. And I tell you something; those choices can be life or death decisions. They have a code that they call, Uwiles. Basically that means, to fall out of fashion. Someone who ears the wrong labels or drives the wrong car, the unfashionable choice, is considered Uwiles. And that means that he obviously can't afford the latest and the best. He is no longer at the top of his game. If that happens it isn't long before someone challenges you, or simply shoots you in the back.'

  'Tough life.'

  'Maybe,' admitted Petrus. 'But they're nothing compared to the new breed of gangster that'll hit the streets soon.

  'Who?'

  'AIDS orphans,' answered Petrus. 'Over quarter of a million of them. No parents, no hope, no life. How much respect for life do you reckon those dudes will have when they are all living under a death penalty? I'll tell you - fuck all.'

  'But AIDS isn't necessarily a death penalty anymore,' argued Garrett.

  'It is in Africa, man,' countered Petrus. 'Haven't got no NHS here. You get sick, you pay or you die. Simple.'

  They drove for another twenty minutes in silence. Garrett pondered a life without hope or reprieve. Then he stopped. It was depressing and he had enough to worry about without creating even more stress for himself.

  At one stage, Petrus pulled over and went into a shop. He came out with a large bag and put it onto the back seat.

  'We're almost there,' he said as back into the vehicle. 'Weleda Township. The guy that we're going to see, Ramajato, is a touchy fucker, so be respectful. I'll call iwm Ramo, but you call him mister Ramajato or Doctor.'

  'Why?' Asked Garrett. 'Is he a doctor?'

  'Not sure. Probably not, but if it's doctor he wants it's doctor he gets, okay?'

  Garrett nodded.

  Petrus took a couple of wrong turns and had to backtrack but, eventually, he found the house that hews looking for. The houses were modest, one or two rooms. Rmajato's was no larger than any f the others. But, unlike the township they had just been in, this was spotless. The streets were swept clean. The dwellings were painted in vibrant colors. Reds, oranges, purples. The dogs were well fed as opposed to being simple growling, mobile toast racks. Washing was hung up in plain view with no worry of theft. There was an aura of, if not prosperity
, then at least stability.

  'Not a bad area,' commented Garrett.

  'Yep,' agreed the Zulu. 'These Marashea police themselves. You step out of line then a bunch of guys come visiting and re-educate you using big sticks and sharp implements.'

  'Tough love,' quipped Garret.

  'Don't know about love. But definitely tough.'

  They got out of the car, Petrus grabbing the packet as they did. Then and went to the front door. Petrus knocked.

  The door was opened by a tiny woman. She was dressed in a floral frock but, over that, she had draped a blanket of many colors. It was clasped at her throat with an intricate copper brooch.

  'I have come to see, Ramajato,' said Petrus.

  She bowed and clapped her hands. They followed her into the house.

  The door led directly into a living, cooking area. There was a wood-burning stove. A large freestanding tin basin. A single cold water tap. A cheap, well scrubbed, table with six matching steel-legged chairs. At one of the chairs sat an old man. Long gray beard. A crop of white hair. Huge brass hoop earrings in each ear.

  He was smoking one of the largest pipes that Garrett had ever seen. A stupendous affair that looked like a beer stein on the end of a length of industrial pipe.

  His eyes lit up with pleasure when he saw Petrus.

  'Hey,' he greeted. 'It's the baboon. What are you doing here? Come for advice from your betters?'

  Petrus grinned. 'Better a baboon than a little old monkey that sits in the trees and chatters at its superiors.'

  'Enough pleasantries,' said the old man. 'Did you bring me any tobacco?'

  Petrus handed him the bag. He opened it and took out a large sack of Navy cut tobacco. Rough and strong.

  He nodded and then looked at Garrett.

  'I need lots of tobacco,' he said. 'This pipe needs plenty of fuel. So,' he continued. 'I am Ramajato, who are you?'

  'Greetings, doctor,' said the soldier. 'I am Petrus' friend, Garrett.'

  The old man nodded. 'The possessed one.'

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. 'Apparently so.'

  'What do I owe this visit to,' Petrus?'

  The Zulu told him, starting with Malusi's murder and ending with their visit to the amagents.

  'How can we help you?'

  'Well, first we had to check that the Russian wasn't aMarashea.'

  'hat would we want with rhino horn. There is no magik in it.'

  'You can sell it for a great deal of money,' interjected Garrett.

  'Really?' Asked Ramajato, his voice redolent with disbelief.

  Garrett nodded. 'Eighty thousand dollars a kilogram. That's almost a million Rands.'

  The old man stared at Garrett for a few seconds and then he burst out laughing. 'For a horn. I got some goat horns, you want to give me a million for those?'

  'Only rhino horn,' said Garrett.

  Ramo laughed again and shook his head. 'Why? Horn is horn. It doesn't do anything. It's just like fingernails. Or hair.'

  'I know,' agreed Garrett.

  'But still you will pay a million for it?'

  'Not me,' corrected Garret. 'Other people. The Russian.'

  Abruptly Petrus stood up. 'We need to go, old friend,' he said.

  Ramajato nodded. 'Yes. You have work to do. I am sorry that I cannot help. But you can be certain that it not us.'

  He showed them to the door. Outside they were approached by another Basotho who was coming to visit Ramajato.

  The old man introduced them. 'Banjo, this is Petrus. This is his friend, Garrett. He is a funny man. He says that he can sell the horn of the Ditshukudu for one million Rands.'

  Banjo burst out laughing. 'Well then,' he said. 'I have a bargain for you.' He thrust his hips forward. 'You can have a slice of my horn for half that. It's so big I really won't miss a piece.'

  The two Basotho's doubled over with mirth.

  Petrus grinned.

  Garrett simply looked baffled; the local sense of humor evaded him.

  The two friends climbed into their vehicle and drove off.

  'Well it's not them,' said Petrus. 'They didn't even know that there's a market for rhino horn.'

  'Yep,' agreed Garrett. 'And anyone with a sense of humor that is so basic doesn't have the brains to run a crime syndicate.'

  Petrus smiled. 'Don't take offence. They weren't laughing at you. They were just laughing because they felt like laughing. They pretty much would have laughed at anything. You were simply the easiest available target.'

  Garrett said nothing.

  After a few minutes Petrus slipped his cell into the hands-free and he dialed a number.

  Jovito answered. 'Hey, Petrus.'

  'Hey, Jovito. Just finished with the Marashea's. It's a bust. Not them.'

  'Sorry to hear that.'

  'I'm not,' said Petrus. 'Rather take on the whole Russian army that those cantankerous little bastards. So, what next?'

  'Best bet would be Yuri Olokoff - owns a few clubs in and around Hillbrow. Traffics in stolen cars and violence, drugs, IDB. Bad man. Lives in Parktown North. Here, I got his address.'

  Jovito read out an address.

  'Thanks, man,' acknowledged Petrus. 'We'll check the place out.'

  'Be safe,' said Jovito.

  Petrus cut the connection.

  Chapter 15

  Hung Gwok's position as chief superintendent rated him a car but not a driver. Drivers were only supplied to those with a rank of Assistant Commissioner or higher.

  His official salary of 7800 US Dollars a month allowed him to rent a small single room apartment in the Sheung Wan area of the main island. Comfortable but in no way luxurious. Hung Gwok, however, did not live in a single bedroom apartment in Sheug Wan. He lived in a three bedroom, sea view apartment in the popular Robinson road. This was due to the fact that Tai Lung provided a top up to his official salary that was more than generous.

  But Hung was ambitious. He wanted more. Much more.

  Unfortunately he was a man who's ambition was coupled with very little else. He was not overly bright, he was boring in both thought and deed and he had an over inflated view of his own worth.

  However, what he lacked in raw intelligence he made up for in paranoia.

  He glanced in the rear view mirror of his new, canary yellow, VW Golf convertible and noticed a white Toyota SUV. He was convinced that it was the same vehicle that had pulled out behind him when he had left work. To check if he was being followed he took a series of random, lefts and rights.

  The SUV stayed with him.

  The customs official began to sweat.

  Perhaps he had overstepped the boundaries with Tai Zeng. Maybe he should have been happy with what he already had. Content with triple his actual wage.

  With fear- fumbling fingers he leant over, opened his glove compartment and pulled out a Norinco CF-98 pistol.

  The Chinese pistol had a slight patina of rust on it, partly due to the humid coastal air and partly because of the complete lack of care and maintenance time spent on it. Shoddy. Like it's owners thought process.

  With the comforting weight of steel in his lap, Gwok drove randomly around Hong Kong. Reversing, doing U-turns and nipping down short one-way streets until he could no longer se the white Toyota anymore.

  Satisfied, he drove directly home.

  Gwok pulled into his underground parking, got out of his car and slipped the pistol into his belt in the small of his back.

  He then took the elevator to his apartment, unlocked the door and went inside.

  A feeling of relief washed over him and then he chuckled to himself.

  'Stupid,' he said to himself. 'Don't let paranoia get the better of you.'

  'But sometimes a little paranoia can be a healthy thing, mister Gwok,' said a voice from the shadows.

  Gwok spun around, his stomach cramping with fear.

  A man stepped forward, out of the darkness.

  He was small. Caucasian. Gray hair cut short back and sides. A toothbrush moustach
e. Dark, off the rack suit. Polished, well worn, black leather shoes. Round spectacles. Bad teeth.

  In his hand he held a Ruger 22 pistol with a Checkmate suppressor screwed onto the end of the barrel.

  Gwok contemplated going for his weapon but the man shook his head.

  "No, no, Hung, you don't mind if I call you hung, considering how close we are about to become I feel that it is appropriate to be on first name terms."

  "I don't know your first name."

  'Of course you don't. My apologies. I am, mister Hubert, or simply, Hubert of you prefer. Now, take the pistol out of your belt and drop it on the floor. Use two fingers only. Kick it over to me. Now, turn around, hands behind your back.

  Gwok complied. He felt cold feel against his wrists. Then he heard the click of handcuffs.

  ' Very good. Now, sit down.'

  'Would it do any good of I recanted my demands?' Asked Gwok, his voice shaking with fear.

  Hubert shrugged. 'I have no idea what your demands were, Hung. Nor do I care.'

  'So. There is no leeway. I attempt to negotiate and so I die."

  'Yes, it seems that way,' agreed Hubert. 'But mister Zeng did have a message. He said to tell you - Place you hand in a bucket full of water. After a while remove it. The hole that you have left in the water is the exact amount of worth that he places on you.'

  Hung closed his eyes. Tears ran from them. Hot and slow. Fear. Remorse. Self pity.

  He took a deep. 'Okay, do it.'

  Hubert smiled. An expression close to pity on his face. A doctor informing a patient of a terminal disease.