Devil Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 1)

by Ian Patrick

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘It’s a matter of supply and demand, Tony. At the moment, there are guys out there willing to pay top bucks to get the machines for their operations. There’s big demand in this province, and we’ve long been in a position to supply. Simple economics. In addition, Dirk has proved himself useful on that side of things. Jannie’s the one who gets off on the muggings. The little prick has annoyed me ever since he lost that Desert Eagle you gave him. Little bastard didn’t deserve a weapon like that.’

  ‘You’re right, Vic. Pissed me off, too. It was a beautiful weapon. He went around flashing it in front of everyone down there in Umlazi, attracting attention to himself. I was the hell in when he told me he’d lost it. It was part of a neat little trio that I had got for the three of us, all titanium gold. Special import. Dirk and I have always taken great care with our own, and we were the moer in with Jannie when he lost his.’

  ‘The little shit irritates me big time. He doesn’t see the bigger picture. Gets off on screwing the little guys and picking up a bit of cash here and there by picking their pockets. Dirk strikes me as being more interested in the bigger stuff.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Vic.’

  ‘OK. So let’s pull right back from the muggings. The killing of this old bird in The Grove was unnecessary. Messy. I don’t like mess, and there are more and more idiots getting in on that stuff. ’

  ‘Agreed, Vic. I’ve seen it myself. You can stand at the taxi rank downstairs and you can pick out the guys - not even our own guys - watching the winners go home after a good day at the machines, and following them. More and more people hitting on careless pensioners.’

  ‘S’what I mean. It’s getting too risky. The management will also have the cops watching that stuff soon, and they’ll begin to train their cameras on it, too. I think we should pull out before that market gets too exposed, and concentrate on the bigger stuff.’

  ‘OK. I’ll get after Jannie, then, shall I, once he’s done this Thabethe guy?’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Will do, Vic.’

  As Tony left, Vic pulled out his iPhone.

  22.15

  Skhura Thabethe let go of the branch and dropped to the ground. He stood in the dark, his back against the tree, eyes scanning left and right for any potential witness to his stash. The moon was brighter than it had been the previous night. He looked up at it, then at the place above him where three branches created a natural hollow for the bundle he had secured. Then he looked around again, eyes alert.

  The eyes were the objects that attracted much of the whispered discussion about his looks. It was not just that the eyeballs bulged more prominently than most, though that feature in itself produced discomfort in anyone meeting him for the first time. No, it was rather the knotted red – almost purple – arterial networks bursting out of the yellow sclera, and appearing distinctly separated from the corneas by very dark limbal rings, that produced most of the discussion.

  ‘His eyes are evil,’ they whispered.

  What was it about them? No-one could accurately describe them, or put their finger on what it was about them that so unnerved the observer.

  They were like deep wells. The opaque dark brown of the irises was so near in colour to the black coal of the centre that the effect was of pupils unnaturally large and permanently dilated. When he glanced at you, it was as if he was staring at you. When he stared at you it was as if you were in the presence of the devil. So they said.

  As he leaned back against the tree he fumed at the loss of the weapon on the beach last night. The money he had retrieved from the tourist was probably less than that bitch had got out of him. Just over two thousand rands he had retrieved from the wallet. She had probably got at least double that. Should have followed her instead of wasting time with the fat man. The mugging hadn’t been worth the loss of the gun. He could have sold it for much more than he had stolen from the guy.

  Now he had only one pistol left, and soon – maybe even tomorrow – that one would go, too. If the white boy wanted it. Asking for him again. Early tonight, at Nomivi’s. Left me message. Told Spikes he wants to see Skhura first thing tomorrow. Got money for Skhura. Hayi! I don’t trust that one. Aikona! He wants another one gun. This time he pays double, big time, this time.

  He slid down on his haunches, back still against the tree, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow morning, early. Then he would have some real cash. Then it would be time to start again. A new life. Tomorrow.

  TUESDAY

  04.49.

  Fiona had beaten him to it. She was in the shower. The button on the alarm had already been hit. He could hear her singing Handel above the sound of the gushing water, not at all considerately in respect of the neighbours - she was enacting a full chorus, after all - but very much in tune. How come he can't match that kind of singing? And she's completely untrained.

  He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, marvelling at her. He could see her in the shower, fully exposed through the wide-open bathroom door, soaping herself all over as she sang, eyes closed to avoid the shampoo.

  His whole approach to starting the day was about to change markedly from the norm. The eighty-year-old of yesterday disappeared instantly as he removed socks and shorts and crept into the bathroom just as she was losing herself, dramatically, in the third sequence of repetitions.

  ‘All we like sheep!

  All we like sheep!

  All we like…’

  She screamed as he gently cupped a breast in each hand from behind. Then immediately chuckled and turned to face him, eyes still closed against the shampoo.

  ‘I hope that's you! Bastard!’

  He didn't answer but gently crushed her body into his chest as he found her lips with his. Then she came up for air and continued, eyes still closed.

  ‘Mmmmm! It is you after all. I suppose I'm going to have to start all over and shower again in a few minutes?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Mmmmm. Feels like it, too.’

  ‘Mmmm. Here or in the bed?’

  ‘Here.’

  06.50.

  Tony sat in his car and hit number seven on speed dial. After three rings Vic answered.

  ‘Vic, I got something for you.’

  ‘Speak to me.’

  ‘Jannie found out last night that Thabethe is out of jail, and around. He left a message for the guy last night at his favourite hangout and thinks he’ll see him today, early. He knows what to do.’

  ‘Good, and after that, you’ll get Dirk on the job?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll take him through it later today. Maybe we can aim for the end of the week, and plan it carefully. First, though, I want to bring him up to speed on the deliveries coming in this week. I want to make sure he realises how big the stuff is, without giving him all the details, and that if he plays his cards right he could score. That way, when we come to telling him we’re going to offload Jannie, he’ll have something to think through.’

  ‘OK. I’m OK with that. Meanwhile, I got something for you. I found out that the cops are also after Thabethe, big time. Sounds like he’s important to their current investigations. I’d prefer that bastard down and out rather than in prison, where he might sing.’

  ‘Definitely. Leave it to us.’

  ‘OK. See to it. Anything else?’

  ‘That’s all for now, Vic.’

  ‘OK. Stay in touch.’

  Vic hung up. Tony sat for a moment, in deep contemplation. His fingers drummed out a beat on the steering wheel. He clenched teeth together and nodded his head in affirmation of the decision he had come to. Then he reached for the ignition and switched on.

  He enjoyed the cool plush leather of the Mercedes as he pulled out into the traffic.

  06.55.

  Ryder and Trewhella were chuckling at the discomfiture of the two Afrikaners.

  ‘Sies, Trewhella. You get worse every day, man.’

  ‘Ja, Jeremy. How do you put up with this oke? He'l
l pollute your brain.’

  ‘Actually, I think he's quite erudite. I'm trying to persuade him to write this stuff down. In England a guy like him could make just one half-hour video and retire. I thought maybe we could persuade the Captain to let Ed do some of his stand-up routines at the function on Thursday night. Should have the General and the Brigadier and the Colonels and the Majors rolling in the aisles.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, Jeremy. You ask the Captain for me. Tell him I have some good one-liners that’ll appeal to all those Chinese businessmen who’re going to get awards. Tell him I have a good routine on corruption among police commissioners. There’s this National Commissioner of Police, guys, she’s great, but with one chink in her armour, and...’

  The four were rocking on their chairs, each nursing a polystyrene cup. Ryder brought them back on track.

  ‘OK, Ed. Can it, buddy. Maybe we can find you a microphone on Thursday night. For now, though, Dipps, how fast can you get the stuff on ballistics?’

  ‘I'll have it by two this afternoon. Made a couple of calls last night.’

  ‘And Koeks? What time are you seeing the Captain about Thabethe's disciplinary record?’

  ‘He told me to team up with Dipps and when we've got the ballistics stuff and the disciplinary stuff we should both see him, together. So I suppose around three o’clock. Piet's helping me out by pulling together the disciplinary records. He's got a filing cabinet that has everything. He's like a blerrie eekhoring, that guy. Can tell you anything about anyone. Keeps copies of everything that anyone ever said. Probably has Afrikaans translations of Trewhella's sick jokes.’

  Cronje entered from the inner office, carrying a file. Trewhella chuckled.

  ‘Good timing, Piet, your buddy's just been nasty about you. Koekemoer just described you as a very whoring something-or-other.’

  ‘Wat?’

  ‘I'm telling you. Says you're a whoring sonofabitch who can't be trusted.’

  ‘Bullshit, man, Trewhella. I said Piet was like an eekhoring. Nothing wrong with a squirrel, Piet. I meant that you can be trusted to find anything. Like you keep records of everything and - is that Thabethe's disciplinary record?’

  ‘Ja. January year before last. The full record.’

  ‘Thanks, Piet. Don't listen to the Engelsman. I owe you, man.’

  ‘Give him a nut.’

  ‘Bugger off, Ed. Dipps, let me know when you have the ballistics. I just want to run over this file. Piet, can I use your desk?’

  ‘Ja, fine, Koeks. I'm just going out for a smoke. Take the calls for me, hey?’

  Koekemoer muttered assent as he went into the adjacent office, while Cronje poured some coffee and then left the room for the car park.

  ‘You’re right about Piet, Dipps. Walking file cabinet. How long have you known him?’

  ‘Ag, Jeremy, must be eleven or twelve years now. He was also here a helluva long time before I came along.’

  Koekemoer’s voice called out from the next room.

  ‘I arrived here fourteen years ago and he was already here, guys. I remember him telling me that he was here just before 1994 and all that. When you were still there in England, Ed, and we were writing a constitution. Did you limeys get jealous of us or what? A country governed by a constitution instead of by some ou toppies still living in castles?’

  Trewhella called back to him.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Koeks, yes I did, I had thought until then that you guys were all going the way of Bosnia, and I was pretty impressed that you didn’t.’

  Koekemoer appeared back in the doorway.

  ‘Ja. Struesbob, hey, Ed? And then the next year we messed you up at rugby good and proper. Is that what made you come out here? To learn how to play rugger?’

  ‘Wrong again, Koeksister. You never beat us in that world cup. We didn’t even get to play you guys. Lucky for you.’

  There were instant protests from Dippenaar and Koekemoer at this.

  ‘I wouldn’t push this too far, Ed. I think you’re on a loser here,’ said Ryder.

  Dippenaar jumped in with alacrity.

  ‘Ag rubbish, man, Ed. You Engelse ouens were too poep scared to play us, man. You threw in the towel against New Zealand just so that you wouldn’t have to play us. Forty-five to the All Blacks, twenty-nine to the Engelsmanne. You let in six tries from them. Six! Sies, jong! It was terrible. My old high school could have done better than you guys.’

  ‘Yes, well, OK, that was a bad day at the office for us. Jonah Lomu decided to turn up for New Zealand on that day. But then he decided to take a holiday when he played you guys. Or maybe he had food poisoning - so I hear - when he played against you.’

  Trewhella’s comment led to outrage and an uproar with all of them talking at once. Which was loud enough to bring Cronje back inside.

  ‘Yissus, ouens,’ said Cronje. ‘The okes in the car park think there’s a murder going on here. Cool it, OK?’

  ‘Die Engelse praat kak, Piet,’ said Koekemoer. ‘Trewhella says that the only reason Jonah Lomu didn’t score against the bokke in 1995 was that he had food poisoning.’

  ‘Ag kak, man!’ was Cronje’s simple reply.

  ‘I have to admit, guys,’ Ryder contributed, ‘I had a friend in Jo’burg who told me his ten-year-old son had nightmares after that game. Apparently thought every night that Jonah Lomu was under his bed.’

  ‘Ag, no, Jeremy, man,’ Cronje replied. ‘The Engelse ouens were just scared of the guy. That Mike Catt guy was poep scared. When we played them in the final Lomu had nothing, because our guys weren’t scared to tackle him. They showed everyone how to contain the bastard as long as you weren’t scared of getting a little bit hurt.’

  ‘Dis reg, Piet!,’ Dippenaar added, rubbing it in. ‘Ed, you guys were twenty-five-nil down after twenty-five minutes against New Zealand, man. You were a disgrace to world rugby.’

  ‘OK, so we had a bad day in the first half. But all anyone remembers is Lomu. What people forget is that in that game – I don’t know whether any of you realise this – we actually won the second half twenty-six to twenty.’

  Screams of laughter from everyone else. Including Ryder. He wasn’t going to support his partner on this one. Trewhella threw in the towel.

  ‘OK, OK. I know when I’m out-numbered. But you have to admit, then, that we turned the tables in 2003...’

  Cackles of laughter again, with Koekemoer leaping in immediately.

  ‘No, Ed. Let’s not talk about 2003. Let’s rather talk about 2007! Isn’t that what brought you out to work in South Africa? To learn how the real manne play rugby? Or was it because we handled our economy better than you guys with your sub-prime mortgages and stuff. Is that why you came out here to work?’

  Lots of back-slapping and mirth. Trewhella gave up altogether and decided on a change of tactic by starting up on Dippenaar again.

  ‘Hey, Dipps. This guy called Dippenaar goes into a toilet…’

  Dippenaar stood up, drained his cup and threw it expertly into the waste-paper bin in the corner.

  ‘Fok jou, Ed:

  Kaatjie, Kaatjie

  Kekkelbek,

  Val van die trap

  En breek jou nek.

  I’m going to chase the guys on those ballistics reports.’

  And he left for the car park. Before Trewhella could comment, Ryder stood up.

  ‘Let’s go, Ed. Navi said she’d be outside Nomivi’s Tavern at 8.00 am, following up a lead on Thabethe. Let’s join her.’

  ‘Sure. They do breakfast there?’

  ‘Come on, man. You and your pork belly. We’ve got time to pick up a McDonald’s on the way if you like. Or just a coffee, and we can get something to eat after we see Navi. Let’s go. Your car. You can drop me off here later.’

  07.15

  The nyaope cocktail was generally thought to combine dagga, rat poison, heroin and – it was long erroneously claimed by some users - antiretrovirals, especially the drug efavirenz. The rumours about the ARVs had p
ersisted for some time even after laboratory analyses of different batches of the drug had found no traces of ARVs, and even after evidence had been presented that the heavy molecular weight of efavirenz made it almost impossible to vaporise and therefore impossible to smoke. Nevertheless, rumours about the ARVs in whoonga persisted. They added to the mystique attached to some of the more violent actions reported in the media.

  Nyaope had emerged from around 2000 in Tshwane neighbourhoods in Soshanguve and by 2007 it was particularly well known in Atteridgeville, Mamelodi and elsewhere. But by 2010 Durban had become the informal capital for the drug. Jannie had known that he would find Thabethe in or around Nomivi’s shebeen, an area where he had supplied nyaope for some time before he had been bust. Bust not for supplying, but for the vicious assault on the banker.

  Learning that Thabethe had made parole only a week ago, Jannie had been in no doubt, the previous night, that Skhura would be keen to meet with him, especially if the message to be conveyed mentioned money. The ou must be looking for a way to get back on his feet, Jannie thought. So the message he left was that the Afrikaner guy Jannie wanted another one of the things he had bought last time, and he needed it quick so he would pay well for it. Right outside Nomivi’s. 7.30 tomorrow morning. Please get the message to him. Tell him it’s urgent.

  As it turned out, Nomivi’s was open early that morning, but only for a special cleaning. After the gemors from the previous night, according to the cleaners. One heck of a mess after the birthday party last night, so they asked us to come sharp-sharp at 7.00 to do the big clean.

  The two of them sat in a corner of the tavern, no drinks. Nothing available at that time. Just talk, while two women mopped and swept on the other side of the gloomy room. One of the women glanced nervously at the man with the eyes. She had never liked him.

  Thabethe’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on the young freckle-faced Afrikaner in a stare that Jannie knew only too well. Had he already had some whoonga of his own, this early?