Death Dealing

by Ian Patrick

  Loku mumbled a reply that indicated he was sick and tired of picking up a few rands and cents here and there. This job had yielded good results. But there was much more potential out there. He needed some of that big money that was available out there. He needed a proper weapon, too. He needed enough money to buy a decent gun.

  They all chipped in a few words of agreement. They had lost two pistols more than a month previously, and they had relied since then on knives and sharpened sticks and clubs. Those weapons were not enough to make proper money, they agreed. It was time to steal some guns or to get some big money so that they could buy effective weapons.

  Just then there was a movement at the end of the alley. A man in a white Mercedes Benz C-Class Coupe had turned from the road into the alley and had stopped to wait for one of the women to come around the corner and up to his window to discuss her terms of business. He kept his eyes on the six suspicious-looking men some fifty metres down the alley, but as soon as the woman approached his window he lost concentration and diverted his attention to her breasts, which were almost fully exposed by the very low-cut blouse. As she leaned down to talk to him the exposure of flesh increased and the driver had his entire focus upon her.

  Loku moved swiftly as he took it all in at a glance. His five friends followed immediately behind him. Within a few seconds he had covered the distance, ripped open the passenger door and sat down next to the driver. As the five others ran up to the car the woman screamed and ran. The driver, shocked into awareness, tried to thrust down on the accelerator, but the first thing Loku did as he got into the car was reach across and kill the ignition.

  The driver was terrified. Three of the men stood in front of the car, jeering and laughing. The remaining two stood at the driver’s window, leering in at the man as Loku spoke, this time in English.

  ‘Hau! White man. You looking to buy some black meat? You think this is a butcher-shop?’

  ‘What? No. No, you make a mistake. I was just asking her for directions. I got lost, and I was…’

  The man spoke English in a thick German accent, which prompted cackles of laughter from the two men at his window. He was pale, and obese, and perspiring. He was trembling in fear. He stared, fascinated and terrified, at the matchstick doing its extraordinary dance across Loku’s lips and teeth and tongue.

  ‘No. No. You don’t tell me,’ Loku continued. ‘I know you, white man. You don’t like white meat? You don’t like your own wife? You want to come here and buy our women? You like the black women? You come to hunt in Africa for a black woman? All the amaBenzi they come here to do that. You sit still, now, mBenzi. Nice car, this one, nè?’

  Loku’s companions laughed and jeered, enjoying the amaBenzi appellation and sharing among each other some of the current jokes on the subject, while Loku continued.

  ‘You on holiday, mBenzi? Mr Mercedes Benz? You on holiday? Or you work here in Durban?’

  ‘No. No, I… no, I work in Johannesburg. I came down here for a conference. This is not my car. Please… the car it belongs to the company that…’

  ‘Don’t worry, mBenzi. We not taking your car. Not this time. This car, she is too smart, nè? If we are taking this car, then the amaphoyisa they are finding us quick-quick, nè? No, my friend. No. We not doing that one. So, then you can make us a reward, nè? We are not telling your wife what you are doing here with the black ntombazane girl. We are not telling the police what you are doing here in this place. This place is not the nice place for a big fat white businessman, nè? So then you are giving me the reward for not talking. You are giving me one thousand rand and we are not telling your wife, Mr German Mercedes Benz man.’

  ‘One thousand rand? No, I can’t… well, I…’

  Loku watched him carefully as the five others giggled and whispered to one another. They could see the visitor going through the changes. His first thought was denial. Then he thought he might bargain the men down in price. Then he began to think that under the circumstances one thousand rands might constitute a very reasonable price to escape from the potential damage any publicity might wreak upon him, his company and his family. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket as he spoke.

  ‘OK. OK, my friend. OK. I’ll give you one thousand rands, and we can all just go away and…’

  As his hand came out Loku snatched the wallet from his grasp, grabbed the man behind the neck, and smashed his face into the steering wheel. Then he ripped open the door and ran, closely followed by the five members of his gang. They ran all the way down the alley to the far end, laughing and giggling all the way. Within minutes they were turning right and heading up toward Umbilo Road, from where they could melt into the Saturday afternoon traffic.

  The woman re-appeared at the German’s window. His face was bloody but nothing was broken. Through his frustration and pain and humiliation he was astonished at her warmth and genuine concern for his welfare as she spoke.

  ‘Hau! I’m very sorry. Those are bad men. I’m very sorry for you, darling. You must come back another time. The girls here we are good. We don’t do these things. Those men, they are bad ones. The girls, we are not like them. Here, mister, here. Take this.’

  She handed him a toilet roll. He was confused for a moment before he realised that she was trying to be of assistance. The blood was dripping off his nose. He snatched the paper, tore off a length, and started mopping up the blood with it. As he did so she commiserated further.

  ‘I saw them. They were stealing your money. Hau! I’m very sorry, honey.’

  She looked down the alley in the direction the men had taken. She was about to continue, when she saw something.

  ‘Wait. Wait. Look. I think they were…’

  She started walking briskly down the alley, as fast as her high heels would allow. Then she paused a moment and beckoned for the German to follow her in his car. She pointed at something further down the alley, some thirty paces away. He suddenly realised what she meant. The men had taken the cash from his wallet and flung it down as they made their escape. She trotted up to it, picked it up, turned around and waved at him. She intended him to drive down to her, but he was still too confused to embark upon any action. His first thought was that she might intend to run off with the wallet, but then it quickly became clear to him that she had no such intention. She walked back toward him as he sat in the Mercedes, watching her and dabbing at the cut on the bridge of his nose. She was tottering ungainly on shoes that were entirely inappropriate for walking in an alley covered in potholes and undulations and broken sections of tarmac and concrete. Once again he looked at her breasts as she approached while trying to remain balanced on her footwear. But now he did not look at her with any feelings of lasciviousness. Instead, he just hoped for her sake and his that her flimsy clothing would stay in place.

  She leaned in at the window.

  ‘I think maybe they took only the money. The cards they are there. But maybe you must check, nè?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ he said, as he checked through the expensive leather wallet. ‘It’s all there. The credit cards. The debit cards. The…thank you so much. I’m sorry…’

  He realised at a glance that nothing had been removed except the cash, which had amounted to about five thousand rands.

  ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘They are bad men. Very bad. How much money did they take, darling?’

  He wasn’t going to tell her the truth. He felt ashamed. Just before the men had attacked he had agreed with her a price of two hundred rands. She had asked for three hundred, but he had said that that was too high, he couldn’t afford it. She had then agreed to two hundred.

  ‘They took all the money. I had five hundred, I think. I told you two hundred, you see, I said two hundred because I need to buy petrol to get home… I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I don’t have…Thank you for your help. Here, let me give you…’

  He turned to pick up a new unopened bottle of whisky that lay on the floor just behind the passenger’s seat, but she stopped
him.

  ‘No. No. You mustn’t worry, sir. Don’t worry. You must go home now. You must get your wife to fix up your nose. You must tell her that…’

  ‘Thank you for your help. I must give you something. What can I…’

  ‘No, sir. You mustn’t worry. You must go now. Shame. Me, I’m being sorry for you. You are a nice man. Those men they are bad men. You must tell your wife that some men they stopped you at the stop-street and they hit you…’

  She was leaning in at the window, her breasts perilously close to falling out. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Then he started weeping.

  ‘Ag, shame, my darling. I’m very sorry. Please, now, you must go home to your wife, nè? You must take the aspirin, nè? You must be careful, you see?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Thank you. You are very…’

  ‘Goodbye, sweetie. If you want to come here again you come to look for me here on this corner right here, nè? This is my corner. If you want to see me then you just ask the other girls, nè? You say to them you want to see Lorraine, and then they will tell you what time to come back. You ask for Lorraine. Next time you come we can be careful, nè? No bad men. Only good girls, like me. Me, I can be nice to you.’

  He drove away, and glanced up at her in the rear-view mirror. She was waving at the departing vehicle, and she blew him a kiss. He was still weeping when he reached the end of the alley, where he stopped and had one final look in the mirror before turning left to go down into the city.

  She had turned and was tottering away on her stilts, very slowly, back to her post where she would stand watch at the corner on Che Guevara Road.

  16.40

  Wakashe and Mgwazeni looked on in amazement as Thabethe explained the procedure. The three of them watched at a distance, sitting on the kerb and drinking beer, as Thabethe pointed out the key players. Four young boys, the oldest being eighteen or nineteen and the youngest probably no more than six years old, were all equally slick at what they did in their respective roles.

  Both men listened to Thabethe’s commentary and watched as a battered old Ford Cortina crawled down the road, slowing right down as a ten-year old walked casually across to speak to the driver. A few words passed between them and the driver handed over a small envelope before moving further down the road. When the car arrived at a designated spot, the ten-year old whistled loudly and a second child - the six-year old - appeared. This little boy exchanged a quick word with the driver and then whistled - extraordinarily loudly, thought Wakashe and Mgwazeni - a shrill and piercing sound. The driver then moved on down the road some thirty or forty metres. Meanwhile the first boy walked back across the road, passing a second child of about twelve or thirteen years coming in the opposite direction. At the point at which they passed they high-fived each other and walked on, the package having been transferred again. Both these boys continued walking to their respective ends of the street. Meanwhile another youngster emerged - Wakashe and Mgwazeni estimating him to be the eighteen or nineteen-year old - and walked over to the driver. He greeted the man behind the wheel, laughed as if they were cracking a joke together, gave him a high-five, and as he walked away he left a tiny package in the driver’s hand. The car drove off. The observers then saw the twelve or thirteen-year old approach a smart red Honda Ballade parked at the far end of the street and lean in at the driver’s window.

  ‘He’s giving the driver the money,’ said Thabethe. ‘The driver of that car owns this business and pays these boys.’

  Wakashe and Mgwazeni were both hugely impressed.

  They were also impressed by the reaction of the local inhabitants they had encountered during the past couple of hours. It took some time for Thabethe to enquire among local residents and eventually, after being pointed to various possible sites, he found the young boys with whom he had worked some three months previously. Thabethe had always paid his team well, so they greeted him enthusiastically, and they spoke freely in front of Thabethe’s two friends. Yes, they were active with the deals. No, they had no access to the source of the drugs other than through players like him. Yes, there were many who had asked about him, because his rivals had always been less reliable than he was and he had gained great respect in the neighbourhood. Yes, they would let the right man know that Skhura Thabethe was back in town and wanted some supplies.

  Wakashe and Mgwazeni had then sat with Thabethe to watch how the whole business played out on the streets.

  After they had watched the scene play out a few times, the eighteen-year old approached Thabethe. He waited at a point some thirty metres away. For this part of the conversation, because he didn’t know Wakashe and Mgwazeni, he was not going to speak in front of the strangers. Thabethe told Wakashe and Mgwazeni to wait and went over to speak to the teenager.

  After a few minutes Thabethe returned.

  ‘Let’s go. There’s a guy who is interested in selling directly to me. If he gives me a good price we can work with these boys. They know me. They’ll work with me.’

  They followed the teenager down to the end of the street, turned the corner, and in the distance saw a man sitting on a low wall adjacent to a vacant plot of land. The teenager nodded to Thabethe and went off in the opposite direction. Wakashe, Mgwazeni and Thabethe walked together down to the man.

  3 SUNDAY

  10.20.

  The gang of six were back in their favourite spot in Albert Park. Their Saturday night had been fuelled by noxious fumes and corrosive alcoholic liquids. They were all feeling the effects. The sweltering heat didn’t help.

  ‘Eish, ou babelas!’ said one, producing sympathetic chuckles from the others, and they all launched into a discussion of whose hangover was the worst. That in turn gave rise to arguments about which alcoholic drinks produced the worst hangovers. That then gave rise to a discussion of money. More money meant better quality drinks.

  ‘You heard that one guy last night, Loku,’ said one of the men. ‘He was saying the people on the third floor at Victoria Lodge, just down by Esplanade, they’re going on holiday tomorrow morning early. Rich people. We can hit that flat tomorrow…’

  ‘Yes, Loku,’ interjected his companion. ‘Those people they got the money…’

  ‘No,’ replied Loku, brusquely cutting through the suggestions of the two men. ‘Tomorrow morning we hit the house in Glenwood. I told you before. I want to get those bastards in Glenwood. Those two - amaIntellectuals - who go to the private school. Their sister, too. That one she was looking at me sideways. I want to teach her a lesson, that one, and her brothers too. Tomorrow morning, that is the house we are hitting. Before they go to school. I want to teach those rich bastards something good.’

  The others joined the gang leader in a hubbub of bravura gesticulations and jeers as they talked about how they were going to teach some rich kids a lesson. The first speaker was not going to let go too easily, however, of the idea of breaking into the flat in Esplanade Avenue.

  ‘We can do Glenwood, bra Loku. Is fine. We can do that one early, like you say. But then we can come down here and do Victoria Lodge too. Those people they are leaving the flat after breakfast, that guy was telling us. We can do Glenwood and then we can come straight down here.’

  ‘Is true, Loku,’ said the man’s companion. ‘That flat there they have big money, and the guy was telling us he thinks those people they got a gun. He thinks they got another one pistol, and he thinks because they are going to some fancy place they won’t take their gun with them. They might leave the gun in the flat. We can get another pistol, bra Loku. I think that one they got is a Beretta M9...’

  Loku’s failure to respond immediately suggested that he was willing to be persuaded. This encouraged the others. They saw the sense in what these two were saying. The murmured comments suggested to Loku that there could be something in this. They needed a gun. The idea of taking down the Glenwood guys tomorrow and then going straight on to another job just around the corner down here, had merit.

  ‘OK,’
he said. ‘Maybe. Maybe we can do the two jobs tomorrow morning. If there’s a gun there, then we can do that Victoria Lodge, but only after we do Glenwood.’

  They all clambered into the conversation. They sensed potential rewards, and as each person offered a new possible action, the others spiralled up on top of the suggestion, adding their own ideas. Excitement grew, and the group became increasingly animated.

  ‘Let’s go and look at the flat,’ said Loku, suddenly. ‘Come. We can go and take a look. Then we can make a plan for tomorrow. We can come back after Glenwood, and we can do it. Two jobs tomorrow. But we must get some whoonga. Before we do these jobs I want more whoonga. We must find some supplies, comrades. We got good money from mBenzi and amaNdiya, so we need more whoonga.’

  They laughed and jeered, with more jokes about their success the previous day with the Indian storekeeper and his family, followed by their unexpected theft from the German, and got to their feet, excitedly, to go and scout out the terrain. They cut across the park into Diakonia Road and made their way down toward Margaret Mncadi Avenue, like feral cats on the hunt.

  11.10.

  South African Police Service’s Durban Central Station Command nestled between the M12 and the M4 highways, and on this particular day it was probably the single spot in the city that was suffering more than any other from the heat wave that straddled Durban. The flat terrain alongside Stalwart Simelane Street could boast very little vegetation to mitigate the effects of the blistering heat. The vast expanse of tarmac and concrete, providing multi-lane highways and vast parking areas to serve the office complexes all around, served as conductors of the heat. The few grass verges around had been burnt dry by the sun. The few pedestrians not seeking shelter under the very few trees available, or in the buildings, all carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun. There was not a wisp of cloud in the bright blue sky.

  In the buildings it was marginally more bearable. With air conditioners across the city working at full power, the grid had just failed yet again. In common parlance there had occurred another electricity outage as a result of load-shedding. Lights had failed, along with air-conditioners. People had cursed. Some had shrugged their shoulders in mild resignation. All of them perspired as emergency generators started kicking in.