by Mike Nicol
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I have been all weekend, trying to help you out. Trying to get your daughter to ease up on her father.’ She headed for the door. ‘They’ll be ready, Mace, seven-thirty. Don’t be late. Situation or no situation.’ Blew kisses at them both.
‘There’s a gal,’ said Pylon. ‘Fulla goodness and joy.’
Mace slid a chair to the side of the bed. ‘What’s it with black women? First I have to take Tami’s lip. Now Treasure gives me a hard time.’
Pylon shrugged. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’
Mace gave him the frown. ‘Huh! What’re you on?’ Gestured at the drip. ‘Morphine?’
‘Smells like you’re on brandy.’
‘Had one or two with Silas Dinsmor. To settle him.’
‘How’s he?’
‘Settled. Never was unsettled really.’
Pylon grimaced at a sudden pain flash. ‘That wasn’t a set-up. Couldn’t have been. Not a chance.’
‘Except it looks like it,’ said Mace. ‘Our clients pitch up without a full brief so we walk straight into it. We don’t even know who these people are we’re supposed to be protecting. We think they’re celebs. But, no brother, they’re casino hustlers. Big difference.’
‘Why I don’t think it was a set-up,’ said Pylon, ‘is because of my wound. You know what made it, the bullet?’ Not waiting for Mace’s response. ‘Magnum .45. That’s not play-play. Person with a gun like that means business. Could shoot straight enough to hit me, too. Those guys were for real. Absolutely.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Mace.
Pylon toyed with the drip line. ‘Thought he might be.’
‘So’s the one with the Beretta. My take on that, you want to hear it?’
‘Tell me.’
‘My take: Big Silas leaned on the chappie, pressed his finger and viola, ran most of the clip into the guy’s face. By useful accident. All in a day’s living.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I do.’
‘Mr Silas Dinsmor’s up for these kind of events?’
‘Mr Silas Dinsmor and his spouse Dancing Rabbit.’
‘Interesting,’ said Pylon.
‘Like a hole in the head.’
‘Or one in the arm.’
Mace crossed his legs, shifted on the hard-back chair. ‘What’s the damage?’
‘Missed the bone. Took out some muscle tissue. Not so much a hole, more a gouge.’ He stretched his neck to get an angle on his wound. ‘What’s that? Ten, twelve centimetres to the right it would’ve been a heart shot?’
‘It isn’t,’ said Mace.
‘Isn’t what?’
‘Isn’t twelve centimetres to the right.’
‘Could have been. That’s the point. For Treasure.’
‘Shit,’ said Mace. ‘What if this? What if that?’
Pylon laughed. ‘You said it.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m stitched up. Can’t drive for a while. Can’t shoot a gun. Stitched up.’
Mace thought, lovely. A wrecked car. A kidnap. A weird redskin. A pissed-off daughter. A murdered wife. A pain in his chest like he was suffocating. How grand was his life?
‘Have to get one of the boys or Tami to help you out,’ said Pylon. ‘For tomorrow at least.’
‘Then what? Tuesday you’re going to be back ’n up to speed? Play receptionist.’
‘I can answer a phone.’
And make coffee.’
Pylon snorted. ‘When last did Tami make coffee for you?’
‘Friday.’
‘Not her job description, she told me.’
‘Depends on how you ask.’ Mace grinned. ‘Know what I mean?’
‘You mean I ask her, I’m a black dude playing the patriarch. You ask her, you’re the white boss.’
‘Something like that.’
‘In this day ’n age? Bullshit.’
Mace stood. ‘Call you tomorrow.’ As he turned, said, ‘Oh, yeah, I gave her your gun.’
‘What?’ Pylon sat up from the pillows, gasped at the movement.
‘Gave her your gun.’
‘Save me Jesus. No. No, tell me you didn’t.’
‘For the night. While she’s babysitting the Red Indian. Isn’t a big deal. And she needed something.’ Mace stuck both hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Couldn’t lend her mine, could I? The cops have it.’
‘She gives it back,’ said Pylon. ‘Tomorrow. I’m not having her wandering around with my gun. It’s special, Mace. You know that. The sort of item you don’t dish out to anyone.’
‘Tami’s not anyone.’
‘She’s twenty-three. People that young haven’t got zip in their heads. Especially Tami.’
‘Thought you said she could hang out with me.’
Pylon groaned. ‘No, no, no. Save me Jesus.’
Smiling, Mace held up his hand, goodbye.
‘You bring it to me,’ said Pylon. ‘To my house.’
Mace headed down the dim corridor, the wards in darkness either side. At the nurses’ station, said goodnight to a nurse stuffing soiled sheets into a plastic bag. Someone had to do the job. Always best that it was people who felt inner reward.
Outside the rain had eased off to a fine drizzle. You stopped to listen, you heard frogs everywhere. Mace didn’t stop to listen. Got into his car, was about to turn the ignition, saw a rosebud held by the wiper straight up on the windscreen. A blood-red rosebud. The sort of rosebud Sheemina February used to send from time to time. Except there hadn’t been one since Oumou’s funeral. And now again. The night he gets to know her address. Coincidence? Coincidence, hell. Mace didn’t stop to think about it. Shot out of the car, scanned the parking lot.
At the hospital reception desk he asked if anyone’d seen a woman walk through, long black coat, black gloves. A striking woman. Very elegant. Impossible not to notice her. The duty staff shook their heads.
Mace went back to his car, pulled the rosebud free. He smacked it on the palm of his hand, felt the thorns bite. No ways she could’ve been following him. Yet she must’ve been. And he didn’t notice. Mace snapped the stem. Jesus! Step it up, brother, get her. He threw the flower into the shrubs. Quietened the frogs for a moment.
15
On the day after Oumou’s killing Mace’d gone quietly into the offices of Fortune, Dadoo & Moosa. Dressed in black but then black was usual. His Ruger in his belt. No clear plan of action in mind. He’d approached the receptionist, asked to see Ms Sheemina February.
Who shall I say’s calling?
Had given a false name: Holden. Bill Holden.
One moment, Mr Holden.
Watched her buzz through, say, I have a Mr Holden for Sheemina. Be told something, glance at him. An okay. She’d clicked off, smiled at him. I’m afraid Ms February isn’t in. She has an office here but with all her other commitments, her other companies, we don’t see her often these days.
Mace asked if she had an assistant?
Got a nod and a smile.
Could he see her?
A young woman came through, said she was Ms February’s assistant, what could she help him with. Mace told her it was urgent that he contact Ms February. Got a bright reassurance that messages would be forwarded, Mr Holden.
Look, Mace’d said, perhaps you don’t understand. I need to contact her, speak to her myself. Urgently. Mace earnest, stressing the importance, keeping everything cool, calm and collected. Which of her companies should I contact?
You could try Zimisela Mining.
They’re out of town?
Johannesburg.
She gave him the phone number. Also that of West Coast Dev, a property company developing a golf estate on the West Coast. The young assistant smiling at him, glistening purple lips. Perhaps if you could tell me what it’s about, Mr Holden?
Sure, said Mace, my wife’s death.
The assistant shook her head, puzzled. I’m sorry.
Mace saying, My wife was murdered. Stabbed to death.
; The assistant slapping her hand over her mouth, staring wide-eyed.
Yes, said Mace. Ugly. Tell Ms February I called. Give her this. Holding out a business card. Ask her to phone me. Urgently.
He left it there, the assistant’s latte face gone a whiter shade.
He’d walked out of the office reception. Waited at the bank of lifts. Watching them watching him. Before he got into the lift he phoned Zimisela Mining. A receptionist told him Ms Sheemina February was not expected. He could leave a message. Mace left his name and number.
The same at West Coast Dev.
What’d happened was nothing less than he’d anticipated. But Mace reckoned one thing: Sheemina February was probably in town. She’d want to be, to watch his pain.
Since then he’d shaken down the city. Rattled a long list of florists. Rattled some of her known associates. Staked out her townhouse. Staked out her legal office. Driven the streets day and night on the off chance of a sight of her.
Niks.
Yet he could feel her. Sense her. He walked the city’s pavements. Imagined she lurked behind him. Sometimes he spun to surprise her but she was gone. A figure disappearing into the crowd. He chased ghosts. Apologised to strange women. Believed he saw Sheemina February everywhere.
Might be no evidence that she’d ordered the hit on Oumou but Mace knew it in his gut. Was convinced. Certain he had to kill her because she was hunting him.
Whenever Christa was elsewhere, Mace was on the prowl, in the Spider mostly, hoping it wouldn’t cause any grief. Once it broke down, he had to call a vulture to get him home. The tow-truck driver giving him endless jokes about the Spider. Mace got the car fixed, went back on the scour.
Niks.
He knew she had another apartment, he just didn’t know where. He put Dave the estate agent onto finding out.
And Dave came through.
Now, on the way back from the hospital, he hit that address. Victoria Road, Bantry Bay. In Mace’s book, the cliffhanger’s paradise. One side, block after block of apartments fastened to the cliff going down to the sea. Other side, block after block of apartments fastened to the cliff going up the mountain. In Mace’s opinion, owned by rich merchants mostly. Mining executives. Industrialists. Old politicians. Foreign celebrities. Foreign trash with cash. He cruised slowly, side window down so he could see the numbers. Here people fancied names rather than numbers. Rain spattered his shoulder, cold against his face. A strong smell of the sea came up on the gusts, kelp, salt spume, red bait, the tang of ozone.
The address was a seaside block. Roof parking ramped one level up from the street, entered through a security boom. Probably room for twenty cars on the deck. Only cars there now four German makes and one Swedish. All the latest models. Had to be one of the cars was hers. Assuming she’d delivered the rosebud. The thought clenched Mace’s fists on the steering wheel. Nothing he could do about it. He could wait. He could come back. He relaxed, eased his fingers. Took another look at the situation.
From the deck you entered the building down a flight of stairs into a street-level foyer. In this weather all the moneyed classes getting soaked between their cars and the foyer. Mace wondered how come they enjoyed paying millions for the pleasure. Door there was probably opened by a smart card or buzz-through for guests.
The foyer gave onto the street through glass doors. Armour-plated glass doors. A buzz phone or keypad got you in. No guard on duty but Mace reckoned the security company would be working this angle. Raising the residents’ paranoia levels. Not difficult to do in this sort of setting. Couple of flyers detailing break-ins involving rape and murder convinced most. Trade up the neurosis, offer twenty-four/seven guarding as the solution. Usually your client said where do I sign? Standard industry strategy. One Mace and Pylon had laid out a couple of times.
He stopped opposite the apartment block, kept the engine running. Wondered if somewhere in the block Sheemina February was asleep. Not that there was anything to be done if she was. He wasn’t prepared. No gun being a major drawback.
When it came to it though, the obvious problem was getting in. The random buzz claiming to be maintenance, cops, estate agents, door-to-door couriers, a florist, worked most of the time but no guarantee. Sometimes the one you hit on was a cynic. Not often but sometimes.
An issue too would be internal security. Ms Sheemina February’s alarm code. Then again that was easily solved. Get her code from the security company. He had leverage there, could grease it with a grand or two. Dealing with the locks on the apartment door Mace didn’t see as too hectic. Even double cylinders weren’t the end of the world, you knew what you were doing.
Best thing was not to go in balls out, get the lay of the land, a sense of her schedule. Then, wop, wop, two .22s to the head. Classic. Exit Sheemina February. Brought a twitch to his lips that was half smile, half sneer.
‘Got yer, bitch.’
Mace left the car idling, jogged over to the parking deck, snapped each of the cars on his cellphone camera. Checked for CCTV cameras: only one in the entrance that could be easily blocked. Back in the warmth of Oumou’s station wagon, he checked the pictures. The number plates all legible. Some admin work for Tami later.
He drove off, a Grim Reaper cast to his face. Played out scenarios in his mind: trap her in the apartment, no need to say anything. Give her a moment to adjust to the gun. A moment to know terror. Then: overs-cadovers. Over cadaver more like it. Brought a smile to Mace’s lips. He eased back in the seat, wondering which of the cars was hers.
The picture-taking triggered a thought: a nag that’d been at the back of his mind over the hours. As he’d left the kidnap scene, the sight of a sad red Golf in the street. Parked way down in the deep shadow of the trees. Almost unnoticeable on a wet night. Suppose there hadn’t been a fifth man to drive off their car. Suppose that was it. Then the car’d still be there. Cops hadn’t checked out the street. It was worth a look. Was on his way home anyhow.
Mace drove out of Clifton along the twisty Victoria Drive, took the Round House road through the stone pines up to Kloof Nek. Not another motorist to be seen. Going down Kloof the same: the city quiet, glistening under the rain. He threaded his way into Gardens, found the red Golf still there beneath the trees, about fifty metres down from the crime scene tape. Mace opened a door, stuck his head into the car, coughed at the stench of white pipes and beer. Had to be theirs. He took a picture of this car too.
At home 2:10 on his kitchen clock. Cat2 pleased to see him, mewing soundlessly. Mace talked to the cat to fill the silence of his house. His angry grieving house.
‘We’ve got her, pussy cat, got her at last. End of story.’ He flopped down on a sofa. ‘Ms Sheemina February’s had her day.’ Lifted up the cat. ‘What a night, hey! Bloody red Indians, bandits, kidnappings, gunslingers, bodies, the law, straight out of a western.’ Cat2 stretched up to rub her face against his chin. Her claws hooked into his chest and thigh. Mace grimaced. ‘Eina.’ Gently massaged her paws until her needles retracted. He put her aside, stood up. Went to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, turned it off before the water boiled. Back in the lounge poured a two-finger Johnnie Walker Black. Slotted Willard Grant Conspiracy into the sound system. Regard the End. Took a pull at the whisky then thought to chase it with a beer from the fridge. He flipped the cap, sucked back a long slow swallow. Using the remote he skipped the tracks on the disc to Soft Hand. Almost too sexy to listen to. Pure Oumou.
The problem: such racing thoughts he couldn’t settle.
Behind them always the sight of Oumou from the spiral staircase. Of her body on the floor covered in blood, gushing blood. Her face turned up at him, stricken.
Mace popped an Ambien, set his cellphone alarm to ring at six-fifteen. Stretched out on a couch in his clothes, the cat curled on his stomach. He drank off the beer in short sips. Finished the whisky in a swallow. Listened to the music. Drifted into a weird world of women: Oumou, Christa, Isabella from the arms trading days, Sheemina February, Dancing Rabbit.
Monday, 25 July
16
SHOOT-OUT AT LUXURY GARDENS LODGE
An American businesswoman was kidnapped, two men shot dead and one wounded in the driveway of an upmarket Gardens self-catering lodge last night.
The men who died at the scene were part of an armed gang that carried out the kidnapping.
Police suspect the latest incident is related to a number of similar attacks on tourists and foreign businesspeople.
Mrs Veronica Dinsmor and her husband, Silas Dinsmor, had only been in the city an hour.
They were due to hold talks with the casino management today. A reciprocal investment deal involving US investment in the casino and local investment in the Dinsmors’ US gaming ventures was on the table.
A spokesman for the police said there was no evidence of a syndicate behind the spate of abductions.
Mr Dinsmor pleaded with the men who had taken his wife hostage to show mercy. ‘If she is released unharmed because of my appeal,’ he said, ‘a message will be sent to all international businesspeople trading in this city that despite the current crime wave the African philosophy of ubuntu remains sacrosanct.’
The couple were under the protection of a private security company, Complete Security, when the incident occurred.
Complete Security specialise in the protection of high-profile businesspeople, celebrities, models and movie stars.
In May, one of their clients, German businessman Rudolf Klett, was assassinated in a Complete Security vehicle while being transferred from the airport to his city hotel.
In the same month, the wife of the co-owner of the security company, Mace Bishop, was murdered in the family home. Her attacker died on the scene.
Mace Bishop was also a witness in a murder case a few years ago. During evidence it was alleged by the accused that he had tortured them. No charges were laid against Bishop. One of the accused died in prison, the other was shot dead while trying to escape.
