by Mike Nicol
‘Good fella, Silas. Listen up: there’s a van in the car park, the logo on the panels says International Flowers. What you do now is walk up and down the stoep – porch – twice and you say into your phone: the deal’s gotta go down today. That was our arrangement. That’s what we agreed. Got it.’
‘Yes,’ said Silas.
‘Okay, say it.’
Silas did.
‘Good man,’ said the voice. ‘On the other matter, the matter of your wife, we’re planning to keep our word so we trust you keep yours.’
‘Where’s she, where’s my wife?’
‘No questions, Silas. Don’t make me repeat myself. It works me up. You’ll get the answers in a moment. Now, what we’re gonna do is walk you down the stairs and into the van. Go.’
Silas Dinsmor hesitated, looked at the group in the breakfast room. The cop talking, the security man laughing, the woman Tami had been watching him. But she was bent to her food now. And the van would be out of her sight.
‘Go.’
‘I’m going.’
‘Keep walking. Keep thinking of Veronica.’
‘You’d better …’
‘She’s fine, Silas, while you keep walking. See the van, the one with the sliding door open. Get in, close the door.’
Silas Dinsmor obeyed.
‘Good man. I’m sorry there isn’t a seat. Your pants’ll get dirty but it can’t be helped. Won’t be long now you’ll have the lovely Dancing Rabbit in your arms. Au revoir, Silas, been good talking to you.’
Inside the van was dark, dank, smelt of vegetation. No cushions, not even newspaper to sit on. Silas Dinsmor groaned. The Third World was a pain in the butt.
The van pulled off gently, in no hurry to leave the hotel grounds. Silas Dinsmor trying to follow the route, a right, a left, an intersection, the on-ramp to the highway. At first the journey was slow, the stop-start of dense traffic, exhaust fumes making him cough. The commuter crawl eased, the van picked up speed. With the speed came a chill factor. Silas Dinsmor hugged his arms tightly across his chest. He wore only a cotton shirt fastened with the turquoise-inset bolo tie, slacks and a light jacket. He needed a coat. And padding. The metal was hard on his backside, jarred against his spine. Twice he sprawled when the driver braked sharply. Once slid across the corrugated floor as the van cornered fast. ‘Hey,’ he shouted, dusting grit from his hands. ‘Hey, mister, drive carefully.’ Banged on the metal panel separating the cab from the pickup box but got no reaction from the driver.
Was this worse than Colombia? Silas Dinsmor reckoned that it probably was. At least in Colombia they had been willing to talk: until now these people hadn’t handed out any agendas.
His cellphone rang: a blocked number.
‘Silas,’ said the voice, Veronica’s voice. ‘Silas, are you alright?’
‘My baby,’ he said. ‘Dancing Rabbit. What’s happening?’ – breaking into Choctaw. ‘On the video you looked unconscious. Those dead bodies.’
‘They’re bringing you to me, honey’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘Talk to me. Are you hurt? On the video you looked hurt. Why don’t you speak Choctaw?’
‘I’m just so pleased to hear your voice.’
Not the Dancing Rabbit of the Colombia debacle. None of the self-assurance.
‘You don’t sound fine.’
‘I am, I am. Believe me, honey. Everything’s going to work out.’
‘Then talk Choctaw.’
‘They’re bringing you to me. It’s all been a misunderstanding. Crossed wires.’
‘Some crossed wires when people get killed.’
‘It’s fine. It’s fine. Believe me.’
‘It doesn’t sound fine.’
‘I’m with a real lady.’
‘I don’t like it, Dancing Rabbit, my baby. Not any of it.’
‘I’m going now,’ said Veronica. ‘See you soon.’
The phone disconnected.
Silas Dinsmor would’ve been less troubled facing a rattlesnake, Stateside. Brought out a cold sweat in his armpits.
An hour out of the city by his cellphone clock, the van slowed, turned onto gravel.
‘Open up,’ he heard the driver shout. A man said something inaudible. The van started forward, the wheels spinning to take traction. The going rough and potholed, the scrape of vegetation against the chassis. Silas Dinsmor was jerked about, had to jam himself in a corner to keep upright. He kneeled, then rocked back into a crouch, let his thighs cushion the jolts, the downhill slope forcing him to jiggle like a Russian dancer.
The ride ended abruptly, unbalancing him. He was still sprawled when the sliding door opened. A young man grinned at him.
‘We’s arrived,’ he said.
‘What’re you playing at?’ Silas Dinsmor eased himself out of the van. Before him a stone cottage, beyond the sea. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’
‘Gotta stop, you know.’
A woman appeared at the cottage door.
‘You can go now,’ she called out, dismissing the driver.
He mumbled something, slammed shut the panel door.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said the woman, coming towards them across the sand. ‘Go on.’
The driver did, accelerating away with a wheelspin.
‘Young men can be very tedious,’ she said. Reached out to Silas Dinsmor, touched him on the shoulder. ‘My name’s Sheemina February. Your wife’s inside. Come.’ She turned back to the cottage. ‘I’m sorry about the drive out. Must have been uncomfortable. Normally it’s a pleasant drive once you’ve escaped the city. From the top of the hill back there you can see the mountain. The picture postcard version. On a day like today it’s quite spectacular. The clarity of the air. The island too, if the island interests you. Mandela and all that.’
‘Where’s my wife?’ said Silas Dinsmor.
‘Inside. I asked her to wait inside. Until the driver had gone.’ Sheemina February stood aside. ‘Please, go in.’
And there was Dancing Rabbit springing towards him.
Sheemina February watched them clinch.
How sweet. How touching.
She went to stand at the window, facing the sea. The stainless steel .32 lay on the breakfast table where she’d put it out of curiosity: to see if Dancing Rabbit liked guns more than she’d admitted. Smeared low on the horizon was a dark edge that hadn’t been there earlier, a cold front pushing in. Tonight it would be wet again. Howling a gale. Nothing more comforting than a storm to Sheemina February’s way of thinking.
‘We’re going,’ she heard Silas Dinsmor say.
And turned around. He held the tiny gun pointed at her.
‘I’m disappointed,’ she said. ‘I thought Veronica and I had reached an understanding.’
Silas Dinsmor edged his wife towards the kitchen and the back door.
‘I don’t know who you are, lady. And I don’t care. Guns are not among our business tools. We don’t kidnap people. We don’t kill people. Good people are our business partners. But I will use this one.’
‘I warned you,’ said Veronica. ‘We are not soft targets.’
‘Silas,’ said Sheemina February, ‘you’re holding a gun now. Pointing it at a business partner. A potential business partner. Talk to him Veronica, dissuade him.’
‘Like hell, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’d sooner do business with George Bush than the likes of you.’
‘Sit down, Silas. You and Veronica sit down. I’ll make more coffee.’ Ignoring the gun still pointed at her, she took the Bialetti to the sink, unscrewed it.
‘It’s best you let us leave,’ said Veronica. ‘We’ll get out of your life.’
‘That’s the point, Veronica. I don’t want you out of my life. That’s what we’ve been talking about all morning.’
‘I’m not joking, ma’am. We’re going to walk out now.’
Sheemina February dropped the pot, spun on them. ‘And go where, Silas? Tell me. Along the beach?
Back up to the road? Where, huh? We’re on a wild stretch here, Silas. You wouldn’t make it out.’ She stared at him, went back to rinsing the coffee pot. ‘Know this too, if you don’t shoot me dead I’m going to have you back here inside twenty minutes. And you don’t look like a shooting man, Silas. So sit down.’
Silas and Veronica Dinsmor moved back.
‘Try it,’ said Sheemina February, ‘if you must.’ She heaped spoons of coffee into the Bialetti’s basket, screwed the pieces together. ‘All you’re doing is delaying our discussions. Delaying the time before I call someone to drive you back to your hotel. One way or the other we’re going to talk. The best way is here, at this table, with a cup of coffee.’ She set the pot on the gas hob, turned up the flame. Watched Silas Dinsmor lose heart, the hand with the gun slowly lowering. She smiled at Veronica. ‘Sometimes, Al Capone got it wrong. Now sit and let’s parley.’
‘Why?’ said Silas Dinsmor.
‘Why what?’ Sheemina February arched her eyebrows. ‘Why should we talk?’
‘Why, all this? All this violence.’
‘A mistake.’
‘That’s it? A mistake. All this … this bullshit’s for nothing?’ Silas Dinsmor waving his gun hand around.
‘The gun’s loaded,’ said Sheemina February, ‘it’s off safety, it’s got a sensitive trigger. Best I put it away.’ She held out her hand. ‘Please.’
‘I want to know why.’
‘The gun.’
He gave it to her. She slipped on the safety, dropped the tiny Guardian into the pocket of her apron.
‘I’ve explained it to Veronica.’
‘Well now explain it to me.’
Veronica sat down where she’d been sitting, pushed a chair out for Silas. Said something in a strange language that Sheemina February didn’t catch.
‘English,’ she said. ‘Be polite.’ She took a chair opposite them. ‘You stepped into a messy situation, Silas. You and Veronica. A local situation you couldn’t have known about. You were at risk, as I’ve told Veronica.
‘From you.’
‘Not from me. Believe this: I am not your enemy.’
‘We had security.’
‘Sure, you had security, a joke outfit. Two has-been gun-runners trying to scrape a buck together. Some security. Worst track record in the city. My intention was to secure you both.’
‘Through kidnapping!’
Sheemina February nodded. ‘I needed to send a message.’
‘You did that, ma’am. To me you sent a message that you’re mad. Crazy. Loco.’ He tapped his forehead.
‘A message to others, Silas. Not you. Others. Others who’d have dumped your bodies in the Black River days ago. People who’d still like to do that. Now can we leave this and get onto the serious business?’
‘This is serious, lady. Damn serious.’
‘Sheemina,’ said Sheemina February. ‘Not lady or ma’am. Sheemina. That’s my name.’ She smiled. No mirth in the quick twitch of her lips.
Veronica put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Listen to her, Silas.’
‘And forget what we’ve been through? That she caused it?’
‘Put it aside. Please. There’s a way out of this.’
‘The way out of this is through the door.’
‘Silas.’
The coffee percolated, sent a splash out the spout that doused the gas flame. Sheemina February got up. ‘Listen to her, Silas,’ she said. ‘We’ve discussed the deal. If your wife can see the advantages I’m sure you will.’ She poured the coffee, set two mugs before them. ‘I’m going outside while you talk.’ She took off the apron, put on a long black coat. Transferred the .32 to a coat pocket. ‘When you’re finished I’ll go with whatever decision you make.’
‘And one of them’s we can walk away?’
‘It is.’
‘Then that’s our option.’
‘Hear your wife, Silas. Don’t jump to conclusions.’
She left them to it. Went onto the beach to stand in the sun. Felt the winter heat soaking into the black material. He’d fall her way, no doubt of it. Veronica had smelt the money. Silas would too.
She pressed through a call to Magnus Oosthuizen. When he came on she could hear the yapping of his dog in the background. Real moffie’s bitch.
‘How’s your boy, Magnus?’ she said. ‘All safe and sound?’
‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘In a pisspot place. A dump. But safe and sound.’
‘Better than in the Hague from his point of view. Though if you have to be in jail, that’s the place, I’m told. Tribunal cells make Hiltons look cheap.’ She held the phone away while the dog yapped, heard Oosthuizen say, ‘Go piepie, Chin-chin. Piepie on the grass.’ She couldn’t imagine what it was that people saw in dogs. The way they talked to them in that weird language. Said, ‘Have you been in touch?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘He’ll meet the deadline?’
‘No question.’
‘He understands the urgency. That there can’t be any buggering around. That we – you – need it tonight.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll be seeing him?’
‘I’m with him.’
‘At the moment?’
‘At the moment.’
‘How sweet,’ said Sheemina February. She walked along the tide line, impressed by the sheer body count: two cormorants, a gannet, a blowfish, small lobsters, crabs. Feathers washing in the shallows. As if a grenade had gone off. ‘You still there?’ she said. Oosthuizen doing one of his silences, except this was on her time.
‘I am.’
‘I’m checking,’ she said, ‘because the timing is important. Critical. When it happens I want to know that he’s finished. That you will be there tomorrow for the presentation, fully prepared.’
‘I will be,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘I know the scene.’
She disconnected. From where she stood the front of the cottage was obscured by a dune, only the roof visible. She couldn’t see the Dinsmors, they couldn’t see her. She could see the track leading up the hill and the Dinsmors weren’t on it. Nor had she expected they would be. By now Silas would have the hot raw smell of filthy lucre in his nostrils. She smiled. Made some more calls to ensure her plans were in place. By tomorrow Mace Bishop would be closing up shop, taking residence in the gutter. Couldn’t happen to a nicer man.
By the time she went back inside the Dinsmors were waiting where she’d left them. Silas Dinsmor with a slump to his shoulders, Veronica leaning forward, her face in her hands. Sheemina February wanted to tell Silas to sit up straight. Show his backbone.
‘Well,’ she said.
Veronica Dinsmor looked at her, Silas didn’t.
‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said.
‘Excellent,’ said Sheemina February, taking off her coat. ‘You could look more enthusiastic about it though, Silas.’ She draped the coat over the back of a couch.
‘Give me one reason.’
‘Money. Money’s always something to be enthusiastic about.’
‘Because you’re getting it and I’m not.’
Sheemina February punched up the gas heater.
‘It’s an investment, Silas, that you’re making. Development capital. This is how projects get funded, as you well know. One minute.’ She fetched a briefcase from her bedroom, slapped down some papers before the Dinsmors. ‘Here’s the detail. All you want to know on what’s planned with these casinos. CVs of all the major players in the consortium. Reads like a who’s who of struggle heroes. These are honourable people, Silas. People who sacrificed themselves during the apartheid years. They suffered. What drives them now is an obsession to build up their country for the benefit of all.’ She sat down, her hand on the prospectus. ‘Read it. Take your time. But even before you do that I’m asking you to come in with us. Share your expertise. Help us create the v entures, provide jobs, give people some hope where they’ve got nothing now.
‘Look at the photographs, Silas.’
She opened the prospectus at the back. ‘This one, here. See these scattered huts. Once this was a village, now it’s old people and Aids orphans. They live on grants. When they get them. When they’re not robbed on payout day. Mostly the old people drink, we all would out there. Sometimes the children eat cowpats they’re so hungry.
‘This could change that, Silas. Make them part of the modern world. Show them that someone cared about their lives.’ She sat back. Smiled at the Dinsmors. ‘End of sermon. You read that, you’ll know you’ve made the right decision. Meanwhile I’ll get my office to draw up the contract.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then the driver will take you back to the city.’
He stared at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘In your place I probably wouldn’t either. But these’re your options. Once you sign the contract we’re partners. We’re talking about a lot of money.’
‘Five million bucks is a lot of money.’
‘Not your investment, Silas. The returns. Go through the figures. Look at the projections. This is not Mickey Mouse, I’d call it big money. Long-term money that’ll make five million US seem like small change.’
Silas Dinsmor bowed his head, pinched the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. His wife laid her arm on his shoulder.
‘I can’t do the transfer today,’ he said. ‘These things take time.’
‘You can set the wheels in motion, Silas. In twenty-four hours it’ll all be said and done. When that happens we sign the paperwork and viola.’
He released his nose, white impressions on his skin from the pressure of his fingers.
‘Alright.’ He took out his cellphone. ‘On your word that we’ll be released.’
‘On my word. You’re free agents already.’
‘We could run after you’ve let us go.’
Sheemina February unleashed a wide smile, light striking ice in her blue eyes. ‘You could. But you wouldn’t get far.’
‘Now you’re threatening.’
‘Not a threat. Reality check for you. This’s my city. I know how it works.’ Again the smile, the ice glint. ‘But I’d rather trust you, Silas. Rather that you learnt to trust me.’
