by Mike Nicol
‘CDs probably.’ Pylon growling at the slowness, eyes in the rearview for a gap. ‘When we talked about the Cayman it was in my office,’ – lurched the Merc into the fast lane, flooring the pedal. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Most of the other stuff’s been out and about.’
‘Pays to sit in cafés.’ Mace gripping the armrest.
‘Except for Rudi Klett. Those details were in-house.’
‘You’re saying it wasn’t Popo Dlamini ran his mouth?’
Pylon easing on the juice at the feeder curve, Mace wondering as always, what caused the smoke from the hospital chimney. Tissue discard. Cancered organs. Foetuses. Medical waste. Sheets soiled with death. ‘Huh, you’re saying that?’
‘I’m saying it was him, mostly. But also someone listening in.’
Pylon took the downhill at a clip, pulled a right across the yellow lines of the split, cars hooting.
Mace saying, ‘Christ, I didn’t think you were going to do that.’
‘This’s the way, why shouldn’t I?’
‘Seemed you were heading for the N1. The airport.’
‘N2,’ said Pylon. ‘Airport’s on the N2. How long we been living here?’ Pylon, laying down more power along the sweep to Mostert’s Mill, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. ‘There’s a reason for it. The reason’s a white Golf.’
Mace angled the side mirror. ‘Got it.’
‘Been behind us from the city. Dude hangs well back. Didn’t have any problem with the lane switch at the split.’
They kept an eye on the Golf past the university, through Newlands forest, Pylon taking a right into Rhodes Avenue, the Golf following two cars behind.
‘Black or white?’ said Mace.
‘This makes a difference?’
‘Might do. General surveillance would be from the same place as the bug. Specific spying would be one of Obed’s sidekicks, for instance.’
‘General surveillance is going to be white?’
‘Dead-end job. You see a brother taking a dead-end job. In the days of black empowerment?’
‘No.’
‘Stands to reason, then. So: black or white?’
‘Can’t tell in this rain.’
Pylon took it slowly along the avenue towards Kirstenbosch Gardens, Mace looking up at the mountain cloud, saying, ‘Three days ago we had summer. I was planning to shoot the mountain maniac.’
‘In your dreams,’ said Pylon. ‘All that vigilante stuff.’
‘Thought you were into that a while ago.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Chickening out?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ At the T-junction Pylon turned left, checked his rearview mirror, no sign of a white Golf. ‘Big brother’s changed his mind. Or it was coincidence to start with?’
‘Sans irony.’ Mace smiling at his use of the French.
Pylon didn’t comment, the two silent for the jag through the suburb to the judge’s house.
The judge waited for them in the study. The front door opened by their security man, giving them a nod that his lordship was in a foul mood. His lordship straight-backed in his wheelchair not inclined to any preliminaries.
Going to the crux: ‘What is so urgent?’
Might be working from home but he was suited: tie neat in a broad Windsor, black shoes mirror polished. Very professional.
Mace and Pylon stopped two metres from him, stood feet apart, hands clasped loosely in front, almost military in their stance. Mace, an envelope in his hand, took his cue from the judge. Said, ‘Judge you owe us an explanation here.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of your connections with Obed Chocho.’
The judge frowned. ‘I have none.’
‘You found him guilty of fraud.’
‘I have found many men guilty of fraud.’
‘You handed down a stiff sentence.’
‘As one should.’
‘Our belief is that this was to deflect attention from your relationship with Mr Chocho.’
‘Really?’ The judge smiled, brought his hands together, rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I have no relationship with Mr Chocho.’
Mace took the mining magazine out of the envelope, opened it to the announcement regarding Zimisela Mining.
‘What’s this?’
‘Read it. Please.’
The judge stretching to take it from Mace. ‘You are trying my patience.’ He read through the article, handed back the magazine. ‘So?’
‘Today,’ said Pylon, ‘Obed Chocho showed me a Zimisela letterhead that has your name among the directors.’
The judge shifted his gaze to Pylon. ‘Obed Chocho is a racketeer. A man I sentenced to six years for the crime of fraud. That letterhead is another example of his duplicity. A fake.’
‘He says you met about five years ago,’ said Mace. He replaced the magazine in the envelope, brought out another. Found the article about uranium deposits. ‘We believe that he approached you, or you approached him shortly after this report appeared.’ He handed it to the judge.
Judge Telman Visser read the report, Mace watching for any tell in his face. Saw nothing but a judge’s unconcern. He took back the magazine. ‘My patience is exhausted. If this is the purpose of your visit, I suggest you leave now.’
‘One moment,’ said Mace. ‘Hear us out.’
‘I have no wish to.’
‘All the same.’
‘Our business is concluded, Mr Bishop. I no longer have need of your services. I will pay your invoice to date.’ He powered his wheelchair behind his desk.
‘Judge,’ said Mace. ‘Hear us out.’ Mace not waiting for the judge’s response. ‘Here’s the thing: to our way of thinking you conspired with Obed Chocho to acquire your father’s farm. Getting there we believe involved the death of your father’s lawyer. Not an accident, a deliberate arson. With Chocho’s help we reckon a hitman was hired to murder your father and his wife.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Contracting our services was another instance of your cunning. A smokescreen. A hoax, playing on the random violence of farm killings. Had I died it would have strengthened your game. Nice one, judge. Very cutthroat.’
The judge shook his head. ‘You are sad men, you and your partner, Mr Bishop. Conspiracists. Paranoids. Pathetic.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘Your little story is slanderous. Outrageous. To even make these suggestions is beyond comprehension.’
‘The press wouldn’t think so.’
‘Don’t tempt me, Mr Bishop. Don’t tempt me. If the press gets onto this I will slap interdicts and writs on you that you wouldn’t have thought possible. Now, leave my house. And take your goon with you.’
‘It’s not over, judge,’ said Mace. ‘You’re in with the snakes. Big time.’
‘Out. Out.’ The judge pointing at the door. Could have been dismissing servants, Mace and Pylon and the Complete Security guard traipsing out.
In the car, staring down the street at the dripping trees, Pylon said, ‘Not a bad actor.’
‘He’s had the training,’ said Mace.
The security officer in the back leaned forward, tapped Mace on the shoulder. ‘What’s his case?’
‘A guilty heart,’ he was told.
Pylon fired the car. ‘So now?’
‘Coffee,’ said Mace. ‘At the office.’ Thinking, maybe the potshot attack had been a staging. What it had been was amateurish or deliberately so. Surely hadn’t damaged the paintings. As the Yanks put it, smoke blown up their arses.
Pylon took a different route out of the suburb. ‘What I think,’ he said, ‘is we need to stake them out. Him and Obed. Sometime they’re going to have to meet.’
‘What for? You need more evidence? You think he’s innocent? Shit, Pylon, that was an act. You know it? It was bullshit. They’re not going to meet. They’d be crazy. They’ve got other ways of running this. And what difference does it make to us. We’re not going to sink them. We’ve
been through this. We took a decision.’
Pylon didn’t answer, said, ‘How about that we’ve got company.’ His eyes on the rearview mirror. ‘Yeah, has to be.’
‘You’re kidding. The white Golf?’
Pylon said, ‘Don’t look back. I’m thinking we keep it calm, head for the office. Pick up your car. Make a plan to nail him.’
‘A little bit of fun to brighten a dark day.’ Mace racked a round into the P8. Stuck the pistol in his jacket pocket.
They came onto De Waal Drive, the Golf way behind.
‘Change of plan,’ said Mace. ‘At the houses, pull over, he’s got to go past.’
70
Obed Chocho was loud, running his mouth.
‘You’ve been drinking, Obed,’ Sheemina February said.
He laughed explosively. She held the phone away from her ear.
‘Because I have the skelm Buso by the balls. In my fist.’
‘How nice for you.’
‘The bastard thinks I want to be friends. Cousin to cousin. Brother to brother. Black men together. To hell with him.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Sheemina February.
‘I have made a deal with him. Given him a chance to buy in. With his money from the Cayman Islands. Then I will kill him. When I have his money.’
‘Obed,’ said Sheemina February, ‘you should consult me before you make such deals. I am your lawyer.’
‘Pah! So, mighty fine. What would my lawyer say?’
‘That you were unwise. Pylon Buso could use your conversation against you.’
‘Never. The man is greedy.’
Sheemina February tapped the long fingernails of her good hand on the glass tabletop. A semaphore of red. ‘Where are you, Obed?’
‘My home.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Sober up.’
Sheemina February docked the phone. The trouble with Obed Chocho she’d long realised was his macho attitude. His world of men that allowed for no finesse.
She sighed, went to stand at the French windows of her apartment. Washes of rain came off the horizon; below a heavy sea beat onto the rocks in spume and spray.
She put her damaged hand against the window pane, could feel a shudder at the break of the waves. Imagined the lives of sailors, filled with the fear of shipwreck. The sea thundering against a metal hull. It made no sense surrendering your will. Putting your life at the whim of the elements.
What point if you had no control? No legal niceties. No contracts. Even with them the world was open to the unexpected.
Open to an Obed Chocho doing stupid deals.
The situation, she decided, was too fluid. It was time to intervene.
Her phone rang.
For a moment Sheemina February considered letting it go to voicemail. Then turned into the white room, in two paces could see the name on the display screen: Judge Telman Visser.
Beside the phone, her glove. And next to that a photograph. A photograph of Judge Telman Visser and Obed Chocho.
The photograph was a black-and-white print. Both men in tuxedos. She remembered Chocho wore a red bow tie. A signal of his difference, she supposed. At the time she had yet to meet him. At the time she didn’t even realise there were links worth following. That came later, much later, long after she’d learnt about Zimisela Mining and started sweetening Obed Chocho. Yet it was not until she saw Obed Chocho sent down for six years by Judge Telman Visser that she remembered the photographs. Put the links together. You clever bastards, she’d thought at the time. And got herself closer to Obed Chocho. Made herself indispensable.
It’d been a banquet, she recalled. A banquet in celebration of mining contracts. Black empowerment deals. A banquet thrown by the department of minerals and energy. With an in-house photographer making everyone feel important. Except Sheemina February was absent from the photographs taken that evening four years back. As Sheemina February was absent from all photographs taken at the social events she attended.
She picked up the phone. ‘Judge,’ she said.
‘I can’t have this,’ said Telman Visser. ‘I can’t have wild talk from Chocho.’
‘I’m sorry. Enlighten me.’
‘I have just had a visit from Messrs Bishop and Buso. They have threatened me. With the help of Chocho’s bluster.’
‘How very clever of them.’
The judge paused. ‘Sarcasm is inappropriate. These are not stupid men.’
‘Then why did you employ them? If you thought Mace Bishop was no fool, why set him up as a blind?’
‘Speak English.’
‘Con language, Judge Visser. A blind: a distraction, a decoy, something that keeps out the light. All very sophisticated but very dangerous. As you have discovered. As I could have told you. If you’d asked my advice. What did they have to say?’
Judge Telman Visser told her. Sheemina February listened. Stood looking at the photograph of Obed Chocho and Judge Telman Visser shaking hands, beaming at one another while the voice in her ear told a tale of woe.
When the judge stopped, she said, ‘Speculation.’
‘Accurate speculation, for the most part.’
The judge perfectly calm, despite the revelations. His voice unwavering. An interesting attitude, thought Sheemina February. The man apparently unfazed.
‘Accurate it may be but so what? Even if they take it to the press they have no facts. Without facts, where are they? Besides, you are a judge. Above reproof.’
‘Among us are the avaricious and adulterers.’
‘This is unfortunate, admittedly. Still, nothing is out of hand.’
‘I am glad you think not. From where I sit it looks problematic.’
‘Judge,’ said Sheemina February, ‘I will talk to my client. You have fired Bishop, that is good. Other measures are in place that I can’t speak of. What I can say is you have nothing to worry about. Believe me.’
‘Hmmm. I shall see you tonight.’
That was not a frightened Judge Visser, she thought. Concerned, yes. Maybe slightly anxious but not frightened. How well things were working out.
She replaced the phone in its stand, picked up her glove, worked her fingers into the leather. Across her view a frigate ploughed eastwards, spray breaking over its bows. One of the navy’s new toys. She wondered if Obed Chocho had been in the line-up for handouts in the deal that bought the ships. She wouldn’t have been surprised. An operator like that would have his fingers everywhere. She shrugged into her long black coat, cast a look around the apartment. Realised that when she got back in the evening, the world would be completely different.
71
Pylon stopped sharply on the side of the road in front of a service truck. The white Golf out of sight still approaching the bend. He watched in the rearview, said, ‘Here he comes.’ Then: ‘Save me Jesus.’
‘Spitz,’ said Mace as the Golf whooshed past in a fine spray, the driver not noticing them on the side. ‘What’s his case?’
Pylon shrugged. ‘Nothing a little chat won’t sort out.’
They watched the Golf slow down before the bridge, Spitz trying to decide which option to take. Up onto Jutland Avenue? Down into Roeland Street? Deciding on Roeland Street.
Pylon pulled into the road, oncoming traffic flashing lights, hooting.
‘Don’t follow,’ said Mace. ‘He’ll check us.’
‘We’re going to let him go?’
‘Take a bet he’s heading for Dunkley. We go the other way, park in the back streets. Surprise him.’
‘Who’s Spitz?’ said the security man from the back seat.
‘Country ‘n western hitman,’ said Mace, catching a glimpse of the Golf stopped at robots opposite the fire station. They’d have followed, they’d have spooked him.
Pylon, took the tight ramp fast onto Jutland, said, ‘Probably got a contract on us.’
‘You’re thinking Obed Chocho?’ said Mace.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Someone wants to kill you?’
said the security man.
Mace said, ‘We lead exciting lives.’
Pylon gunned the Merc down Jutland into Mill running orange traffic lights as he pulled the car squealing into Hope Street. Cruised to Glynville Street, stopped in the narrow street.
‘This’s the plan,’ said Mace, turning to the security man. ‘You hop out, take a walk down Wandel at the end there, my bet is you’ll find him somewhere with a line of sight on our offices. Walk past, give us a buzz.’
‘It’s raining,’ said the security man.
‘Umbrella’s in the boot,’ said Pylon.
‘Walk past, hey. No funny stuff.’
They watched him out of sight, tall man under a pink umbrella.
‘It’s depressing,’ said Pylon. ‘Having someone want to kill you. On a day like this all grey and dripping.’
‘Mightn’t be the case. We’re only guessing. Maybe he’s upset with us, ‘n it’s a personal thing. He does personal, look what he did to his mate.’
‘This’s true.’
They sat in silence. Couple of minutes later Mace got the call.
‘You’re bloody right,’ said the security man. Gave them the position.
‘Stay tight. Out of the rain.’ Mace clipped closed the phone, opened the door. ‘There’s another umbrella in the boot?’
Pylon shook his head.
‘This’s what I think’s depressing.’ Mace got out, zipping closed his jacket. ‘Getting wet.’
Pylon leaned along the seat towards the open door. ‘We could call Tami have her nip one over.’
Mace got back in while Pylon put through the call, told Tami what they wanted and where to bring it. ‘Like I’m not supposed to know why?’ she said.
‘So Mace doesn’t get wet,’ said Pylon.
She brought three umbrellas – green, blue, black – slid into the back of the car. ‘My last job,’ she said, ‘my boss was a therapist. I can give you his name.’
‘Very funny,’ said Mace. ‘Walk with me, Tami. Up close under the umbrella like we’re lovers.’
‘This’s not sexual harassment?’
‘I’m not going to lay a charge,’ said Mace, choosing the black umbrella.
They walked down Wandel, Mace’s arm around Tami’s shoulder, her arm around his waist. The umbrella hiding his face. He could feel her body firm against his. Had to be the kickboxing she did.
