Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  The guard sighed, glanced away at the mountain. ‘One large.’

  Pylon pursed his mouth, about to cut the sum in half but the guard jumped in first.

  ‘No deals, okay. I don’t need this kinda crap. I do it for one thousand or I don’t do it at all.’

  Pylon nodded, taking out his wallet. ‘Okay’ – justifying it to himself that he owed the guy for the earlier favour as well.

  ‘Not here,’ said the guard.

  Pylon in his Merc followed the guard on his bike to the house. The golf estate as quiet as a Sunday. Maybe quieter. Nobody on the fairways. Gardeners weeding among the border shrubbery and the greens manager out plugging holes, but not a resident visible. As they stopped at the crime scene, Pylon saw a curtain flicker across the road, a white face appearing. He waved in greeting and the face disappeared.

  The two men ducked under the crime tape and the guard unlocked the front door, going in ahead of Pylon. Inside a mess: fingerprint dust on every surface. Chalk marks of the bodies on the carpets. More blood where the woman had fallen than where Popo Dlamini had gone down.

  ‘One grand,’ said the guard, holding out his hand.

  Pylon palmed him ten one hundred buck notes.

  ‘Just sort out what you want,’ said the guard. ‘Fast.’

  Pylon was going to say relax but shrugged instead. Headed over to a wall unit on the far side of the room. On it kitsch ornaments in porcelain and wire, and a single rack of CDs above a mini-tower sound system. On a tray next to the player a bottle of red wine with the level one measure down. As Pylon remembered it there’d been a broken wine glass on the floor, a damp stain on the carpet. The wine was a cabernet. Good estate. The lady’d had cultivated tastes. But then the lady, having been who the lady had been, she would’ve taken high-end for granted.

  He scanned the CDs. Best of Makeba, Masekela, Abdullah Ibrahim, a Youssou N’dour, an Ismaël Lo, some female soft voice stuff, the first Tracy Chapman, Brenda Fassie’s Memeza, a clutch of symphonies. Collections of mood music. Nothing that he was looking for.

  Lying open on a shelf an empty box of Zola’s Khokhovula. Pylon picked it up: he guessed this had to be more Lindiwe’s style than Popo’s. The cover showed the kwaito star’s screaming face, his hand slammed into a pane of glass, the glass spider-webbed from the impact. Pylon powered on the system and found the disc in the tray. He pressed play. The sound was turned low but high enough to get the guard jumping.

  ‘No, no,’ he shouted, pushing Pylon aside in his haste to switch off the system.

  ‘That’s what must’ve been playing,’ said Pylon. ‘Kwaito to die for.’

  ‘We’re outta here,’ said the guard. ‘Now.’

  Pylon shrugged. ‘I’m done.’

  Sunday night, Pylon had spent three hours listening to the music on the iPod. Or rather, some of the music on the iPod. Specifically the playlists titled: Killer Country I, II and III. No hardship here.

  Many of the artists he recognised. Cash, Giant Sand, Emmylou Harris, Tindersticks, Sixteen Horsepower. The guitar wonder of Steve Earle. Also the mournful voice of Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter and some Calexico tracks.

  This was familiar territory. So was the new stuff: love songs and madness songs and murder songs and maudlin motel songs for long dark nights. Songs by the Cowboy Junkies, and the Handsome Family, and M Ward, and the Willard Grant Conspiracy that gave him the rittles: a cold gooseflesh shiver like people doing a jig on his grave.

  Listening to it Pylon thought the iPod’s owner was someone he could talk to. Someone out in the same badlands. But he couldn’t see it being Popo Dlamini. Popo Dlamini didn’t have any of this poetry in his soul. It could be a neighbour dropped the iPod coming back from his jog. Or it was Lindiwe Chocho’s? Or someone who’d knocked on Popo Dlamini’s door.

  A neighbour he couldn’t see. A neighbour would’ve gone looking for it. Nor could he place it as Lindiwe Chocho’s. She was into kwaito. Someone who did kwaito wasn’t going to do killer country. So maybe, just maybe it was the someone who’d knocked on Popo Dlamini’s door. The courier. Aka the shooter with the .22 and the Long Rifle loads.

  He could believe this. It was the sort of music to kill by.

  But first he’d had to cross off Popo Dlamini from his list. And simultaneously the lovely Lindi. And with the neighbour theory junked, Pylon reckoned that the chances were these songs haunted the mind of Mr Death. A neat ordered mind that loaded specific themes into each of the playlists. A mind that collected stories and arranged them. That gave the playlists a descriptive title.

  As he drove away from the golf estate, taking the road through the forest and the leafy suburbs before he joined the highway into the city, Pylon wondered if the hit was about Popo or Lindiwe or both of them. Was it business or revenge? Land or love?

  He jacked the iPod into the car’s player and brought up Billy Bob Thornton singing about love, the guy’s oily voice oozing the ‘forever and ever and ever’, as sincere as a motel bedroom. Sunfilter curtains and brandy afternoons.

  When his cellphone rang Pylon jerked back to the slow crawl of traffic towards the university. He pressed on the hands free and a voice said, ‘My name is Judge Telman Visser, Mr Buso. I wonder if you could give an urgent message to your colleague, Mr Bishop.’

  Pylon turned down the music. ‘He’s out of the country.’

  ‘I know. I spoke to him on Saturday. He told me he would be back today.’

  ‘He is. This evening. Six, seven something like that.’

  ‘Please, Mr Buso, it is essential that I speak to him as soon as he has landed.’

  ‘He’s got a phone.’

  ‘I have left messages on his phone. I left a message last night. He didn’t return my call either then or this morning. I have left a message at his home. Now I’m leaving one with you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Pylon. ‘What’s it?’

  ‘It’s critical that he contact me.’

  The judge paused.

  Pylon said, ‘About?’

  ‘Tell him to phone me.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s the message?’ But the judge had disconnected. ‘Funny message,’ said Pylon aloud, turning up a Johnny Cash song that reeked of a dirty old man doing bad things to a budding teenager. A girl Pumla’s or Christa’s age. A song that unsettled him. Despite the great man’s voice.

  Still he rode with it. That and the next about Emmylou’s poisonous love and the next about Billy Bob Thornton’s private madness and the next about a lone man’s loneliness, the drive bringing him in above the city on a day so crisp the air smelt of salt and fish. He swung down Hatfield into Dunkley Square and a parking space outside the terrace row. Lounging against Complete Security’s office gate was Captain Gonsalves, chewing, a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ said Gonsalves as Pylon came up. He moved a plug of tobacco from cheek to cheek, a yellow glisten at the corners of his mouth.

  Pylon noticed shreds of cigarette paper littered on the pavement. Flecks of tobacco on the captain’s tie. ‘You should quit,’ he said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Chewing it’s not quitting it.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Gonsalves, ‘I don’t need your shit. This sorta shit I get from my wife.’

  Pylon went for his wallet, counted out five hundreds and handed it to the policeman. ‘So what’s happening?’

  ‘Zip, nada, niks, nothing, bugger all. Total blank out.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘Like it didn’t happen?’

  ‘It happened. Officially botched robbery. Don’t you read the papers?’ He offered the newspaper to Pylon. ‘Everything’s in there. ‘Cept her name, pending telling the next of kin.’

  ‘So why’m I paying you five hundred bucks when I could’ve paid four singles to the man at the robot.’

  ‘Because what it doesn’t say is that the file is tight in the commissioner’s office. Or that the investigating off
icer was told, nice work, Jack, let’s move on now.’

  ‘It was a hit?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like it.’

  Pylon stared at him. Gonsalves exposing his ivory peg teeth.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all? The investigating officer’s shrugging off.’

  ‘I would. My commissioner took a file off my desk I wouldn’t stop him. One less I’m not gonna solve. Know what I mean. One less I don’t have to put on the stack.’

  ‘Save me Jesus,’ said Pylon.

  ‘No grief, okay,’ said Gonsalves. ‘We’ve all got headaches. You want to know my headache, I’m sitting with thirty-two murders in my basket. That’s over the last month. Most stations every detective’s got the same number give or take. It’s a war, my friend.’ He pushed himself off the gate. ‘So smile. You’re alive. It’s a beautiful day. Hey, how often we see the mountain this clear?’ Captain Gonsalves gave a yellow grin, patted Pylon on the shoulder as he sauntered off.

  ‘Anything more let me know,’ Pylon called after him. Without turning round, the policeman held up his hand.

  Pylon sighed. Halfway through the morning and fifteen hundred bucks down. For what? Zilch. Except he knew the hitman liked some killer music. He unlatched the gate to see young Tami the receptionist standing at the front door, worried. A stunner too. Which Treasure had had something to say about.

  He greeted her in Xhosa. Tami not even going through the ritual hullo, telling him two people were waiting, had been waiting for thirty minutes. The Smits.

  Pylon thought, maybe there was a god.

  Until Henk Smit told him, ‘We felt it the right thing to tell you personally, we’re not going with your deal.’ Olivia, serious faced, nodding agreement. The two of them sitting on the sofa in his office facing him perched on the coffee table.

  ‘It wouldn’t make good business sense,’ said Olivia. ‘We’ve run the figures, there’s a bigger margin on Mr Chocho’s scheme.’

  ‘On paper,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Admittedly.’ Henk took a slurp from a bottle of mineral water.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But he’s better positioned. Better connected. To swing it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pylon stood in exasperation. ‘The man’s a fraudster. As of the moment a convict. He is not going to want you as part of his scheme.’

  ‘We don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘You are going to lose your investment. Believe me.’

  The Smits glanced at one another. Henk said, ‘Why should we trust you more? You’re an arms dealer.’

  ‘Was. Was an arms dealer.’ Pylon sat down on the coffee table again. Faced them. ‘Listen. There’s no reason for you to trust me more. But think of this. We will take you on as part of the consortium. Is Obed Chocho doing that? I would doubt it.’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘We’re sleeping partners.’

  ‘Hidden partners more like it.’

  ‘Sleeping, hidden doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters. If no one can see you, you’ll disappear. When it’s convenient for him, poof, you’re history.’

  Henk snorted. ‘He’s going to do what? Kill us?’

  Pylon looked at them, didn’t say anything, didn’t raise his eyebrows, nod his head, make any gesture.

  ‘Ag, don’t be ridiculous. We’re not in a crime novel.’

  Pylon flipped open the newspaper Gonsalves had given him. Held it out, pointing at the story headlined: Botched Robbery on Golf Estate. Two killed.

  ‘The story names one of the victims, Popo Dlamini. Popo was part of our consortium but I think he had a deal going with Obed Chocho.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Henk.

  ‘No, no, wait, listen okay. The woman who was shot in his house is Obed Chocho’s wife, Lindiwe. She and Popo were having it off.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Olivia.

  ‘That’s tabloid stuff,’ said Henk.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ said Pylon. He glanced at Olivia. ‘Let’s just say I know it. Tomorrow her name will be in the papers.’

  ‘You’re telling us Obed Chocho from jail got a hitman to take out his wife.’

  ‘Put it together,’ said Pylon.

  Henk Smit stood. ‘Forget it, my friend. No ways. Doesn’t happen like that. Never in a million years. This is Cape Town. Not LA Confidential.’

  Pylon got up from the coffee table. ‘Alright. Here’s a suggestion. Tonight our backer’s flying in. Tomorrow you can talk to him. Before you go with Obed Chocho, talk to our man. See how the project’s structured. Sure, the profit’s bigger on the Chocho’s scheme. I’ll admit it, you’ll make more money. If you make any money at all.’

  ‘Nice try,’ said Henk.

  ‘A cautionary,’ said Pylon.

  ‘One thing,’ said Olivia. ‘If this is a black empowerment deal, it’s not going to fly with white faces.’

  ‘We’ve got another card,’ said Pylon. ‘Community organisations.’ He named a few. ‘We’re bringing them in as shareholders. So the money doesn’t only go to the bling blacks. It’s called real trickle down.’

  What he needed to do was bring in Treasure. Ten minutes and she’d have them signing on the line. Probably also making out personal cheques to Treasure’s NGOs of choice.

  ‘Like I said,’ said Henk. ‘Nice try.’

  ‘It’s genuine,’ said Pylon. ‘I can give you names and addresses. Audits. We’re talking organisations of long standing. Reputable operations. Into HIV/AIDS, housing projects, anti-rape and child abuse. All the stuff on our conscience.’

  ‘We’d have to see it,’ said Olivia.

  ‘No problem.’

  They shook hands and Pylon saw them out, not convinced he’d done anything but buy time. When Treasure played the guilt card she got results. Commitments. When he played it, people suspected an angle.

  He went upstairs to his office. What people never allowed was that you’d changed. Still, the charity tie-in just had to be a winner.

  Pylon phoned the others on the consortium. The wavering Smits the second bit of bad news he’d had to give them in two days. Mostly they took it on the chin. Resigned. Sighing heavily. What they all needed was Rudi Klett to convince them everything was green fields and blue skies.

  27

  The prison commander looked through the peephole at convict Obed Chocho. Chocho’s holdall packed and upright on the bed. A stack of books on the coffee table, no evidence of the DVDs or CDs. Chocho suited, sitting on the couch staring at the wall. At the place on the wall where he’d hung the picture of the hunters in the snow. The print not hanging there anymore.

  What the prison commander couldn’t see was the broken picture glass that Obed Chocho had smashed with the heel of a shoe. Or the remains of the picture that had been ripped from the frame and torn into shreds. This debris lay at the base of the wall out of the prison commander’s line of sight.

  The prison commander glanced at his watch: eleven o’clock. Obed Chocho had been sitting in that position for almost an hour and a half. According to the warders, Obed Chocho had not eaten breakfast. He had been taken a mug of coffee but not touched it. The mug could be seen on the table next to the books.

  According to the prison doctor, Obed Chocho was fine. Or ‘mighty fine’ as he’d said to the doctor when the doctor asked. His blood pressure was marginally up but nothing to worry about. His pulse strong, his lungs clear. No symptoms floating in his eyes, no infection in his ears.

  As far as the prison commander knew, the only time Obed Chocho had spoken during the morning was his response to the doctor. At nine-thirty he’d been seen answering his cellphone but he’d not said hello or goodbye or anything in between. His phone had rung often throughout the morning but he’d not taken any other calls.

  The prison commander held Obed Chocho’s parole release authority in his hand. In the downstairs reception room waited the lawyer Sheemina February. A fragrant Sheemina February. An unsmiling Sheemina February, her lipstick a harsh gash of plum red. She’d handed
the release form with Judge Telman Visser’s signature to the prison commander and said, ‘Let’s do this without any fuss.’ His idea too, although he resented agreeing with her.

  The prison commander tapped on Obed Chocho’s door and opened it. As much as Obed Chocho was a bastard, he was a grieving husband and this weighed with the prison commander.

  ‘Mr Chocho,’ he said, ‘you’re free to go. Your lawyer’s downstairs.’

  Obed Chocho looked up at him, cleared his throat. ‘My brother,’ he said, his voice grating. He coughed, started again: ‘My brother, I’m donating this’ – he waved a hand at the television, video and DVD players, the mini-sound system, the pile of books – ‘to the prison.’

  The prison commander nodded. ‘It will be appreciated.’ He noticed then the smashed frame against the wall, the shards of broken glass, but said nothing.

  Obed Chocho lifted his bag from the bed and followed the prison commander downstairs to the reception room. Sheemina February stood waiting for him, making no move towards him. Not smiling or greeting him. And he neither smiled nor greeted her. At the door the prison commander held out his hand but Obed Chocho ignored the gesture, saying ‘Mighty fine, my brother, mighty fine’, and pushing past, heading through the doors to the car park. Sheemina February watched the big man until he was through the doors.

  ‘Thank you, prison commander,’ she said, holding out her ungloved hand. ‘You have been most cooperative.’

  ‘He’s depressed,’ said the prison commander, feeling the strength in the hand that shook his.

  ‘Understandably so,’ said the lawyer, stepping sharply after her client.

  In the car, Sheemina February said, ‘Don’t do that to me again in public. I am not your woman. I’m your lawyer. You are my client. This is worth remembering.’

  She drove out of the prison compound and onto the highway and still Obed Chocho had not answered her. He stared at the houses lining the motorway: small cramped places in patchy gardens. Occasionally a smallholding littered with junk between them. His thoughts were of going home to a house without Lindiwe. Where everything in the house would remind him of Lindiwe. He had another concern: when news of the killing of Lindiwe reached her family they would send a delegation. When they heard that Lindiwe was killed with Popo Dlamini they would suspect the reason. Matters would become tense. Sheemina February broke into his thoughts.