Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  Finally Pylon wound a reel of duct tape round the man’s torso, binding his arms tightly against his chest. Spitz’s forearms flat on the countertop.

  Mace placed a pen between the fingers of Spitz’s right hand and a pad of Sunnyside Park notepaper beneath it. Asked him to write his name. Spitz did so.

  ‘Good,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s how you communicate with us from now on.’

  ‘You can ask me a question,’ said Spitz.

  Mace sat opposite him. ‘Alright. Here’s the one been bugging me: why didn’t you kill us, my daughter and me?’

  ‘There was no point. I thought you would die anyway. My job was to shoot the farmer and the farmer’s wife.’

  ‘You shot your friend.’

  ‘He was not my friend. We did the job together. When he started shooting I believed he had killed you. Then he would rape your daughter because he had the HIV and kill her too. I thought this was unnecessary.’

  ‘Most noble,’ said Mace.

  ‘I thought he would shoot me.’

  ‘Ah. And why was that?’

  ‘Some feeling I had about him.’

  Pylon snorted. ‘A hitman with feelings.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mace, ‘this is what we’re going to do. Pylon will tape your mouth closed because the process is painful and we can’t have you screaming out loud. We are going to flip a coin, him and me. Best out of three wins. That’s how we’ve always done it. The one who wins gets to ask the questions. The loser’ – he took the mallet from the packet – ‘has to smash your fingers and the bones in your left hand to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Anything you don’t understand?’

  ‘I will answer the questions first,’ said Spitz. ‘I have done a job. Nothing is secret.’

  ‘Well a whole lot of jobs, we reckon,’ said Mace. ‘Seven people according to our arithmetic. Not including your mate.’

  ‘That is incorrect.’

  ‘How many then?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Okay,’ Pylon said, ‘probably not the Smits. Different calibre. Different style. So we’ll give you five. Plus the sidekick. Six.’

  ‘For who?’ said Mace.

  ‘He is called Obed Chocho.’

  ‘A good answer,’ said Pylon.

  Mace looked at Pylon. ‘But we need to test its truth.’

  Spitz said, ‘It is the truth.’

  Mace’s phone rang: Tami.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ she said.

  ‘Not now, Tami,’ said Mace. ‘We’re in a meeting.’

  She ignored him. ‘It is mining. Well, not mining exactly. More like exploration.’

  ‘Tami?’ said Mace.

  ‘In this article. About uranium deposits discovered on the farm owned by Justice Marius Visser. The article quotes him. He says no one will ever mine his land.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mace. Thinking, next question: who sent the magazines?

  ‘Excellent, Tami.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Excellent. What about what this’s about?’

  ‘Not now. Later.’

  ‘Jeez. You guys.’

  He thumbed off the connection, said to Pylon, ‘Obed Chocho’s on the board of Zimisela Explorations. Five years back uranium was discovered on the Visser farm.’

  Pylon said, ‘Ummm.’

  Mace said, ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Might explain why the judge was shot at. Why he’s so nervy. Why he signed on the quiet.’

  ‘Might do,’ said Pylon. ‘Quite likely, if Obed’s playing the heavies.’

  Mace turned to Spitz. ‘Good to go?’

  Spitz said, ‘If you ask me the same question my answer will be Obed Chocho.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Mace.

  Pylon gagged the hitman, took a five buck coin from his pocket. They flipped the best of three, Pylon winning with two heads. Mace wanted a rerun. Mace taking it on the first and third call with heads. Spitz watching the proceedings.

  Before he flipped the third round, Pylon said to Spitz, ‘You’re very cool, my brother. Most people shit themselves watching us do this.’

  ‘Flip,’ said Mace, calling heads.

  Pylon did, caught the coin, slapped it onto the back of his hand. ‘Tails.’

  Second flip went to Mace. Pylon called heads. Mace went through the actions, uncovered the coin on the back of his hand. ‘Heads.’

  Pylon gave Mace the mallet.

  Spitz wrote on the pad, Obed Chocho.

  ‘We haven’t asked you anything yet,’ said Pylon.

  Spitz shook his head, pointed the pencil at the two words.

  Pylon said, ‘Okay, here’s the question: who ordered the hit on Popo Dlamini?’

  Spitz underlined the name of Obed Chocho.

  Pylon looked at Mace. ‘Seems to be our answer.’

  ‘Go through all the names,’ said Mace.

  Pylon did. Lindiwe Chocho. This time Spitz circled the name. Rudi Klett. More underlinings. Marius Visser. Deep scoring beneath the name. Mrs Visser.

  ‘What was her name?’ said Pylon.

  ‘Something weird,’ said Mace.

  Spitz kept on circling the name of Obed Chocho.

  ‘Now for the moment of truth,’ said Mace, smashing down the mallet on Spitz’s little finger. Felt the flesh soften, the bone snap.

  Spitz jerked backwards sending the paper and pad sliding across the countertop. The stool tippled, Pylon and Mace catching him from falling over. The hitman had tears of pain running down his cheeks. They rearranged him, his hand flat on the breadboard on the countertop, the guy’s little finger swelling and bloody, the tip at an angle. They tore off the sheet of notepaper he’d scrawled on, slid the notepad under his right hand, slotted the pencil between his fingers.

  ‘I’m going to ask you the questions again,’ said Pylon. ‘In case you want to give us another name.’ He went through the list, after each question Spitz writing Obed Chocho on the pad. Five Obed Chochos.

  Pylon said to Mace, ‘I think we can accept this.’

  Mace, beating the mallet in the palm of his hand, agreed. To Spitz said, ‘Where’s the nearest emergency clinic? We’ll drop you.

  59

  ‘The way I read it,’ said Mace, ‘the judge was lucky.’

  Mace and Pylon on standby for a Cape Town flight. Sitting to one side at Gate D3, looking out on an array of planes. Pylon hoped, ‘If we get this flight I can still pick up Treasure and Pumla, keep on the sweet side of the pregnant lady.’ The two men waiting behind the ropes for the last passengers to board. Mace thought of it as penning sheep.

  ‘Lucky he didn’t want the farm. He’d wanted the farm, our friend Spitz might’ve been the last person he saw.’

  ‘Strange guy,’ said Pylon. ‘Spitz. So cooperative. So grateful for the lift.’

  ‘A hitman,’ said Mace. ‘Who lost you the West Coast.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s like blaming the gun. Spitz did it as a job.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to. He could do something else. Be a DJ. Guns, you pull the trigger they have to shoot.’

  ‘You offered him a lift.’

  ‘To show no hard feelings.’

  Pylon smiled. ‘This’s the mother left you to die.’

  Mace thought about this. ‘Probably, in the same circumstances I’d have done the same thing. What I like about Spitz is he shot the Manga man and didn’t hurt Christa.’

  ‘Still a hitman. Could be paid to shoot Christa, Oumou next. He’d do it. He’s not going to say, no, I pass on this one, Mace’s alright. Only smashed my pinkie. You know what? Took me to the hospital afterwards.’

  ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying what you said, he’s a hitman.’

  ‘And hitmen kill.’ Mace laughed. ‘Though some of them like good music.’ He brought out the blue iPod.

  ‘You swiped that.’

  ‘It was mi
ne. He took it from me, okay. While I was dying.’

  ‘Actually I’d lent it to you. It was his. He’s the one paid money for it. He’s the one who lost it. Dropped it outside Popo’s place. After he’d shot them.’

  ‘Also it’s evidence.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Places him at a certain killing.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Who’s going to believe that?’

  ‘Obed Chocho might.’

  An attendant called over that they could board now, unhooked the rope barrier. She smiled at them, even placed them in adjacent seats.

  ‘To get back to the judge,’ said Mace, when they’d buckled up. ‘He was lucky. Helluva coincidence that he’s the judge to put Chocho away.’

  ‘Very ironic.’

  ‘No. Coincidental.’

  ‘Look,’ said Pylon, ‘irony’s when you get stuff happening and the stuff’s connected but nobody knows it at the time.’

  ‘Like a coincidence. Two things coming together that’re related. The judge sending down Chocho, while Chocho’s planning to snuffle the judge’s farm. The judge’s old man’s farm.’

  ‘For Chocho that’s irony.’

  ‘Maybe. Except for the judge it’s coincidence. Happens out of the blue. It’s random. That there’s a connection’s a fluke. Pure and simple.’

  ‘Kind of an ironic fluke.’

  The captain came on said they’d been given clearance to take off. Everyone was to sit back and enjoy the flight, folks.

  Pylon said, ‘I hate flying. I hate being called folks.’

  ‘It’s just an accident. A stroke of fate.’

  The plane’s engines wound up a notch, Pylon gripped the armrests. ‘Like getting the mining magazines.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Mace. ‘Their coming out of the blue. Been wondering who sent them.’

  The plane backed away from the terminal buildings, juddered off along the runway into a departure queue.

  ‘Has to be someone with a grudge. Someone wants to tell us Chocho’s been after the Visser farm from before he went to jail.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, it’s ironic. The judge putting him away.’

  The captain instructed cabin crew to take their seats. Said the tower had given them clearance for takeoff, folks.

  Mace glanced at Pylon. Pylon rigid, staring down the aisle at the cockpit door. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

  The engines went to a pitch, the plane started forward. Mace a sucker for this bit: the acceleration, the Gs pushing him into the seat. The plane bulleting on and on down the runway, faster.

  Pylon going, ‘Lift the nose, lift the nose.’

  When the nose came up Pylon saying, ‘Oh shit.’ Closing his eyes.

  Mace waited until the climb gentled out, the plane tilting south over a mosaic of swimming pools, before he said, ‘There’s a whole lot of stuff here I can’t put together. Too many coincidences. Too many things falling in Chocho’s lap.’

  Pylon said, ‘Helps when you contract a hitman.’ Gritted his teeth as the plane bounced through an air pocket.

  Brought the captain on to say, folks, it was best to stay buckled up, for comfort’s sake.

  60

  Sheemina February and Obed Chocho sat at an outside table at the café in the Gardens, drinking iced coffees. Mid-morning, two other tables occupied by lawyers and early tourists drifting in. A berg-wind day, warm and pleasant. Later the wind would scour your sinuses, scorch your eyes. Tomorrow it would rain. April in the city. Sheemina February looked up at the blue sky, thought of money. Lots of it.

  ‘Why here?’ said Obed Chocho.

  With her gloved hand Sheemina February took a file from her briefcase, placed it on the table. ‘Because it’s a sunny day. Because this is the sort of thing we need to do in a public place. Because the last time I confronted these two it was here.’

  ‘Oh mighty fine,’ said Obed Chocho.

  ‘Hey. Hold it.’ She looked at him, no smiles. ‘Humour me. I’m your lawyer.’

  Obed Chocho snorted.

  She turned the file until the documents faced him. ‘This is the deed of sale. Zimisela Explorations now owns the property. Soon it will run a uranium mine. You are a rich man. You will be even richer.’

  She closed the file.

  ‘Also in there is a letter permitting your West Coast development. What more does it take to make Obed Chocho happy?’ She sat back, caught sight of Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso heading towards them.

  ‘Having you handle the arseholes.’

  ‘Deal with it, Obed. It’s you they want to see. I’m here to hold your hand.’

  Mace and Pylon stood over their table.

  ‘The gangster and the gangster’s moll,’ said Pylon. ‘Aren’t we honoured.’ He pulled out a chair, sat down.

  ‘Such a way with words, Mr Buso,’ said Sheemina February. She smiled up at Mace. Giving him the icy Nordic eyes. ‘Please, Mr Bishop, sit. Tell us what’s on your mind.’

  ‘We don’t need you here,’ said Mace. He pulled out the remaining chair. Sheemina February on his right, Chocho on his left, Pylon opposite.

  ‘But I’m his moll, as Mr Buso so quaintly puts it. His legal moll.’ She rested her gloved hand on the table between them. ‘When the heavies get heavy, a lawyer is always useful. Keep a sense of perspective. Now.’ Looking from Mace to Pylon, back at Mace. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Spitz,’ said Pylon. ‘Sharp dude, wears good shoes. Into movies and country rock. Says you’ve… your client’s… contracted with him from time to time.’

  While Pylon spoke Sheemina February kept her eyes on Mace. Her lips holding a smile faintly. Flicking to Obed Chocho, she said, ‘Obed, you know of anyone called Spitz?’

  Obed Chocho shook his head.

  ‘You might like to rethink that, my brother,’ said Pylon.

  ‘My client’s answered you,’ said Sheemina February.

  Pylon sighed. ‘What I didn’t tell you last time is I have photographs. Piccies of Spitz leaving Mr Chocho’s house. Him and a brother called Manga Khumalo. The same Manga Khumalo turned up dead at the Visser farm shooting.’

  ‘Where I saw Spitz shoot the Vissers,’ said Mace. ‘And Manga.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sheemina February, ‘what’s the point of this?’

  ‘Don’t play thick,’ said Mace.

  ‘Proves,’ said Pylon, ‘that your client’s lying about not knowing Spitz.’

  ‘An oversight,’ said the lawyer. ‘That this Spitz shot the Vissers has nothing to do with my client. That information you should take to the police.’

  ‘Just an ironic coincidence then,’ said Mace, ‘that your client’s company’s bought the farm.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sheemina February drew the folder towards her, slipped it into her briefcase. ‘Mr Chocho is on the board of Zimisela Explorations. That’s common knowledge. The farm has uranium deposits. That’s common knowledge. The farm came on the market, obviously Zimisela would put in an offer to purchase.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Mace.

  ‘No, Mr Bishop. Ordinary, above-the-line market forces. Willing buyer. Willing seller. Nothing dark and devious.’ She made to rise. ‘If you and Mr Buso have nothing more than this speculation, then there is no longer a point to our meeting.’

  ‘Keep sitting,’ said Mace. He glanced at Pylon.

  ‘We can also place Spitz at the shooting of Popo Dlamini and Obed’s wife,’ said Pylon. ‘Thanks to this little thing he left behind.’ He placed on the table a blue iPod in a Ziploc bag.

  Obed Chocho wiped his hand over his face.

  Sheemina February held up the bag. ‘Likewise this is information for the police. Obviously, Mr Chocho would like to see his wife’s killer brought to justice.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Pylon, taking back the bag.

  ‘Now. We have to go.’ She stood.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Mace. ‘Yesterday we spoke to Spitz. Maybe a hitman but he’s got good poin
ts. Like honesty.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He has agreed to help us.’

  Sheemina February sat down. ‘Help you?’

  Pylon came in, ‘As a state witness. Nail Obed here as the contractor behind the killings. We believe the case is looking good.’

  Mace and Pylon stood. Mace said, ‘Think about it. Suicide’s always an option. Sign of the grieving husband, heartbroken. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Two days,’ said Pylon. ‘Before we go to our friends in blue.’

  When they’d left Sheemina February said, ‘This’s a problem, Obed. Something extra-legal required. Know what I mean?’

  Obed Chocho said, ‘Mighty fine. Mighty fine. When the going gets tough Obed’ll fix it.’

  ‘Very macho, I’m sure.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘They’ve given you two days, Obed. Maybe they want an offer. Other hand, maybe Spitz is the answer, hmm? The honest hitman.’

  She walked away, Obed Chocho admiring her legs.

  Obed Chocho ordered another iced coffee, made a phone call. Spitz.

  ‘Listen, buti,’ he said. ‘You’ve fucked me up. You want to get out of this you come down here ‘n sort out your mess. Specifically the arseholes Bishop and Buso. Like chop chop. Now now. Any time from five tomorrow I want to hear they are late. For your account. You fuck me up again, you’re dead.’

  He disconnected, realised Spitz hadn’t said a word. Then again, words weren’t the issue here. Action was.

  He finished his second iced coffee, phoned Pylon. Said, ‘I’ve been considering maybe we could come to an arrangement.’ Paused but Pylon didn’t respond. ‘At the West Coast site ten tomorrow?’ Again the non response. ‘Okay. Be there. Alone. We can talk.’ He disconnected.

  Arseholes. Mighty fine. The arseholes thought they’d nailed him. The arseholes would find out about Obed Chocho. Mighty fine they’d find out. If they were still alive.

  61

  Spitz, watching a high-speed boat-chase through the canals of Venice, popped a painkiller wondering how one small finger could hurt this badly. Wondering what kind of sadist had to go all the way when you’d told him what he wanted? And then take you to hospital. Say, sorry, pal, no hard feelings. And steal an iPod. What sort of person was this?