Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Big deal,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Ah, my brother, don’t be so hostile. I am holding out an olive branch.’

  ‘To get you out of shit.’ Pylon angled the stool away from Obed Chocho, hoisted himself onto it. ‘No reason to play lovey-dovey.’

  The two men did the hard glare. Obed Chocho looked away first, pulled back the plans. ‘Okay. Mighty fine. If that is how it is to be.’

  ‘It is.’

  They sat in silence. Obed Chocho moved the whisky bottle, took a letter from the file. ‘I am going to offer a deal.’

  ‘What else?’ said Pylon. ‘I don’t go to the cops. You cut me in on the development.’

  Obed Chocho held up the letter. ‘This is the planning permission.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  The sarcasm brought a smile to Chocho’s lips. ‘In our business we must be tough.’

  ‘Killers.’

  ‘Your good German friend Rudi Klett was a killer. Like you. An arms dealer. Selling guns to children.’

  ‘I am not an arms dealer.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘For the struggle.’

  ‘But sometimes you sold guns to children.’ Obed Chocho grinned. ‘I know about you, Pylon Buso. More than you think.’

  Pylon shifted on the hard stool. ‘Cut the crap.’

  ‘Mighty fine.’ Obed Chocho gazed at the sea. ‘I offer you shares in my consortium. Five per cent. For that you get five per cent of the profits.’

  ‘I must invest in your scheme and shut up?’

  ‘You and Mr Bishop.’

  Pylon kept focused on Obed Chocho. Watched the bald head turn towards him, the brown eyes find his own. A stonewall stare. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘For the money.’

  Pylon laughed. ‘You’re a criminal out on parole. I could have you investigated. Charged. Arrested. Your development would collapse. I could tender again and this time be awarded the contract.’

  Obed Chocho set his head nodding. ‘You could do all that. Except I have Sheemina February on my side. While that is so you will get no developments in this city. Not even in this province.’

  ‘Perhaps you are forgetting the other story,’ said Pylon.

  ‘The other story? What other story is this?’

  ‘The farm story.’

  Obed Chocho laughed. Not a forced laugh, a laughter that was deep but ended suddenly. ‘The mighty fine farm story. Of course. That is a very interesting story. Like all stories of African farms.’ He reached for the bottle of whisky. ‘A drink?’

  Pylon shook his head.

  ‘Why not? Soon we will be partners.’ He unscrewed the cap, poured a measure into a glass – ‘To the ancestors’ – drank off the liquor, slapped Pylon on the knee. ‘I know Judge Telman Visser,’ he said. ‘For many years.’

  ‘That’s why he knocked you down for six.’

  ‘You see. You will not believe me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was a mighty fine trick.’

  Pylon waited. Obed Chocho grinning at him.

  ‘Have a glass with me?’ Obed Chocho hovering the bottle over the two glasses. ‘Yes? No? Yes?’ Poured only into his own glass. Before he drank he took a sheet of letterhead from the file and handed it to Pylon. ‘My other company, Zimisela Explorations. We talked about it.’ This time he sipped at the whisky. Smacked his lips. ‘Ummm, a mighty fine malt.’ Swirled the whisky, smelt it. ‘Perhaps?’

  Again Pylon shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps you are not a whisky drinker. For many of our brothers whisky is a learning curve.’ He pointed at the bottom of the letterhead. ‘There is one name missing.’

  Pylon scanned along the list, all the usual big name businessmen.

  ‘Judge,’ said Obed Chocho, ‘is what I call him, the missing director. To him I’m Obed.’ A mighty fine smirk on Obed Chocho’s face. ‘Judge Telman Marius Visser. He has been in Zimisela for two years.’

  ‘Save me Jesus,’ said Pylon. Nobody knew?

  ‘A prayer in need,’ said Obed Chocho, finished his second tot. ‘Now you have an idea of the players.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, my brother, in these circumstances, what is it you want?’

  Pylon didn’t answer, thinking, if Chocho was in with Visser he needed more on that. Details. The full story. He pointed at the whisky bottle. ‘A drink.’

  Obed Chocho gave his throaty laugh. ‘The man sees a little sense. Mighty fine, mighty fine.’ He poured measures into each glass, pushed one towards Pylon. ‘Going forward,’ he said, raising his glass. Pylon drank to it.

  Obed Chocho turned on his stool to face the incoming storm. He leant back against the countertop, propped on his elbows. A gust battered the windows, he mock-shivered. ‘On a wild day the Cape is dangerous. Even when this is a golf course, there will be days like this. For me, not a place to live.’

  Pylon sipped the scotch. Obed Chocho didn’t spare himself on his whisky. Stuck to the wall was a photograph of the Smits. Something overlooked when the place was cleared. A small print, the colours faded to pink. The couple arm in arm laughing at the camera. Given the positioning probably a self-timer, Pylon reckoned. He flashed to the photographs Captain Gonsalves had shown him of the couple dead. Individual photographs. Thought: take the in. Said, ‘I haven’t got cash for five per cent.’

  Obed Chocho shot him a side glance, eyebrows raised, no light in his eyes, a glint on his teeth. He took a swallow of scotch.

  ‘You have made bad choices,’ he said. ‘In your business. You forgot your comrades. So they have forgotten you. You are small-time, my brother. You cannot do developments like this. In the planning department they see a scheme from Pylon Buso and they laugh. Where are the lunches? The holidays? The little gifts? The generous gestures? The patronage? No, that Pylon, he has turned away from us. This is what they say.’

  Obed Chocho popped off his stool, went to stand at the window, his back to Pylon.

  ‘Mighty fine. I have not forgotten you. I remember Comrade Pylon. I remember what he did in the struggle. In the dark days. So’ – he turned – ‘I know that you have money on the Cayman Islands. I know that you can use this money for the five per cent.’

  Pylon kept his eyes locked on the gloating man.

  ‘What I am saying is, mighty fine, let us put the other matters to the side. Let us go forward.’ He made to pour another tot into Pylon’s glass. Pylon held his hand over the top. ‘Do we have a deal on this?’

  ‘I need time,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Why not? In the Cayman Islands they are only waking up. Talk to your bankers when they have rubbed the sleep out of their eyes. In a few hours this can all be settled. Inter-account transfer. Cayman to Isle of Man. We live in the days of globalisation, my brother. So much is possible.’ He pulled his lips into the rictus of a smile. ‘Be in touch. This afternoon.’

  66

  ‘How?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Mace. He knows. We go in we’re caught. We stay out, he’ll have Revenue on us. We tell the cops, it’ll hit file thirteen. Probably he’s already bought off Spitz, if he doesn’t whack him. We’re stuffed. Up shit creek. No paddles, no canoe, crocs in the water.’

  ‘What about Visser?’

  ‘He’s saying Visser’s in it. He’s saying they’re buddies.’

  ‘Visser doesn’t know him. Sends him down for six years. That’s not buddy stuff.’

  ‘He’s saying a con trick. Didn’t matter how long the sentence. Visser, both of them, knew Chocho’d only sit for a few months. Face it. He’s saying Visser’s been on Zimisela for two years. That’s from the start.’

  ‘Implying Visser allowed the hit. On his own father. Because of bad blood. Pah. Tell me a story.’

  ‘This happens.’

  ‘In books.’

  ‘In real life, Mace.’

  ‘So we hit Visser.’

  ‘Tie him down, break his fingers.’

  ‘One way of doing it.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘
Put the story together for him, say we’re taking it to the newspapers. Play him off against Chocho.’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘Or we don’t do any of it.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Shoot him. Shoot Obed Chocho. Point two-two, the same gun. Give the cops something to think about. While they’re doing that the problem goes away. West-coast tender comes up again, you scoop the deal. Pylon Buso Developments.’

  ‘And Sheemina February?’

  ‘What’s she going to do?’

  ‘Maybe she’s the leak on Cayman?’

  ‘The bugger.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So afterwards she’ll make a play. Or she won’t. If she does. Well…’

  ‘Most of this I don’t want to think about.’ ‘It’s an option, Pylon. Or such shit with Revenue it’s jail. The money gone. The future truly down the toilet. For the sake of two wankers. The one kills his own wife. The other his own father. Worse, buys someone to do it. And all the rest. Probably also for the sake of that prime bitch Sheemina February.’

  ‘Save me Jesus.’

  ‘Times two. What it comes down to is how far we go. How far we’re prepared to take this.’

  Mace and Pylon coming in from the courtyard, shaking rain off a golf umbrella.

  ‘And what’s that about, standing out there to talk?,’ said Tami. ‘I’m not trustworthy or something?’

  ‘Not you,’ said Pylon. ‘Others are listening. And for the moment that’s okay.’

  ‘You mean…’ – Mace holding a finger to her lips.

  ‘Yeah. Exciting isn’t it?’

  Tami broke open a stick of nicotine chewing gum. ‘Spooky, actually.’

  67

  The woman from the agency was waiting. By herself in a Jap crap car outside his front door. Obvious as if she was standing on the pavement in fishnet stockings and a bareback teddy. Wasn’t for the rain she might have been. Couldn’t be a neighbour didn’t know she was there.

  Obed Chocho pulled into his driveway, not even casting her a sideways glance. Went straight to his front door, hearing her slam out of her car, calling to him, ‘Sir, are you Mr Chocho, tata?’

  The door open, he turned. She was hurrying towards him. A woman in a long furry coat buttoned to her knees, white with a hood. Holding up what looked like a business card.

  ‘Discreet Service,’ she said. ‘For Mr Chocho.’

  He nodded. ‘Mighty fine, mighty fine. Keep down the adverts.’ Wondering if her red boots were thigh highs. Flashy plastic boots.

  He led the way to the sitting room, went to the sideboard for a whisky. ‘Want one?’

  ‘We can’t drink on the job,’ she said. Standing close enough that he could smell her perfume. A scent he recognised. Something Lindiwe had worn.

  ‘What’s the perfume?’

  ‘Glow.’

  A whore with expensive tastes.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘For sure.’ Obed Chocho drained off a short tot. Waited until the warmth bounced back from his stomach. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘It’s part of this job.’

  She shrugged, kept her gaze full on him in the Western way. In that moment he recognised Lindiwe. She’d done that. Spurned the eyes down in respect business. He’d liked that. Showed her fire.

  ‘Vodka lemonade.’

  He smiled at the woman. Her hair braided like Lindiwe’s. About the same length. ‘Playing safe, my sister?’

  She brought out a condom from the pocket of her coat, held it towards him.

  ‘I don’t do those.’

  She leaned forward, dropped it down the neck of his shirt.

  ‘I do, my brother.’

  The warmth of her breath on his cheek. Cigarettes and peppermint. Her height about the same as Lindiwe. Same stature. Like it was Lindiwe standing there.

  He reached out, caught the woman by the coat, pulled her into him. His mouth coming down hard on hers. Her hand unzipping him. Burrowing into his rods.

  Obed Chocho groaned at her touch.

  Lindiwe.

  When Buso’s money was banked, when Spitz had done his job, Spitz was dead.

  He pushed the woman away. ‘Undress,’ he said.

  She laughed at him. ‘I don’t wear clothes.’ Unbuttoned the coat, not taking it off. Gave him a full frontal, turned slowly, sweeping the coat back over her thigh, the swell of her buttocks. The boots were thigh-length.

  She had Lindiwe’s breasts. Small, perfect, dark-nippled. He knew how they would shape when she rode him. Like cones as she arched over his chest.

  She moved towards him. Loosened his shirt, picked out the condom. ‘Rough rider, baby.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I must make a phone call.’

  Obed Chocho opened his cell. With a remote brought up on the plasma screen a DVD of a family at supper. Eating pasta. The dad going on about the boy’s homework. The mom heaping more food onto the kid’s plate.

  ‘You like them?’

  ‘Who?’ she said. Poured her own vodka lemonade.

  68

  Spitz, parked in the square, watched the two cars arrive. The big Merc first, the red Spider coming in not a minute later. Flicked the wiper to clear the rain blur. Saw Mace and Pylon hurry to the front door. He finished his menthol.

  Now, he believed, was as good a time as any. Only three of them in there. Problem: they’d be scattered throughout the house. The receptionist probably downstairs, the other two wherever their offices were. Upstairs he reckoned.

  Which was not ideal, wandering through a house blotting those you stumbled across. Not the quick in pop out scene he preferred. Without collateral.

  Although sometimes you had to shrug and shoot. Take out the audience. Sometimes the best plans got screwed up.

  Once he’d put away a string of bystanders to reach the main macher: a bodyguard, a servant, a woman in pyjamas wafting mace about like he was a mosquito. On the way out another security with a cannon in his fist. Proved it wasn’t size that mattered.

  Only people not part of the plan were the servant and the mace sprayer. Spoilt his principle of one payment one hit but Spitz figured security signed up to take a bullet. Knew one day they’d be staring at a gun barrel. Part of the job description. Bystanders were a pity though. No matter how much you minimised the possibilities there was always the unexpected.

  The reason Spitz favoured an eight-round clip.

  The way he really wanted to operate was like the scene in Panic. A class act. The sort of scene he enjoyed re-running where Macy in a suit walks up to a guy on the street, pulls a gun from inside his jacket, shoots the guy up close, walks on looking sad, drops the gun in a wastebin. Spitz’s aspiration. Clean and neat.

  He went now, the receptionist would open the door, he’d have to pop her to get in. Standing there visible to the street. Not a busy street in the rain but you couldn’t tell at the crucial moment. Just took one person to drive past as the deed was done.

  Even on a best-case scenario: he’s in the office, the receptionist’s dead in the hall, he’s dealing with two ex-gun-runners might have heard the whop of the silencer, recognised it for what it was. Be standing there at the top of the stairs fully loaded.

  He shook his head. Not worth thinking about. The only option: get in there face the situation unfolding.

  Spitz took the Browning out of the glove compartment, fished the silencer from the pocket of his leather jacket. Screwed it to the barrel. Checked the clip. Eight rounds ready to go. He pulled on his gloves.

  Was about to crack open the car door, head across the drizzly square when his cell vibrated. Obed Chocho.

  ‘Where’re you, Spitz?’ said Obed Chocho. Straight in, no cheery hello. ‘On the job?’

  ‘I am about to be doing that,’ said Spitz.

  ‘Mighty fine,’ came back the answer.

  ‘I will be in touch afterwards.’

  Obed Chocho coughed. ‘No, Spitz. Back off. Leave it for the moment. Just stay close to them. Hear me?�
��

  ‘I do not understand. Now is a good time.’

  ‘Listen to me. Not now. Later. Getit. Later. When I tell you.’

  ‘This is not the way I work.’

  Obed Chocho yelled. Not a word that Spitz recognised. Just a hard bellow. Then quietly. ‘If you worked properly, my brother, I would not be talking to you. You would not be here in the rain. You would be at home. I would be happy. Everything would be mighty fine. But nothing is mighty fine. It is a mess.’ His voice higher than a soprano choirboy. ‘So, my brother, you stick with them. Wherever they go, you go. Invisibly. And when I say, now. Then you kill them. Do you understand me, mighty fine?’

  Spitz said he did. Recognised Tony Soprano calling the odds.

  ‘Mighty fine,’ said Obed Chocho.

  69

  On the phone the judge was short.

  ‘I’m reviewing evidence for the arms commission,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be disturbed.’

  Mace made a yadda yadda mouth with his free hand. ‘This is important.’ He and Pylon in the big Merc already on De Waal, Mace looking into the bowl at the city curtained with rain. ‘It can’t wait.’

  The judge sighed. ‘Two minutes. What is it?’

  ‘Give me ten,’ said Mace. ‘I’ll tell you personally.’

  Pylon coming up behind a truck slow on the climb, thumped the steering wheel waiting for the fast lane to clear. ‘What gets me,’ he said, ‘is someone knowing all our business.’

  ‘Tapes and tapes of it,’ said Mace. ‘Or is it digital now? CDs?’

  ‘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?’