Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  When they got to the Golf, Mace tapped on the driver’s window with the butt of the P8, said, ‘Open up Spitz, it’s wet out here.’ He noticed Spitz jump, but the hitman did as he was told. Mace got in behind him.

  ‘Spitz,’ he said, ‘what a surprise. How’s the hand?’ Spitz’s left hand out of sight. ‘Bring it up, let me have a look. And hold the gun you’ve got down there by the barrel because what’s in my hand will put your face all over the windscreen. If I have to pull the trigger.’

  Spitz held up his hand, the bandaged pinky sticking out straight, his other fingers gripped the .22 by the barrel. Mace reached out and took it.

  ‘Nice gun, the Buck Mark Standard. Accurate. You fancy these things in your line of work, don’t you?’

  ‘They are good for the job,’ said Spitz.

  ‘And I’m assuming,’ said Mace, ‘we were your next job?’

  Spitz made no comment.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ said Mace. ‘We’re not talking about anything personal. The way my mate Pylon sees it you’re the same as the gun, a piece of equipment. My position’s a little different. Brings in a moral element. But that’s getting all philosophical and we don’t want to go there. So. Tell you what, we’re not keen on this idea of being your next job. We realise this puts you in a predicament with your client, so we’ve got a proposition. Want to hear it?’

  ‘I am sure you will tell me.’

  Mace laughed. ‘That’s what I liked about you from the start Spitz. A practical man. No bullshit.’ He ejected the eight clip from the Browning, left in a single round, jacked it back into the butt. ‘We’ll talk while you’re driving,’ said Mace.

  ‘Where is this place I am driving towards?’ said Spitz.

  ‘Not a concern. You go up this street, at the top Pylon will pull in front in the Merc. You follow him, like you’ve been doing all morning.’

  72

  ‘How can you tell that he will be at home?’ said Spitz.

  He and Mace sat in the Golf down the street from Obed Chocho’s house. Pylon in the big Merc parked in the man’s driveway.

  ‘Because Pylon has a meeting with him. To discuss high finance.’

  Mace’s cellphone rang. He keyed it to loudspeaker.

  ‘Good to go,’ said Pylon. ‘The man’s waiting.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mace. ‘We’re all ears.’

  They heard Pylon open the car door, the door slam. Spitz flicked the windscreen wipers: there was Pylon hurrying down the path to the front door. The buzz of the intercom. Obed Chocho saying, ‘Mighty fine, my brother, you have seen the light.’

  The door opened, Pylon went inside.

  Obed Chocho said, ‘Time for another whisky. I took a little bet with myself this morning. A little bet that I’d be seeing you again today.’ The voices faded, then came on clear again.

  Pylon said, ‘What was that? The bet?’

  ‘That I wouldn’t drink anymore of this bottle unless we had a deal.’

  In the car Mace and Spitz heard whisky being splashed into glasses.

  ‘You have spoken to Cayman?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘By now the transfer would have been made.’

  ‘Mighty fine. Mighty fine.’

  ‘Phone your bank,’ said Pylon.

  ‘There is no need for that. As soon as it is done I will be notified. Until then we relax with Glenlivet. On a wet afternoon is there a better option?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pylon, ‘a Blackberry.’

  A fainter Obed Chocho: ‘A mighty fine toy. Come, sit, sit. Let me send a message to ask for confirmation.’

  ‘That thing sends emails?’

  ‘From the palm of my hand.’

  Spitz’s cellphone vibrated where it lay on the passenger seat. Mace placed his thumb over the mic on his cellphone.

  ‘A message,’ said Spitz.

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘From Mr Chocho. One word that says, “now”.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Now it is okay for me to kill you.’

  ‘Bloody wonderful.’

  On his cellphone Mace heard Obed Chocho say, ‘Tell me, my brother, why are you doing this? A few days ago I was the bad man. Now we are business associates. It is so sudden. Must I believe you love your money over your idea of justice.’

  ‘There are realities.’

  ‘Realities, exactly. Pragmatism not idealism. The opportunities of a new country.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Perhaps we should toast to these realities? Our position as developers.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mace heard the clink of glasses, then Pylon say, ‘Where are the contracts?’

  And Obed Chocho come back, ‘On the table.’

  Mace said, ‘Alright, we’re on.’ He closed his phone. ‘We get out together. Any nonsense, you’re dead.’

  ‘There will not be any nonsense,’ said Spitz.

  The two men walked quickly through the rain to Obed Chocho’s house. Mace slightly behind Spitz, his hand on the P8 in his jacket pocket. He buzzed the intercom. When Obed Chocho answered, said, ‘Courier, package for Mr Obed Chocho.’ Was told, ‘One moment.’

  Mace thought, the nice thing about people, even crooks, was their trust.

  Obed Chocho opened the door. Mace slammed Spitz against the big man, the three of them stumbling into the hallway.

  Pylon stood alert at the lounge door watching, his automatic clutched in both hands, pointed at Chocho and Spitz. Said to Obed Chocho, ‘Off your knees bad man. We’ve got a new reality here.’

  They sat Obed Chocho in an easy chair, kept him under Pylon’s gun, Mace with the P8 on Spitz.

  ‘What we didn’t appreciate,’ said Pylon, ‘was your having Spitz fly down to zap us. Not friendly. You could also say that if we didn’t know which way to dive before, this kind of convinced us. Okay? Mighty fine!’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Obed Chocho.

  ‘Brave,’ said Pylon. ‘The bellow of the bull brought to the slaughter. Yakhal’inkomo.’

  They gagged him with what remained of the duct tape they‘d bought for Spitz. Also strapped his ankles. Took a photograph of Lindiwe framed in silver from among a herd of photographs on the booze cabinet, told Obed Chocho to hold it against his chest. Whichever way he preferred: her image in or out. He clutched her to his heart.

  ‘Touching,’ said Pylon.

  Mace took out the Browning from his belt, the can from his pocket, screwed it on. He placed the gun where Lindiwe’s photograph had stood.

  To Spitz said, ‘Put on your gloves.’ Waiting while Spitz waggled his fingers into the black leather. ‘We’ll wait in the hall. When we’re out of the room the scene’s all yours. One load in the clip. Our deal’s this: you come through we’ll call it quits, no comebacks.’

  Spitz said, ‘If that is what you want, I can agree.’

  ‘Mighty fine,’ said Mace, nodded at Obed Chocho. He and Pylon backed out the room, closed the door. Heard the muted whop of the shot, stepped back into the room. Obed Chocho slumped in the chair, his head fallen forward, blood dripping in his crotch. The angle of his head you couldn’t see the bullet hole.

  Mace took the gun from Spitz, waited while the hitman pulled off his gloves. Pylon emptying his whisky into a flower pot, wiped clean the glass and put it back on a shelf of similar glasses.

  ‘Forensics’ll find it,’ said Mace.

  Pylon shrugged. ‘Maybe. But what’s it going to tell them? Someone else was here. Bit of luck they’d have put that together anyhow.’

  Outside Mace said, ‘So long, Spitz’ – giving the hitman the keys to the white Golf. ‘I like your work.’ He and Pylon watching the man drive off.

  ‘Think that’s the last we’ll see of Spitz?’ said Pylon.

  Mace brought up Eugene Edwards on the sound system doing a cover of Sinnerman. ‘Probably not.’

  73

  Captain Gonsalves caught Mace at home.

  Mace and
Oumou in the kitchen eating breakfast, shouting to Christa that she’d be late for school.

  Mace in high spirits, telling a story.

  ‘I’m watching this young guy, neatly dressed in a beige raincoat, ask for change for a hundred bucks. He’s stopped a businessman, nice suit, snappy tie, black umbrella popped open over his head. The businessman takes out a wallet gives the guy two fifties. The young guy says, no, what I actually need is a ten. He holds out a fifty to the businessman. The suit’s got the umbrella handle clutched under his arm and it’s not protecting him from the rain so he’s getting wet and he’s scratching through his wallet. Comes up with some notes, two twenties and a ten, and takes the fifty in exchange. The young guy’s, Thank you, sir, thank you, sir, and sir’s smiling putting his wallet in his pocket and hurrying off out of the rain. The youngster heads away in the other direction nice and easy having scored a hundred bucks.’

  ‘He never gave him the hundred rand note?’

  ‘No. Showed it. Then kept it in his fist.’

  Oumou looked at Mace over the top of her coffee cup. ‘For this Mr Mace Bishop did what?’

  ‘Told him one day he’d get into serious shit.’

  ‘He should have given back the money.’

  ‘The businessman looked like he could afford it. People get conned every day, just got to learn to be wide awake. In a city like this.’

  Christa came in reading Le Petit Prince. Sat down to eat without looking up from the book.

  ‘You could say good morning,’ said Mace.

  Christa glanced at him, smiled. ‘Was there really an army of lamplighters before electricity?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Oumou, ‘how else could people see at night?’

  Mace’s cellphone rang: Gonsalves.

  ‘You wanna know what I did last night?’

  Mace didn’t but Gonsalves went straight in. ‘Last night I sat in a car inna street watching a house. All dripping night long. My legs frozen. My feet I can’t feel. Sat there outside a known gangster’s family home. So that when said gangster pitched up I could arrest him. Supposed to be he comes home every night about eleven. So no big deal. He comes home that time, by twelve he’s sitting tight with lots of his tattooed chommies in a communal. Doing a getting to know you my brother. By twelve thirty I’m ten minutes away from my shuteye, all’s well with the world. Except this gangster doesn’t come home. Not by midnight. Not by three a.m. By three a.m. I’m starving for tuna sandwiches. I’m thinking I should of brought a extra supply. Then my inspector says to me, tuna’s getting scarce. He’s seen this television programme we’re gonna have eaten all the tuna in the sea soon. No more tins of tuna. I start thinking. I’ve been a cop thirty-nine years. Each day I eat tuna sandwiches. On a stakeout I eat double. So I’m thinking in a year I’m gonna eat maybe three hundred tuna sandwiches. You take off two weeks holiday in the game reserve doesn’t really make a lot of difference. On those tuna sandwiches there’s probably seventy-five grams of tuna. Means by the end of a year I’m up twenty-two kilos of tuna. Like half a fish. Work it out over thirty-nine years the figures not far short a ton. That’s a lotta fish, Mr Bishop. Maybe a whole shoal. Catching criminals cost our seas a shoal of tuna. You add this to what the Jap chaps take down in sushi, you see why the tuna’s in trouble. My inspector, he eats burgers. Fast food shit. He’s fat. Got a gut like a tyre. He runs he’s gonna have a heart attack. Me, on tuna, I got my health. What I’m saying, Mr Bishop, is I’m sitting inna freezing cold thinking of tuna when another call comes through. They tell me forget the gangster get your arse the other end of town. I do, Mr Bishop, now what I gotta say to you is you want the good news or the bad news first?’

  ‘Morning like this,’ said Mace, taking in the sky over the city, blue and long, the air washed clean after the rain, ‘there can’t be any bad.’

  Captain Gonsalves cleared his throat. Mace held the phone away from his ear. ‘There is. There always is. Believe me, hey.’

  ‘The good.’

  ‘Ten minutes ago I heard Obed Chocho snuffed it. One in the head. That’ll please your mate Pylon.’

  Mace made no comment. ‘And the bad?’

  ‘Where I’m standing,’ said Gonsalves, ‘the sun’s full on the mountain. Very pretty. Fresh and green. No doubt our maniac’s heading up there for a day of rich pickings. Wet days like we’ve had must make a serious dent on his income. I’m standing on the lawn facing the house. Some uniforms here and me. My inspector’s gone home. The uniforms were called by the maid, uh, about twenty minutes ago. Ambulance on its way. Behind them the techs. The dead is one Judge Telman Visser. Client of yours I gather from the invoice on his desk.’

  ‘Was,’ said Mace.

  ‘Was, exactly.’

  ‘Fired us yesterday.’

  ‘Son of the justice copped it on the farm, am I not right? Where you were shot, I believe. Amazing links, hey.’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘My world doesn’t know coincidence. Everything’s connected.’

  Mace paused a beat, let the captain think he was being profound. ‘How? How’d he die?’

  ‘Come’n have a squiz.’

  Mace could hear Gonsalves chewing. ‘I’ll be there now.’

  ‘Join the rush, kiddo.’

  ‘You want a tuna sandwich? From Woolies?’

  Too bad the cop had cut the connection.

  Mace got to the judge’s house the same time as Pylon. The street gate was open, Captain Gonsalves standing on the stoep chewing tobacco. They walked up the garden path between the rose beds.

  Pylon said, ‘He tell you how?’

  ‘No. Probably wants to surprise us. Get a kick out of the reaction. You know Gonsalves.’

  ‘Angle for a tip-off tip no doubt. A pension contribution.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘No we bloody won’t.’

  ‘Such suave gents,’ called out Gonsalves. ‘You always wear black?’

  ‘Only to collect clients,’ said Mace. ‘The international set. They appreciate black. It’s reassuring.’ They mounted the steps to the stoep. ‘Where’s he?’

  ‘In the study. Room with lots of law books.’ He led the way indoors. ‘You boykies keep your hands in your pockets, okay.’

  Still wearing the smart suit, Judge Telman Visser sat askance in his wheelchair behind his desk. He had fallen forward face down on the desk blotter. A clear plastic bag was over his head, held fast at his neck by a belt.

  ‘Takes a certain type of person, does it this way,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Usually, in the cases I’ve seen with plastic bags, they try to tear them off. Sometimes people succeed. Spend the rest of their days in the gaga ward. Drooling. What’s a new thing for me is the belt. People use rope, duct tape, elastic bands, that plastic tape you use to seal parcels, that’s the best. Strong and tight. A belt’s a new one on me. Though you can see the effectiveness. Draw it, notch it. When you’re gasping it’s too finicky to undo. Alles kaput.’

  Gonsalves stripped a cigarette, rolled the tobacco in a ball in his palm.

  ‘Another thing people usually do is drug themselves. Take a packet or three of Panado. But not our judge. He wanted to do this. God knows why.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Pylon.

  Captain Gonsalves flat-handed the pellet into his mouth. ‘Why’d he fire yous?’

  ‘Said he didn’t need us anymore. The state’d stepped up security because of the arms commission.’

  ‘Some security.’ The captain chewed. ‘Not a spook in sight. Blarry typical. But hey’ – he cupped his ear – ‘do I hear an ambulance. Twenty minutes later. Just as well the judge’s dead.’ He ushered Mace and Pylon out of the room. ‘Was this worth it?’

  ‘Why would it be?’

  ‘Dunno. You came pretty chop chop.’

  Pylon looked at Mace. ‘What’d I tell you.’

  ‘Two hundred,’ said Mace.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Was an ex-client. No stain on our rep.’

 
Gonsalves spat tobacco juice into a rose bed. ‘Such generosity.’ Held out his hand. ‘Quickly then.’

  Pylon palmed him two blue notes. They grabbed a cappuccino on the café balcony at Kirstenbosch Gardens, the autumn sun warm across their shoulders. Watched the tourist coaches arriving. Mostly Japanese going off to photograph every flower in the gardens. Happy voices rising to them.

  Pylon said, ‘That was a helluva thing for the judge to do. Conscience or something else, you think?’

  ‘Not his conscience,’ said Mace.

  ‘I didn’t think so either. Nor did Gonsalves.’

  ‘Thing is,’ said Mace, ‘when you’re in a wheelchair, what’re you options? Slitting your wrists. Overdose. Can’t drown yourself if you haven’t got a swimming pool.’

  ‘If you had you could strap down in the chair, ramp it into the water. Long as the pool was deep enough you’d be okay.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Hanging’s out.’

  ‘Could blow a hole in your head, if you’ve got a gun which I don’t think the judge had.’

  ‘Can’t jump off a building.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Could crash the car except the airbag would pop ‘n save you.’

  ‘Could get assistance.’

  ‘Or be assisted.’

  The coffee came.

  Mace said, ‘How about a blueberry muffin?’

  ‘They’re still warm from the oven,’ said the waitress.

  Pylon nodded.

  Mace held up two fingers to the waitress. ‘With butter.’ Said to Pylon, ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Warm from the oven.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why’s she say it?’

  ‘It’s what waiters say. To give you that special feeling.’

  Mace shook his head, spooning froth and chocolate dusting from the head of his coffee. ‘I never believe them.’

  ‘Very middle class. Treasure loves it. Falls for the bullshit every time, like they’re baked just for her.’

  The waitress brought the muffins, steaming.

  ‘Probably been nuked,’ said Mace, halving his, spreading butter melt over it.