by Malla Nunn
“No fucking way,” the Sophiatown policeman said. “I went straight down there; found the alley with the branches in about three minutes. Then I went next door and put the hard word on a petty thief who I’ve had occasion to talk to over the years. The red car he knew nothing about, but he did spot two men sitting in a blue sedan parked on the corner. Two lit cigarettes, he said, and the engine still running. A couple of minutes passed and two more men come from nowhere, get in the back seat and they drive off. That was just before dawn.”
“Descriptions?”
Labrant shrugged. “White, maybe light skinned coloureds. It was too dark to get a good view.”
“Two men to stash and cover the Mercedes, and two for back-up in a getaway car,” Emmanuel said.
“That’s what I figured. So I took myself off to the station house and kept my trap shut. No way was that car a one man job but I got no proof of anything.”
“And even if you did have evidence, what good would it do to mess up whatever Mason was up to …” Emmanuel drank his whisky and water, enjoying the way the alcohol mixed with the painkillers that Zweigman had given him earlier. He’d taken four white beauties before leaving King’s house to put down his headache and dull the fear that came with taking Davida away from the safety of her father’s compound.
“That’s the truth of it. That car was Mason business, not mine. I’m five years off the pension and I’ve got all this to protect.” Labrant pointed to the chairs, the tables and the flashing jukebox. “New enemies I can do without. And that, my friend, is the whole story of the car.”
Two men in a blue sedan and another two who might have been gambling, drinking or fucking in the township till dawn: Labrant had wisely steered clear of Mason’s operation.
Emmanuel said out loud, “Looks like a set-up and no way to prove it.”
“Kiss the investigation goodbye, Cooper, and concentrate on more pleasant things.” The Sergeant winked in Davida’s direction. “Life is too short to take on the likes of Mason.”
Would that he could.
Fatty opened the door to a young couple, still in their teens: a nervous white youth with tanned skin and a lithe woman-child with small, high breasts. The girl’s dark fingers gripped the handles of an embroidered clutch bag and the boy’s hand shook when he handed over the door price. Fatty stroked his cheek, raising a blush. The couple were innocents entering a secret place to test their adult desire.
“Never too young to start,” Labrant said of the youngsters and drained the last of the lager from the bottle. “Now, I’ve got work to do. Enjoy.”
“Appreciate your help.” Emmanuel shook the Sergeant’s hand and turned his attention back on Davida who sipped on her spiked drink.
“You came here on business,” she said, the bourbon half gone, a flush of red brightening her face.
“You are my business.” He linked his fingers through hers. “Would you like to dance again, my lady?”
“This is no place for ladies, Emmanuel. But all right, let’s dance.”
They took to the floor a second time. Three fast tempo numbers and then, to Emmanuel’s relief, a mellow tune for slow shuffling. They moved closer, bodies in full contact. Two hearts beating together in a steady rhythm. The teenage lovers drifted by, awkward in each other’s arms.
“Who are those women sitting at the back table?” Davida asked. A tall Indian girl with a thick rope of black hair to the waist disappeared into the back area with one of the men from the wall. A second white man, broad-chested with stubby legs, chose a black girl and they too disappeared through the rear door. “Where are they going?”
“The women are prostitutes.” He saw no reason to lie. “A man chooses one he likes, they agree on a price and go back there to have sex.”
Davida drew back, bright-eyed. “All together?”
Emmanuel laughed. “Generally not.” He met her gaze briefly then looked away. Fatty was right. Davida was young. Sexually experienced yet strangely innocent. He, by comparison, felt jaded and stained by the things he’d seen and done in his life.
“You’ve been in places like that,” she said. “With women like that.”
“Similar. The experience doesn’t have to be so … commercial. Dinner, cigarettes and a spare ration pack in exchange for a night. I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”
There. It was out and said. He’d never shared the truth with his ex-wife, Angela. The truth was dangerous, destabilising. Emmanuel the good husband and Emmanuel the soldier from Sophiatown lived in separate cities with no roads connecting the two.
“Do you want me to be like one of those women?” Davida moved closer, fingers linked behind his neck, her breath warm on his skin. “Just for tonight?”
“I’ll need more than one night.”
The teenage dancers drifted by again, more relaxed now, the girl laughing. Fatty moved to answer a knock at the door. The Indian prostitute reappeared, braid undone, lipstick smudged. The jukebox arm dropped another record onto the turntable. Emmanuel barely noticed. Davida’s mouth opened warm and soft beneath his, her hips and breasts pressed close. He was lost. The taste of bourbon on her tongue, the feel of her skin beneath his palms and smell of rosewater in her hair: her body became the world. Fatty Mapela’s voice cut through the music and broke the spell of Davida’s kiss. Emmanuel looked over at the dance hall entrance. Fatty stood with her ear pressed to the wood.
“No. No. We are full,” she said. “Come next time.”
Above all else, Fatty loved money; the sound of paper notes rustling through her fingers, the solid weight of coins in her palm. She rarely turned down the opportunity to make more. Emmanuel pulled Davida closer. Hauling her to a dance in a rail yard had been a gamble and he had a feeling that he’d just lost the bet.
Boots kicked at the entry door and the wood panel smashed. The edge of the door slammed Fatty on the head. She stumbled back, platinum hair bright with blood. Two men rushed the dance hall, their faces hidden behind tight stocking masks. Two more assailants appeared, kicking the short-legged man and the black prostitute into the room via the back entrance.
“Don’t move, don’t scream,” Emmanuel whispered to Davida. “Stay by me.”
Labrant stepped from behind the bar and said, “You are making a big fucking mistake, gentlemen. Leave now and I might forgive you.”
The larger of the two men at the front door un-holstered a revolver and aimed it the Sophiatown Sergeant’s gut. He moved the muzzle to the right and fired a warning shot into the wall. Metal groaned and men and women screamed. Fatty hugged the floor, dazed. Labrant stood with both arms raised in surrender. The patrons of the club cowered in the shadows or hunched in their chairs.
“Everyone on the dance floor and down on your knees. Move. Now!” the man at the front shouted. He stood head and shoulders taller than the rest of the gang. His minions, dressed in cheap suits, kicked chairs and shoved patrons to the centre of the room. They were empty-handed but might have hidden weapons; flick knives or holstered guns.
“Unbutton my jacket,” Emmanuel said quietly. “Slow and easy. Take your time. Stay close and they won’t see.”
Davida freed the buttons one by one, her hand sandwiched between their bodies. The dance floor filled. Men and women sank to their knees. Labrant came over last, teeth gritted with anger. Emmanuel stepped back and to the right, taking Davida with him. The teenage lovers’ table and chairs were within arm’s reach, so too the Webley revolver holstered to his torso.
A gun was handy. The problem was the crowd, though, all kneeling, all scared. A stray bullet might find one of them in the panic. If the big man discharged his firearm again, there’d be two guns discharging in the small space. Emmanuel sank slowly to his knees and mapped the positions of the gang and their strengths and weaknesses. Four men. One, possibly more, armed. The others of medium build and average height. They ringed the dance floor. Using the Webley or a chair would have to wait for the right moment.
“Walle
ts out. Hold them above your heads,” the gang boss said. The little guy next to him weaved through the club patrons collecting wallets from their outstretched hands. He stripped out notes and loose change and shoved the loot into a jacket pocket. Then he threw the wallets aside. Labrant reached into an inner pocket and received a fist to the head from the small man. The Sophiatown policeman shook off the blow and spat onto the ground.
“Check him,” the boss man said. “See what he’s got.”
“He’s skint.” The smaller man fingered the interior of the Sergeant’s wallet, collected lint and an expired bus ticket. Labrant had removed all personal ID. Emmanuel wished he’d thought to do the same.
“You,” another of the gang came from behind and poked Emmanuel’s shoulder. “I’ll have your wallet and that watch, my friend.”
Emmanuel unbuckled the watch and handed it over. He removed the money from his wallet and gave that over before letting the wallet fall safe to the ground. Davida’s fingers clutched the tail of his jacket, squeezing the material tight. The three enforcers gathered around the leader with the spoils.
“Check the whores,” the big one said. “They’ll have cash shoved all places.”
Two of the men moved eagerly to the task, pushing hands down blouses and up the prostitute’s skirts. The young black girl sobbed, her body bent almost double. Her boyfriend calmed her with “hush, hush” sounds which went unheard.
“Is that it?” The boss surveyed the booty. “This is chicken shit. There’s got to be more. Check the bar and that fat bitch on the floor.”
The smallest of the men rattled the box on the trestle table and spilled the change inside it. He moved to Fatty and plunged a hand down her cleavage, pulled out a few damp notes, and returned to the collection point. Five years off the pension with a sock full of retirement funds, Labrant kept quiet. Not one cent would he give to these vultures.
“Fuck it …” the big man’s mouth made a hard line beneath the stocking mask. “This won’t do. We didn’t come all the way out here for a couple of quid.”
“There’s enough,” the small man soothed. “Enough to buy something small. Let’s go. We got what we came for.”
“Not me.” The boss man surveyed the dance hall patrons, kneeling like supplicants before a king. “I want something special.”
“No, man. Please, not this again. You’ve already got one.”
“She’s not working out.” Gun hanging loose by his side the leader weaved through the crowd surveying the women. He paused to grip the chin of an Indian prostitute and examined her teeth like a punter checking the stock before a race. “I need a new one.”
Emmanuel eased back and grasped the edge of the chair leg, pulled it closer. Fatty Mapela clawed the floor and inched closer to the bar. The gang leader crouched by the young black girl and wiped away her tears.
“Maybe,” he said after a long pause to consider. “Possibly.”
He continued on a sideways path and stopped in front of Davida. She turned away, kept a tight hold on Emmanuel’s jacket. The boss man ran a finger down the smooth skin of her neck and across the curve of her shoulder.
“You know the rule. No crossing over.” The small second in command tried again to reason. “Break the rule and he’ll make you bleed for it. Forget it. Let’s go.”
“Fuck the rules. I want this one.” He tangled fingers through Davida’s hair and smiled when she winced with pain. “She smells of roses. This one is worth saving.”
“Emmanuel …” Davida whispered when the big man pulled her up by the roots of her hair. She stumbled. Breath caught in her throat, came out in a low moan. Emmanuel let her go. He had to. He gripped the chair, got a solid hold. Fatty stopped, drew in a deep breath and crawled on. If Labrant joined in, there might be a chance they could put down these thugs.
The big man turned, dragging Davida like a toy. Emmanuel swung the chair low and hard, connected with the back of the boss man’s knees. Wood splintered. The leader pitched forward and hit the ground. Fatty’s working girls scattered, ran to the corners of the room. Labrant swung a fist, landed a hit into the soft part of the small man’s stomach. Couples squeezed under tables and scrambled to dark places.
Emmanuel pulled Davida free and brought a heel down onto the gang leader’s broad wrist. Fingers twitched, loosening their hold on the pistol, a Browning Hi Power with a polished wood grip. He kicked it free. The black girl screamed. Fatty crawled on all fours, searching for the firearm in the low light. Labrant swung circles, punching the air, hoping to connect.
“Go.” Emmanuel pushed Davida to the side of the jukebox. He flipped the big man onto his back. The stocking mask had ripped, showing a bright blue eye and the curve of a dark brow. There was something in the colour, a familiarity there that Emmanuel could not place.
“Look out.” Davida’s voice rang sharp with fear.
A punch drove into the side of Emmanuel’s face. He smelled blood, tasted it in his mouth. The room tilted. The floor slammed hard to his cheek. Pain exploded against his skull and the colours from the jukebox blurred to streaks of blinding white. The world dimmed, began to fade.
“Get the fuck up, soldier!” the Sergeant Major screamed, cutting through the pain. “Get up and fight. You will not let them touch Davida or Fatty or any other person in this room. Fight, you slum pussy. Did I not teach you how?!”
Emmanuel heard another voice calling from a far off place and tried to get up. Shapes blurred and lost their form. Muscles locked and quivered. Gravity pinned him to the floor.
“Let me in and I will make you strong,” the Sergeant Major said. “Give me control, boyo. Together we will sort this mess out. Let me in, lad. Let me in …”
The Sergeant Major’s presence filled Emmanuel’s head and fed fresh oxygen to his aching lungs. There was no divide. No him and me, no inside or outside. The Scottish Sergeant Major and the Sophiatown-born detective become one. Emmanuel spat blood and got to his feet.
“Kill the fuckers,” the Sergeant Major said.
The bandit who’d knocked him flat moved in, ducking and weaving, looking for a clear shot. Emmanuel drove two punches into the man’s stomach that lifted him off the ground. He kept working, opening a cut on the cheek and then another over the right eye. A pounding right hook rocked the man back, sent the spit flying. Emmanuel kicked the bandit’s legs and the man crumbled like ash. He crossed to the leader who’d dragged Davida by the hair. Blood roared through his veins. Fear vanished. Pain faded. He hit the big man with his fists, once and then again and again till he lost count. The skin on his knuckles split. He was empty of emotions and heard only the satisfying wham of flesh yielding.
“Jesus Christ. Stop.” Labrant pulled him away. “We need the bastard alive to answer questions. Like who the fuck he thinks he is, breaking into my place.”
Emmanuel’s heart beat like a hammer. The world expanded and came back into focus. Fatty held the smaller man in a choke hold, her platinum hair stained red, the silver material of her cocktail dress darkened by blood. She pushed the hostage to the floor, next to the boss man, and kicked a stiletto into his back. Emmanuel stepped aside, elated. He craved a drink, a smoke and a roll in the back room. Davida crawled out from the edge of the jukebox and slipped her hand into his.
Labrant crouched in front of the boss man and the second in command. He ripped the stocking from the smaller man, exposing a pixie face with red cheeks and a short, sharp nose.
“Who the hell are you? One of the Christmas elves?”
The elf grit his baby white teeth and said nothing. Labrant grasped the tattered ends of the boss man’s stocking mask, ready to rip. A girl screamed, the sound high and shrill in the tin room. Emmanuel swung around, cursed under his breath. He’d lost track of the numbers. Four men. Only three accounted for. The fourth member of the gang held a knife to the teenaged girl’s throat, the silver blade gleaming deadly against her dark skin.
“Let them go.” Flattened features and dark eyes stared ou
t from behind the stocking mask. “Let them go or I will cut the little one. I swear it.”
The voice shook, the hand holding the blade shook worse. Scared men were prone to sudden, violent moves. Emmanuel swung Davida behind him and raised opened palms.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s no need to hurt her. We can talk. Let her go and we’ll sort this business out.”
“No ways. You just beat the shit out of Lenny and Crow. I ain’t coming close.” Beads of blood appeared on the blade. “Now let them go.”
“Please …” the white teenager who’d paid entry for the young black girl cried out. “Please don’t. I’m begging you, mister.”
“It’s all right,” Emmanuel said. Begging would not help. The kidnapper’s desperation was visible through the tight stocking mesh. “We’re going to stay calm. Work things out.”
“There’s nothing to work out, man. Let them go or I’ll cut her. So help me God, I will.”
Labrant grabbed a fistful of the elf’s hair and tugged till the jugular veins showed blue beneath the pale skin. Fatty brought the boss man’s revolver out from the sash of her dress, levelled the point to the crown of his head.
“You hold one card,” Labrant said in a rough voice. “And we hold three. So calm down and we will sort this out just like my friend suggested.”
Emmanuel couldn’t imagine a worse situation than a loaded gun in Fatty Mapela’s hand and a knife in a terrified man’s grasp. Labrant remained calm, willing to negotiate. He threw a quick look in Emmanuel’s direction, gave him the authority to break the stand-off.
“We’ll exchange Lenny, Crow and the one on the floor for the girl,” Emmanuel said. “Three for one in your favour. That’s fair.”
“And we keep the cash,” Labrant added.
“I … I don’t know.” A wet patch appeared on the stocking mask right were the kidnapper’s mouth must be. He was licking his lips, nervously weighing up the deal.
“Surely your friends are worth one black girl and a few pounds? Do the sums. It’s cheaper than burying all three of them.”
