Payback - A Cape Town thriller (2 page)

Matthew Hartnell had an office in a sad building on Harrington, one block up from the Castle. A quarter of town nothing much happened at any time, day or night. A lick away from a major tourist site but no frumps with cameras came wandering here even by accident. Vagrants and cardboard collectors staggered about the street, Angolans ran the parking lot. Mace’s little red Alfa Spider caused them some excitement. He left the top down, a holder of CDs in the glovebox, the Becker a shining invite to anyone with a screwdriver.

A car-guard sauntered over, smiling.

‘Hey, Cuito,’ said Mace, ‘you’ve moved your patch?’ The last time he’d seen him the Angolan was car-guarding at a shopping mall in the leafy suburbs. Had done Mace a favour by keeping an eye on a wealthy client.

Cuito gave a wide white smile. ‘Sometimes the local Xhosa do not like our hard work, Mr Mace. They make trouble. It is best to move away.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

Cuito pointed at the Spider. ‘It’s safe,’ - taking the offered ten.

‘Obrigado,’ Mace told him.

The foyer of No 23 Harrington Street was cold and dark and stank of urine. The lift was boarded up, the stairs stripped of what lino might once have covered them. Mace went up to Matthew Hartnell’s business quarters on the first floor at the end of a corridor where every door had a security gate. Once there were probably frosted glass panes in the doors and people had their names scripted on in attractive flourishes. Obromowitz & Sons, Jewellers. Jackman & Jackman, Shipping Chandlers. Now you didn’t want to know what went on behind the closed doors. Or why club-owner Matt regarded this as a good address. Mace knocked. Matthew opened.

‘Yo, the ar-arms dealer,’ Matthew greeted.

Mace pushed in past him. ‘Don’t give me uphill, Matt, okay, I’m doing your daddy a favour. And stay off the weed before you meet people.’

Which got Matthew pouty. ‘I d-d-don’t need you. I got my own g-guys. I’m looked after b-better than the president. I can ha-handle this.’

Mace thought, I, I, I, bullshit. Raking a glance down the thin youth in a beanie, baggy jeans and a bomber jacket that was vogue when Neil Young sang ‘Heart of Gold’.

‘Matt,’ he said, ‘Matt, we’re talking People Against Gangsters and Drugs. You’ve seen the pictures. They carry serious weaponry. How many bombs are we talking? How many dead? Fifteen? Twenty? I don’t know. These are the people coming to see you.’

Matthew tapped his cellphone against his front teeth. ‘I ca-can sort it.’

Mace took a look out the window at the side of a building an arm’s length away. Gave a cursory scan of the four plastic garden chairs, the second-hand desk and the grey-green filing cabinet that served as office furniture. Pulled a chair to the side of the desk and sat down.

‘Sure you can.’

Matthew took his place behind the desk.

‘How long do we have to wait?’

‘That’s the-them,’ Matthew said, the tread of the well-heeled echoing on the concrete stairs.

They came in: a woman first, then a fat man, followed by a goon who worked out so much his neck and head were a continuum. She was well-groomed: silk trouser suit, fingernails like drops of blood on her right hand, her left in a black glove, plum lipstick, eyes an ice shade of blue, a silk scarf over her hair that Mace felt was pure statement. She carried a leather briefcase, attorney-style, in the gloved hand.

Her name was Sheemina February, a senior partner in the law firm Fortune, Dadoo & Moosa, legal representatives for the
anti-drug
vigilantes. As Mace understood it, she’d called Matthew to suggest the meeting would be in his best interests.

The fat man was a brand name type, labels all over him. Gold wrist watch. Gold cufflinks. Open-necked shirt under a leather jacket. A short haircut giving a black fuzz to his skull. His cheeks pitted from acne, his front teeth filed to points. Mace recognised the face: Abdul Abdul, on bail facing two murder charges. Assassinations: bullet in the back of the head style.

The goon wore de rigueur snakeskin lace-ups and a black suit. Mace watched him take up a position beside the door, the way goons did it in the movies. The oddity about him was he was white.

‘Matthew?’ queried the woman, frowning at Mace as if she recognised him, shifting her gaze from him to Matthew.

‘Mr Matthew Hartnell to you,’ Mace said.

She swung at him: ‘And you are?’ Some aggression in her face.

‘Doesn’t matter. Just accept I’m here.’

‘He’s my ad-visor,’ said Matthew.

‘A lawyer?’

‘Something like that.’

She extended a hand to Matthew. After he’d shaken she held it at Mace. ‘Mr Advisor.’

He ignored the sarcasm and took her outstretched hand: cold, firm. ‘Who’s he?’ pointing at the goon.

‘A friend,’ said Abdul. ‘Mikey. Say hello, Mikey.’

‘Hi,’ said Mikey, his voice flat and nasal.

Sheemina February and Abdul sat down on the two chairs other side of Matthew’s desk. They placed their cellphones on the table. Mace’s cell was already there, so was Matthew’s. Sheemina February put her attaché case on the floor and looked at Matthew and said, ‘There’s drugs being sold in your club and we don’t like that.’

Matthew shook his head. ‘Na-na-no way. There’s no shit g-going down. Out of the qu-question.’

Sheemina February shrugged. ‘Well, maybe that’s what you think, but that’s not what’s happening.’

‘I don’t allow d-drugs,’ said Matthew. ‘Not e-even weed.’

Mace marvelled the kid could say it barefaced. Shades of daddy.

Abdul Abdul laughed. Sheemina February bent down and took out of her briefcase a plastic bank packet filled with a mix of sticks and pips, flipped it onto the desk. Very casual. Very neat.

‘Ganja,’ Abdul said and laughed again, harsh and ugly. ‘Top dagga,’ he said. ‘Bloody first-class weed.’

Mace raised his eyebrows, but let the bankie lie where it lay.

‘Sold to one of our people on the floor last night,’ said Sheemina February.

‘I-I’ve only got your w-word for it,’ came back Matthew.

‘Of course.’ Sheemina February tapped the bankie. ‘But we’ve no reason to lie.’ They made eye contact: Matthew looked away first. ‘You say you don’t allow this stuff. Then we’re on the same side, Matthew. We’re both against the drugs and the gangsters.’

‘Who’re you paying protection to?’ interjected Abdul Abdul, reeling off some names: ‘Twenty-eights? Americans? Pretty Boys?’

‘No wh-one,’ said Matthew.

Abdul gave an imitation of a laugh. ‘Americans,’ he said. ‘Don’t give me any shit. I know.’

‘It’s not only the grass,’ said Sheemina February. ‘They’re selling hard stuff too.’

‘Im-im-impossible,’ said Matthew.

Sheemina February took another bank packet out of her
briefcase
, flipped it on to the table. ‘Heroin,’ she said.

‘Could be talcum,’ said Mace. ‘For all we know.’

‘Try it.’ Abdul pushed the bankie towards Matthew. ‘Take a taste, my friend, this’s your scene.’

‘Believe me,’ said Sheemina February, placing her hand over the packet.

‘You have all this,’ Mace said, ‘take it to the cops.’

Abdul Abdul snorted. Sheemina February smiled vaguely then quickly turned to Matthew.

‘This is killing our children.’ She held up the packet of heroin.

‘You have the evidence. Call the cops,’ Mace said. ‘The man says he knows nothing about this stuff.’

Abdul Abdul frowned at Mace and dismissed him with a flip of his hand.

The vague smile returned to Sheemina February’s purple lips. ‘Mr Advisor, the cops will close down your client’s business.’ She held his eyes. ‘Do you want that?’

‘No,’ Matthew broke in. ‘No. The-there’s a way to w-work this out.’

‘Good. The simple thing here Matthew is the drugs have to stop.’

The ‘or’ left hanging. She dropped the packet onto the desk. ‘Right. Here’s how we can help you.’

‘You don’t g-get to,’ Matthew replied. ‘Th-the way we work this out is you f-f-fuck off.’

A quiet, a sudden quiet that went on so long Mace could hear the rumble of the city. He let his glance slide from face to face: Sheemina February amused, Matthew staring at his hands, Abdul with a tic working below his right eye.

Abdul Abdul broke first, reached for his cellphone and shook it at Matthew. ‘We are telling you,’ he shouted. ‘We are telling you this must stop.’

Sheemina February put her hand on Abdul’s arm. He flicked her off. Said,‘You think this is fun and games, my friend? You think this is fun and games to have all these drugs? You want Ecstasy? I can push so much Ecstasy down your throat you have a straight trip to hell. You are cheap shit. You are small shit, my friend.’

Matthew stood up. The goon moved away from the door closer to his boss, flipping his jacket to show a thirty-eight tucked into his belt.

‘Wh-what’re you g-going to do?’ Matthew hurled back. ‘
Th-throw
a pipe bomb in my club? K-kill a whole lot of in-in-innocent p-people like you did at those res-restaurants? B-blow off some kid’s feet just to t-teach me a lesson? Wh-who’s the cheap shit?’

‘Be careful.’ Abdul Abdul was standing now, spit catching at the corner of his mouth.

Sheemina said quietly, ‘Shut up.’ Said louder, but not shouting, looking at Mace throughout. ‘Shut up. Both of you, shut up.’ Mace held her stare, not interfering, holding her eyes until she took them off him. Wondering, had they met before? Like what was her case? Her face seemed familiar. But how? From when? From the old days when there’d been women by the night? As easy as the flow of beers.

Matthew the drug dealer and Abdul Abdul the assassin shut up.

‘Sit down, Matthew,’ she said, ‘sit down and listen to me.’ He did, so did Abdul. ‘Here’s the deal. You lose the security. Centurion and the Americans both. You close down for a week. You speak nicely to Abdul and then we get you back up and running. Nothing different to before, just being done by other means.’

Matthew gagged, suddenly off the boil, getting only the first part of the words out. ‘Ca-ca-ca,’ he went.

Sheemina February waited. ‘You were saying?’

‘Ca-ca-ca.’

She turned to Mace. ‘Perhaps you should advise him, Mr Advisor.’

Mace uncrossed his legs, tipped back the plastic chair. The thing about Sheemina February, he reckoned, was her calm blue eyes in her olive face. Eyes from a Nordic ice land. Untroubled eyes. The sort of eyes you’d remember. Eyes that mocked. Like her smile. The purple of her lipstick against white teeth. Easy to be suckered, to believe she was the voice of reason.

‘So?’

He let the chair drop forward. ‘What’s your percentage?’

She exposed the tips of her teeth. ‘Mr Advisor, please. Matthew pays for our services. Nothing different to what he’s been doing except we’re cheaper. And we keep him clean. A major advantage.’ Mace got a full smile before she turned to Matthew Hartnell. ‘So, Matthew, what do you say?’

Matthew said, ‘Ca-ca-Christ!’

‘Consider it,’ said Sheemina February, standing. ‘Talk about it with your advisor.’ She slid a card onto the desk. ‘Let me know this afternoon. Before close of business.’ A smile. ‘No call, I’ll take it you’ve declined the offer. Your choice. It’s a free country.’

She snapped shut her briefcase, picked up her cellphone. The goon reached over and put the dope packets in his pocket.

‘Think hard about it, my friends,’ said Abdul Abdul, pressing his fangs into the flesh of his lower lip. ‘We are worried about you.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Sheemina February, and the goon squeezed past her and opened the door. He stepped into the corridor and she followed him. Abdul flicked his wrist to rattle his gold watch strap. He pointed the cellphone at Matthew, raised it to his lips, pretending to blow smoke from a barrel, then was gone without closing the door. Mace listened to the strike of Sheemina February’s heels along the corridor and down the stairs. He stood, shoved back the plastic chair and headed for the door. On his way out, paused. ‘My deal with Donald is to give you protection for two weeks. Let me know what you’re planning.’

‘Wha-what d’you think?’ Matthew said. His voice back now, the tremor still in his hands though. ‘You th-think I’m just gonna close up like she wa-wants? Fuck her. Ca-Christ, man, f-fuck her.’

Mace shrugged. ‘You’re a drug dealer, Matthew. You run a club where it’s easier to score coke than Coca-Cola. More especially, you’re making my life difficult.’

‘So f-fuck off too.’

‘I would, except this is an obligation.’

‘Not to m-me.’

Mace shook his head. ‘It’s an honour debt Matthew. Something you wouldn’t understand.’

Matthew pulled a joint from deep in the bags of his jeans and held it to a Bic, drawing long on the smoke. After the exhale he coughed, said, ‘I-I-I don’t wa-want you, ch-china. I g-got pro-
protection
. Experienced people. El-electronic s-s-surveillance. Metal detectors. The-they’re not g-gonna drop a bomb on me.’

‘Dream on.’ Mace’s cellphone rang: Pylon’s name on the screen. While he thumbed him on, he kept at Matthew. ‘Another thing, if I don’t hear from you, your club four-fifteen is when we meet.’ With that was gone.

‘Let’s hear it,’ said Pylon in his ear. ‘We got a fabulous new client?’

‘A freebie.’

Pylon groaned. ‘What’re you saying?’

Mace told him right down to the purple lipstick, saving the best for last: Cayman and Techipa.

A long silence from Pylon. Then: ‘Save me Jesus.’ Then: ‘You think he knows or he’s guessing?’

‘Cayman, it’s possible. Those bankers say they’re like the gnomes but stuff gets out. If someone’s looking.’

‘We’ve given no clue. No flash living. So-so business.’

Mace said, ‘He starts putting this around we’re buggered. Big time.’

Pylon coming in, ‘What I don’t get is Techipa. Everyone was dead.’

‘Someone wasn’t.’

‘He started this with the guns? Return of a favour?’

‘Yup.’

‘I’d forgotten the guns.’

‘Was a long time ago in another country. Hadn’t been him it would’ve been someone else. We’d have got them in the end.’

Except in the end it was Ducky Donald who saved them from what might have been The End with slit throats. As Mace recalled it the Arab wasn’t pleased that his suppliers had hit a shortfall on the consignment. No matter who the partners contacted there was nothing in that corner of the Sahel at that time that would appease their irate buyer. Until a desperate call to Ducky Donald siphoned off the requisite from a cache stockpiled in a Jo’burg mineshaft. Where the RPGs came from Mace never asked. Suffice to say he suspected Ducky Donald was also trading for the SA army. For him business was business. For Mace and Pylon at the time business was revolution. Which came to seem a quaint perspective. Which now seemed positively idealistic, Mace thought.