Payback - A Cape Town thriller (36 page)
Read Payback - A Cape Town thriller Online
Authors: Mike Nicol
Mo Siq, in a baggy tracksuit, was unshaven, his bed unmade. Through the day he drank five cups of coffee and the five dirty mugs were scattered about the apartment: one on the bedside table next to a paperback of Cogan’s Trade, the bookmark at page
one-sixty
-five where Cogan runs the 30-06 Savage semi-automatic rifle out the rear window of the car he’s in and puts five shots into a designated hit; another two mugs on the dining room table where Mo sat most of the day preparing a report; a fourth on the kitchen counter beside a plate with the remains, the crusts, of a cheese sandwich; the fifth on a coffee table next to a leather armchair in the lounge.
He smoked sixteen cigarettes: one stubbed out in an ashtray on the bedside table, twelve while writing the report, although he twice emptied the ashtray into the kitchen bin, three extinguished in a small soapstone dish on the coffee table beside his armchair. Alongside the dish and his coffee mug was the video case of the movie The Usual Suspects. Shortly after setting the barometer at 1000 millibars, Mo Siq sat down to watch one of his favourite films. Afterwards he ordered a marguerita pizza with anchovy, olives and capers from the St Elmo’s at the Waterfront.
The report Mo spent the day working on concerned opening an avenue for the minister of defence around the restrictive memorandum No 4 of 1997 that consigned surplus ammunition smaller than, and including, 12.7mm to be destroyed. Mo Siq believed that by circumventing this memo, not only would the state earn revenue, but he could arrange commissions that would benefit The Opportunity. At the end of his report, filed on his laptop under the heading New Regulations, a paragraph concluded that an export permit could not be issued for surplus state or parastatal stock that had been designated for destruction. Which gave the minister the loophole not to designate any stock as surplus. Mo reckoned nine million rounds would be made available with the minister’s signature.
Mo took the day off, a Friday, to work unhindered. He unplugged his landline, switched to silent his official cellphone, but left his private cell open. He made twelve calls on this phone: to his sister, to three women in different parts of the country, to a travel agent in India and a wine distributor in Ireland, to three hunting organisations in the United States, a Lufthansa freight manager, a former minister in the Yemen government, and finally to order the pizza. He made a single call on his official cellphone to ask his staff for clarity on some financial implications and this call he took on the balcony.
The pizza was delivered at 8:40 p.m. according to the chit, and Mo put the box on the kitchen counter and ate from it. He uncapped an Amstel and drank the beer from the bottle. While he ate, Mo stared at the lights of the Waterfront hazed by the rain beating against the windowpanes. He thought about The Usual Suspects and the nature of truth, and with this thought went over to his laptop and reread his report, marvelling at how a single word could change a situation. The gale threw a loud rattle of rain against the windows and Mo shivered, on the thermostat behind him switched up the underfloor heating two degrees. He hadn’t finished the beer or the pizza, three slices remained, when his intercom phone buzzed. He groaned: to answer or to leave it? He answered.
‘Mo I have to talk to you.’ He could barely make out the words against the storm noise.
‘Who is this?’
‘Mo. Let me up.’
‘Who’s it?’
No response. Then: ‘Mo, this is urgent.’
He recognised the voice now. ‘Ah for bloody hell’s sake, Sheemina!’ he said, pushing the lock release.
He saved the file on his laptop, brought down the screen and clicked it closed. Waited there until his doorbell rang, wondering what this was about.
The moment he opened the door, it slammed back against him and through the pain Mo saw a man rush at him, a blow smashed his nose, cartilage broke. Mo went down on his hands and knees, blood flooding his nostrils, leaking into his throat. He took two kicks to the kidneys in that position and collapsed on a kelim given to him by the travel agent in India. He didn’t lie there long: the man had him up by his tracksuit top, walked him on air into the lounge, dropped him in the armchair. The point when Mo saw the silenced nine mil in the guy’s hand. A big man, blond hair, surfer’s tan.
Mo probed gentle fingers at the hurt of his nose, the throb excruciating. Still managed to say, ‘Where’s Sheemina?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said the invader, ‘I’m what matters.’
Mo said, ‘What’da she wan?’ - the words running into one another with the pain of talking. ‘Who’re you?’ The stream of blood out his nose not letting him pronounce properly.
‘Questions, questions,’ said the surfer. ‘Slow down, china. Take it easy a minute, hey. Put your head back, it’ll stop the blood.’
Mo did, wondering why he listened to this thug, swallowing blood now but aware it was easing. He watched the invader picking his way round the room, examining photographs, objects, the video collection.
The guy said, ‘I’m Mikey Rheeder, I’m telling you that to be polite. No other reason.’ Mikey Rheeder then finding the pizza box on the counter top with the three uneaten pieces. ‘St Elmo’s,’ he said, lifting an olive from the topping, elastic bands of mozzarella coming away with it. Holding it in his left hand that was rigid like a claw. ‘Personally I prefer Moma Roma. A better kinda base. St Elmo’s they could make two pizzas outta one, I always think. They’ve got this thick crust here that gets too doughy. Especially when it’s not hot anymore.’ He turned to Mo. ‘You mind if I help myself?’ - lifting out a triangle anyhow. ‘You want another piece?’
Mo said, ‘Nug.’
Mikey said, ‘I understand.’ He put down the pistol on the counter, using both hands to hold the pizza slice to his mouth. Chewing and swallowing rapidly. ‘I saw this movie once, these dudes, two black suits, talking about the best burgers they’d eaten. Discussing the finer points. On their way to cause all kindsa shit they’re talking about burgers. That’s hectic, hey?’
‘Wha thew wan?’ said Mo, bringing his head down to test if the bleeding had stopped. It had.
Mikey lifted out another slice of pizza and took two bites. Chewing, looking over at Mo. He put the remains of the slice back in the box, wiped his hands on a dish towel. ‘If it was a thin crust, I’d probably have finished it,’ he said, taking the gun off the counter. ‘The thing is this, Mo, Sheemina told me to tell you this isn’t about you and her. I don’t know what that means, she didn’t tell me. But whatever that was about, it’s not about that. What she told me to tell you this is about is what she called
misappropriation
. More than that I can’t tell you.’
Mo said, ‘Misapplopliation! Shi-t.’
‘Something like that,’ said Mikey, raising the nine to put one through Mo Siq’s heart, so much nosebleed on his T-shirt that the extra seep wasn’t noticeable. Most of the wound being at the exit point anyhow.
In the after-quiet, the rain against the window was like a child’s tapping. The wind gusts howling along the building.
Mikey found the casing, unscrewed the silencer, putting it in the left pocket of his leather jacket, the pistol going into the right. He took a look round the apartment, hesitated over the laptop. Leave everything was a standard rule. Crap, he decided, why not? Worst case: he could sell it. Then again, depending on what was Mo Siq’s line of business, Sheemina February might be interested in shelling out a couple of Ks extra as a bonus.
The cellar had been prepared. You came down the wooden staircase and opened the door on a room six metres long by four metres wide, the same size as the sitting room above, lit by a buzzing neon strip over the door.
The walls were hand-cut blocks of Table Mountain sandstone, cleaned of two centuries of grime and damp, freshly
whitewashed
. The floor, an overlay of flagstones on a foundation slurry of dung and mud, tamped down to a hard surface, the flagstones set into this. The ceiling of planking supported by thick
rough-hewn
beams.
The only furniture was a metal bed and a foam mattress, the foam new and spongy. No pillow or blankets on the bed.
Into the far wall of the cellar, low down, about ten centimetres from the floor was a thick iron pin with an eye. A length of chain was fastened with a padlock to the iron pin and ended in a
handcuff
. The length of chain was long enough to allow whoever was manacled to lie without discomfort on the bed. The length of chain was not long enough to allow the captive to reach the door. The length was such that the captive would have to stretch to reach any bowl of food placed on the floor by the captor.
When the door was closed, someone held captive in the cellar could scream and shout and never be heard even by those upstairs. There was no one upstairs. The house was empty. City Bowl Properties had a laminated For Sale sign tied to two metal rods staked on the pavement.
Mace Bishop wasn’t pleased to hear Ducky Donald Hartnell’s voice on his cellphone but he wasn’t surprised. He looked out the window at a dripping Dunkley Square, the cloud down low on Devil’s Peak and no let-up in the rain visible, and thought, why’d I expect this?
From what he’d read in the papers, he knew the bones had become a major headache for Ducky Donald. Then again he thought Ducky had been handling the matter with unusual sensitivity.
‘I need protection,’ Ducky Donald said. ‘They wanna kill me.’
On and off in your life, Mace wanted to say, someone has always wanted to kill you. Instead said, ‘We’re not in that kind of business, Ducky.’
‘What’re you saying, boykie? Just ‘cos I’m not some dazzling New Yorker wanting a face job, you’re not interested. I’m not asking a favour. I’m asking for a professional service. I’ve come to the best place in town.’
‘Very flattering.’
‘Not supposed to be. I’m getting phone calls from people who wanna unravel my intestines. It’s on tape. You interested to hear it?’
‘Enter the cops.’
‘Ah, come on. Do me a favour. Of course I’ve told the cops. The first thing I did, but they’re not gonna protect me, are they? They’re not watching my back. I need that, Mace. Protection. When I’m out there I need someone with my interests at heart because I’m paying him to do that. Someone like you.’
Mace sighed. Probably louder than he should have.
‘Maybe this sounds tedious to you,’ Ducky Donald said, ‘but to me it sounds bloody frightening. Now, I’ll say it again, I’m paying.’
‘Forget it.’
‘It’s my life. I’m on my knees Mace, okay. What more? I’m offering to do this straight up.’
‘There’s another way?’
‘Sure, square one: Cayman and Techipa.’
Mace groaned. ‘Not that again.’
‘It’s always there.’
‘What’s there?’
‘Stories for the taxman. War story for a magazine: two men’s act of mercy.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘No question. Except I’m shit scared, china, ‘n I need you on this one so don’t push me.’
Mace laughed. ‘If you blab you’re not going to get me anyhow. Doesn’t solve your problem.’
Ducky Donald went quiet for a beat. Then, ‘Mace, chommie, do it. Please. One last time. Fifty large up-front.’
‘Cash.’
‘If that’s what it’s gonna take.’
‘It is,’ said Mace.
They agreed to meet at Hartnell’s warehouse, some place with a Paardeneiland address, in half an hour.
A gust of northwester brought the rain against the windowpane and blurred the world. It was warm in the office. Quiet and cosy. The last thing Mace wanted, the last thing he needed, was to stand in a cold warehouse while Ducky Donald Hartnell explained why persons unknown wanted to withdraw his intestines from a hole in his gut.
Mace gave Pylon the good news. Pylon lay on the couch in his office reading a travel magazine. Said, ‘Is the guy shitting himself?’
‘As much as Ducky Donald ever sounds like it, it sounds like it.’
‘Good.’ He held up the magazine. ‘How about this? Lake Garda, Italy. Glorious, hey? I think maybe that’s where I’ll take Treasure. Get away from this miserable weather for a few weeks.’
‘That’s a fly-in destination?’
Pylon looked hurt. ‘I can handle it.’ He tossed the magazine onto his desk. ‘Is this a paid job we’re discussing?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Our rates or his?’
‘Hey. I said we’d hear him out. Maybe it’s not even a job.’
Pylon laced up his boots. ‘With Ducky Donald you know you’re never going to score.’
Mace knew the story, at least the part that was public news. Come the end of the last summer, Club Catastrophe shut its doors. An event that got space in the papers and talk-radio time as Ducky Donald maximised the publicity. Spinning, it’s the end of an era that had seen its share of tragedy, the end of a personal journey. Even some star-sign bullshit that it was time for him to initiate new ventures. Nothing about what part his son Matthew played in this, although Mace believed he might have heard that he was going on to greater things, Ib-Ib-Ibiza or somewhere.
He’d been invited to the bash on the last night but hadn’t gone. Didn’t want to be reminded of Christa’s kidnapping. But gossip had it this was a party to rival the opening, or rather the second opening after the bombing. Much the same crowd made up the guest list. Ducky Donald might be moving on but the direction he was headed required the influence of the same movers and shakers.
Someone who hadn’t been at the opening but was at the
closing
was the estate agent Dave Cruikshank. Just before that party, he and Ducky Donald were quoted together in a property article. Dave was on about the ‘rejuvenation of the city centre’ as
developers
converted vacant office space into apartments while Ducky Donald talked about a desire to ‘contribute to the urban fabric of the city’. His words, though Mace felt he must have borrowed them. What it came down to was that Ducky and Dave had formed a partnership to develop the site.
A month after the closing of the club, the demolishers moved in, and a couple of weeks later Ducky Donald and his new mate Dave were pictured in the Saturday Argus pretending to dig the foundations. Next to this photograph was an architect’s drawing of the proposed seven-storey block with loft apartments.
Two days later they were back in the press. The excavations had been brought to a halt by a pile of bones. The archaeologists moved on site. Ducky Donald’s proposed contribution to the urban fabric had sunk its foundations into an old graveyard. Worse. These were not merely the bones of colonial Capeys, these were the bones of slaves.
What a find, said the archaeologists holding skulls with teeth filed to points as television cameras swept over a jumble of skeletons sticking up through the mud and sand. Like they were trying to get out.
Not a moment later but priests, imams, community leaders, politicians were clamouring for the remains of their ancestors. This was a sacred site. It should be a memorial. Part of the national heritage. It had to be protected. These people whose lives had been lived under the whip of slavery deserved to be honoured and left in peace. They were the builders of the city and yet again they were being abused. Tempers were raised. The situation got ugly. But until Ducky Donald’s call, Mace had thought a truce of sorts prevailed.
They found the warehouse down a side-street in the middle of a row of buildings, each one closed against the rain and wind. The only cars in the street Ducky Donald’s BM and Dave’s Volvo.
‘Not a lot going on,’ said Pylon. ‘Where’re the sentries? The way everybody talks about these bones I’d expected them under twenty-four hour guard.’
Mace parked the Merc close to the entrance and they made a dash for the door, Dave standing there holding it open, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
‘Hello, my son,’ he said, ‘never thought I’d be one of your clients, did you? Never wanted to neither. Still and all, welcome to the ossuary of Hartnell and Cruikshank. Keepers of the sacred dead.’
The warehouse was an old building, wooden floors, exposed wooden rafters, a wooden catwalk running round two sides some three metres off the floor. Ducky Donald standing on the stairs to the walkway surveying a stack of seven hundred boxes. He raised a hand in greeting, came down to meet Mace and Pylon.
‘I’ve stored stuff in my time,’ he said. ‘Stuff you could do things with. Shoot it. Drive it. Eat it on one occasion. Merchandise with value. Bones’re not my style. Nevertheless I hired this warehouse to store them. I’m paying the rent.’
‘We, my son,’ said Dave Cruikshank. ‘Out of the development budget.’
‘Every day,’ said Ducky not taking in Dave’s interjection, ‘I’m losing money. Every day nothing happens I might as well have flushed hundreds of thousands of bucks down the toilet. Hear what I’m saying? I’m saying we’ve got schedules, contractors, contracts with penalty clauses, not to mention the loans we’re financing while these ponces in their frocks, Christian and Muslim both, tell us sorry boykies this is the same as a massacre site. Bullshit! It’s a bloody graveyard. That’s what it is. But no, to them it’s a site of atrocity. A place of mourning. On this spot the brutality of white oppression exacted - that’s the word they use - exacted its inhuman toll. I’m quoting. That’s the sorta shit they spit in our faces. You ask the archaeologists is this right, they tell you no these people died of old age, illnesses, the kinds of things that normal people die from normally. Okay. Alright. I understand the sentiment. In my day I was on their side. Much of what they’re saying I don’t even dispute. But Chrissakes we’re talking eight years later. Eight years into democracy. We’ve gotta let go of that stuff. So nevertheless I think, fine, this is a sore spot, these people have been dished shit for centuries what can I do here to defuse the situation?’
‘We, my son. We.’
Ducky Donald spun on Dave. ‘What? What’s it?’
‘We,’ said Dave. ‘Our partnership.’
‘Jesus,’ said Ducky Donald, ‘I’m telling these two, they know what I mean, okay!’ He stared at Dave. ‘Now I’ve lost it.
Chrissakes
, what was I saying?’
‘Defusing the situation,’ said Dave.
‘Right.’ Ducky Donald flipped open a box, picked out a bone, a long femur. ‘We held a meeting. Asked them what can we do to be accommodating. No, more’n that, brought stuff to the table. Said we’d give the archaeologists three months to dig the site. Which, okay, legally we’re obliged to do. But over and above we give them a financial donation, your actual cash-in-hand out of our expensive loans which no bank manager’s saying, ag shame, let me chip in here for national reconciliation. Bugger me no. The banks want their interest. To hell with the touchy-feely. Leave that to the poor bastard on the ground. Anyhow, all this I do. We do. And more. Much bloody more. ‘Cos now there’s a problem with all these bones. Goddamned hundreds and hundreds of goddamned bones that’ve got to be stored. The archi blokes suggest the Castle. Lots of space. The military’s gone, the place’s been sanitised for the people. Why not? Get some poetic justice going here. The Castle protecting the remains of the people it brutalised. But hell no, that’s the original terrain of horror. That’s the place that caused all the shit in everybody’s lives in the first instance. Sending them there’s like dropping them in the dungeons. Donker gat here we come. Okay, okay. We hear them. We might think it’s crappy logic but we hear their pain. We put our hands in our pocket, we find a warehouse that is suitable to all concerned. Everybody’s happy. Let’s get on with the future.’
Ducky Donald whacked the side of a box with the femur.
‘The dozers move in. The hole starts going down ‘cos we’ve gotta go down a depth for the underground parking. No problem, it’s just ground down there now. Dave here and me put our feet up. There’s been a blood-letting but hey we’re recouping. Next thing, outta the blue, slap bang an interdict, the bones’ve gotta be part of the building, there’s gotta be a museum on the ground floor. No more development until this is sorted. I thought about it. I thought how can we work around this. Maybe it’s possible. But then reality-check. Are you gonna live in an apartment that’s got a goddamned huge pile of bones in a room downstairs? Where every time you come home dog-tired at the end of the day there’s a memorial telling you how shitty were the lives of the people whose skeletons are stored in the room under your million rands of luxury. This’s not gonna work. Anyhow they can’t ask this. They know it. We know it. We go to court. We get the interdict chucked out. Hasn’t solved the problem of what about the bones? The frocks are still on about the bones of their ancestors. About disrespect. About the denigration of human rights. Writing articles in the newspapers. Phoning us at the office, at home. Wanting meetings. Harassment it’s called. I told Dave here, one day there’s gonna be a death threat. And one day, tru’as bob, there was. Not one either. Plenty. Only thing they haven’t done yet is nailed my pussycat to the front door.’
Ducky Donald dropped the bone into a box, wasn’t the box it had come out of but that didn’t bother him.
‘But the day’s gonna come.’ He glanced from Pylon to Mace. ‘What I want from you guys is personal protection. Every time I step outside my front door. The same for Dave here.’
‘It’s costly,’ Mace said.
‘We’ll pay.’ He kicked at a box. ‘All this shit for a bunch of old bones.’