The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (8 page)

Fanwell lived with his grandmother, an aunt, and four siblings. His father, from whom the family had not heard in a long time, was now believed to be dead, and his mother was working in South Africa. She sent money home, but it was sporadic and could not be relied on. For the day-to-day needs of the family, it was effectively Fanwell’s pay that kept the household afloat, eked out by the grandmother with such tiny amounts as she could earn through her skills with crochet or as a potter. Fanwell never complained about this—not once—accepting that this was the way things were. “When they grow up,” he said, referring to the younger siblings, “then they will earn money too. Things will get better.”

Now, approaching the street corner on which their house stood, Fanwell noticed that there was somebody occupying the stool that his grandmother normally used when she sat out in the
yard, working on her crochet. As he crossed the road to the house, the figure stood up and approached him, his hand extended in greeting.

“So, Fanwell, how goes it?”

It took Fanwell a moment or two to place the visitor. Then came the prompt: “Chobie, man. You remember me. Chobie, your friend.”

He did remember him. “Of course. Yes, Chobie.”

Fanwell took his friend’s hand and shook it.

“So,” said Chobie. “I’ve been waiting, man. I’ve been sitting here for two hours thinking, when’s my old friend Fanwell going to come home? That’s what I’ve been thinking. True as God.”

Fanwell smiled, but he felt nervous. He and Chobie had been at school together, and he remembered him as frequently being in trouble. There had been some row about something or other—he could not recollect what it was—and this had led to Chobie’s being sent away. It was a long time ago, of course, and one could not be expected to remember everything that happened.

Fanwell gestured for Chobie to follow him to the room that served as the kitchen—and as sleeping quarters for three of the children.

“You’ve got lots of children already,” Chobie said, gesturing to the sleeping mats stacked together in a corner.

Fanwell laughed. “Brothers and sisters, Chobie.”

Chobie winked. “Myself, I’ve got some sons. Don’t know how many, but more than two. Big boys.”

Fanwell acknowledged this confidence with a polite nod of his head. He looked at the shelf; there was very little food, but he could give Chobie a plain slice of bread and jam and some tea. He offered this, and Chobie accepted readily.

“That old lady …”

“My grandmother,” said Fanwell.

“Yes, her. She said to tell you she’s gone somewhere until seven o’clock. Then she’ll come back.” Chobie paused. “You look after her, Fanwell?”

“Yes.”

“That costs money, man.”

Fanwell admitted that it did. “But there’s nobody else, you see.”

“Tough,” said Chobie. “These grandmothers eat a lot of food. But I’ve got the answer for you, my friend.”

Fanwell was busy lighting the paraffin stove on which the family cooked and boiled water for tea. His grandmother ate very little, saving as much as she could for the children; he had seen her holding back, had seen how thin she was. He said nothing.

Undeterred, Chobie continued: “This is a business proposition, Fanwell.”

“I have a job. I’m a mechanic at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.”

Chobie made a dismissive gesture. “That’s day work. You never make money doing day work. I can give you night work—big money.”

Fanwell glanced at Chobie and then looked away again quickly. “I am very busy,” he said. “I can’t do more work.”

“Everybody’s busy,” said Chobie. “But not too busy if the money’s good enough—and it is, Fanwell. It’s very good.”

“No,” said Fanwell.

Chobie got up and came to stand beside him. “I’m not asking you very much, Fanwell. All I want is for you to help me fix some cars. Three or four to begin with—then you can decide whether you want to carry on.”

“What is wrong with these cars?” asked Fanwell. “And why can’t you take them to a garage?”

Chobie became animated. “And be charged hundreds and hundreds of pula? Thousands, maybe? No, not me. These are cars I’m selling—that is how I make my living these days. All I want is a little help to get them ready to be sold. Little things. New exhaust pipes, maybe. Fixing lights. That sort of thing. Hard for me, but easy for you. You’re a mechanic.”

Fanwell remembered now: Chobie had the reputation of being persuasive. It had always been difficult to say no to him.

“I don’t have much spare time,” he said weakly.

Chobie put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “I am your friend, and I am asking you a favour. I knew that you would say yes.” He paused. “Don’t bother with the tea, Fanwell. Let’s go. I have this car over at my place that needs a new fan belt, and maybe there’s something wrong with the brakes—I can’t tell. You’ll know straightaway. Then,
smack-smack
, it’s fixed!”

CHOBIE HAD A CAR
parked round the corner. He had paid a small boy to watch it for him while he was waiting for Fanwell, and now he gave the child the rest of the fee—a few coins pressed into an outstretched palm.

“See this car?” Chobie said proudly, patting the side of the vehicle. “You got a car like this, Fanwell? No chance. You could have one, though. Easy, easy. You come in with me and you could have one of these. Turbo-charged. V-8. You name it. It’s there for the taking, Fanwell.” He paused, looking bemusedly at the young mechanic. “Of course, I forgot: you work at Tlokweng Road Something-or-other Motors.”

“Speedy Motors,” muttered Fanwell.

“Speedy not,” said Chobie. “Ha-ha. Speedy not. Tlokweng Road Old-Fashioned Manual Transmission Motors. That’s what that place should be called.”

Fanwell laughed weakly. Even a half-hearted laugh, though, felt like a betrayal. “It is a good garage.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a good garage. Good for old ladies and their rubbish, one-horse-power cars. You fix donkey carts in that place, Fanwell?”

Fanwell looked away. “They do not bring them. They do not bring any donkey carts.”

Chobie patted him playfully on the shoulder. “Only joking, Fanwell. Anyway, let’s get in and go over to my place. I’ve got this yard, see, and the car I want you to fix up is there. Get in, my friend, get in.”

It was getting dark now. To the west, over the Kalahari, the sky was copper red, fading into pink and then into a colour that was somewhere between blue and white, the colour of emptiness; the lights of the town, bright pinpoints, were beginning to punctuate the dusk. Fanwell felt empty. He did not like Chobie; he had never really liked him. But he found it hard to resist the other young man’s enthusiastic banter, and there could be no harm, surely, in helping out with this business of his. The second-hand car trade was a notoriously tricky one, and Fanwell had no doubt that Chobie was at the questionable end of it. But if Chobie chose to mislead—and possibly even cheat—his customers, it was not really any of Fanwell’s business. Indeed, one might argue—and this line of argument was just occurring to Fanwell—that it would be positively better for him to work on Chobie’s cars; that way, the customers would have fewer problems and would get cars in better condition than would otherwise be the case. This work for Chobie, then, was virtually charitable, even if there was payment attached; that is how Fanwell looked at it, and that was how he was looking at things when Chobie turned the car into the gateway of a fenced-off storage yard. On the wall of this yard there was the wording, painted in high letters:
Reliable Autos. We get you there
.

“Get you where?” asked Fanwell.

Chobie smiled. “Where you want to get. That’s where everybody’s heading, after all. To where they want to get.”

Fanwell did not say anything. Chobie switched off the engine and gestured to the single car that the yard contained. “Isn’t that a beauty?” he asked.

Fanwell was non-committal. “They can give a lot of trouble, those cars,” he muttered. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni says—”

He did not finish. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni took a poor view of cars in which styling played a more important role than mechanical reliability, but Fanwell did not have the chance to relate these views before Chobie interrupted him. “Mr. J.L.B. Rubbish. Of course he doesn’t like cars like these. These cars are for successful people, not for people called J.L.B. Rubbish. Come on, let’s get going.”

Chobie had rigged up a lamp on the end of a long extension cord. This was plugged into the lean- to building at one side of the yard. Fanwell could not help but notice than from this structure there ran another wire, which snaked back to disappear over the wall. Such electricity as the site had, he realised, was drawn from elsewhere—stolen power. Chobie saw him looking at this. “You’ve got a problem with that, Fanwell? Him over the wall—he’s got much more power than he needs. I’m just taking a little bit—just this much.” He made a gesture with two barely separated fingers—a gesture that signified inconsequential smallness.

“Where did you get this car?” asked Fanwell, as they approached it across the yard.

Chobie was ready with an answer. “I bought it from a man. Paid good money.”

“Where did he get it?”

Chobie shrugged. “How do I know? Do you think you have to know every car’s mother? Do you think you have to know its father?
Cars are cars, man. They come, they go. You can’t ask them all the details.”

Fanwell faltered, but only for a moment. He had his suspicions about Chobie, but he did not see what further enquiry he should be expected to make. It might be that Chobie had obtained the car in an underhand way, but it might equally be that he had come by it quite legitimately. Was it his business to find out? No, he thought; not on balance, and he would ask Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni the next day, to see what he said. If he told him that it was wrong to fix cars when there was a doubt about their past, then he would refuse to help Chobie. If, however, he considered it to be all right, then he would help him. After all, the extra money would be useful.

The new fan belt was soon installed, and he then turned his attention to the brakes. This was a comparatively minor problem, and he was able to fix it in spite of the complexity of the braking system installed in that particular make of car. After an hour or so, everything was done, and Fanwell was wiping his hands on the small hand towel that Chobie had thoughtfully provided. As he did so, he glanced at the lettering on the towel:
SUN HOTEL
.

Noticing this, Chobie laughed. “They gave that to me,” he said. “I know somebody who works there. Big time. He gave me that towel as a souvenir.”

Fanwell finished wiping his hands. “I should get home now,” he said.

Chobie held up a hand. “Not so fast, Fanwell. I owe you.” He reached into his pocket and took out a number of folded banknotes. Counting out three hundred pula, he pressed these into Fanwell’s hand. “Fee for service,” he said. “See? Good money for good work. And there’ll be plenty more—plenty more. Tax-free too, ha!”

They began to walk back towards the car in which they had come. As they did so, a nondescript black van drew up at the gate
and a man emerged. Chobie looked at the man and frowned. “Yes, Rra? You want something?”

The man nodded. “I need to buy a car, Rra. I need to buy a car for my wife. I saw your sign.”

Chobie, who had been tense at the beginning of this encounter, now visibly relaxed. “Well, you’re in the right place, my friend. But unfortunately I’m a bit low on stock now—we only have that big car over there. But have you got a mobile? You give me the number and I’ll fix you up with something good. No rubbish—something good. And my mechanic here …,” he gestured to Fanwell, “my mechanic is top-class. He’ll make sure that it’s in A1 order when you get it. You won’t see your wife for dust.
Bang, bang
. She’ll overtake all the other women.
Bang, bang
.”

The man laughed. “My wife would like that,” he said. “So, here’s my number. You’ll call me?”

“Of course I will,” said Chobie. “Give me four, maybe five days and I’ll call. And I’ll get my mechanic …”

The man turned to Fanwell and greeted him formally. “And your name, Rra?”

Fanwell gave the man his name.

“He trained at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors,” boasted Chobie.

“They have top-rate mechanics out there. Do all the big cars.”

The man nodded. “I know the place,” he said.

M
R. J.L.B. MATEKONI
had been in Lobatse and was late home. By the time he arrived, Mma Ramotswe had fed the children and was chatting with Motholeli in her room. The young girl had been in an argument with another girl in school and had been on the verge of tears over dinner. Now it was all coming out and the story, punctuated by copious weeping, was being pieced together by Mma Ramotswe.
This is what I do
, she thought.
During the day I sort out the problems of adults; at night I sort out the problems of children
.