Mixed Blood (23 page)

“Hey, brother. Where you come out of?” He walked across to Benny Mongrel. Hector was a squat man, almost as wide as he was tall. His large head balanced directly on his sloping shoulders, like a boulder on a hill, and his muscled arms, seething with tattoos, were unnaturally short. He extended his hand for the insider’s shake.

Benny Mongrel took the hand and shook it. “I been here and there.”

“But you haven’t come and see us?”

Benny Mongrel shook his head.

“Come inside, brother.”

Benny Mongrel followed Hector into the tavern that was home to the Mongrels. Hector was a few years older than Benny Mongrel. They had known each other since they were teenagers, had killed many men together, and had spent decades sharing a prison cell. Hector had been out a few years longer than Benny Mongrel, and he was a general, a middleman in the organization. He mobilized members in times of gang conflicts and ran gang-related business interests. Fencing stolen goods and selling drugs.

The tavern was not a place you ventured into unless you were a Mongrel or under their protection. It occupied the front room of a small house, crammed with tables and game machines. The room was full of youngsters, some still teenagers, the cannon fodder of the gang.

Hector led Benny Mongrel through to a private table, where a man in his late thirties sat. Rufus Jordaan. He was a middle-rank enforcer and bodyguardpulled up a chair and motioned Benny Mongrel to sit. “Look what the wind blew in.”

Benny Mongrel had no sooner sat down than a bottle of whiskey and three glasses were delivered by a teenage girl in tight jeans. Hector poured and lifted his glass. Benny Mongrel joined him. Rufus Jordaan didn’t.

Hector led the toast. “No excuses, no explanations, no apologies, not to anyone, not ever.”

Rufus muttered his assent. Benny Mongrel said nothing. Rufus pushed the whiskey aside and reached for a beer bottle. He made a show of knocking off the cap of the bottle with the sight of his .38 Special. He left the gun lying on the table.

“So,” Rufus said, sucking on the beer, “why you been a stranger, brother? We not good enough?” He was a big man who wore his 28s tattoos with pride.

Benny Mongrel just gave him that flat look that he’d perfected in prison. The look that said:
Here I am. I’m not going anywhere. Do what the fuck you like
. Rufus hid behind a shit-eating grin like Benny Mongrel knew he would.

Rufus raised his bottle. “Anyways, welcome home, brother.”

Benny Mongrel spoke to Hector. “I need to know about a fat cop called Barnard.”

Rufus leaned forward. “Gatsby?” Benny Mongrel shrugged, fixed his good eye on Rufus. “Big fat boer with a mustache? Stinks like shit?” Benny Mongrel nodded. “What you want with him?”

“We got some business.”

Hector swallowed some whiskey, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. “He mainly works Paradise Park. He’s in with the Americans there from back in apartheid days, early nineties.”

“Where’s he based?”

“Bellwood South. He’s a bad bastard. Killed more brown men than the HIV. They say he’s a reborn.”

Rufus laughed. “He do it for Jesus.”

Hector topped up Benny Mongrel’s glass. “I hear there’s a warrant out on Gatsby. Seems like he went too far this time, killed a kid.”

Benny Mongrel sat forward. “White kid?”

Hector shook his head. “No, colored. Over in Paradise. The cops is all over the Flats asking questions. You not the only one who want to find him. He’s a popular guy.”

This was making sense to Benny Mongrel. Why the fat cop was taking the chances he was taking. He had his back to the wall. Good. Benny Mongrel liked that.

Something changed on Llewellyn Hector’s face as he looked over Benny Mongrel’s shoulder. Benny Mongrel took a sip of whiskey, felt it burn its way down, and then he turned. And saw Fingers Morkel, the man he had operated on in the jail cell a year before.

Fingers stood in the doorway of the tavern, staring at Benny Mongrel. He looked as if he was reliving the agony of the amputation. Benny Mongrel showed nothing on his face, turned back to Hector and Rufus Jordaan.

Hector rolled the liquround on his tongue. “You need to watch yourself.”

“I can handle Barnard.”

Hector shook his head. “Not that fat fuck. Him. Fingers.”

Benny Mongrel allowed a smile to touch his mouth. “That piece of shit?”

“He’s got power out here. His drugs bring in a lot of bucks.”

Benny Mongrel shrugged. “He stole from me. He was punish.”

Rufus Jordaan chugged back some of his beer. “Says you didn’t go to the Men in the Clouds before you chop him.”

The Men in the Clouds, the old-timers, usually lifers, who made the law in prison. They mediated in disputes and decided on punishment.

“I didn’t need to waste their time.” Benny Mongrel looked back over his shoulder. Fingers was sitting at a table near the door, never taking his eyes off Benny Mongrel. He kept his hands on the table, the stumps of the fingers scarred from the hot plate, the thumbs moving nervously on the wood.

Benny Mongrel felt nothing. “Useless cunt is lucky I didn’t kill him.”

Rufus Jordaan looked on as if the whole thing amused the hell out of him.

Benny Mongrel stood. So did Hector. “His guys won’t touch you in here, but outside is another story. He want your blood.”

Hector called a boy over, a pimply kid with a desperate attempt at a mustache. Handed him a set of car keys. “Ashraf, take Benny Mongrel where he want to go.”

Benny Mongrel shook his head. “I make my own way.”

“Just take the ride, okay? I don’t want no mess out on my street. It’s been nice and quiet lately.”

Benny Mongrel shrugged, and the kid went off to get the car. Hector put out his hand, and they exchanged the shake. “Good luck, brother.”

Benny Mongrel headed for the door, the young punks getting out of his way. People still knew who he was. He passed Fingers, didn’t even look the way of the useless piece of shit. As he reached the door he felt the nudge of a thumb in his ribs.

He turned to look Fingers in the eye. “You know I can’t do anything to you here, you cunt.” Benny Mongrel stared him down. “But I’ll see you again, soon. And I’ll fucken kill you.” Fingers nudged him again with his thumb.

Benny Mongrel grabbed the thumb and bent it back, saw the pain in the amputee’s eyes. “Bring your mother. Save me the trouble of sending you to her.”

C
HAPTER
21

It was past 2:00 a.m. and Barnard couldn’t sleep. He had tried the half-breed bitch every hour, and he still couldn’t reach her. Number not available. It was stressing him big time. What if she had sold him out? What if every second that ticked by brought him closer to a trap?

He sat up, wearing only his brief. He wheezed into the hotel bathroom, drilled a stream of piss into the toilet bowl, and washed his face at the stained basin. The water was tepid, and when he made the mistake of drinking some out of his cupped hand, he spit it right out.

He went back into the airless bedroom and stood by the window, trying to catch a breeze. Nothing. The hotel made its money out of a hookers’ bar on the ground level, and darky music beat up through the floorboards.

To calm himself, Barnard thought of the million that would be his tomorrow and the new life it was going to bring him. He was going to leave Cape Town and its seething, Godless hordes and head up the east coast, with a new name and a new identity. One of his old connections from the Security Police days, the only one he stayed in touch with, ran a sport fishing boat out of St. Lucia, north of Durban. There was an open invitation for Barnard to come up and join him. It was time. Now all he needed to do was get his hands on the money.

He grabbed his phone from next to the bed and thumbed the bitch’s number. Not available. Fuck that.

In minutes he was dressed, packing his armaments in the kit bag and getting the hell out of there. He knew it was a risk, crossing the Flats to Paradise Park. But it was late at night, and he had to find out what was going on.

He shoved the .38 into its holster and headed for the door.

Carmen watched as Leroy brought the match to the bottom of the globe. The tik started to cook, and smoke swirled inside the glass, turning the globe opaque.

She put her mouth to the empty neck of the globe and sucked the tik deep into her chest. The rush hit her, that feeling that was better than anything she’d ever known, and she lay back on her bed, head pumping like it was gonna burst. But in a good way. She felt bright and shiny, all the shit in her life blown away by the smoke.

Leroy grabbed the globe from her and took a hit. A slow smile glazed his face as he exhaled a plume up to the ceiling. “Ja. This is the thing, huh?” He was a real Cape Flats’ Romeo, with his designer labels, his gelled hair, and his muscular arms covered in 28s tattoos. He thought he was God’s gift to massage parlors.

Carmen closed her eyes. She was wearing a halter top and a short skirt. The way she lay left her thighs exposed, and she opened her eyes to see Leroy admiring the view. She brought her legs together and sat up, slapping him on the shoulder. “Hey. I’m a married woman.”

Leroy handed her the globe to finish. “Where is he anyway? Rikki.”

She exhaled, shrugging. “Up the coast. Who the fuck knows?”

“He catch me here, and I’m dead.” Leroy reached across and grabbed her leg above the knee.

She swiped his hand away. “Hey, stop it.” She stood up. “Don’t worry, he’s not coming back in a hurry.”

The only reason she could have Leroy here was because she knew that Rikki had been burned crispier than a McNugget. Leroy was a Mongrel, a 28, the sworn enemy of Rikki and the Americans. But, hey, he scored some sweet tik. And he was prepared to play Mr. Delivery. She knew as only because he wanted to screw her, but so what? Let him dream on.

She went to the window, her head still spinning from the rush. She looked out over night on the Flats. It came to her that she had never been farther from here than into downtown Cape Town once, when she was a small child, to see the Christmas lights. She had lived within a couple of blocks of here her whole life, and she would die here, probably.

She made an effort to shake these thoughts and turned to Leroy. He was heading into the bathroom, and before she could stop him he opened the door. Enough light spilled in from the bedroom for him to see the American kid sleeping on a blanket on the bathroom floor.

The kid had been a pain in the ass the whole day. Weeping and snotty, wanting his mommy. By the time night came, Carmen was sick of it. She’d slipped him half a downer in a glass of warm milk, and he’d gone to sleep almost immediately.

Leroy was staring down at the blond hair. “Who the fuck’s kid is this?”

Carmen pushed his hand away from the door and closed it. “I’m babysitting.”

“I need to take a piss.”

“Then piss in the kitchen sink.”

He stared at her. “That’s a white kid, hey?”

She shook her head. “No ways. He belongs to my girlfriend.”

“Bullshit.”

“True. The father was something off a boat.”

“Looks white to me.”

“Ja and what? Are you suddenly some fucken expert?” She gave him a shove toward the front door. She’d had enough of his nonsense. “Time for you to go.”

“I want something first.”

He slipped a hand under her skirt and grabbed her between the legs. Cape Flats foreplay. Carmen didn’t slap; she punched. She punched hard for a girl, putting her weight behind the blow, so when her fist caught Leroy in the ribs he felt it. And he definitely felt her knee in his balls. He grabbed himself, sucking air. She had taken that shit from Rikki because he was the father of her child, but no other man was going to put his hands on her.

“Come. Move.” She pushed him toward the living room.

Leroy wasn’t about to make a scene here in the middle of Americans territory. He slunk to the door like a wounded dog, past Uncle Fatty snoring and farting on the sofa. She opened the door and Leroy went out.

“I wouldn’t put my dick in that dirty thing of yours anyways.”

“Ja, rather go put it in your mother.”

With the pleasantries over, she slammed the door. What had happened pissed her off. Not the crude attempt at sex, but the fact that she’d got rid of him before she could buy another globe off him.

Fuck it. She’d be okay till morning.

Leroy sat slumped in his pimped Honda, staring out at the dark ghetto block. Fucken bitch. He had a good mind to go back and teach her a lesson. What the fuck was going on in there, anyways? With that white kid?

While he pondered these confusing elements, his fingers were busy preparing another globe. A car’s headlights raked the front of the block, illuminating the words
thug life
daubed in white paint. Leroy ducked down even lower when he saw the Ford come to a halt. He knew Rikki drove that red BMW, but still. He was in enemy territory.

He saw a big guy get out of the car. He was wearing a jacket and had a peaked cap pulled over his face, carried a kit bag. The guy walked across to the stairs Leroy had just come down. One light still burned on the stairs, and Leroy realized he was watching Gatsby walking up to the landing.

Leroy laughed to himself. The moment he saw that white kid, he reckoned something was up. Now he knew. Fucken Gatsby. Leroy had heard there was a warrant out on the fat boer, but there was no way he was going to share his news with the cops.

He also knew that some old-school gangster, Benny Mongrel, had been in Lotus River asking around about Gatsby. And that Fingers Morkel was hot to find Benny Mongrel, wanting revenge. If Gatsby was here, maybe Benny Mongrel would follow.

Leroy was only too happy to score points with the man with no fingers. In the Byzantine world of Cape Flats gangster politics, he was a powerful ally. Leroy reached for his cell phone and dialed. He got voice mail and left a brief, not altogether lucid message, telling Fingers what he had seen.

Then he made the mistake of striking a match and bringing it to the globe.

Barnard was on the landing, catching his breath, when he saw the match flare in the Honda. Instinct took over, and he ducked into the shadows, moved across to the fire escape, and humped his bulk back down to ground level. He stayed in the shadows, coming up behind the car.

He saw the driver slouched behind the wheel, and from the glow he knew he was smoking tik. Barnard couldn’t run the risk that the man had seen him. He knew that shooting him would be too noisy. Even on the Flats a gunshot wouldn’t go unremarked. Barnard was walking across uneven, broken pavement. He set the kit bag down, bent and grabbed a chunk of cement, and headed for the Honda.

The half-breed heard him, dropped the globe, and looked up with a stupid expression on his face, smoke escaping from his open mouth. Barnard reached in through the open window and smashed the cement down on the half-breed’s head, stunning him. Barnard opened the car door and hauled him out onto the street. Then he finished the job, pulping the half-breed’s head with the cement, till it looked like roadkill on the blacktop.

Then he pulled the keys from the car’s ignition and went to the rear and popped the trunk. He hauled the half-breed around the back of the car and dumped him into the trunk. He threw the car keys in after him, slammed the lid, and made sure it was locked. He looked around. All was quiet.

Time to go and check on the bitch and the American kid.