Mixed Blood (26 page)

“But an arrest warrant has been issued for this Barnard?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And you’ve made recommendations regarding the other policemen?”

“I have.”

“Then it’s time for you to return to home and hearth.”

“There are a couple of loose ends, sir, that I’d like to tie up.”

Mathebula dropped the avuncular tone. Under the genial exterior that he worked so hard to project, Zondi’s boss was a hard man. A killer. Zondi, of course, had compiled a dossier on his superior and knew that during the struggle years, when Mathebula had been a commander in the ANC’s armed wing, he had personally executed nine of his men whom he suspected of selling information to the apartheid government. No trial, just a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave in the Zambian veld.

“Zondi, I know of your history with this man, Barnard.”

“That is not influencing me.”

“We don’t do vendettas, Zondi. I have cut you some slack, but now I’m losing patience. My p.a. will liaise with you regarding your flight back to Johannesburg. I want you back in the office in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mathebula was gone. Zondi cursed quietly. He was passing the Ratanga Junction Theme Park and saw that one of the rides, the cobra, had stalled in midair, people dangling upside down while men in a cherry picker battled to get to them.

He knew how they felt.

His phone beeped as a text message came through. Zondi drove one-handed and sneaked a look at the message. He was flying out at 8:00 p.m. He had six hours to do what he needed to do.

Mathebula was right. It was a vendetta. He wanted to be there when Barnard was taken down, to bear witness. He didn’t yearn for the closure that the daytime TV shrinks peddled like twenty-first-century snake oil, the fuzzy notion that you faced up to things and then went on with your life. He wanted revenge. It was as simple as that.

He wanted blood.

Barnard shouldered his way through the crowd, deaf to the angry complaints thrown his way. Pounded his bulk up a flight of stairs and crossed an open plaza, his body as wet as if he’d walked through a car wash. He had avoided pay parking and left the Ford in a narrow road at the bottom of a ramp that led back to the city. He unzipped the duffel bag as he walked, just enough to glance inside. It was stuffed with notes. He felt like laughing. He sent a quick glance heavenward.
Thank you, God
.

He would get down on bended knee and offer a prayer of thanks as soon as he was safe.

Burn ran, dodging tourists. He lost sight of the watchman for a few seconds, then saw him heading up the stairs. There was no sign of Barnard. Burn hit the stairs, pumping his legs, racing to the top. He slowed when he hit the plaza above. The tourists were thinner on the ground here; he couldn’t risk being spotted.

He saw the watchman, using a minibus loaded with tourists for cover, walking toward the ramp that joined the main road into downtown Cape Town. Burn speed-dialed the phone he had given to the watchman.

Benny Mongrel shadowed the minibus, which crawled as a giant tour bus passed, waiting to swing out into a lane and accelerate. The phone in his pocket started to ring and vibrate. Benny Mongrel threw it into the gutter and walked on. The fat cop looked back, but he couldn’t see Benny Mongrel.

Then the cop ducked off the ramp and hauled his fat ass down a narrow flight of stairs that led to the road below. The road flanked a dry dock, and Benny Mongrel could see a group of Chinese sailors scraping and repairing their rusted trawler. One of them saw the cop’s man-breasts jiggling as he humped down the steps, and he said something to his friend and they stopped scraping and laughed. The cop didn’t notice. He was heading toward a brown Ford that was parked outside the old fish canning building.

Benny Mongrel knew he was going to be exposed on the stairs, but he had no choice. If he didn’t make his move now, the cop would be in the car and away. He hit the stairs at a run, two at a time.

The fat cop was at the rear of his car, popping the trunk, his sweating back to Benny Mongrel. He dropped the bag into the trunk, slammed it, and turned. And clocked Benny Mongrel, who was closing in fast. Surprise, astonishment even, crossed the cop’s face. He had to get both his fat and the T-shirt out of the way before he could draw the revolver at his hip, and that saved Benny Mongrel’s life.

Benny Mongrel closed the gap and kicked the fat cop in the balls while he was still trying to draw the gun. The cop made a sound like air escaping from a blimp and sagged but didn’t fall. Benny Mongrel kicked him again, in his ribs. And the cop was on his knees.

The Chinese sailors were chirping excitedly, hanging over the railing of the boat. It was better than a Jackie Chan movie. Benny Mongrel had the knife in his hand, and he flicked the blade open on the pocket of his jeans. The fat cop was looking up at him, gasping for air, stinking. Benny Mongrel held the blade so that it gleamed in the sunlight, grabbed the cop by his thatch of hair, and pulled his head back, exposing his throat.

Time to say goodnight.

Benny Mongrel felt the cold barrel of a gun shoved up against the back of his head. “Drop the knife,” said Burn.

C
HAPTER
26

Benny Mongrel wondered if he would be quick enough to cut the cop’s throat before the American shot him. He held the blade against the jowls that hung like accordion bellows from the fat man’s neck, a rivulet of blood already snaking down to the cop’s T-shirt. One motion, quick and true, and it would be done. Benny Mongrel didn’t care if he died, but there was no way he was going to die without taking the fat cop to hell with him.

He heard the gun cocking, a sound he had heard many times before in his life.

“I mean it,” said Burn. “Drop the knife or I’ll shoot you.”

Benny Mongrel believed the desperation he heard in Burn’s voice.

He looked into the cop’s eyes, saw the fear, smelled the stench of his body. Then the message from Benny Mongrel’s brain moved down his arm and reached his fingers, and he loosened his grip on the knife.

There was a moment of absolute silence, broken only by the clatter of the knife as it hit the road. Then the Chinese sailors were jabbering again, in high excitement.

Benny Mongrel felt the pressure of the gun barrel ease as Burn stepped back. He turned and saw Burn reach down and pocket the knife. The fat cop, still down on one knee, was moving a hand toward his ankle. Burn’s gun arced and fixed on the cop.

“Search him,” said the American.

Benny Mongrel found the .32 in the ankle holster and set it down on the road. He removed the .38 from the fat man’s hip and placed it next to the other weapon.

Burn held the gun steady, unwavering, pointed at the fat cop. “Where is my son?”

The cop sneered. “Fuck you.” Burn’s finger was tightening on the trigger. “Shoot me, and you can kiss his little ass good-bye.”

“Open the trunk of the car,” said Burn, the gun moving between Benny Mongrel and the cop. Benny could see that Burn knew how to use it.

Benny Mongrel popped the trunk. Burn leveled the gun at the fat cop.

“Get in.” When the cop tried to protest, Burn pointed the weapon at the cop’s leg. “I’ll shoot you. I mean it.”

The cop shook his head again. “Fuck you.”

And Burn shot him. The bullet took the cop above his left knee, in the meat of his thigh, passing through his flesh without doing serious damage. The cop bit back the pain and grabbed at his leg. The Chinese sailors were chattering like monkeys.

Burn waved the gun again. “Now get in the trunk.”

Blood was flowing down the cop’s leg, and he cursed as he hauled himself to his feet, keeping his weight on his right leg. With a series of actions that under any other circumstances would have been comical, he contrived to load his bulk into the trunk.

“Close it,” Burn said to Benny Mongrel.

When Benny brought the trunk lid down, it hit the cop’s massive belly and refused to close. He leaned his weight on it. He heard the cop grunt and curse. He had to lift himself off the ground, lie on the lid, before he heard it catch.

“Kick the guns over to me.”

Benny Mongrel did as he was told. He watched as Burn pocketed the weapons.

“Now you drive.” Burn gestured with the gun toward the car.

Benny Mongrel shook his head. “I don’t drive.”

Burn stared at him. “You’re kidding me?”

“I never learn.”

“Fuck.” Burn shook his head. “Okay, get into the passenger seat. Slowly.”

He got into the Ford, and Burn slid behind the wheel and started the car.

“Where we going?” asked Benny Mongrel.

“To my house. To get him to talk.” Burn was doing a juggling act, the wheel, the ignition key, the revolver.

“It’s okay.”

“What is?”

“I won’t try nothing.” Burn was looking at him. “You want your boy? You need to know where to get him?” Burn nodded. “I help you if you do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“You let me work on him.” He jerked his head back toward the trunk. “To make him talk. I wanna do that.”

Burn nodded. “Deal.” He started the car and sped off, the revolver shoved between his seat and the door.

Benny Mongrel thought that maybe things had turned out okay. Maybe the American had done him a favor. Cutting the fat cop’s throat was too easy, too quick. Now he had the chance to take his time, put to good use the torture practices he had mastered in prison.

He was looking forward to that.

Burn drove toward his house, battling with the gears on the right-hand-drive stick shift. He had driven only the automatic Jeep since coming to Cape Town. Then he started to get it, felt the mind-muscle coordination kick in.

As he threaded the anonymous brown Ford through the traffic on Greenpoint Main Road, he checked out his passenger. The watchman sat absolutely still, staring straight ahead. Maybe that is what prison taught you, to live in the moment. To conserve your energy for when it was needed, and to go into sleep mode when you faced that endless succession of days. Burn knew that he might well be learning those lessons himself soon.

Somehow he no longer cared. He felt detached from himself, from his own ego and desires, for the first time in his life. He understood how shallow, how immature and superficial most of his urges had been. Now all he cared about, all his very being was focused on, was saving his son. If he could achieve that, he would step quietly into whatever uncertain future awaited him.

Burn changed back to second gear as he turned up Glengariff. The car struggled, and he felt the exhaust scrape under the weight of the massive man in the trunk. Burn had to pump the clutch and shift back to first to get the car moving up the hill.

The watchman was laughing, with no sound escaping his lips.

Maybe that was another trick you learned in prison.

Barnard battled for breath. The exhaust of the Ford leaked, and noxious fumes found their way into the trunk, making him feel as if he was being gassed. His leg throbbed, and he could feel the blood pooling under him. He’d underestimated the American, hadn’t thought he’d have the balls to pull the trigger.

Barnard cursed himself for his stupidity. He had been too sure of himself. He was accustomed to dealing with people out on the Cape Flats, who were shit scared to act against him. But he swore to himself that he would tell the American and the half-breed nothing. They had formed an unholy alliance, but they would not break him.

The car hit a bump, and his forehead and nose smashed up against the lid of the trunk. He felt blood flow from his nose, back into his throat. He couldn’t move his head, wedged in like a meat loaf in a mold. The blood, combined with the fumes, convinced him that this was it. He was about to die. The irony was that he was trapped in the trunk with the duffel bag of money, his passport to a new life, squeezed painfully up against his ribs.

He tried to slow his breathing, offered a prayer to God. For some reason God felt very far away.

The Ford was parked in Burn’s garage. The fat cop was still in the trunk. The steel door was down, and the room was very quiet, cut off from the world outside. Not even the shouts of the men tossing bricks on the building site penetrated the garage.

Benny Mongrel was very precise in his requests. He needed a kitchen chair strong enough to hold the fat cop’s weight, a length of nylon rope, a few rags, some newspaper, garbage bags, and duct tape.

And he needed his knife back.

Burn hesitated a moment, considering the request. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out the folded knife. He handed it to Benny Mongrel. The two men went upstairs and gathered the items Benny Mongrel had asked for. Then they went back down to the garage.

Burn watched as Benny Mongrel spread the newspaper. The garage was large enough to hold two cars, so there was plenty of space next to the Ford. Benny Mongrel was methodical, making sure that the edges of the newspaper overlapped. Then he ripped the black garbage bags apart and placed them over the newspaper. Only then did he set the chair in place.

He looked at Burn and nodded. Burn pointed the .38 at the trunk. Benny Mongrel popped the lid. The fat cop was gasping, his face bright red, blood crusted around his nose and in his mustache. He hauled himself upright.

“Fuck youse,” he said and vomited down the front of his T-shirt. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Get out.”

Burn waved the gun toward the chair. It took a couple of tries for the fat man to lever his weight out of the trunk. At last he managed it, like a side of beef coming out of a freezer truck, and stood wheezing, blood from the leg wound flowing into his shoe.

“Sit down,” said Burn.

Barnard shook his head. Benny Mongrel kicked him in the right kidney, hard enough to make the cop piss blood for a week. The fat cop made a sound like a pig fucking and stumbled, fighting not to fall to his knees. He staggered across to the chair and lowered himself with a series of whining grunts. The wooden chair protested but held his weight.

While Burn held the gun on the cop, Benny Mongrel tied the fat man to the chair, quickly and efficiently immobilizing his arms and legs. Then he shoved a rag into Barnard’s mouth and taped it in place. He opened his knife and cut away the cop’s jeans above his left knee. He pressed a cloth against the wound and taped it up. He didn’t want the fat boer to die of blood loss before he had a chance to work on him.

Benny Mongrel laid the knife on the trunk of the Ford. He took a length of white mutton cloth and tore it with his teeth until he had the length he needed. He very carefully wrapped the blade of the knife down from the haft, leaving only a few centimeters of the blade exposed.

In Pollsmoor Prison a new recruit to the gangs has to pass an initiation rite. He has to stab a warder. But the stabbing must never be fatal, only deep enough to injure. To ensure this, the gang “doctor,” the man who performs a similar function to a medic in a marine platoon, carefully prepares the knife by wrapping it in such a way that the length of the blade is set.

Benny Mongrel had never been a “doctor,” but he had stabbed warders and ordered countless terrified young men to do the same. He had supervised the preparation of the blade. His fingers knew precisely what they were doing.

Barnard watched him, his stench filling the room.

Satisfied, Benny Mongrel approached the fat cop. He showed him the knife.

“Where’s my son?” asked Burn, standing behind Benny Mongrel.

Barnard shook his head. Benny Mongrel inserted the knife into the flesh of the fat cop’s right thigh. It slid in like it was going into prison bully beef. The fat man screamed silently behind the gag.

And so it began.