a black suit also came by fast.'
'Following
Jolly?'
'They
was going in the same direction.'
'You
tell the police this?'
She
fiddled with the neckline of her satin dress and rearranged the folds. Her
long fingernails had flakes of old fire-engine red varnish. 'No. The more I
tell them, the more they want to know and I've got troubles of my own.'
'That
was the last time you saw Jolly?'
'I
had to meet a Norwegian whaler, Sven or Lars, can't remember which.' She rubbed
her skinny arms. 'I worked the dock till morning. He was lying there all the
time and I didn't know.'
'Tell
me about the man that followed Jolly,' Emmanuel said when the prostitute had
recovered from the spectre of a dead boy just a few yards from her nightly
beat.
'I
told you. White man in a black suit.'
'Tall
or short? Skinny or fat?'
'Skinny
and light on his feet. Quick like.'
'Same
height as me?'
She
squinted. 'Little smaller maybe. Can't really say.'
That
would make the suspect just under six feet. Slightly above average height but
not enough to stand out in a crowd.
'Anything
else?'
She
shook her head, her attention on the slide. Emmanuel suspected she dreaded the
men who 'just wanted to talk'. They took up more time than a shuffle and a
grunt between boxcars. Still, the odd pairing of night-time creatures transcended
the ordinary. That a hashish-hungry prostitute and an Indian strongman had
found each other was a thing to marvel at, especially in the National Party's
colour-coded South Africa.
'You
can go.' Emmanuel waved the woman away, but stopped Giriraj when he tried to
make a break for the street. 'If Parthiv finds out you're stealing from him,'
he said, 'his mother will kill you.'
Giriraj
shuffled a foot in the dirt, impatient for the awkward moment to end. Emmanuel
motioned the muscle man forward and examined the fresh scratches on his neck.
They were identical to the ones he'd seen on his arm last night. Now he knew
who had made them.
The
proprietor of the Night Owl was a big-bellied man with shortened forearms and a
dark beard streaked with grey. His place was two rungs down from a cafe and a
half step up from a missionary soup kitchen. A string of naked bulbs lit the
chipboard tables and chairs scattered under the awning in front of the
business. Two tired Greek flags curled at either side of a browning pot plant
placed on the middle table.
The
big man took the orders and worked the grill; his dwarf-like forearms strained
to reach the onions and fried eggs on the back hotplate. The name 'Nestor' was
embroidered onto the pocket of his sweat-stained shirt. A small sign, hastily painted
in jungle green and nailed under the orders window, read 'Whites Only'.
'That's
for the sailors,' Nestor explained gruffly. 'Otherwise they get into trouble
and then we get into trouble.'
Emmanuel
pressed straight in. 'The kid Jolly Marks, did he get his food from here last
night?'
Nestor
weighed up Emmanuel with a look. Decided he was a policeman or near enough to
one to be given a quick exit.
'Ask
around the back. In the non-white section. That's where we take his orders.' He
slid rubbery eggs into a puddle of grease.
Emmanuel
went to the back and found a rough square of cracked cement that faced onto a
small orders window. No awning, no tables or chairs. A single bulb dangled from
a frayed wire suspended across the cement pad. Two black men in overalls sat on
upturned fruit crates and played checkers on a hand-drawn piece of cardboard.
Durban was a visibly English town and few natives were granted employment
passes to live within the urban area.
'Number
twenty-seven,' the short-order cook called out. 'Bunny chow 'n' chips.
Coca-Cola.'
A
crinkly-headed youth in repatched pants and a loose brown shirt picked up the
meal and leaned against the wall to eat. Emmanuel approached the orders hatch.
The man behind the window had features borrowed from every nationality to have
dropped anchor in the Natal Bay: Asian eyes flecked green and brown, soft
'Following
Jolly?'
'They
was going in the same direction.'
'You
tell the police this?'
She
fiddled with the neckline of her satin dress and rearranged the folds. Her
long fingernails had flakes of old fire-engine red varnish. 'No. The more I
tell them, the more they want to know and I've got troubles of my own.'
'That
was the last time you saw Jolly?'
'I
had to meet a Norwegian whaler, Sven or Lars, can't remember which.' She rubbed
her skinny arms. 'I worked the dock till morning. He was lying there all the
time and I didn't know.'
'Tell
me about the man that followed Jolly,' Emmanuel said when the prostitute had
recovered from the spectre of a dead boy just a few yards from her nightly
beat.
'I
told you. White man in a black suit.'
'Tall
or short? Skinny or fat?'
'Skinny
and light on his feet. Quick like.'
'Same
height as me?'
She
squinted. 'Little smaller maybe. Can't really say.'
That
would make the suspect just under six feet. Slightly above average height but
not enough to stand out in a crowd.
'Anything
else?'
She
shook her head, her attention on the slide. Emmanuel suspected she dreaded the
men who 'just wanted to talk'. They took up more time than a shuffle and a
grunt between boxcars. Still, the odd pairing of night-time creatures transcended
the ordinary. That a hashish-hungry prostitute and an Indian strongman had
found each other was a thing to marvel at, especially in the National Party's
colour-coded South Africa.
'You
can go.' Emmanuel waved the woman away, but stopped Giriraj when he tried to
make a break for the street. 'If Parthiv finds out you're stealing from him,'
he said, 'his mother will kill you.'
Giriraj
shuffled a foot in the dirt, impatient for the awkward moment to end. Emmanuel
motioned the muscle man forward and examined the fresh scratches on his neck.
They were identical to the ones he'd seen on his arm last night. Now he knew
who had made them.
The
proprietor of the Night Owl was a big-bellied man with shortened forearms and a
dark beard streaked with grey. His place was two rungs down from a cafe and a
half step up from a missionary soup kitchen. A string of naked bulbs lit the
chipboard tables and chairs scattered under the awning in front of the
business. Two tired Greek flags curled at either side of a browning pot plant
placed on the middle table.
The
big man took the orders and worked the grill; his dwarf-like forearms strained
to reach the onions and fried eggs on the back hotplate. The name 'Nestor' was
embroidered onto the pocket of his sweat-stained shirt. A small sign, hastily painted
in jungle green and nailed under the orders window, read 'Whites Only'.
'That's
for the sailors,' Nestor explained gruffly. 'Otherwise they get into trouble
and then we get into trouble.'
Emmanuel
pressed straight in. 'The kid Jolly Marks, did he get his food from here last
night?'
Nestor
weighed up Emmanuel with a look. Decided he was a policeman or near enough to
one to be given a quick exit.
'Ask
around the back. In the non-white section. That's where we take his orders.' He
slid rubbery eggs into a puddle of grease.
Emmanuel
went to the back and found a rough square of cracked cement that faced onto a
small orders window. No awning, no tables or chairs. A single bulb dangled from
a frayed wire suspended across the cement pad. Two black men in overalls sat on
upturned fruit crates and played checkers on a hand-drawn piece of cardboard.
Durban was a visibly English town and few natives were granted employment
passes to live within the urban area.
'Number
twenty-seven,' the short-order cook called out. 'Bunny chow 'n' chips.
Coca-Cola.'
A
crinkly-headed youth in repatched pants and a loose brown shirt picked up the
meal and leaned against the wall to eat. Emmanuel approached the orders hatch.
The man behind the window had features borrowed from every nationality to have
dropped anchor in the Natal Bay: Asian eyes flecked green and brown, soft
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