Read Online Payback - A Cape Town thriller by Mike Nicol - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Nicol
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space: white couches facing the sea view, limewashed table and chairs, white flokatis on the ash flooring. A ritual of white. White votive candles scattered about, the only other light coming from a desk lamp. Everything reflected in the picture windows.
She clicked off the lamp and smiled at the order of her lair.
Sheemina February ate at her dining table facing the dark sea. Piazzolla on the sound system. Propped against the wine bottle, the photograph of Mace Bishop in his costume. Sexy. She speared the penne onto her fork and wiped them through red pesto sauce.
Later she went out on the balcony with the last of the wine. Leant against the chrome rail, the metal cold under her arms, a dampness clinging to the ozone air. She finished her wine, dangling the long-stemmed goblet from the fingers of her left hand. The glove off. She let it drop, the glass flashing twice before it disappeared, the fall too long to hear it break.
12
Even at ten the nightclub quarter was hectic. Kids stood around their cars drinking, doors open, sound systems thumping out rap and funk. Mace found a spot for Oumou’s Opel estate a few streets away, checked a round into the chamber of his Ruger, slipped it into his jacket pocket. The street was quiet, some parked cars farther along, a huddle of streetkids in a shop doorway. He sat watching them: they could have been the pack that attacked him. This group was whacked on glue, meths, who knew: curled into one another, covered by plastic and cardboard. Even the slam of his car door didn’t raise a head.
Assurance Street by night was a party. Loud, throbbing, kids dancing in the road. The air sweet with grass, E-pushers doing business unconcerned. Matthew had speakers belting techno mounted on the walls either side his club’s neon sign, a screen now suspended over the entrance showing a loop of nuclear tests. A bomb went off here: inside the club, outside the club, either way, the collateral would be major. First the explosion’s mayhem, then the panic, then the difficulty of bringing in emergency vehicles.
Mace took a look round for Dr Roberto. The guy had seen him and was angling through the throng.
‘Mr Mace,’ he called, ‘the people you want are here’ - he gestured towards the corner. ‘A white man and a coloured, sitting in a Toyota car.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘It is according to Cuito.’
‘He’s around?’
‘For some time but he has gone now to sleep. He says I must tell you the white man is from this morning. The other man he has not seen before.’
At the club doors Mace could see Pylon waving him over. ‘Watch them, Dr Roberto,’ he said, making off. ‘They move anywhere, even to take a pee you let me know.’
Behind him he heard Dr Roberto say, ‘Maybe I will be needed as a doctor tonight?’ Mace left the question unanswered.
Pylon tapped his watch. ‘Ten o’clock we said. I’m missing the soccer for this: Bushbucks and Kaiser Chiefs.’
Mace gave the French shrug, pushed past him through the doors. ‘Ten-twenty’s not too bad. You could tape the soccer.’
‘I am,’ said Pylon.
Inside two bouncers with magic wands stepped up to frisk him.
Ducky Donald in white, white shirt open to show chest hair, white chinos, white socks and shoes, a black bimbo in black fastened to his arm, intervened, ‘Party time, guys, they’re special guests.’ The one with his wand screeching over Mace’s Ruger grinned. ‘Fuzz?’
‘Whatever you want,’ said Pylon.
‘You know what?’ said Ducky. ‘In my water it says they won’t do it. And you know why?’
Pylon rolled his eyes, shouted at Matthew, ‘Give us some light on the scene?’ The club was as dark as a Gothic grotto.
Matthew punched up the lights. For the first time Mace saw the djs in a box about head level, staring down on them. Both shaven heads. Skinny. Androgynous. Something softer about the one’s face that made her for a woman.
‘You wanna know why?’
The boy dj gave a hand
She clicked off the lamp and smiled at the order of her lair.
Sheemina February ate at her dining table facing the dark sea. Piazzolla on the sound system. Propped against the wine bottle, the photograph of Mace Bishop in his costume. Sexy. She speared the penne onto her fork and wiped them through red pesto sauce.
Later she went out on the balcony with the last of the wine. Leant against the chrome rail, the metal cold under her arms, a dampness clinging to the ozone air. She finished her wine, dangling the long-stemmed goblet from the fingers of her left hand. The glove off. She let it drop, the glass flashing twice before it disappeared, the fall too long to hear it break.
12
Even at ten the nightclub quarter was hectic. Kids stood around their cars drinking, doors open, sound systems thumping out rap and funk. Mace found a spot for Oumou’s Opel estate a few streets away, checked a round into the chamber of his Ruger, slipped it into his jacket pocket. The street was quiet, some parked cars farther along, a huddle of streetkids in a shop doorway. He sat watching them: they could have been the pack that attacked him. This group was whacked on glue, meths, who knew: curled into one another, covered by plastic and cardboard. Even the slam of his car door didn’t raise a head.
Assurance Street by night was a party. Loud, throbbing, kids dancing in the road. The air sweet with grass, E-pushers doing business unconcerned. Matthew had speakers belting techno mounted on the walls either side his club’s neon sign, a screen now suspended over the entrance showing a loop of nuclear tests. A bomb went off here: inside the club, outside the club, either way, the collateral would be major. First the explosion’s mayhem, then the panic, then the difficulty of bringing in emergency vehicles.
Mace took a look round for Dr Roberto. The guy had seen him and was angling through the throng.
‘Mr Mace,’ he called, ‘the people you want are here’ - he gestured towards the corner. ‘A white man and a coloured, sitting in a Toyota car.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘It is according to Cuito.’
‘He’s around?’
‘For some time but he has gone now to sleep. He says I must tell you the white man is from this morning. The other man he has not seen before.’
At the club doors Mace could see Pylon waving him over. ‘Watch them, Dr Roberto,’ he said, making off. ‘They move anywhere, even to take a pee you let me know.’
Behind him he heard Dr Roberto say, ‘Maybe I will be needed as a doctor tonight?’ Mace left the question unanswered.
Pylon tapped his watch. ‘Ten o’clock we said. I’m missing the soccer for this: Bushbucks and Kaiser Chiefs.’
Mace gave the French shrug, pushed past him through the doors. ‘Ten-twenty’s not too bad. You could tape the soccer.’
‘I am,’ said Pylon.
Inside two bouncers with magic wands stepped up to frisk him.
Ducky Donald in white, white shirt open to show chest hair, white chinos, white socks and shoes, a black bimbo in black fastened to his arm, intervened, ‘Party time, guys, they’re special guests.’ The one with his wand screeching over Mace’s Ruger grinned. ‘Fuzz?’
‘Whatever you want,’ said Pylon.
‘You know what?’ said Ducky. ‘In my water it says they won’t do it. And you know why?’
Pylon rolled his eyes, shouted at Matthew, ‘Give us some light on the scene?’ The club was as dark as a Gothic grotto.
Matthew punched up the lights. For the first time Mace saw the djs in a box about head level, staring down on them. Both shaven heads. Skinny. Androgynous. Something softer about the one’s face that made her for a woman.
‘You wanna know why?’
The boy dj gave a hand
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