Read Online The Big Killing by Robert Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Wilson
Tags: Mystery
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want to pay?' I said, hearing that line fizz through his brain.
'I not payin' for dat!' he roared. 'Gah! You tanking for one...'
'B.B., calm down. I'm paying.'
'Mebbe you pay me de monny you owe me 'fore you go stayin' in de Novotel.'
'You'll get it, and when you do I'm up to my daily rate, remember.'
'Bloddy daily rate! Bloddy ting! You teef man wid your daily rate!'
'What do you want, B.B.?' I asked, measuring out the syllables. B.B. bubbled some more, chewed over his anger and spat it out like gristle.
'First ting,' he belched. 'You go, you go tomorrow. Kurt, he gone. He not dere. I don' know where he gone. De wife, she say he still dere. I aks to spik to him. She say he always out. You go, you find de problem. You still haf de Kurt passport detail?' he asked, knowing I still had it from the last time he'd asked me. He coughed a quantity of phlegm into his mouth and I felt him search for his hanky. 'Second ting,' he said, spitting the oyster, 'you go to Danish Embassy?'
'Not yet.'
'What you doin' all day?'
'I've got a tight schedule.'
'Mebbe you try wokking in de day like rest of us. Sleep at night, you know.'
'I'll make a note of that.'
'You go to Danish Embassy this afternoon; this Kurt man a criminal, I know it. T'ird ting, de Japanese, dey come.'
'Which Japanese?'
'De company dat buy de sheanut. Dey have de croshing plant in Japan.'
'I know, but what are their names?'
'My God, dis difficult ting. Har-ra-ra-ra-ra...'
'Was that one or both of them?'
'No, de udder one is, Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka...'
'Fax me.'
'You tinking correck.'
'What about money?'
'Wait de monny!' he shouted, irritated. 'De Japanese ... you show dem round, show dem de operascharn, you give dem good time, tek plenty whisky. Kurt wife, she help make some food tings an' such. OK?'
'Fine. The money for this?'
'You always aksing de monny!'
'I haven't got any and it often slips your mind.'
'Is there anything left in Korhogo?'
'No. All gone. You find de books and tell me where it gone. OK. You better horry or de bank it shut,' he finished, the phone clattering into its cradle.
I called the Danish Embassy and made an appointment to see a vice-consul called Leif Andersen at 4.00 p.m. The sky had clouded over by the time I left the hotel at 3.15 and looked ready for rain. I took a taxi to the bank in the Alpha 2000 building and told the car to wait while I withdrew both B.B. and Martin Fall's money. I put it in a plastic carrier bag from Le Coq Sportif that I'd brought with me. The taxi was gone when I came out, which was a small worry. I didn't want to dally too long in the street with a bag holding nearly 3 million CFAâ$12,000 doesn't look much like a pair of running shoes.
Up the street a rangy kid of about twenty, in a sweatshirt with a big number thirty-two on it, strolled out of a shop doorway with his hands in his baggy jeans pockets. He had his hair razored up over the ears and cut flat top. Across the street another punk looked over the roof of a car, wearing a baseball cap the wrong way round and a black T-shirt with something white on it. These kids had been watching movies, I thought, and turned to walk down the hill. Two boys walked out of a garage in front of me, one lifting his T-shirt to get some air up there and to show me what he had in the waistband of his jeans, the other with an ear missing. These two were shabbier, old jeans cut tight, faded T-shirts. The one with two ears had Mr Smile on the front without the smile, both with no shoes. I turned back and the other kid was standing by the door to the bank, his friend starting to cross the road now. The taxi rounded the block and started cruising down the hill in no hurry. I walked up the hill towards it, the kid outside the bank with his hands out of his pockets now, wiping them on his shirt front, nervous, like me. I ran at him. His eyes widened, looking for his friends. I could hear a pair of trainers and the slap of bare feet on the pavement. I kicked the kid
'I not payin' for dat!' he roared. 'Gah! You tanking for one...'
'B.B., calm down. I'm paying.'
'Mebbe you pay me de monny you owe me 'fore you go stayin' in de Novotel.'
'You'll get it, and when you do I'm up to my daily rate, remember.'
'Bloddy daily rate! Bloddy ting! You teef man wid your daily rate!'
'What do you want, B.B.?' I asked, measuring out the syllables. B.B. bubbled some more, chewed over his anger and spat it out like gristle.
'First ting,' he belched. 'You go, you go tomorrow. Kurt, he gone. He not dere. I don' know where he gone. De wife, she say he still dere. I aks to spik to him. She say he always out. You go, you find de problem. You still haf de Kurt passport detail?' he asked, knowing I still had it from the last time he'd asked me. He coughed a quantity of phlegm into his mouth and I felt him search for his hanky. 'Second ting,' he said, spitting the oyster, 'you go to Danish Embassy?'
'Not yet.'
'What you doin' all day?'
'I've got a tight schedule.'
'Mebbe you try wokking in de day like rest of us. Sleep at night, you know.'
'I'll make a note of that.'
'You go to Danish Embassy this afternoon; this Kurt man a criminal, I know it. T'ird ting, de Japanese, dey come.'
'Which Japanese?'
'De company dat buy de sheanut. Dey have de croshing plant in Japan.'
'I know, but what are their names?'
'My God, dis difficult ting. Har-ra-ra-ra-ra...'
'Was that one or both of them?'
'No, de udder one is, Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka...'
'Fax me.'
'You tinking correck.'
'What about money?'
'Wait de monny!' he shouted, irritated. 'De Japanese ... you show dem round, show dem de operascharn, you give dem good time, tek plenty whisky. Kurt wife, she help make some food tings an' such. OK?'
'Fine. The money for this?'
'You always aksing de monny!'
'I haven't got any and it often slips your mind.'
'Is there anything left in Korhogo?'
'No. All gone. You find de books and tell me where it gone. OK. You better horry or de bank it shut,' he finished, the phone clattering into its cradle.
I called the Danish Embassy and made an appointment to see a vice-consul called Leif Andersen at 4.00 p.m. The sky had clouded over by the time I left the hotel at 3.15 and looked ready for rain. I took a taxi to the bank in the Alpha 2000 building and told the car to wait while I withdrew both B.B. and Martin Fall's money. I put it in a plastic carrier bag from Le Coq Sportif that I'd brought with me. The taxi was gone when I came out, which was a small worry. I didn't want to dally too long in the street with a bag holding nearly 3 million CFAâ$12,000 doesn't look much like a pair of running shoes.
Up the street a rangy kid of about twenty, in a sweatshirt with a big number thirty-two on it, strolled out of a shop doorway with his hands in his baggy jeans pockets. He had his hair razored up over the ears and cut flat top. Across the street another punk looked over the roof of a car, wearing a baseball cap the wrong way round and a black T-shirt with something white on it. These kids had been watching movies, I thought, and turned to walk down the hill. Two boys walked out of a garage in front of me, one lifting his T-shirt to get some air up there and to show me what he had in the waistband of his jeans, the other with an ear missing. These two were shabbier, old jeans cut tight, faded T-shirts. The one with two ears had Mr Smile on the front without the smile, both with no shoes. I turned back and the other kid was standing by the door to the bank, his friend starting to cross the road now. The taxi rounded the block and started cruising down the hill in no hurry. I walked up the hill towards it, the kid outside the bank with his hands out of his pockets now, wiping them on his shirt front, nervous, like me. I ran at him. His eyes widened, looking for his friends. I could hear a pair of trainers and the slap of bare feet on the pavement. I kicked the kid
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