Read Online The Water Man's Daughter by Emma Ruby-Sachs - Free Book Online Page B

the drivers themselves as a gang problem. They point out that the drivers specialize in beatings, brutal ones, for those who trespass on their turf. People who go to them with complaints will often see the culprit they identified bruised and beaten the next day. But they are an arm of the law in her township, whether she acknowledges it or not. And, like it or not, this is a good chance for Zembe to barter for her own investigation. The drivers know the most about what goes on after dark in the township. She will stop at the petrol station first.
    Z EMBE DRIVES UP TO A THREE-WAY STOP AND TURNS around a bright red post holding up the far edge of a white canopy. The concrete around the petrol station is cracked and lines sneak in and out of potholes, run under the two pumps, and continue towards the small store at the far end of the lot. Everything is red and white except for a green BP sign hung above the road. There is yellow tape strung across the door of the store, probably stolen from a construction site in the city. The air smells of gasoline. It looks like a crime scene from an American movie.
    She parks her car next to the store and ducks under the yellow tape. Inside, four men are arguing in loud voices. The smell of gasoline intensifies in there. The fattest man, fleshsagging from his small frame, slams down a bottle of Diet Coke and then turns and grins at Zembe.
    “Mama Afrika.”
    “Sanibona, ninjani?”
    “Siyaphila. Ulate.”
    “Late? I didn’t realize you were paying my salary,” Zembe retorts.
    The fat man stands up. His head is too small for the rest of his body and it makes him look more like a cartoon character than a powerful member of the township community.
    “Some bloody tsotsi from Diepkloof came in here last night while my cousin was working. Cleaned out over two thousand rand.”
    “I assume you can identify the culprit?”
    “Of course. My cousin saw him coming a mile away. He’s been asking for trouble for a while now.”
    “I see. Then perhaps you don’t need my help?”
    “Aren’t you going to send it out on the radio, tell your buddies in Diepkloof about our man?”
    “I might.”
    “I think you should.”
    The three other men have stopped talking, they sip their glass-bottled sodas in unison and watch Zembe. The fat man has his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. He doesn’t look at Zembe while he speaks to her – he’s using the other three as his eyes.
    “I need a favour,” she says.
    “We don’t give favours to police.”
    “I don’t send wires out for suspects without evidence. That means a search, shutting down the petrol station for at least a day, maybe more. Seizing the contents inside, asking witnesses to come down to the police station, answer questions.”
    “Fine, we won’t need your radio. We have our own way of communicating with Diepkloof. But I don’t want to think about what might happen to the dumb tsotsi who did this.”
    “You don’t know where the culprit is. If you could find him you wouldn’t be talking to me in the first place.” Zembe crosses the dirty floor. She steps on a peanut shell and it cracks under her black shoes. She considers for a moment just who this burglar might be: a student at the university who doesn’t often hang around the township? A visitor from another district? Another driver, travelling through? She stands close enough to the man that her face will at least register in his peripheral vision. “I need information about the 28s. We’re looking into them for a bigger crime, something you don’t want to be involved in. Let me know how I can get to them, just one of the members, and I’ll send out your hit on the radio, make sure your guy hears about it, too.”
    “The dead ghost?”
    Zembe grimaces. It would be only a matter of time before more of the details leaked to the rest of the township. “Yes. We’re looking for his killer.”
    The fat man sits down. The three behind him stop sipping and look away from