Killer Country by Mike Nicol Page B

it.’
    ‘Some movies I have seen ten times.’
    Manga whistled.
    ‘Thelma and Louise, I have watched fifteen times.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To see them die. In the end they die like heroes.’ He raised his right hand, floating it on an upward trajectory.
    ‘Captain,’ said Manga. ‘You’re crazy moegoe.’
    Two hours later, coming off the Karoo plateau into the vinelands of the Hex River Valley, Manga’s phone rang, the CLI reading: Sheemina February. He connected.
    She said, ‘Everything going smoothly?’
    ‘Except we don’t know what everything is.’ He lodged the cellphone between chin and shoulder, needing both hands on the wheel for the curves down the pass. ‘Unless you tell us.’
    ‘I’m about to, Manga. Here are the wishes of Mr Obed Chocho.’
    ‘I’m listening,’ said Manga.
    ‘First, where are you?’
    He told her.
    ‘Excellent. You’ve been driving hard.’ A tone in there that bristled Manga: a patronising bitch. She said, ‘That’s going to take you, what, another hour and a half?’
    ‘I expect,’ said Manga.
    ‘Good timing then. There’re rooms for you in the City Lodge, the one off the N2. You know the city?’
    ‘Enough.’
    ‘Not far from the Lodge’s a steakhouse. Have a shower, have a steak, relax. The job’s tonight at nine o’clock. Not earlier, not later. You with me, Manga?
    ‘Sure,’ he said, wondering who this bitch was Obed Chocho’d hired for his dirty work.
    ‘I’ll sms the address. It’s on a golf estate near Pollsmoor Prison. You probably know it, the prison.’
    Manga let it go, not rising to the sarcasm.
    Sheemina February pausing slightly then going on. ‘There’s two entrances, security at both. Electrified fence all round. The man you have to see is called Popo Dlamini. Tell Spitz no cock-ups.’ She disconnected.
    Manga told Spitz the gist of it, including the bit about no cock-ups.
    ‘She said those words?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    Spitz let it go without comment. ‘And that was her message? You know this Popo? You can recognise him?’
    ‘Nah, captain, never heard of him.’
    Spitz broke a new pack of menthols. ‘So what am I supposed to do? Ask the brother for his ID first?’

15
     
     
    ‘Non,’ said Oumou. ‘This is not a good idea. Borrowing money.’
    Mace, spruced from a swimming session at the gym, overnight bag packed for Berlin, selected a wine bottle from the rack, about to stick in the cork screw. ‘This’s a screw top!’
    ‘Oui.’ Oumou set out ciabatta and a dish of caprese on the table, the basil still pungent in the kitchen.
    ‘Supposed to be a cork.’
    ‘This is what the man gave me.’ She cut thick slices of bread. ‘I ask him for a good wine, this is his choice.’
    Mace looked at the label. Diemersfontein pinotage. In a screw top? One minute it has to be a cork so the wine can breathe. Lying on its side in a cool place. Next it’s in a screw top like cheap wine, standing upright.
    ‘At Woolies?’
    ‘Oui. Of course.’
    ‘The man actually recommended it?’
    Oumou put down the breadknife. ‘Non. He says if I want a bad wine, this is good. Tastes terrible of chocolate and coffee. The man hates it. He says they sell so much because everybody is a fool. No one can tell what is rubbish if he says it is nice.’
    Mace said, ‘I just asked.’ He cracked the seal and unscrewed the cap. Sniffed the nose, couldn’t smell coffee or chocolate. He poured the wine thick and dark into their glasses. ‘Nice colour.’
    ‘The man said if you tip the glass it is like bull’s blood.’
    ‘Bloody wonderful.’
    ‘I am telling you his words.’
    Mace took a swig, held it in his mouth as someone had told him you had to. He swallowed. ‘Guy’s right. First time I’ve ever tasted what somebody’s said. You listen to the experts they go on about pencil shavings, a hint of farmyard, you have no idea what that is when you drink it. This Woolies man I understand. I can taste coffee. Chocolate even.’ Mace refilled his glass.