Mixed Blood by Roger Smith Page B

but he thought fuck it . He no longer wanted to guard the building site. Not after the gangsters. And especially not after that fat cop had kicked Bessie. He wanted to get himself and his dog as far away from there as he could.
    So he went up to the young girl behind the reception desk. She sat with her nose buried in a gossip magazine, chewing gum. She ignored him. Benny Mongrel had to find patience from somewhere. In his old world he would have blackened her eyes and bruised that painted mouth before she knew what was coming.
    “Missy.”
    She dragged her eyes from the magazine and stared at him. “What?”
    “I want to see the boss.”
    “Why?”
    “Please. I need to talk to him.”
    He could see she was finding it difficult staring at his scarred face. She looked away and lifted a phone, mumbled a few words. She pointed to a doorway. “You’ve got five minutes.”
    Benny Mongrel knocked on the door and walked in. He had never spoken to the white man behind the desk, only seen him driving in and out in his Mercedes-Benz. He wore a dark tie and a shirt so white it hurt your eyes. His office was as cold as a fridge from the air-conditioning.
    The man lifted his eyes from a laptop. He didn’t stand or invite Benny Mongrel to sit. “What’s your name?”
    “Uh, Niemand. Benny Niemand.”
    “Okay. Is there a problem?”
    “No, sir. I just was wondering if maybe I could guard a different site, like.”
    “Why don’t you take this up with Isaacs?”
    “He’s on the course, sir.”
    The man gave him a long-suffering look. “Where are you posted at the moment?”
    “The new house. Above Sea Point.”
    “Okay. What’s wrong with working that site?”
    “Nothing. No, I thought maybe I could have something more, I dunno … something with more responsibility, like.”
    The white man laughed at him. “So you’re ambitious, hey? Okay, that’s fine. Look, you’ve been with us, what? Two months?” Benny Mongrel nodded. “Why don’t we give it another month or so? The house will be completed then anyway, and we’ll move you on. Okay?”
    Benny Mongrel nodded again. The white man was already going back to his laptop. Then he saw Benny Mongrel wasn’t moving. The man looked up, irritated.
    “Was there something else?”
    “My dog.”
    “Now what? Do you want a new dog too?”
    “No, no, no, sir. She’s a very good dog. I was just wondering if, you know, one day I can maybe, like, buy her?”
    The man looked at him in surprise. “Jesus, Niemand, what’s your problem? We don’t sell these dogs; this isn’t a bloody pet shop. Now come on, get going. I’m busy here.”
    The white man was already typing on his computer.

    Constable Gershwynne Galant was sure his blood was cooking, honest to God. There was no way he could sit inside the windowless metal container that housed the satellite police station. He took a stool and placed it in the tiny patch of shade outside. His boots were still in the blazing sun, but at least his face and chest were in the shade.
    This satellite police station was the result of some visible policing initiative dreamed up by a politician who spent his life inside air-conditioned offices. Since the nearest police station was in distant Bellwood South, the residents of Paradise Park had shoved the usual rape and murder statistics in the face of local politicians. Finally, a trailer had been towed to a piece of open veld, and the satellite station opened its door.
    The plan was to have a police officer on duty from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Which was totally useless as most of the crime happened at night, but what can you do? The first night, after the cop on duty went home, local gangsters had hooked the trailer to a truck and towed it away. Red-faced, the politicians had replaced the trailer with a heavy container, like the ones used on cargo ships.
    Manning the satellite station was a punishment detail. Gershwynne Galant had made the mistake of getting caught with the takings of a