“Why so?”
“He no like the other unfortunatelies. Say he different from them. Say he was not born to shame mother.”
“Who looks after him, then?”
“I pay boys.”
“With his rent money?”
“I must not be out of my pocket because he is funny chap, Mr Zondi.”
“That boy over there, is he one who helps?”
“Any boys. My driver finds them.”
“So Shoe Shoe just says he isn’t coming back to Trichaard Street one night?”
“I telling you.”
“Why so suddenly? He had been there four years-yes?”
Gershwin’s thumb-nail went to work on the bark again. He was digging quite a hole in it.
“That’s right,” he said, very bored.
“And suddenly last night he leaves the market, too. Without his barrow.”
“Ah, now I know your troubles, Mr Zondi! But nobody steal Shoe Shoe, you know. Police not to worry.”
Gershwin was grinning from one small ear to the other.
“No?”
“He fear a spell from the others, they jealous. He take taxi up mountains to look for witchdoctor.”
“When?”
“Saturday before yesterday.”
“By himself?”
“Shoe Shoe save much money-not one family to him, you see-but why pay for two?”
“Do you know which taxi?”
“Parrot taxi cheapest.”
He meant pirate-and knew no inquiry was ever likely to succeed in that direction.
“There’s a whole row of witchdoctors in Brandsma Street, Gershwin.”
“Those with shops no good; all same like white doctors. Shoe Shoe come back by-and-by.”
Gershwin’s grin had fixed, hooked back on his eye teeth. His disclosure was in no way absurd, it all tied together nicely. If anything could make a Zulu-even as handicapped as Shoe Shoe-head for the bush, it was the dread of having had a curse on him. Such spells could only be dealt with in a secret place.
It seemed that Gershwin held a winning hand. So Zondi played the Joker. He tipped his Texans out, so they showered down at his feet, and beckoned the scavenger over. Then he walked briskly away, turning once to enjoy the conflict on Gershwin’s face that finally lost him his composure. The kick was a second too late-the boy and the jackpot had disappeared into the shimmering air.
6
Kramer was seated at the wheel of a taxi in the Market Square, an old sock drawn over the For Hire bracket. The owner was away drinking his health in a nearby bar.
He had chosen the taxi because the rank was close to the flower stalls and he wanted to keep an eye on the yellow Dodge. There had been nothing rewarding so far. Gershwin’s stooge was leaning listlessly on the boot, exhausted by writing some very elementary words in the dust on the back window. The driver was asleep.
Which, by a process of association, made Kramer aware that he was suffering a hangover from some dream which had plagued him until little Piet came in. There was a little of it left, like a heeltap at the bottom of his skull. He could still taste the cloying sweetness of it. Gradually a few images re-formed in his mind’s eye. Theresa le Roux had been warm from her brow to the trim of her ankles. Under the blue gums by a slow brown river, with Christmas beetles shrilling in the bush beyond, she had reached out for him. The little grey dress had slipped off on its own. The hooks on her purple bra had parted at a touch. But as her round breasts sprang free, Dr Strydom’s stitching had come undone and they had flopped into his lap.
He flinched. It was high time he got his thinking straight about Miss Le Roux.
But at that moment he spotted Zondi making his way towards him through the flower stalls-and between them stood the Dodge. A robust housewife beckoned for a Bantu to take some oranges to the car park which lay further back. Zondi barged the other contenders aside and shouldered the bag, effectively masking his face with it as he passed the stooge.
He dumped the bag not far from the taxi rank, accepted a coin with a humble smile, and approached on the stooge’s blind side. Kramer raised a hand to call him over, to tell him it was not worth it, then changed his mind. It could be amusing to see what happened next.
Almost to order, two Cape Coloured tarts began a slanging match a few feet on the far side of the Dodge. The stooge slouched over and a small crowd of layabouts gleefully gathered. Cheers woke the driver, who got out to join his colleague. The obscenities were riveting, but Zondi hesitated. The men in yellow were still too close to the car.
Then an Indian roadsweeper stopped his handcart beside Zondi. He obviously wanted to exchange droll remarks but found instead he was tucking the housewife’s coin into his turban and watching in some bewilderment as Zondi advanced on the mob with the hired broom.
Kramer switched on the taxi’s engine, just in case. You never knew with Zondi. It could turn into a very unpleasant situation.
Zondi walked swiftly up behind the stooge and driver, stopped a yard short, aimed the broom handle between them, and lunged with all his weight. He caught the bigger tart ’twixt buttocks-it was like being goosed by an ostrich. She reacted on reflex with a practised and devastating backhander. The buckle on her bag ripped across the stooge’s face even before her head could turn. And then the driver got his. They screamed and went for her. The other tart gave the rallying cry to every Coloured within half a mile and the fight was on.
It was all action.
Except over on the near side of the Dodge. There Zondi was displaying an almost supercilious calm as he opened the doors to examine the interior. He went over every inch of the upholstery, pried into every stub-filled cranny, tipped up the ashtrays which were empty. Something in the glove compartment finally caught his eye. He carefully closed the doors before crouching to inspect the underside of the vehicle.
He came up smiling just as the market master arrived on the scene blowing frantically on a police whistle. It was definitely a situation in which you went by priorities-Kramer abandoned the taxi to its driver, and the fracas to an Indian constable wobbling up on his bicycle. Zondi had a lead.
7
T HE JAZZY CHRYSLER had been exchanged for Kramer’s personal sedan, an enormous Chevrolet flat enough for a helicopter pad, which was parked half a block away in Library Lane.
Zondi got in behind the wheel and Kramer tossed across the ignition key. He was pleased to have him drive, the glare had produced a stabbing headache.
The Chev nosed its way out of the back streets and then headed north, picking up speed. Zondi had said not a word, but that was his way. Kramer wondered instead what he had done with his sun-glasses. He closed his eyes.
But only for a second. Zondi was going it like a Free State farmer on his way to a Rugby international.
They were straddling the centre line at close on sixty along one of the old streets calculated to take no more than three ox-wagons abreast. An oncoming bus lost its bluster, chickened out, and nearly stamped on a Mini Minor in its rush for the kerb. A sports car tried to hide under a five-ton lorry. A jaywalker paled, panicked, prayed, but was left virtually untouched, staring down at his opened fly in disbelief.
“Must get the right wing-mirror adjusted,” Kramer said. Zondi remained pre-occupied.
Up through the oldest part of town, with its jacaranda avenues and corrugated iron roofs and orange brick, past the squat prison, under the railway bridge and out on to the dual carriageway-no quarter was given or asked.
Normally a good passenger, Kramer was relieved that the road would narrow again in less than three miles for the climb up the escarpment. In fact the fast section lasted only as long as the length of Peacehaven. It took the vulnerable white motorist through as quickly as possible, reducing the shacks and shanties to a colourful blur, and provided an excellent surface for the deployment of military vehicles in the event of a civil disturbance.