Roadkill, page 14
“Are you sure? It’s so kind of you.”
“If we can’t help each other in this country, who can we help then?”
“Well, in that case, thanks. But I won’t be a sec.”
Truter moved back into the passage, flicking through the bunch. There was only one M2B. Which left him with only one option.
“Looks like I’m all done,” the Days of Our Lives said from behind him. “Thank you again for being so helpful.”
“No worries. I’ll lock up for you, because I bet you want to get home and enjoy the weekend with your family?” She had nice eyes. And perfect white teeth. And Cadbury’s milk chocolate skin.
“I am actually looking forward to knocking off.”
“Exactly.” Replanting himself back in front of the door, Truter turned the key to the right, then back to the left, while simultaneously clearing his throat of phlegm. He turned and handed the bunch of keys to the Days of Our Lives. “After you, mevrou.” Like the true gentleman he was, he insisted she walk ahead of him.
37
Otto Meissner sat at his desk. Gloating. Stroking his paunch. Savouring the warm fuzzy feeling of success. Luck hadn’t got him to this point. A rare combination of talent, skill, and vision had. The vision to spot and seize an opportunity by the jugular when it came his way. In fact, he had just recently come to realise he shared a lot in common with that other business visionary and great human being: Donald J Trump.
A swarm of ideas had been following in the wake of his breakfast chat with the Galactic Tours chappie. He could just see it – American tourists arriving in their droves in Kombi buses. Why he hadn’t seen it before, the North West’s massive potential, was a little beyond him. But now that Abrahams had pointed it out, it was so obvious – the province was about to explode. And the thing Abrahams said about the government having to build more airports to handle the extra load? That was proof in the pudding.
A lizard-like tongue darted across Meissner’s Highveld-parched lips. He already had his strategy worked out: he would play it nice and slow with the Galactic rep, soften him up, keep up the wining and dining and charming the pants off him. Then, when he was least expecting it, he would strike like a cobra!
Fifteen years in the B&B game had taught Meissner a thing or two about human nature. He could tell a mile away that Abrahams was a big shot at Galactic; a director at the very least. The story about the helicopter rescue in the Alps was a dead giveaway, because there was no ways in hell HQ would send a heli to rescue a lowly sales rep – even if an avalanche was about to flatten the resort. This was all the more reason why he had to play it nice and slow with the guy. By the time his replacement Avis car pulled up the driveway, Abrahams would be begging one Otto Horst Meissner to sign on the dotted line. It would be like that Reader’s Digest story, about the plumber in America who saved a millionaire’s daughter from drowning, and ended up inheriting the millionaire’s fortune after he died in a car crash three months later.
Meissner reached across the desk for his calculator. Three Ships x three triples: R150. Side bowl of peanuts and a biltong stick: R45. Rhino Room x one night: R650. Full Eden buffet breakfast x 1: R75. A few brandy-and-Cokes and a toasted chicken mayo later at the plunge pool, the meter would be hitting a thousand rands before lunch – excluding mini-bar. Like he’d read in Art of the Deal, and like he’d told his wife, you had to spend money to make money. She would be thanking him big time when the bucks started rolling in from Galactic Tours (Pty) Ltd and its associate companies: White Lion Breeding Farms (Pty) Ltd and White Lion Hunting Safaris (Pty) Ltd.
Meissner leant back in the chair and gloated some more. Stroked his paunch some more, enjoying the cotton rubby feeling. His ISM with Abrahams – Investment Strategy Meet – had gone well. Fantastically well. He had kept his cards close to his chest, played hardball when he had to, pretended not to be interested when he had to, acted like it was just casual chit-chat when he had to. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, he was strategising big time, running circles around Abrahams, prepping him for the kill. Meissner chuckled at the fresh memory; by the time they’d agreed on his first ten thousand cash instalment to White Lion Breeding Farms, the man was tripping all over himself to tie up the deal.
Pulling open the desk drawer, he scratched around for his bunch of master keys. He had already decided he would start small, with no more than four, maybe five Eden Palms in the North West – all of them near the lion-breeding operations – before rolling out his franchise to the rest of the country. Controlling his excitement with a long deep breath, he checked his watch – by now Abrahams would have cashed his cheque and made the deposit into the investment consortium’s account. But like he had told him straight, it was his way or the highway: the consortium would get the other twenty thousand when his overdraft was approved. Because nobody, but nobody, told Otto Meissner what to do.
38
With a view over the Hyperama and a gold coat of arms dead centre in a red wall-to-wall carpet, he had to hand it to the old fox: Jakkals had outdone himself getting into the hen house.
Truter stood at the door, admiring the plush trappings that came with the title of Brits mayor. The office was something out of Dallas, with a dark wood desk the size of a minibus taxi parked in front of the window, and a black-and-chrome leather chair pulled up behind it. A wall of (empty) book shelves with fancy glass doors filled the one wall. Built into the bookshelf was a drinks cabinet with an automatic pouring thingie and posh glasses arranged on a silver tray – exactly like JR’s office.
A ratel drawn to a bee hive, Truter headed straight for the drinks cabinet. He pulled the stopper from the empty decanter and took a sniff. Martell VOC? Or even something grander.
He moved around Venter’s desk and rolled out the chair. He could tell Jakkals had a squad of secretaries doing his work, because there was hardly anything on the desk. He lifted a framed photo and studied it – a young-looking Jakkals and his wife and their two kids on a speedboat smiled grimly back at him. Behind them the water was white with chop. Looking past the droopy tits in the bikini top, she was okay in the looks department – he wouldn’t say no if it came to it. He set the photo down and inspected the other items on the desk. An In/Out tray with some papers; a TFS calendar; a black glass ashtray filled with crushed stompies; a mini clock; a Perspex box filled with pens and pencils and a carved ivory letter opener.
Truter manoeuvred himself into the chair and got comfy. He pushed back on it, swivelled to the left, swivelled to the right. It was like driving a Rolls Royce. He pulled open the top drawer. The usual man-drawer: loose paper clips; an old Autobank card; a BIC lighter; a half-eaten Tex Bar; a tube of Mycota squeezed dry; leaking AAA batteries and loose keys; a wad of business cards held together with elastic bands; a pack of open Carlton men’s tissues; a cellphone charger; a tube of Vicks lip ice.
He leaned down and slid open the second drawer. It was even less interesting. Nothing but coloured folders marked Brits Municipality this and that. All of them admin. Truter flipped through the contents, clueless what he was looking at – he should have brought Delport. Then again, maybe not.
Same again with the last drawer. Nothing but bladdy admin. He shoved it back in and sat back, drumming his fingers on the black leather armrests. He hadn’t woken at sparrow’s fart and driven two hours for nothing. There had to be something more. Anything.
A nauseous pit with no name had now taken up residence in Truter’s gut. It was like Jakkals was in the room with him. In the collapsed leather of the chair. In the smell coming off the Chesterfield stompies and stale carpet. He could see him standing at the drinks cabinet, his staunch legs wide apart, pouring his rum and Coke. Truter reached across the desk for the photo. Except for the extra weight, Jakkals hadn’t changed much. Always that same sideways look with the jaw pushed out, and the ice-blue eyes that cut through you like a blade. Truter pushed the photo away, as if it had come suddenly to writhing life in his hands. He shut his eyes, trying to remember, at the same time trying to forget that night at The Farm. Trying to remember exactly what went down. Trying not to remember the smell of rubber and burning flesh and the manic laughing mixed in with the moaning coming from inside the workshop. Trying not to remember Jakkals’s calm voice in his ear, telling him it was going to be okay, as long as he kept his mouth shut—
Truter’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. Delport! The moegoe really knew how to choose his moment. Bugger him! The mission was going nowhere fast. According to the desk clock, he’d been staring out like a zombie for the past ten minutes. Any moment Days of Our Lives was going to bang down the door. PING! What now? He pulled the Nokia from his pocket and scrolled through Delport’s SMS.
RE. MISSING PERSON, SIR. ANONYMOUS PHONE CALL RECEIVED. WITNESS SAW MAN CARRYING BODY. LOCATION: FARM NOOIT VERDRIET.
WITNESS HAS IDENTIFIED SUSPECT.
Truter smiled grimly. Nice one, Delport. This was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for. He typed back:
aM on mY way. We HAV Our man!!!!
A pit bull locked onto the throat of a Maltese, Truter wasn’t quite ready to let go. At the very least he deserved a souvenir to take home from his undercover mission. He eyed the empty bookcase and drinks cabinet across the room. The decanter would look good in his flat, but too risky. Pulling out the top drawer, he again rummaged through the contents, sifting through the keys and business cards and paper clips and sweet wrappers and pocket calculator and Mycota tube and pack of postage stamps and mini Lunch Bar and … a Transcend computer stick hiding right at the back, which he hadn’t noticed before. Truter knew it was a computer stick because Delport had one just like it to back up the office computer files – or something to that effect. The polyester of Truter’s trousers stiffened as a thought floated into view – the stick might be filled with porno. He wouldn’t put it past Jakkals. And it wouldn’t be the usual tame stuff. It would be hard core as all hell.
Giving the subject no further thought, Truter dropped the computer stick and the Lunch Bar into his jacket pocket, then as an afterthought added the ivory letter opener. He closed the drawer and angled the photo to face forwards. He stood up and rolled the chair back into its position. Satisfied, he walked over to the door and pressed his ear against the mahogany veneer. Slowly opening the door, he peered up and down the corridor. All clear. He turned, gave the royal den a final look-over, then stepped into the passage, pulling the door behind him. Home and a missing person’s interrogation were calling his name.
39
Sucking hard on the Camel Plain, Johan Engelbrecht contemplated the dust bowl below – South African platteland at its ugly best. It was places like this, not the cities, where Africa’s soul throbbed hardest under its thin skin of respectability. This was where Engelbrecht felt most alive, where his skin tingled at the possibilities. It was Bloedrivier in the making all over again – jumpy whites surrounded by encroaching squatter sprawl. All it needed was a match.
Engelbrecht flipped open his cellphone and hit speed dial. He leant back against the black Subaru. “Take It Easy” floated out the open window.
“Well, I’m running down the road trying to loosen my load, I’ve got a world of trouble on my mind … Sorry, howzit, Cynth! How things going up there? … Ja, same old, just another day in paradise … Listen, sweetie pie, I don’t want to hak, but did you manage to pull anything for me yet?” Engelbrecht flicked the Camel to the ground and crushed it under his boot. The ex was right; smoking was a filthy habit. “Sorry, can you speak a bit louder, this line’s seriously kak … Okay, that’s better. Let’s start with this Mitchell boytjie … You did? Go girl! … Ja, it has to be him. I mean, how many other Glen Mitchells can there be in the province? And can you see on the system when he signed up?” Engelbrecht released a long slow whistle. “Jesus, that’s not even six months. Just a sec …” He waited for the abattoir truck at the bottom of the hill to pass. He could see straight into it – a shaggy carpet of sheep on a one-way picnic outing. “You’ve seriously made my day, Cynth. Okay, I’m pushing it here, but did you manage to find anything on whatshisname … Roger Henley? Tell me I’m wrong but I reckon there’s something not kosher with that asthma story …. Are you serious? Shit, now you’ve made my flipping month.”
One connection he would have been satisfied with, but hitting the Lotto twice on the same day, it was more than Engelbrecht had dared to hope for. He reached into the car. “I better write this down … Go for it – 13 March. What year? … Unfokkenbelievable.” He scribbled some more. “I have to double-check on my computer but looks like the turnaround time is getting shorter.” Below the koppie and the MTN tower, the dust bowl was stirring into life. Humans coming out their houses. Cars starting to move. An angle grinder starting up in the far distance. He checked the time. “Listen, sweetie pie, I have to hit the road, but I’ll give you a buzz later. And you’ll let me know if anything comes in from West Rand side? … Perfecto. One more thing, tell that slacker husband of yours I’m inviting you guys and Tony and them for a skilpad braai when I get back … AKA min vleis, baie dop. All right, Cynth, we’ll talk later. Ciao!”
Engelbrecht snapped his phone shut. He wasn’t going to jump the gun – not like the last goose chase after that Pinnacle Insurance operation. But now suddenly all the signs were pointing in the same direction – to a hornet’s nest of note. And this time he wasn’t imagining it.
His hand started heading towards his pocket – the moment called for a celebratory Camel – then thought better of it. Like the ex said at every opportunity, there was nothing more disgusting than the smell of stale ash in a car, his or anybody else’s. A Nicorette would have to do instead.
Engelbrecht started up the Subaru, gunned the engine, cranked up the volume on “Hotel California”, and slammed the gear into reverse. It was time to bring the local boys in blue in on the game.
40
Parked deep under the blue gum trees, the yellow Hummer’s mags shimmered in the morning sun. Behind the tinted windows, the four occupants stared out grimly at the human trickle meandering towards the entrance of the Agricultural Showgrounds. The atmosphere in the cabin was heating up; Jakkals Venter was in a tetchy mood.
“All right, one of you explain to me this David Copperfield magic trick, because I don’t get it. How does someone sommer vanish into thin air? Dippies?”
Juan Dippenaar gazed sullenly through the backseat window, tracking his wife and the kids. “I don’t know, sir.”
“You hear that, manne? ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Not what I want to hear! Freddie, you say you double-checked the body shops and hospitals. What about the provincial in Brits?”
“Yebo. Everything inside a hundred and fifty-kay radius. Not once, but twice, Jakkie.”
“Including the AVBOBs and the other private morgues?”
“Including the AVBOBS and private morgues, Jakkie.”
“Okay, okay, just making sure.” Jakkals tugged at his ear. He drummed on his fur-clad steering wheel. He was thinking hard.
“What if someone’s on to us?”
Freddie Ferreira rolled his eyes. “Ag, kom nou, Dippenaar. Where do you come with stront like that?”
“Maybe he has a point?”
“Like how, Jakkie? If someone was onto us, I promise you, we’d know all about it.”
Dippenaar continued to look out the window, some overweight woman and langderm husband who had just ambushed Renate. “How would we know about it?”
“Hey, look a man in the eye when you have something to say.”
Dippenaar turned back from the window. “Sorry, Jakkals.”
“And don’t keep fokken apologising. I swear, I’m up to here with you lot.”
“For ages now, Jakkals, I’ve been telling Freddie and the others we’ve been getting too windgat with this thing. Especially Freddie. Half the time he acts like it’s a big joke.”
Ferreira stared up at the flashing LED lights running the perimeter of the Hummer’s ceiling. “Is that now right? Classic Dippies or what, Jakkie? From day dot, always looking for someone or something to blame. Remember that time we flipped the boat on the Cunene?”
Conrad Botes sniggered alongside. “I’ll never forget that.”
“Well?”
“Well, what, Freddie?”
“You remember whose fault it was, according to Mr Paranoid here?”
“Yours, Freddie.”
“Exactly, Connie. And, Jakkals, you remember that saga about the Muslim conspiracy to take our farms for their Al Qaeda training camps? And now, out the blue someone’s on to us – plus, I’m the cause of this oke disappearing.”
“Easy, Freddie,” cautioned Jakkals.
Ferreira tapped on the tinted window. “By the way, Dippies, nice new double cab you have standing there. May I ask where you got the cash from? Wesbank? I don’t think so.”
“That’s telling him,” wheezed Conrad Botes. He poked Dippenaar in the ribs. “Come on, boet, you must lighten up. Freddie, move up a bit your side; I can hardly breathe.”
“Okay, manne, let’s all calm down and sniff the coffee,” said Jakkals. “Who’s ready for a refill?” He shifted his bulk to the left and peered into the mini-bar fridge. “This ice-maker’s a piece of kak; the stuff’s still mushy. Pass me your cups.”
Ferreira handed the paper cups to the front. “I am calm, Jakkie, but when certain no-names-mentioned individuals question the quality of my work, that’s when I get pissed off big time. How many policies have I sold over the past month? Ten? Twenty? Lemme tell you. Thirty-six and counting! Here I’m working my arse off—”
Jakkals handed Ferreira and Botes their Martell. “I know that, Freddie, and I appreciate what you’re doing. And the guys and their families appreciate it. Not so, manne? Good. So we all agree we’re a bit jumpy, because of this latest event. But I stem saam with Freddie. If you’re gonna grab at conclusions, Dippies, you better back it up with facts, not rumours. You hear me?”
