Roadkill, page 7
On the far side of the La-Z-Boy, Pastor Gerald Phelps stifled a yawn. His day had been long and tiring, and it was high time he brought proceedings to a head. Fashioning a steeple with the tips of his fingers, he kicked into gear.
“A lovely man, a truly lovely man.” Phelps allowed a moment of reflective silence, before continuing. “Mrs Mitchell, I know you want nothing but the best for your husband. Am I right?”
“Yes, of course,” the woman whispered.
“Excellent. That’s what we all want for Glen. Why? Because he deserves the best!” Phelps cleared his throat. “Now, with regard to certain logistic issues pertaining—”
“You’re very kind.”
“Not at all, it’s the least I can do. Here you go.” Phelps peeled off a Kleenex and handed it to the woman. “First things first … If I may, I would like to arrange for New Horizons to take care of Glen’s further needs.” He held up his hands. “Of course, I know you might have someone else in mind, but I don’t think you want to deal with these fly-by-nights. Just not worth the risk, Mrs Mitchell.” He reached into his pocket. “‘New Horizons is our name. Customer service is our game.’ Very professional business card, don’t you think? No, you keep it. These are good operators, Mrs Mitchell. Been in the business for yonks, and still owner-run. That says something in my book.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the recommendation.”
“Just doing my job.” Phelps looked past the woman, through the Trelli, contemplating the evening ahead. “Because I don’t want you to worry, I’ve already organised with New Horizons.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, they should be here any minute. That’s what I call service with a capital S. Not like those fly-by-nights that keep you waiting forever and a day. Been there, done that, Mrs Mitchell … Mrs Mitchell?”
Doreen Mitchell was no longer present. Phelps reached over the cooling corpse and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. His phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Sorry about this … Looks like they’re running a few minutes late, but no worries, I promise they’ll be here soon.” Phelps snapped the phone shut and pulled on his collar. It was time to get moving. “Well, looks like my job is done here for now, so how about I phone you first thing tomorrow so we can talk through the funeral arrangements?”
Doreen Mitchell nodded gratefully. “Thank you. For everything.”
“May the Lord give you strength, Mrs Mitchell.”
And with this, Pastor Gerald Phelps shimmied from the sitting room and out the front door.
Her face still registering the silent shock of sudden loss, Doreen Mitchell seated herself in the wingback opposite her dead husband, crossed her hands on her lap, and waited for the people from New Horizons. The Sanyo clock above the TV flashed five forty-five. After a while, she peered up at Glen. He was as she had found him on her return from bowls: his eyes still glued to the now silent Telefunken he had devoted a large part of his life to, his head tilted slightly back, his mouth open in what was either a final gasp or final cheer – it was hard to tell. The contents of a half-eaten bowl of peanuts and raisins lay scattered about him like confetti. Pieces of nut and other stringy bits were stuck between his teeth. His face and neck were blue. A deep shade of crimson blue, the likes of which she had never seen before.
17
Profiled against the setting sun twenty kilometres west of Edendal, Clifford Abrahams fumbled for his zip, and with barely a moment to spare let loose with a golden torrent.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” he crooned. He arched back, hands behind his head, swinging his manhood from side to side. There was nothing like a good piss in nature – it ran a close second to a good boskak.
For a moment back there, he’d been seriously worried he was going to wet himself in the guy’s Interlink truck. But like his stepdad used to say, if you’re batting on a good wicket, suck it for all it’s worth. Rides like that didn’t come along every day – eight hours non-stop, with a free Steers burger and Grape Fanta chucked in along the way. At the rate he was going, he would hit Durban first thing in the morning; his boet and Tracy were going to be super surprised when he knocked on their door. He could already taste the ice-cold Blackie with his name on it.
Squeezing out the last drops, Cliffie opened his eyes and packed away his love weapon into its holster. He rubbed the dribble spot – it had to be an age thing. He sucked in the late afternoon air and surveyed the open veld stretching in every direction, broken by the flat koppies in the far distance. It was something out of a cowboy fliek.
“Africa, you beauty!” Cliffie shouted into the dying day. He dug into his back pocket and pulled out his G-Shock – the strap had sheared off months back. A gnawing urgency took hold. As much as he loved being in Mother Africa’s bosom, he had little desire to spend another night with her.
Hoisting up his suitcase, Cliffie started walking. Someone would eventually feel sorry for him; they always did. Especially around sunset – hitchhiker’s golden hour, Norm had called it, when drivers felt most guilty for abandoning you to the night. It was a known scientific fact.
Cliffie stopped and gazed up and down the road. Not a car in sight. He carried on walking. What he wouldn’t do for an ice-cold one, with a free bowl of peanuts and raisins on the side. Chased down by a juicy sirloin swimming in pepper sauce and Spur onion rings and chips. He stepped up the pace. The day was turning red; there was no ways he was sleeping a second night in the veld.
According to the trucker, it was less than fifteen kays to the next town. Cliffie stared up ahead, regrouping his thoughts; he would keep walking until he found a spot for a car to pull off easily. It wasn’t like the old days when drivers would reverse down the M1 highway to give him a lift. Nowadays you had to give them a flipping runway. He continued walking. And then halted.
Something silver and glittery had caught his eye in the grass. Not one to pass up an opportunity – even if it was just a Coke can chucked from a car – he abandoned his suitcase and waded into the veld.
“Now, what do we have here, good sir?”
Laid out neatly on the ground, as if someone had just sommer put it there, the SOS bracelet was same as the one his brother used to wear for his homophilia, or whatever it was he suffered from. Puzzled, Cliffie looked to the left, then to the right, expecting its owner to appear from the bush any second. No owner forthcoming, he scooped up the bracelet, spat on the tag and gave it a quick polish against his sleeve, then held it up to the dying light.
GARY JOHNSON
TYPE 1 DIABETES
ON INSULIN PUMP
ALGYS: MORPHINE
ICE 054-526 6697
Hoping for more of the same – like a wallet filled with cash, for instance – Cliffie passed another minute expanding the search zone. Coming up empty handed, he turned his attention back to the bracelet; it had to be worth a few bucks at a pawn shop, and might even be silver. He stuffed it into his trouser pocket and made his way back up to the road. Time was ticking, it was starting to get dark, and Cliffie Abrahams was starting to get edgy. It was time to hit the city lights.
18
EXAS GRILL – the neon “T” had long since thrown in the towel – was squeezed between the Joshua Doore and Happy Cash Loans. A security gate with a buzzer barred the entrance. The shop front windows were draped in louvered blinds, the floor was grey Show Floor, the lighting was fluorescent – in a past life Texas Grill had served as Edendal Isuzu.
Occupying a round table at the centre of the restaurant, a group of elderlies from nearby Tuis Huis hunched over a fixed menu of meat stew, rice, and creamed spinach. A sales rep in a polyester shirt and navy-blue pants sat at the table opposite, nervously checking his phone. At the far end of the bar, two middle-aged males with sunburnt necks nursed Red Heart rum and Coke. Above them, a squadron of flies orbited lazily under the ceiling fan.
Tucked into his booth, Clinton Truter reached for the bottle of Chateau and topped up his glass. Working his toothpick, he tracked Toni’s new waitress – one of those circles-around-the-eyes types who had been through life’s ringer. Not that he would say no to the bod; if and when it came to it, he’d cover her face with the South African flag and do it for his country.
Truter poked at a chip caked in a drying scab of tomato sauce, thought better of it, and pushed the plate away. What he needed was a smoke. He raised his hand to the sky and caught the waitress’s attention. Tight T-shirts and jeans did it for him, even on a chick whose face would soon look like a dried prune. Just as he thought, no wedding ring.
“How was your T-bone?”
“Lekker. You want to organise me a ashtray?”
“Sure. You want the two-for-one in a doggy bag, or you going to have it now?
“Chuck it in a body bag, I’ll have it for breakfast.”
“Same as before – bloody and bleating?”
“You got it, girlie.”
The waitress smiled grimly. “Anything else?”
“Coffee.”
“Nescafe or filter?”
“If you can’t go big, go home. Nescafe. And I want it like my women, okay?”
“Ja, ja. Black and strong.”
“No, white and weak.” Truter cackled. He was getting somewhere with this chick; he could feel the vibe between them. “One momento, senora.” His phone was vibrating on the table. His mom. He pressed “Decline” – whatever it was, she could wait.
“I’ll get your ashtray and coffee in the meantime.”
“And one of Toni’s Greek biscuits while you’re at it. By the way, what’s your handle?”
“Deirdre.”
She didn’t ask him his. Playing hard to get. He liked that.
Truter settled comfortably into the booth, following Deirdre’s arse to the bar. The rate he was going, she’d be spreading for him in no time. He took a sip of Chateau, altogether content with how the day was ending. He had turned it around, taken charge of it. As he had so often explained to Delport, it was all about having the right Attitude.
He had made up his mind: from here on, he would work with Pretoria, Duminy, whoever. No problem. Not only would he find and deliver Mr VIP Gary Johnson on a tray, dead or alive, or any other missing person on their Priority Status list, he would give Pretoria their stats and anything else they threw at him. If Delport was right, if the stats were part of something big going down, he wanted in on the action. If he played his cards right, this was the stuff promotions were made of.
“Gracias, Deirdre. And you remembered my ashtray. Not just a … pretty face, hey.”
Truter reached for the sugar bowl and tore open two sachets. He stirred his coffee and took a sip. Added another two. More like it. Dr Santos couldn’t even pronounce the word diabetes. Pulling hard on his Pall Mall and aiming a smoke ring at the ceiling, Truter saw a new future unfolding before him …
He saw himself walking down the aisle of a packed hall, the crazy clapping as he stepped up to the podium to accept his Exemplary Service Award from the Minister of Police. They would want him to make a speech; he would have to think about what to say. After that, who knows, the world would be his oyster. He could become one of those motivational speakers, travelling around the country, speaking to unmotivated members of the force – Delport, for example – to get them off their poepols and back on the street where they were needed most. He saw the free hotels; the room service; the mini bottles of whisky on the aeroplane; the Kulula air hostesses – he’d heard they were hornier than nurses – the strangers coming up to him in the street, thanking him for returning law and order to the country, allowing them to sleep secure. After that, he would settle down and write a book and the bucks would flow in big time. He had been threatening for a long time to write a book about his life and experiences – this would be his chance. Smashing the International Cartels, by Clinton Truter … General Clinton Truter. It had a nice ring to it. The book would be used as a study aid by Interpols across—
Only now had he noticed the two pissing it up at the bar. There was something about the scrawny one with the hyena laugh. The angle of the head, the silver-grey hair Brylcreamed back, the panel-beaten face when he turned to the side. Why did he know that laugh—
And then it hit him like a pickaxe handle on the back of the head: Freddie fokken Ferreira!
How long had it been? Twenty, twenty-five years since he’d last set eyes on the guy? He had to now be in his fifties – same as him. Besides the silver hair, Freddie still looked the same. Same slimy operator written all over the face. Same gift-of-the-gabber who could sell a Hilux bakkie of sand to ISIS.
Heart racing, Truter peered through the gap in the vinyl headrest. Freddie’s drinking buddy also now looked disturbingly familiar. Heavy bones, six-two-plus, skin on his neck burnt black, dressed to kill in his Agri-special khaki pants and camo bush hat. The guy turned sideways to say something to Freddie. Truter jolted.
He had thought Dippies was long dead and buried. The face was fleshier and the body thicker around the edges, but it was one and the same Dippies as in the faded photo lying around in a shoe box somewhere – of him and the rest of them going ape around the fire after a Swapo contact.
Truter stared hard at the smouldering stompie in the ashtray, trying to pull himself right. Time had yanked up the handbrake and done a U-turn on him. Present had dissolved into past.
Deirdre walked over and cleared his table. The people from the retirement home shuffled out in single file. The sales rep headed to the bogs. The Leopards trailed twelve-zero to the Crusaders on the flatscreen. Toni walked past him with a silver baking tray heaped with burger patties. The lift music stopped playing. Truter registered none of it.
Without warning, Ferreira pushed back his barstool, stood up and zipped up his jacket. Tossing back the remains of his glass, Dippenaar adjusted his bush hat and followed Ferreira into the street, forcing Truter deeper into the red vinyl. His heart was pumping on overdrive as the two passed by the window. Ferreira walked over to the blue Camry parked under the EXAS GRILL sign and returned with a package. He handed it to Dippenaar, slapped him on the shoulder, and walked back to his car. Dippenaar turned and crossed the road to the double cab parked opposite. He climbed in, revved the engine and tailed Freddie out the car park. The cars swung a right into Hoof, then disappeared into the night.
Truter sat up slowly. His hand still shaking, he reached for the Chateau.
19
“What did you say your name was, again?”
“Abrahams, sir. Clifford James Abrahams. I would give you a business card if I hadn’t left them in my car with my wallet.” Cliffie slapped his forehead. “I’m such a moron.”
“No worries, my friend, you look kaput. Have a sitdown on the couch. You want my wife to get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Juice?”
Cliffie sat down wearily, chased by a dramatic sigh. He pulled out his hanky and proceeded to mop his face. “I won’t lie to you people, it’s been a hell of a day. I don’t usually drink, but right now I wouldn’t say no to something stronger.”
“What you need is a stiff sherry.”
Cliffie peered over the hanky. “I wouldn’t even say no to a whisky. That’s how bad it is.”
“Consider it done, sir. I’ve got some nice Three Ships going. Single or double?”
“A double would be … Ag, make it a triple; I don’t want you jumping up and down for me. Check my hands, Mrs Meissner, they’re still shaking.” Cliffie sank deeper into the couch, luxuriating in the corduroy. “You people are very kind.”
“It’s the least we can do,” said Susan Meissner.
“Straight or on the rocks, sir?”
“I don’t want to put you out; straight is perfect.”
“Come join me at the bar, Mr Abrahams.”
Susan Meissner stood up. “And I will leave you men to talk.”
Taking up poll position behind the pine counter, Otto Meissner handed Cliffie his drink, and poured himself a sherry. “Gesundheit and all that jazz. So, my friend, tell me some more about your Galactic Tours thingie.”
Taking a hefty slug, Cliffie swallowed hard. He licked his lips. This was seriously good stuff. Better than he’d tasted in a long time. If he played his cards right, there could be more where it came from.
“Galactic Tours? Oh, yes … As I was saying before your wife came in, I’m what you call a global accommodation scout. GAS, for short. So … my job is to find quality B&Bs for our overseas clients.”
“And, how’s business going?”
“You won’t believe the demand. Our databases are chock-a-block with foreigners looking for quality, for … for something different.” Cliffie peered over the rim of his glass. So far, so good. All the old Getaway and Kulula magazines he’d read during his stint at Pollsmoor were coming into good use. He took another gulp, aware of the man’s beady eyes watching him. “Very, very nice.”
“There’s more where it came from, my friend. When you say ‘quality’, what is it you mean?”
“Well … let’s take your place here. My clients would go mad for it.”
“Is that a fact now?”
“One hundred per cent. The foreigners are tired of staying in the same old five-star hotels … They are tired of being served by the same old human robots.”
“That’s very interesting to hear, because I was telling the wife the same thing just the other day. The tourists want character. Am I right?”
“Exactly! You’ve hit the hammer on its head. Character is what they’re after.” Cliffie held out his empty glass. “I won’t say no. Same again is perfecto.”
“Enjoy it, my friend, because I like what you’re saying.”
The Three Ships was fast going to Cliffie’s head. Equally matched by an uptick in confidence. “Character. That is a good word. My foreigner clients want character. They want to meet the real people. Not the phonies behind the reception desk. And let me tell you, it’s not just the Brits, or the whatisnames … the Frenchies and Germans. It’s everyone. Even the Japs and Chinese. They’re also sick and tired of hotels. In fact, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Meissner leant in closer. Cliffie screwed his finger into the bar counter. “This is where the future lies!”
