Читать книгу The Big Killing - Robert Thomas Wilson, Robert Wilson - Страница 7

With Fat Paul gone and the Ivoire Soir finished I sucked on the grande modèle and fingered my face which still had a few livid marks from a beating I’d taken nearly a month ago. This was just the surface damage and it reminded me why I was even passing the time of day with a lowlife like Fat Paul who deserved the kind of attention you give a dog turd on the pavement.

Heike, the half-English/half-German woman I loved, who’d got mixed up in the ugly piece of business I had been involved in last month, had left Africa and gone back to Berlin from where she’d written saying she was looking for work.

B.B., the overweight Syrian millionaire to whom I still owed money after my last job working for him, was employing me, not on my daily rate, but on a small monthly salary and some expenses, which made the little I owed him feel like a twenty-five-year mortgage.

I was supposed to be handling the sacking of a Dane called Kurt Nielsen who was running B.B.'s sheanut operation in Korhogo. This was what B.B. had called his ‘small problem in Korhogo’ which didn’t seem to be a problem at all, just a way of B.B. amusing himself by keeping me dangling on a string.

Kurt Nielsen had been messing with the local girls, keeping bad books and, worst of all, not calling B.B. I’d asked him what was wrong with playing around.

‘Thass what I’m saying, Bruise,’ B.B. had said. ‘He not playing. He fall in lov'. Dese girls you don’t fall in lov', you play. Is nice and light. You fall in lov’ an’ ever’ting spoil.’

B.B. didn’t want him sacked until he had a replacement which he was finding hard to get. That’s what he said anyway. I knew different. I knew it was because we’d agreed that I would start charging my daily rate when I’d got rid of Nielsen and B.B. hated the sound of my daily rate.

He’d made life sound attractive by offering an all-expenses-paid holiday in Grand Bassam until I was needed. Then I’d found that any expense was too much for B.B. and we’d been fighting over small change ever since. The only expense he considered legitimate were telephone calls which I had to make every day and which would finish with the same line: ‘Calm, Bruise. Wait small. Now is not de time.’

Bagado, my Beninois detective friend, who had suffered a cracked collar bone during our last job, had come out of plaster and into continued unemployment in Cotonou. He had no money and the resources of his extended family were already overextended. I sent him money which I was borrowing from my Russian friend, Vassili, who was also helping me run Helen, my cook, who, although she wasn’t cooking for me, was looking after a sick uncle of hers who needed medicine.

Moses, my driver, was with me but we couldn’t afford much expensive Ivorian petrol so the car stayed put and Moses practised whatever it was he felt he hadn’t perfected with the local girls. This was proving expensive for him and therefore for me, and I was threatening to cut out the middleman.

‘Who the middleman, Mr Bruce?’ he would ask.

‘You, Moses.’

He clapped his hands and laughed at this and went through a succession of deep thoughts without finding the hidden meaning.

In an ideal world Heike would come back. Something awkward and sharp amongst all the food that B.B. shovelled into himself would get caught in his throat and he’d pass on into a better world. Bagado would get his job back in the police force. Helen’s uncle would get better. I’d get some decent work and Moses would get a short sharp dose of the clap. Only the latter was a serious possibility.

So, I was bored – bored and broke. I needed something to do to take my mind off the things that were causing my brain to plod in tight circles, finding no answers to questions which didn’t have any. I needed money. Fat Paul made out he was going to solve both problems.

In the late afternoon I went for a nap in my cheap room in a house on the furthest outskirts of Grand Bassam. It was a narrow cell on the flat roof of an old unpainted concrete block which had no glass in any of the windows and whose shutters had been used for firewood a long time ago.

After I’d jerked awake for the seventh time it was dark. I got up and took two shots of whisky as a mouthwash and then another two to cure the motion sickness. I called B.B. and he gave me the ‘wall small’ routine again. I didn’t bother to check my answering machine at home in Cotonou, Benin, and instead I hit a place with beer and loud music called Le Cafard, the cockroach, a real sleazy joint for men who didn’t shave and women who smelled strongly of cheap sex. I had shaved and I didn’t buy any cheap sex, but people could tell I had the right temperament for the bar. I had le cafard, the blues, and they let me alone to get on with it.

I put away the last quarter of the bottle of whisky when I got back to my room and fainted into sleep, which came in short bursts of violent dreaming, and starts awake in blue-white flashes with instant fears of death, like travelling on a runaway subway train. I woke up face down, twisted in the sheet with sweat cold on my bare back. In the room the darkness was blacker than evil and the mosquitoes had found a note rarely played on the violin which stretched the brain to the thinness of fuse wire. I waited for dawn to paint itself into the room while I marvelled at the size and leatheriness of my tongue.

The bender, which I’d decided was my last, did me some good. I reckoned I’d bottomed out, which worried me because that was what politicians said about economic recessions when there was still some ways to go. I wrote down some pros and cons for doing Fat Paul’s work for him and although his offer still looked as attractive as a flophouse mattress, it was beginning to show some merits. You could sleep on it as long as you held your nose and it would only be for one night.

Sunday 27th October

‘You got it,’ said Fat Paul after we’d been through the drop details for the third time. He leaned over his sloping gut to slap the table top but didn’t make it. He settled a jewel-bitten hand on one of his pappy breasts.

He was dressed in the usual five square metres of face-slapping material. The blue and the white parakeets was off today. It was the red with green monkeys for Sunday. He snarled at Kwabena for a cigarette and took a handkerchief out and polished his face with it.

We were sitting at a table in my corner of the bar, which had annoyed Fat Paul because he had his back to the door and I had an angled view out of it down the beach to the sea. It was just coming up to one o’clock but Fat Paul had lost his appetite, maybe because it was hotter than yesterday with no rainfall for the last couple of days, or maybe he didn’t like his back unprotected. He only ordered four pineapple fritters.

‘It’s not what you’d call a regular piece of business,’ I said.

‘How so?’

‘One, the money. Two, the location for what you call “the drop”. Three, the contents of the envelope. Four, the characters involved.’

‘Characters?’ he asked.

‘Fat Paul, Silent George, Colossal Kwabena.’

‘Colossal?’

‘Very big.’

‘Is good word. I like it. Colossal,’ he said, trying it out for size. Then he changed, getting aggressive. ‘Whass wrong these people?’

‘What do George and Kwabena do?’

‘They my bodyguards.’

‘That’s my point,’ I said. ‘Why do you need your body guarded?’

‘I’m not so quick on my feet.’

‘Why do you need to be quick?’

‘I make money.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Videos.’

‘You got an office?’

He handed me a card which gave the company name as Abracadabra Video, Adabraka and an address on Kojo Thompson Road in Accra, Ghana. The company ran video cinemas. They specialized in showing action movies, mainly kickboxer, to local neighbourhoods. It was a lucrative business, there was a high cash turnover and hardly any overheads. A lot of people were interested in taking over the business but not paying for it. Kwabena provided the muscle to persuade them otherwise and if he couldn’t cope George leaned in with the old metal dog leg and people quietened down, talked sensible, played cards and drank beer as if nothing had been further from their mind.

‘You look like shit,’ said Fat Paul, irritated now and trying another strategy. Trying to get tough with a line I hadn’t heard before.

‘My mother loves me,’ I said without looking up.

‘You got no money,’ he said. ‘No money to chop.’

‘How do you know, Fat Paul?’

‘You let me buy you chop.’

‘You have to pay for what you want. Lunch lets you sit at the same table.’

‘You not workin’ for you’self.’

‘How do you know that too, Fat Paul?’

‘No self-respect,’ he said.

‘I suppose you think you know me pretty well?’

‘I know shit when I see it.’

‘I’ve got a good eye for it myself,’ I said, looking at his brow which was swollen as if recently punched. Beneath it his eye sockets had no contour and his piggy peepers looked black and aware. Sweat ran down his cheeks as if he was crying. He didn’t look as if anything could hurt him unless you tried to take away his plate.

‘You just give the man the package…’ intoned Fat Paul. I held up my hand.

‘Thanks, I’ve got it. Listen…’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘You listen. First I show you where you mek the drop, out Abidjan west side, down by the lagoon Ebrié in pineapple plantation. You go there in the afternoon. The man he comin’ from the north, he comin’ late, he only get there after dark. You check the place, mekkin’ sure you comfortable. Then go down Tiegba side fifteen-minute drive, nice bar, you waitin’ there, the other man come. Relax some, drink beer, look at the lagoon. They’s a village there on legs, ver’ nice, the tourists like’t ver’ much. Then the time come. You ver’ smooth now widde beer and the pretty place an’ you gettin’ in you car an mek the drop. ‘S very easy thing, you know.’ He sat back and put a hand up to his face and dipped the little finger in the corner of his mouth.

‘Most nights,’ I said, ‘my motor reflexes put on a good show. I wake up in the mornings alive even if I don’t feel it. Then, if I haven’t been kissing the bottle too hard I find I have the coordination to stand up and move around. Getting somewhere, putting my hand inside my shirt and pulling out a package and giving it to someone is a cinch for a man with my kind of skills. What’s more, I have the in-built ability to take something with my left hand while I’m giving something else with my right. I can also count and eat a biscuit at the same time, but you tell me this job doesn’t take such talent.’ I stopped while Fat Paul’s lip took on another cigarette. ‘Now you’re beginning to see you’re talking to someone who’s done a few things in life. Someone who knows the difference between a French-restaurant cheese and a curl of dogshit, someone who knows where the grass is greenest there’s twenty years of slurry underneath. So don’t pretend to me that this job’s a snap. Don’t tell me about relaxing with beers and a tourist village on legs and all I’ve got to do is give a man a package when the postman does it every day and nobody gives him two hundred and fifty thousand CFA. Don’t tell me there’s no snags when there’s money…’

‘Snags?’ Fat Paul interrupted. ‘What are these snags?’

‘Snags are problems, difficulties, obstacles.’

‘Snags,’ said Fat Paul, weighing the word on his tongue and giving me a good idea of what a cane toad with a bellyful of insects looks like. ‘Lemme write these snags down.’

He reached around him for a pen and paper and then pretended to write on the palm of his hand. He knew we were coming to it now. I could see him blinking the shrewdness out of his eyes.

‘Are you blackmailing somebody, Fat Paul?’ I asked.

‘Keep you voice down,’ he said, looking up at the barman who didn’t understand English. ‘Blackmail? I not blackmailin’ nobody. This no blackmailin’ thing. This a secret thing is all.’

‘What sort of secret?’

‘I’m tellin’ you that, it no a secret no more.’

‘I asked you what sort of secret, not what it is. Personal secret, political secret, economic secret, arms secret…?’

‘Is a business secret.’

‘Show me the cassette.’

Fat Paul surprised me by flicking his fingers at Kwabena, who took the package out from under his shirt and gave it to him. With one eye closed to the cigarette smoke he broke the wax seal on the package, took out a wad of paper around the cassette, threw the empty envelope on the table. The heavy-duty envelope was still addressed to M. Kantari, Korhogo. He handed me the cassette. There was nothing unusual about it. The cassette didn’t look as if it had been tampered with or opened. I couldn’t see anything in it apart from 180 minutes of magnetic tape.

‘See?’ said Fat Paul.

I folded the wad of paper around the cassette, put it back in the envelope and handed it back to Fat Paul, shaking my head.

‘Now you jes’ tell me two things,’ said Fat Paul, ready for it now and finished with the game. ‘One, if you gonna do it. Two, how much you wan’ for doin’ it.’

‘A million,’ I said, ‘CFA. Four thousand dollars, you understanding me?’

The quality of the silence that followed could have been exported to any library in the world. George glanced across Fat Paul’s inflammable hair at Kwabena who looked as if he’d taken a blow from a five-pound lump hammer and was wondering whether to fall backwards. Fat Paul clasped his bratwurst fingers with the implanted rings and checked his watch, not for the time but because it seemed to be hurting him, cutting into his forearm. He pushed it down to this wrist and shook it. He breathed and kissed in the smoke from the glued cigarette on his lip in little puffs. He breathed out and the smoke baffled over his bottom lip.

‘Too much. We find cheaper white man.’

‘Go ahead. It’d be interesting to see the one you get who’s going to make a drop of a ‘video of a business secret’ at night in the middle of nowhere with money involved and at seven hours’ notice, unless you can delay it some more?’

Fat Paul suddenly started to manage his hair with both hands like a forgetful toupé-wearer. He settled back down again.

‘Seven hundred and fifty…’ he started and I shook my head. He knew it. I had him down on the floor with both feet on his fat neck.

‘Show him the place,’ he said, smiling, and in that instant I saw that he thought he had won. He clicked it away with his fingers and Kwabena produced a stick of red sealing wax and a lighter and melted off a pool on to the envelope. Fat Paul planted his ring in it as it cooled and then blew on his finger.

‘I need some expenses.’

‘For a million CFA, you supplyin’ you own expenses.’

‘So where do we meet tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Grand Bassam, one o’clock. There’s an old warehouse lagoon side Quartier France, near the Old Trading Houses. You see the car. You find us.’