Moosa opened one eye.
“Now don’t you try denying it, man. That’s three people in the shop tonight telling me that you have been sitting in Sammy’s Tea-lounge all afternoon drinking Cokes. With whose money, I ask? Whose money? My money!”
“It wasn’t your money.”
Gogol caught his fez as it fell.
“Wasn’t mine?” he said and giggled nastily. “I tell you that every cent you have in your pocket from now until the day you die is my money.”
“It was expenses, not money.”
“You can call it what you like. I want it, so hand over.”
“Just where do you think I got money from?”
“Why should I care?”
But that stopped Gogol. It made him ponder.
“You spoke about business,” he said at last. “Can it be you have something lined up?”
“Of course.”
“But you had some cash even before you went out today, that is what I am not understanding. There has been nobody in this room I know.”
The Pillay baby shut up.
“Wait a minute, that Zondi’s been here. Am I right?”
Moosa chose to look diplomatically committal. This got the message across but only to bring a hurtful howl of laughter from Gogol.
“You-for them? That kaffir is mad! Now I’ll tell him to his face. What do you know about anything out there? Hiding behind your curtains every time Gershwin Mkize puts his foot on the pavement. You only went out today because Gershwin-”
An idea suddenly occurred to Gogol which weakened his knees and settled him apprehensively on the end of the bed. He looked at Moosa as he had never done before.
“Gershwin Mkize,” he said softly.
“Yes?”
“Last night Zondi was here. Next morning… were you the fellow who?”
Moosa’s face gave nothing away, least of all the fact that his mind was tripping over itself trying to catch up with Gogol. It dawned on him just as Gogol spoke again.
“No, please to say nothing, Moosa. I have respect for your position.”
His wide eyes showed fear, too, and that was even more gratifying.
Durban had never appealed to Kramer. She was not his kind of city. He liked his women to be big and strong and primitive, yes: but also dignified and clean. Durban was a whore.
A cheap whore who sprawled lush, legs agape at the harbour mouth, beside the warm Indian Ocean which was not a sea but a favour that she sold. And they came in their thousands, these people who craved to pleasure their bodies, hurtling down the long roads from the prim, dry veld of the interior. Some died in their eager haste- shredded by shattered windscreens and buried beneath cairns of transistor radios, beach balls, teddy bears, peppermint packets and hand luggage. But most arrived safely to wander nearly naked in the palm-lined streets and be tempted by garish signs which stood out like face paint against dirty-skinned buildings.
Of course, she had lice; half a million humble parasites who knew nothing wrong in dwelling with her and sharing the take.
And crabs. Like the one they were after.
“Where do we go first, boss?”
“CID Central.”
Zondi gunned the Chev over the intersection on the amber and squealed off left down a side street. He did not like Durban much either, judging from the speed at which he was driving. Or maybe he needed a piss.
Captain Potgeiter was off sick.
“Can I be of help?” his deputy asked.
“Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I’ve come for a picture.”
The deputy straightened up from the counter, his smile almost conspiratorial.
“Oh, ja, the Captain’s friend. I’ve had the message. Here they are, old mate-not very recent though.”
Kramer studied the two mug shots-one full face, one profile-which were still tacky from the glazer. Now it was obvious why Lenny Francis had not followed his sister in trying for white: he belonged right on the border line where only an official pen stroke could define his proper position.
“It’s an easy face to remember,” the deputy remarked, coming round to look over his shoulder.
That was true. The youth had an unusually long neck with an adam’s apple like an ostrich that had swallowed a beer can. Balanced on top of it was a round head, capped in tight curls and dimpled deep in each cheek. The nose was aquiline enough, but the lips too sensuous-they dragged down a little to the left side. The eyes were sinister but this was probably because the lids had been caught in mid-blink by the photographer’s flash.
Kramer half-closed his own eyes and saw before him a silhouette almost identical to that in the locket picture. The heavy shade had disguised a great deal.
“He can’t have changed much,” Kramer observed, tucking the photographs into his breastpocket. “Bit like a poof pop-star.”
“You could have something there,” the deputy replied. “Just before you came in, one of the Indian staff was saying that Lenny learnt some nasty ways in Doringboom. A tart he knows by the pie-cart once told him that she wasted a whole night on the guy. No joy.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing. But I made a check with Traffic-I thought I remembered something-and he’s facing a reckless charge. I’ve still got the papers down here.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Kramer flipped through the docket. There was nothing remarkable in it-failure to comply with a stop sign, and a collision involving another car but nobody hurt. He noted down the registration number of Lenny’s ’57 Pontiac and its colour, lime green.
“Ta very much, then. How’s the time?”
“Getting on for eight.”
“And how far is it over to his place?”
“Should take you about twenty minutes. I can send someone along with you.”
“No thanks. I’ve got my boy with me-he knows the town.”
Which would have been news to Zondi, who was making his third awkward reverse out of a narrow cul-de- sac.
“Try the next one,” Kramer said, cursing the Chev’s nonfunctional cabin light. He held another match over the street map.
“It’s okay, boss, we’re here. Vista Road.”
“Carry on to that fire hydrant and then stop.”
There were lights burning on the front verandahs of most of the houses but no one about except for a Coloured man across the road tinkering with the side car on his motorcycle. He glanced up for a moment as Kramer and Zondi got out-the latter tugging at the seat of his oversize overalls where they had become caught in the crotch.
“Not a bad area,” Kramer said quietly.
Zondi nodded.
The suburb had, in fact, been white until four years before when it was redesignated under the Group Areas Act. Each bungalow had its own small garden and most had a garage. It would still have passed for a white neighbourhood, if the need for new coats of paint had not been so obvious even in the moonlight. It seemed an odd address for Lenny Francis, but then again it was something like what he had been used to.
“Come on, boy,” Kramer said loudly for the benefit of the kerbside mechanic. “See you hold that torch nice and steady this time.”
Zondi nodded and shambled after him, dragging his shoes which had their shoelaces undone.
