The half-breed spun on his head like a top; then he sprang up into a kind of handstand, the muscles on his naked torso popping. He landed in the splits and seemed to pull himself up to standing by the hand that grabbed his balls. He thrust his hips back and forth into the face of a teenage girl who laughed like a bitch in heat. There was a group of them, dancing like monkeys in the yard of a faded-blue house.
Just watching them made Rudi Barnard tired. He had a headache, and the animal music that thumped out of the boom box hit him like a jackhammer. He was parked in one of Paradise Park’s cramped side streets, the sun turning his car into an oven, even with all the windows open. Sweat pumped from Barnard, burned his eyes, got the rash between his thighs going.
He was feeling edgier than normal since he had wasted the tik cooker. He’d had to hand in his weapon at Bellwood South Police HQ, go through the usual rigmarole of filling out forms and making statements. Meaningless bullshit that would come to nothing. Still, it drew attention to him, and he didn’t like that.
The fucken racket was driving him crazy. He was about to exit the car, go into the yard, and smack the gyrating half-breeds with the boom box, when a new Pajero SUV cruised past him. It was top-of-the-line, with shining mags and windows tinted darker than was legal. The Pajero stopped outside a house that was in marked contrast to its squat neighbors. A new two-story, surrounded by a high wall and razor wire. The gate slid open and the Pajero drove into the yard. Barnard started the Toyota and followed. The gate closed after him.
Three men got out of the Pajero. Two were Cape Flats muscle, all hair gel and tattoos. The third was older, midthirties, not big but with the look of a man who wasn’t scared of the sight of blood. Manson. Head of the Paradise Park Americans.
Barnard, wet and wheezing, levered himself out of his car. “You fucken late.”
Manson shrugged. “Business. What you got?”
Barnard went around to the rear of his car, popped the trunk, and gestured toward a kit bag. One of Manson’s guys opened the bag, revealing a stash of handguns.
“How many?” Manson asked.
“Twenny-seven.” Barnard was lighting a smoke, shielding the match from the wind. He watched as Manson checked out the merchandise. Weapons confiscated by patrol cops on the Flats. They brought the guns to Barnard, and he paid them a pittance or agreed to turn a blind eye to their extracurricular activities. Long as they didn’t threaten his own.
Manson was cocking a 9mm, sighting along the barrel, aiming at the sky. “How much?”
“Gimme three grand.”
“You crazy, man.” Manson pulled the trigger of the unloaded gun, and the falling hammer clicked. Anybody else talking to Barnard this way would have been spitting teeth by now, but he allowed Manson some leeway. The American had a network that Barnard tapped into, and he always paid on time.
“Okay, make it two-five.”
“Two.”
Barnard coughed and spat. “Fuck, it’s too hot to argue. Two-two. Take it or leave it.”
Manson nodded and gestured for his guy to take the bag from the trunk. Manson slipped a wad of notes from his designer jeans and peeled off a bunch for Barnard.
The fat cop didn’t count them, shoved them into his wet pocket. “You seen Rikki Fortune?”
Manson shook his head. “I’m looking for him too. He owe you?”
“Ja, but I can’t find his ass nowhere.”
“He’s taken some liberties. Maybe he’s lying low.”
“Do me a favor, you find him, lemme talk to him before you sort him. Okay?”
Manson nodded. Barnard lowered himself into the protesting car and shut the door. Manson leaned into the open driver’s window. “You heard anything about this new anticorruption task force?”
“No. Fuck all. What’s up?”
“Just heard bits here and there. Gonna be a cleanup. Targeting cops.”
Barnard laughed. “Must be election time.” He started the car.
Manson stepped back. “Keep your eyes open, anyways.”
“I was born with my eyes open.” The gate slid open and Barnard drove out. His headache was worse. He needed a gatsby.
Susan Burn was a prisoner of fear.
She lay in the sunny private ward feeling dread like a poison heavy in her body. She’d always known, of course, that after what Jack had done back in the States, retribution was inevitable. But she had gone along with his plans. Allowed him, as always, to convince her.
It was as if she had been waiting for those men to step into their lives, with their guns and their rapists’ eyes. When they’d appeared, she had recognized them even though she’d never seen them before. She had known'0em' hey were and why they were there. They had been sent to even a score, to settle a karmic debt.
And it would not end with them. She knew that with absolute certainty.
So when her husband walked into the ward carrying a bunch of arum lilies-her favorite-she had to resist the temptation to do what she always did: forgive him. Believe in him. Believe in this handsome, smiling man. The man she loved.
She forced herself to see him crouched over the skinny brown thug, ready to cut his throat. She needed to keep that image close, to fuel her resolve.
“Hi, baby.”
When he leaned down to kiss her, she turned her head away, feeling his lips brush her cheek. He stepped back, uncomfortable for a moment as he lay the flowers on the cabinet beside her bed. She could see signs of strain on his face, a jaundiced tint beneath his tan.
“How’re you feeling?” He took a chair beside the bed.
“I’m fine.” She looked at him, still seeing the man with the knife. “Where’s Matt?”
“He’s sitting outside.”
“How is he?”
“He’s okay. We went to the beach today, for a while.”
She was staring at him intently, and she could see it made him uncomfortable. He tried to find a smile. It wasn’t convincing.
“What?” he asked.
“You went to the beach?”
“Well, it’s a great day. And I thought it might, you know, take his mind off things.”
“So the sun and the ocean will cure everything? It’ll all be okay?” She could feel the color rising in her cheeks.
“Baby, take it easy.” He reached for her hand, confident that he could placate her. She took her hand away.
“Jack, it’s not going to be okay. Not this time.”
“All this will pass.”
She shook her head. “No, Jack. No. You’re not going to stroke and soothe me into submission, not now.” She saw his eyes grow wary. “Lying here after what happened, it’s forced me to confront things.”
“Like?”
“Like when I met you I was twenty-one. A kid. You were nearly forty. I was in awe of you. I let you run my life.”
“Susan…”
She held up a hand. “Let me finish, Jack. When you did what you did, back home, I was shocked. Stunned really. I was in freefall. What I should’ve done was taken Matt and got the hell out. With my baby.”
He was staring at her. He’d seen her angry before, but never this certain. This determined.
“I regret not doing that. I regret listening to you, buying into your promises about the better life we were ging to have. I want out, Jack.”
She saw something come into his expression, like the play had become way less predictable. “What do you mean?”
“I want to go back home. I want my children to grow up having a normal life.”
“You know what that means?”
