There was not a day that Fingers Morkel woke without excruciating pain in his missing digits. The fingers that Benny Mongrel had cut off with his knife. As he lay in bed, Fingers lifted his two scarred stumps up to eye level to make certain-yet again-that his fingers really were gone. They were, but they still hurt like fucken hell. Doctors had told him that he was suffering from phantom limb syndrome. That he was experiencing phantom pain.
They made all sorts of smart-ass sggestions: apply heat to the stumps, flex what was left of his hands to improve the circulation. Some white fucker had even told him to imagine that he was exercising the missing fingers. Fingers had imagined he was raising the middle digit of each hand to the asshole doctor, but that hadn’t got rid of the pain or his anger.
The way Fingers dealt with this whole sorry mess was to shove as many drugs down his throat as he could. And to imagine killing Benny Mongrel.
By removing his fingers, Benny Mongrel had deprived him of many pleasures. No longer could he put a gun to some motherfucker’s head, feel his index finger curling around the trigger as he blew him away. No longer could he wrap his hands around some bitch’s throat until he half killed her before he screwed her.
And then there were his monkey nuts. He loved the fucken things so much that he’d previously been known as Peanuts. A nickname he much preferred to the present one that reminded him constantly of what had been inflicted upon him and by whom. He had refused to eat the nuts unshelled. The pleasure had been in cracking open the shell, letting his fingers find the two nuts inside, each in its own little compartment, and bringing them to his lips.
Now if he wanted to eat monkey nuts, he had to get one of his guys to break the shells open for him, and put them in a little pile on a paper plate, so he could grab the plate between his two thumbs and pour the nuts into his mouth. It was humiliating. He was sure his guys laughed about it behind his back, so he had stopped eating monkey nuts.
Benny Mongrel. The way the ugly bastard had walked into the Lotus River tavern last night and sat and stared at him, as if daring him to do something. Like he still had the power he’d had in Pollsmoor. He was nothing on the outside. Fuck all. The only reason Fingers hadn’t had him killed there and then, in the tavern, was out of respect for Llewellyn Hector. He didn’t want to make a mess on Hector’s doorstep.
But that was then. This was a new day.
When he was finished inspecting his stumps, Fingers sat up in bed. The sun baked down on the tin roof of his small house, and he was parched.
“Rashied,” he yelled. After a few seconds a tattooed Mongrel with buzz-cut hair stuck his head into the bedroom. “Bring me some Coke. The whole bottle.”
Rashied went to do his bidding, and Fingers trapped his cell phone with his left thumb, using the right thumb to speed-dial for his messages. He hit speakerphone and listened. There were a couple of messages from girls, which he skipped over, and a message from Leroy, the little punk who sold tik for him, which made him sit up. Something about Gatsby. And Benny Mongrel.
Fingers played it again.
Then he went through the laborious process of dialing Leroy’s number with his thumb. Leroy was small-time; he didn’t rate a speed dial. He got Leroy’s voice mail, some smart-ass message with LL Cool J jawing away in the background. Fingers killed the call with a jab of his thumb.
By the time Rashied came back with the bottle of Coke, Fingers was busy with the clumsy business of dressing.
Burn drove the Ford through the sprawl of the Cape Flats, the endless monotony of poverty stretching in every direction. It was a good thing he’d been forced to leave his Jeep at the Waterfront. The only people who drove Cherokees on the Flats were drug dealers. Way too visible.
Burn had flown over the Flats and skirted past on the freeway, but he had never ventured down these mean streets. The small houses huddled together, their foundations unsure in the sandy ground. The watchman’s curt navigation led them past rows of soulless ghetto blocks, where the relentless wind danced washing on lines strung across concrete walkways. They passed sandy, open patches, trading spots where young men huddled behind concrete walls scarred by gang graffiti.
Burn had taken the Mossberg shotgun from Barnard’s bag in the trunk of the Ford and shoved it next to his seat. He’d used a Mossberg in the military and welcomed its added firepower. He found himself touching it, for some kind of reassurance.
Burn slowed at a stop sign. A small boy, around Matt’s age, stood on the corner in front of a faded blue mosque. He twirled a homemade toy, a piece of string with a rock tied to the end, his nose glued to his face by unwiped snot. He stared at Burn in blank fascination.
As he pulled away, Burn checked his rearview mirror. The fat cop was barely visible under the blanket.
“Is he still alive?” Burn asked.
The watchman reached over and lifted the blanket, nodded, then stared straight ahead. Burn needed the fat man to live until he found his son. Then the watchman could do whatever he needed to do.
They were heading deeper into the Flats, moving into the cloud of sand the wind threw over the maze of small houses and narrow streets.
Sometimes Zondi wished that he smoked, to give him something to do at times like these. He was at the police lab, watching as a technician worked a comparison microscope, trying to identify similarities between the slug Zondi had dug from the wall at the building site and the one that had killed Ronnie September.
The technician was a startlingly beautiful woman with burnished copper skin. Her hair, black as squid ink, fell across her face as she leaned forward, peering into the microscope. Zondi had an image of that black hair spread like seaweed over a white pillow.
He was relieved when his phone chirped in his pocket. He walked out into the corridor as he took the call. He listened to the cop at Sea Point station, nodded, asked a couple of questions, and wrote a phone number down in his notebook. He killed the call and found himself at the end of the corridor, staring out a dirty window at the city below.
When he’d driven away from Mountain Road, he’d called the Sea Point police and asked them to check if anything linked back to the American. Hill. It was a long shot, a trial balloon. He knew he was an anal-retentive control freak covering all bases. Even imaginary ones.
But it had produced a hit.
A woman, a domestic worker, had been found murdered the day before on the steps in Greenpoint. Her name was Adielah Dollie. She worked for a Mr. and Mrs. Hill at Thirty-six Mountain Road.
“Investigator Zondi?”
He turned to see the technician waving to him from down the corridor. Her long nails were painted a deep red. Zondi pushed away the image of those nails collecting skin samples from his naked back. He walked up the corridor.
“There’s a match,” said the technician. “The bullet you brought to us is a. 38 caliber, the same as the one retrieved from the child’s body. The lands and grooves on both of these bullets are identical. They have the same signature.”
So Barnard had shot the night watchman. And his dog. What exactly did that tell him? “Thanks. Now, about that condom?”
The technician shrugged. “The DNA testing will take a little longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Try three months.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. There’s a backlog at the DNA lab.”
“So I’ll jump the queue. Like I did here.”
She gave him a smile. “You won’t have the luck with them that you had with me. They’re a lot stricter.” She was flirting with him, something dancing in her almond eyes. Waiting for him to make a move.
Zondi walked out.
In the lab parking lot he popped the trunk of his car and grabbed his laptop. He slid behind the wheel and got the engine idling, aircon on high. He booted up his laptop while he dialed the dead domestic worker’s daughter on his cell.
