Black Horn by A. J. Quinnell Page B

and ask how each
other's trips went, we used a very cryptic phrase. We either said, 'I was
drinking their whisky' or 'I was drinking my own whisky.' It
meant that the clients were either friendly and co-operative or they were
unfriendly morons. And let me tell you lady, so far on this trip, I've been
drinking my own whisky. I don't pretend to like you, although I'm sorry about
your problems. Now understand one last thing: if I come across the fresh spoor
of rhino poachers, I'm going after them. That's how it is, and if you don't
like it, I'll get off this plane at Vic Falls and head home."
    The
woman sat rigid, and then looked up to see Creasy standing above them. She
said, "Did you hear what this bastard said to me?"
    Creasy
nodded. "Yes, He took the words right out of my mouth." Ruby was
looking on in fascination. Creasy continued, "Maxie is right. We don't
work for you. That was the deal we made in Denver. We came down here to have a
look. If we find something that makes it worthwhile continuing, then you start
paying. I hope we do find something, because it would give me pleasure to start
spending some of your money. We'll know one way or another within four or five
days. Until that time, I suggest you keep control of yourself, otherwise, even
if we do find something, we're likely to piss off and drink our own
whisky."

Chapter 18
    In
spite of the air-conditioning, the sweat poured off Michael's face. The
dance-floor was packed and gyrating to the rhythm of the eight-piece African
band. The sound system was antique, as were the instruments, but the music was
straight from the soul of Africa and nothing like the sounds of those Zimbabwe
bands that had been 'discovered' and then sanitised in European
recording studios. The girl in front of him was called Shavi and was Indian;
part of the community that had remained in the country after Independence. She
was small and slight, with huge luminous eyes and a curved red mouth which was
constantly breaking into a smile.
    There
were few white faces on the dance-floor or at the long white bar which only
served beer and soft drinks. The club was located in a township ten kilometres
from the city centre and was wonderfully unsophisticated. He had met Shavi in
the disco at the Sheraton and quickly warmed to her maverick nature. Over a
drink, she had explained that the substantial Indian community, which had first
been brought to Rhodesia by the British as skilled labourers on the railways,
had over the years become a sort of middle-class, mainly involved in retailing
and property. Her family owned a large garment store. They would not be pleased
that she was consorting even with a European, and they would be horrified if
they thought she went out with an African. She was the new generation. She had
been born in the country and it was as much hers as anyone else's and she would
go out with who the hell she likes... even a Maltese. Michael had looked around
the sophisticated disco and remarked that it would not have been out of place
in any big European city. She had immediately suggested a change of venue and
after a taxi ride and a fifty cent entrance fee, they had walked into
Mushambira Club in the suburb of Highlands and its pounding music.
    He was
surprised that the almost entirely black clientele were so well-dressed, the
men in suits and ties and the women in brightly-coloured well-made dresses.
Shavi explained that after the first flush of being able to go into the
sophisticated white clubs in Harare, a lot of even wealthy blacks prefer the
raw music and atmosphere of places like the Mushambira Club Bagamba. They felt
more relaxed among their own, and the few liberal-type whites who went there
were simply tolerated.
    "And
you?" Michael had asked.
    She had
laughed and answered, "I'm unique. Perhaps the only Indian woman who's
ever walked through these doors. I speak perfect Shona and have no prejudices
and they feel that. I've also been here with an African boyfriend who I met