dark faces shouting and bartering and arguing in Cape Flats Afrikaans and African tongues from here and up north.
A taxi rattles by, the driver half out his window to see Dawn’s ass, and she gives him the finger and takes a gap and makes it to the other side serenaded by car horns. Passes the police vehicles and heads for the doorway of Lips, reckons they’re here to shake Costa down again, these cops. But a uniform—pimply thing with a smear of mustache—blocks her at the door and asks her if she knows Glenville Faro.
“Who the fuck’s Glenville Faro?” Dawn says, dodging him and getting inside the near-empty club, out of the wind.
“Boogie. He means Boogie.” This from one of the Ugly Sisters, the fat one, leaning against the bar, her tits making a break for freedom from the top of her dress, the young cop all eyes and yo-yoing Adam’s apple.
Dawn sees Costa and a plainclothes—chunky brown guy—near the ramp and knows this is some other shit going down.
“What’s Boogie done now?” Dawn asks, putting her bag on the bar top, nodding to Cliffie the barman.
“Gone and got his stupid brains beat out,” Cliffie says, sliding a can of Coke across to her, like he does every night.
“Dead?”
“Ja.”
Dawn cracks the tab and hears a mutter of fizz, catches a few cool little bubbles on her fingers. Drinks from the can, that metal taste on her tongue, the syrup only making her more thirsty as it goes down her throat, but the caffeine giving her a little kick.
“Where this happen?” Hiding a burp behind her hand, all ladylike.
Cliffie jerks his head toward the street. “Construction site.”
The plainclothes cop comes over, an ugly fucker with nostrils like shotgun barrels. He adjusts the hang of his balls while he window-shops her rack. “You work here?”
“Ja.”
“What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“And I’m Winnie fucken Mandela.” He gives her a smirk. “When last you seen Glenville Faro?”
“You mean Boogie?”
“Ja, whatever. When you seen him?”
“Last night. Early hours.”
“Where?”
“The street.”
“Who’s he with?”
“He come out with us, me and Cliffie and Sylvia and them.” Flicks a finger in the direction of the Ugly Sisters; the skinny one’s come in the door now, standing with her friend, voices shrill as parakeets as they talk up the drama.
“And then?” the cop says, weighing his nuts again.
“Then nothing. I walk across the road to where I live.”
“Anybody else there?”
“Ja, him,” she says, nodding toward Vernon, who appears in the doorway, checking out the scene. Vernon’s looking at her now and suddenly Dawn knows just what went down with Boogie and why, and she feels sick as she asks, “Can I go get ready?”
“Ja, go,” the cop says. “Maybe I get me a front-row seat for the show, so make sure your thing don’t stink.”
“Like your mother’s, you mean?” Dawn says, and he looks like he’s going to smack her, but he just flushes and clenches his fists and she empties the can down her neck and takes her bag and heads for the dressing room, feeling Vernon’s eyes on her, an icy little chill in her gut that’s got nothing to do with the cold Coke.
The cop, name of Dino Erasmus—Vernon remembers him from Bellwood South headquarters—goes red under his muddy skin, Dawn giving him lip. Good at that, the little bitch, walking away now, swinging her ass.
Vernon gets himself up to the bar, slides in beside the plainclothes. “So, Dino, what’s the fucken story?”
The detective lights a smoke to give himself a moment, shaking the match dead and flicking it onto the floor, exhaling twin vapor trails through that snout of his. “Vernon Saul. Thought you were a security guard but here you are babysitting pussy.”
Vernon knows he mustn’t get on the wrong side of this bastard, even finds something resembling a smile, showing off his nice white teeth.
“I’m in armed response, Llandudno side. Work here some
A taxi rattles by, the driver half out his window to see Dawn’s ass, and she gives him the finger and takes a gap and makes it to the other side serenaded by car horns. Passes the police vehicles and heads for the doorway of Lips, reckons they’re here to shake Costa down again, these cops. But a uniform—pimply thing with a smear of mustache—blocks her at the door and asks her if she knows Glenville Faro.
“Who the fuck’s Glenville Faro?” Dawn says, dodging him and getting inside the near-empty club, out of the wind.
“Boogie. He means Boogie.” This from one of the Ugly Sisters, the fat one, leaning against the bar, her tits making a break for freedom from the top of her dress, the young cop all eyes and yo-yoing Adam’s apple.
Dawn sees Costa and a plainclothes—chunky brown guy—near the ramp and knows this is some other shit going down.
“What’s Boogie done now?” Dawn asks, putting her bag on the bar top, nodding to Cliffie the barman.
“Gone and got his stupid brains beat out,” Cliffie says, sliding a can of Coke across to her, like he does every night.
“Dead?”
“Ja.”
Dawn cracks the tab and hears a mutter of fizz, catches a few cool little bubbles on her fingers. Drinks from the can, that metal taste on her tongue, the syrup only making her more thirsty as it goes down her throat, but the caffeine giving her a little kick.
“Where this happen?” Hiding a burp behind her hand, all ladylike.
Cliffie jerks his head toward the street. “Construction site.”
The plainclothes cop comes over, an ugly fucker with nostrils like shotgun barrels. He adjusts the hang of his balls while he window-shops her rack. “You work here?”
“Ja.”
“What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“And I’m Winnie fucken Mandela.” He gives her a smirk. “When last you seen Glenville Faro?”
“You mean Boogie?”
“Ja, whatever. When you seen him?”
“Last night. Early hours.”
“Where?”
“The street.”
“Who’s he with?”
“He come out with us, me and Cliffie and Sylvia and them.” Flicks a finger in the direction of the Ugly Sisters; the skinny one’s come in the door now, standing with her friend, voices shrill as parakeets as they talk up the drama.
“And then?” the cop says, weighing his nuts again.
“Then nothing. I walk across the road to where I live.”
“Anybody else there?”
“Ja, him,” she says, nodding toward Vernon, who appears in the doorway, checking out the scene. Vernon’s looking at her now and suddenly Dawn knows just what went down with Boogie and why, and she feels sick as she asks, “Can I go get ready?”
“Ja, go,” the cop says. “Maybe I get me a front-row seat for the show, so make sure your thing don’t stink.”
“Like your mother’s, you mean?” Dawn says, and he looks like he’s going to smack her, but he just flushes and clenches his fists and she empties the can down her neck and takes her bag and heads for the dressing room, feeling Vernon’s eyes on her, an icy little chill in her gut that’s got nothing to do with the cold Coke.
The cop, name of Dino Erasmus—Vernon remembers him from Bellwood South headquarters—goes red under his muddy skin, Dawn giving him lip. Good at that, the little bitch, walking away now, swinging her ass.
Vernon gets himself up to the bar, slides in beside the plainclothes. “So, Dino, what’s the fucken story?”
The detective lights a smoke to give himself a moment, shaking the match dead and flicking it onto the floor, exhaling twin vapor trails through that snout of his. “Vernon Saul. Thought you were a security guard but here you are babysitting pussy.”
Vernon knows he mustn’t get on the wrong side of this bastard, even finds something resembling a smile, showing off his nice white teeth.
“I’m in armed response, Llandudno side. Work here some
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