Mixed Blood by Roger Smith Page B

Barnard leaned in close and tried a smile.
    Captain Danny Lotter wasn’t a squeamish man; in fact he had been known to eat hot dogs during postmortems, but the full blast of Barnard’s halitosis forced him back on his stool. He quickly fired up a Camel, not offering one to Barnard.
    Lotter’s brandcoke arrived, and Barnard lifted his Double O in a toast. “Good luck.”
    Lotter grunted, but he didn’t turn the drink down.
    “Lotter, I’ve been hearing some funny things.”
    “Get your ears tested.”
    Barnard had to restrain himself from grabbing the skinny cunt by his blow-dried hair and pulping his face on the bar. He wheezed, taking it calm. “Things about some task force, anticorruption what-what being set up.”
    Lotter looked at Barnard. “Ja, so?”
    “So, I know you’re screwing that girlie in the superintendent’s office.”
    “Marie?”
    “Ja. The ugly one?”
    “She’s not ugly, exactly …”
    “Lotter, just because you fucking her doesn’t mean she’s not a dog.” Barnard laughed one of his sucking laughs.
    Lotter drained his glass and set it on the counter. He stood. “Thanks for the drink.”
    Barnard put a heavy paw on Lotter’s shoulder, easing him back onto his stool. “I’m trying to be nice here. Let’s keep it that way.”
    Lotter looked for a moment like he was going to resist; then he realized it would be foolish and he nodded. “Okay, but take your hands off my jacket. It’s just been dry-cleaned.”
    Barnard took his hand back, and Lotter adjusted his collar. “Look, it’s all very hush-hush, and I’ve only heard bits and pieces, but there is some investigation.”
    “Ja?”
    “Ja. And you one of the people they going to be looking at.”
    “That so?”
    Lotter nodded. “So I hear.”
    Barnard shrugged. “Fuck them, anyway. How many of these task forces haven’t there been?”
    “This one’s different.” Lotter sucked on his cigarette.
    “How?”
    “Darkies from Jo’burg, sent down from Safety and Security. To clean up the Cape.”
    “Darkies, hey?”
    “In BMWs and suits.”
    “That so? They got bugger all on me.”
    Lotter shrugged. “Then you got nothing to worry about.” He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and walked away.
    This wasn’t entirely unexpected. A man like Barnard made enemies. Often powerful enemies. He had seen what had happened to other cops who had fallen foul of their superiors. The lucky ones were booted out with no pension. The unlucky ones were thrown into Pollsmoor Prison with the half-breed scum they had spent their lives fighting.
    This was not a fate that Rudi Barnard was prepared to entertain.
    If Lotter was right, and Lotter was too unimaginative to invent any of this, then Barnard had a battle coming. He knew well enough that the way to win a political battle in South Africa—and if there were darkies involved, this was political—was to throw money at the right people. A shitload of money, dumped in the right places, could make anything disappear.
    Throw money at people. Or kill them.

    Benny Mongrel and Bessie were on the top floor of the house. Bessie slept. She had moved more easily up the stairs that night, and when he’d touched her ribs, where the fat cop had kicked her, she hadn’t moaned.
    Ever since his conversation with his white boss, Benny Mongrel had been scheming, planning. Lying at home in his shack, unable to sleep, listening to the wind howl like the dying.
    Thinking.
    He felt at peace now that he had made up his mind. He knew what he had to do. Just two more days, and he picked up his month’s pay. A pittance, but it was all he had. Then he and Bessie would start a new life together.
    He had sworn to go straight when he walked out of the gates of Pollsmoor, wanted to find a life outside the all-too-familiar structures of prison. Now he was going to commit another crime.
    True, stealing a dog, a mangy old bitch with tired hips, was bugger all compared to what he had done in his life. But she belonged