little deal to discuss, and we come back in here.”
“ Here? ”
“No, man, I can see he’s clean—not even a knife,” said Williams, at last settling for English, which would be less confusing than a mixture. “But I stand in the doorway, see? Sort of half on. Then he tells me. The butcher wasn’t paying up right. He wasn’t doing what he should, seeing as he’s got this contract.”
“Did he say Chainpuller?” Zondi broke in.
Beebop Williams flinched. “That word’s on your tongue, brother, and it’s ideal—but I didn’t put it there. Are we agreed?”
Zondi nodded.
“Then he says his boss is now one short on his contracts and he figures that Beebop is just the man for the job.”
“How much?”
“Ten rand a week.”
“And did he say anything about Lucky and the others?” “He kind of waved his hand around. So I got the message.” “The guy that came here—he is coming back for the money?”
Beebop patted to show how flat his pockets were.
“One payment already? How about the rest?”
“Put it like the others in a tin, go up near his—near the hut, and throw.”
“When?”
“Sunday night when there’s no people around. Now look, man, I don’t want no pigs—”
“What did the guy look like? Know his name?”
It nearly came out, then the heat of the moment cooled.
“What guy?” Beebop Williams said, all surprised.
But that was enough. Even the softening effects of sophistication had their limit, and it was time now to contact the lieutenant.
Marais was confident of one thing: the button had not been lost off any of Monty Stevenson’s work shirts.
Mrs. Stevenson had emptied the wardrobe shelves for him, and they had ticked off each and every garment against an inventory she kept to inhibit the wash girl’s congenital dishonesty. Then there had been tears in the hall—during which Marais learned that whatever happened to Monty didn’t matter much, but she’d just realized how she and poor little Jeremy might suffer—and that had been that.
Now he was on his way to interview the last member known to have left the club that night, having decided that the poser of the clean glasses would be best left to a fresh start in the morning. He was light-headed through lack of decent sleep.
It was six o’clock by the time he drove onto the forecourt of the garage. With the law prohibiting the sale of petrol at night and over the weekend, it looked deserted until he noticed a light still burning in the small office to the rear of the showroom.
There Gilbert Littlemore turned out to be one of those ex-Kenya types who kept calling coons “Sambo” and “nig-nog” and other childish names. The sort who made Marais’s membership in the Nationalist party seem ridiculous when they twisted apartheid to mean having polite servants and not separate development for all races—which was far more important to anyone who loved the country. Trust throw-out Englishmen to think that politeness was something you needed a policy to control.
“You don’t take any of their damn cheek, I suppose?” Littlemore said, pushing aside the hire-purchase forms he had been completing. “I’m sorry to go on like this, but I did expect a bit more discipline down here. Good God, at the rate we’re going, I’m likely to find myself working with Jungle Jim alongside of me! As a salesman, I mean!”
“Jungle Jim?” queried Marais, deliberately needling him. That was another thing he couldn’t stand—the way they kept trying to be what they thought was South African.
“Oh, my mistake! Jim Fish—that’s it, isn’t it? Now, you were saying…?”
“I’m making certain inquiries concerning the Wigwam, as I told you on the phone, and I would like to have a statement from you.”
“Public or private use? Ha-ha!”
“Ha, bloody ha,” said Marais wearily, getting out his ballpoint.
“Well, I was there with a party actually, but they all toddled off before Eve’s second performance
“ Here? ”
“No, man, I can see he’s clean—not even a knife,” said Williams, at last settling for English, which would be less confusing than a mixture. “But I stand in the doorway, see? Sort of half on. Then he tells me. The butcher wasn’t paying up right. He wasn’t doing what he should, seeing as he’s got this contract.”
“Did he say Chainpuller?” Zondi broke in.
Beebop Williams flinched. “That word’s on your tongue, brother, and it’s ideal—but I didn’t put it there. Are we agreed?”
Zondi nodded.
“Then he says his boss is now one short on his contracts and he figures that Beebop is just the man for the job.”
“How much?”
“Ten rand a week.”
“And did he say anything about Lucky and the others?” “He kind of waved his hand around. So I got the message.” “The guy that came here—he is coming back for the money?”
Beebop patted to show how flat his pockets were.
“One payment already? How about the rest?”
“Put it like the others in a tin, go up near his—near the hut, and throw.”
“When?”
“Sunday night when there’s no people around. Now look, man, I don’t want no pigs—”
“What did the guy look like? Know his name?”
It nearly came out, then the heat of the moment cooled.
“What guy?” Beebop Williams said, all surprised.
But that was enough. Even the softening effects of sophistication had their limit, and it was time now to contact the lieutenant.
Marais was confident of one thing: the button had not been lost off any of Monty Stevenson’s work shirts.
Mrs. Stevenson had emptied the wardrobe shelves for him, and they had ticked off each and every garment against an inventory she kept to inhibit the wash girl’s congenital dishonesty. Then there had been tears in the hall—during which Marais learned that whatever happened to Monty didn’t matter much, but she’d just realized how she and poor little Jeremy might suffer—and that had been that.
Now he was on his way to interview the last member known to have left the club that night, having decided that the poser of the clean glasses would be best left to a fresh start in the morning. He was light-headed through lack of decent sleep.
It was six o’clock by the time he drove onto the forecourt of the garage. With the law prohibiting the sale of petrol at night and over the weekend, it looked deserted until he noticed a light still burning in the small office to the rear of the showroom.
There Gilbert Littlemore turned out to be one of those ex-Kenya types who kept calling coons “Sambo” and “nig-nog” and other childish names. The sort who made Marais’s membership in the Nationalist party seem ridiculous when they twisted apartheid to mean having polite servants and not separate development for all races—which was far more important to anyone who loved the country. Trust throw-out Englishmen to think that politeness was something you needed a policy to control.
“You don’t take any of their damn cheek, I suppose?” Littlemore said, pushing aside the hire-purchase forms he had been completing. “I’m sorry to go on like this, but I did expect a bit more discipline down here. Good God, at the rate we’re going, I’m likely to find myself working with Jungle Jim alongside of me! As a salesman, I mean!”
“Jungle Jim?” queried Marais, deliberately needling him. That was another thing he couldn’t stand—the way they kept trying to be what they thought was South African.
“Oh, my mistake! Jim Fish—that’s it, isn’t it? Now, you were saying…?”
“I’m making certain inquiries concerning the Wigwam, as I told you on the phone, and I would like to have a statement from you.”
“Public or private use? Ha-ha!”
“Ha, bloody ha,” said Marais wearily, getting out his ballpoint.
“Well, I was there with a party actually, but they all toddled off before Eve’s second performance
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