James Mcclure - Snake

“You’ll observe that the fingertips dug in very deeply.”

“And if that had been the deceased, then her nails-which were long and pointy-would have gone right through,” Strydom declared triumphantly, looking around.

Then Bose slipped out of the room, called the attendant to remove the tray, and made his own quiet farewell.

“Let’s go,” said Kramer.

While nine blocks to the east, a yellow car drew away and turned into Claasens Street.

Wessels, hidden in the narrow entrance to a derelict barbershop, shrugged. He could not win them all. It had just occurred to him that a pickup might have been timed to take place around the corner, when he found himself boxed in by a swaying figure.

“Morning, my baasie! Is my baasie enjoying the sunshine?” It was the colored pusher Rex du Plooi, already with the staggers at that hour, and holding up an empty bottle to his ear as if listening for the sea. Many whites believed coloreds were a mixture of the worst characteristics of all the races whose blood ran in their veins; more often than not, Wessels had discovered, this was gross slander. But in Rex’s case it seemed true, and it needed only some cheap wine to turn him into a Molotov cocktail that might, at any moment, explode.

“Ja, you’ve got it in one, Rex-enjoying the sunshine.” “That’s nice, my baasie, that’s wonderful, I say.”

He must have had a profitable night, and some devious questioning, Wessels knew, could have its rewards. But one foot wrongly placed, with Rex in that condition, could be a foot in one or the other’s grave.

Fear fizzled pleasantly inside him, heightening his perception.

“Seems like you’ve been on a lekker trip also-hey, Rex?”

“My baasie?”

“I just said things looked good with you.”

“But how are things with you, my baasie?”

“Told you, man.”

“Only there is no sunshine this side, you see? That’s why I am worried to find you in this cold, dirty place with dog kak and frikkies on the floor.”

Wessels glanced down. He hadn’t noticed the used condoms and excrement, and had even stood in some of it.

“Sunshine’s in a guy’s head, Rex-you should know that.”

“But those are big eyes you’ve got, my baasie.”

“Why’s that?”

But Wessels thought he knew the answer already, he had stuck his nose a little too obviously right into one of Rex’s own drop-offs-and it was not only a delaying tactic the pusher had in mind. So he did not hesitate before jabbing a thumb into each of the other’s big eyes and taking to his heels.

Jesus, that was his cover blown once and for all, but there was still the chance of a final feather in his cap.

He ran round into Claasens Street and dodged a meager flow of pedestrians until he caught sight of the yellow car double-parked across the other side.

But now there was only the driver in it.

A driver whose vigilant attitude confirmed suspicion beyond a doubt: the passenger was out making the drop at that very moment. The all-important thing was to see from which alleyway or building he emerged, and to get another look at that registration number.

Wessels kept to his side of the street, but moved in as close as he dared without giving himself away, and hid behind the wired-in back of a parked truck. Again he was in luck, for the sun’s rays were now striking at an angle that made the numerals, punched in relief on the rear plate, visible despite the mud. He had read off 4544 when there was a sharp honk and he looked up to see the driver’s hand return to the wheel. The bugger was getting jumpy.

Then not even a backfire could distract Wessels as he concentrated on identifying the district letters that prefixed the number. It seemed to be Trekkersburg’s, but he had to be sure. It was: NTK.

“Bloody hell!” said Wessels. In the three seconds it had taken him to do that, the passenger was back in the car and was being driven off at high speed in the direction of Peacevale. In his opinion, he had just seen the impossible.

But he was given no time to dwell on it. Just then, over on the other side of the street, someone started yelling “Police!” and he jogged across to see what the fuss was about.

News of a raid on the Munchausen Cafe reached Kramer as he was rounding off Marais’s briefing.

“Just hang on a sec. Now, Sergeant, you’ve got that? A list of everyone who was in the club that night and check every alibi. The ones who split from their party or sat alone, anything like that, I want you to give the works to. Okay, Zondi, what’s your case?”

Zondi told him what he knew. It was garbled but enough.

Then Zondi moved them nine blocks east through rush-hour traffic in under two minutes. The Chev was left to take care of itself once they entered Claasens Street, now a traffic jam, and the crowd outside the cafe had two holes barged through it.

“Jesus Christ,” said Kramer.

Through the wide doorway he could see Wessels, Constables Smit and Hamlyn in uniform, and an old woman kneeling over a body, while a tall foreigner looked on.

“That’s more than just shooting, boss,” Zondi murmured with a nod.

“Eyewitnesses,” said Kramer.

“Right,” said Zondi, and turned to the crowd.

As Kramer entered the cafe Wessels came up and gave a concise account of what he had seen and heard, adding that the victim was breathing his last, following a bullet wound in the head.

“Uh-huh. Tell Smit to get outside and clear a path for Kloppers and the doc. Hamlyn better stand on the door.”

“And me, sir?”

“What about that car number?”

“I’ve given it to Control, sir.”

“Good. Ach, start on interviewing the nonwhite staff-how many?”

“Just that cook and a waiter.”

“Then while it’s still fresh, hey? You know how fast these kind of memories can dwindle.”

Kramer sat down at a table near the window, took a straw from the glass of them on the checked tablecloth, and looked round the room. It was nothing special. A typical cafe. A typical cafe whether run by Indians, Greeks, Italians, or Portuguese. Yellow walls, blue floor tiles, wooden tables, chairs made out of chromed pipe, big electric fans, pictures of sunsets and snowcapped mountains, a jukebox, menus in plastic stands, all as plain and simple as its fare, made inviting by the aroma of hot dogs and soup. When the man died, that’s when it would look different.

The general impression would go, and in its place would come tedious exact measurements, notes on its little oddities and exclusive features, photographs by the bucketful, and a requirement that all this should reconcile with what could have happened. Had happened.

The tableau about the body changed. The old woman sat back on her thin heels, and the foreigner crossed himself.

What made the Munchausen look different from many other cafes was the mezzanine floor, or balcony, above Kramer’s head, which brought the ceiling down to a much cozier height. Or what would have seemed cozier if its structure had not been so flimsy and doubtful. He would check what was up there. Then again, there was not much of a counter, and that stuck away in the far corner with the till on it, and glass cases of cigarettes behind it. On the near side of the till was a rack festooned with cellophane packets containing potato chips, biltong, dried beef sticks, and other goodies. The rack could well obscure a view of the doorway. He would check on that first.

Skirting the dead man and mourners, Kramer went and placed himself behind the open till. Visibility was good. He then noticed that the kitchen door could also be seen from this position, off to his right, and assumed that the manager liked to keep an eye on both his customers and his staff without having to move about much.