Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

Carmen pushed his hand away from the door and closed it. “I’m babysitting.”

“I need to take a piss.”

“Then piss in the kitchen sink.”

He stared at her. “That’s a white kid, hey?”

She shook her head. “No ways. He belongs to my girlfriend.”

“Bullshit.”

“True. The father was something off a boat.”

“Looks white to me.”

“Ja and what? Are you suddenly some fucken expert?” She gave him a shove toward the front door. She’d had enough of his nonsense. “Time for you to go.”

“I want something first.”

He slipped a hand under her skirt and grabbed her between the legs. Cape Flats foreplay. Carmen didn’t slap; she punched. She punched hard for a girl, putting her weight behind the blow, so when her fist caught Leroy in the ribs he felt it. And he definitely felt her knee in his balls. He grabbed himself, sucking air. She had taken that shit from Rikki because he was the father of her child, but no other man was going to put his hands on her.

“Come. Move.” She pushed him toward the living room.

Leroy wasn’t about to make a scene here in the middle of Americans territory. He slunk to the door like a wounded dog, past Uncle Fatty snoring and farting on the sofa. She opened the door and Leroy went out.

“I wouldn’t put my dick in that dirty thing of yours anyways.”

“Ja, rather go put it in your mother.”

With the pleasantries over, she slammed the door. What had happened pissed her off. Not the crude attempt at sex, but the fact that she’d got rid of him before she could buy another globe off him.

Fuck it. She’d be okay till morning.

Leroy sat slumped in his pimped Honda, staring out at the dark ghetto block. Fucken bitch. He had a good mind to go back and teach her a lesson. What the fuck was going on in there, anyways? With that white kid?

While he pondered these confusing elements, his fingers were busy preparing another globe. A car’s headlights raked the front of the block, illuminating the words thug life daubed in white paint. Leroy ducked down even lower when he saw the Ford come to a halt. He knew Rikki drove that red BMW, but still. He was in enemy territory.

He saw a big guy get out of the car. He was wearing a jacket and had a peaked cap pulled over his face, carried a kit bag. The guy walked across to the stairs Leroy had just come down. One light still burned on the stairs, and Leroy realized he was watching Gatsby walking up to the landing.

Leroy laughed to himself. The moment he saw that white kid, he reckoned something was up. Now he knew. Fucken Gatsby. Leroy had heard there was a warrant out on the fat boer, but there was no way he was going to share his news with the cops.

He also knew that some old-school gangster, Benny Mongrel, had been in Lotus River asking around about Gatsby. And that Fingers Morkel was hot to find Benny Mongrel, wanting revenge. If Gatsby was here, maybe Benny Mongrel would follow.

Leroy was only too happy to score points with the man with no fingers. In the Byzantine world of Cape Flats gangster politics, he was a powerful ally. Leroy reached for his cell phone and dialed. He got voice mail and left a brief, not altogether lucid message, telling Fingers what he had seen.

Then he made the mistake of striking a match and bringing it to the globe.

Barnard was on the landing, catching his breath, when he saw the match flare in the Honda. Instinct took over, and he ducked into the shadows, moved across to the fire escape, and humped his bulk back down to ground level. He stayed in the shadows, coming up behind the car.

He saw the driver slouched behind the wheel, and from the glow he knew he was smoking tik. Barnard couldn’t run the risk that the man had seen him. He knew that shooting him would be too noisy. Even on the Flats a gunshot wouldn’t go unremarked. Barnard was walking across uneven, broken pavement. He set the kit bag down, bent and grabbed a chunk of cement, and headed for the Honda.

The half-breed heard him, dropped the globe, and looked up with a stupid expression on his face, smoke escaping from his open mouth. Barnard reached in through the open window and smashed the cement down on the half-breed’s head, stunning him. Barnard opened the car door and hauled him out onto the street. Then he finished the job, pulping the half-breed’s head with the cement, till it looked like roadkill on the blacktop.

Then he pulled the keys from the car’s ignition and went to the rear and popped the trunk. He hauled the half-breed around the back of the car and dumped him into the trunk. He threw the car keys in after him, slammed the lid, and made sure it was locked. He looked around. All was quiet.

Time to go and check on the bitch and the American kid.

When the half-breed finally opened the door, Barnard grabbed her by the throat and walked her backward into the room. He kicked the door shut behind him as he pushed her into a kneeling position on the floor. In the same motion he produced the. 38 from its holster and shoved it into her mouth, grabbing a fistful of her kinky hair with his left hand. By tilting the gun barrel, he forced her to look up into his eyes.

“Okay. Listen to me and listen careful. When I take this gun out your mouth, I’m gonna ask you a question. And you not gonna lie. Understood?”

She nodded, choking on the gun. He slid the barrel from her mouth and she coughed.

“Who was that fucker who was here now?”

She shook her head. “There was nobody here.”

He took his arm back and hit her with the barrel. The sight dug deep into her cheekbone, and blood sprang, a red ribbon against her sallow face. She moaned and brought a hand to her cheek, trying to stem the blood that flowed between her fingers.

“There was one light on in the building when he came out. Yours. I’m only gonna ask you one more time. Who was he?”

“My dealer.”

“Did he see the kid?”

She was about to lie. He knew it and took his gun hand back, ready to hit her again. He saw the truth come into her eyes. “Ja. He seen him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it’s my friend’s kid.”

“A white kid?”

“I tole him that the daddy was a sailor.”

“He buy that?”

“Ja. I think so.”

“Anybody else see him?”

She shook her head. He believed her. He lowered the gun. “Where’s the kid?”

“In the bathroom.”

He banged past the old alkie, who snored on the sofa, dead to the world, and opened the bathroom door. The kid lay next to the filthy shit pot, so still he looked dead. Barnard lowered himself down and prodded a sausagelike finger into the kid’s neck. He could feel a pulse. The kid didn’t stir.

Barnard went back through to the other room and found the half-breed at the kitchen sink, holding a wet cloth against her face. The cloth was already turning pink.

“You give him something to make him sleep?”

She nodded. “Half a Mogadon.”

“And what if you’d fucken killed him?”

She stared at him, the blood seeping through the cloth. “You gonna kill him anyways, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. Blood dripped through the ook/p›

Then he came at her. She shrunk back against the sink, but he surprised her by putting his thumb against the cloth where the cut was, applying pressure. He held it there for nearly a minute, staring at her, his rotten breath rolling over her like the fumes from a septic tank.

“I’m gonna stay here tonight.”

“You can’t sleep with me!”

“You’d be so fucken lucky.” He laughed and released the grip on her face. The pressure had slowed the flow of blood.

Barnard turned and walked over to a threadbare chair, dragged it so that its back was to the wall and it faced the front door. He sat, his fat overflowing the arms of the chair, and unzipped the kit bag. He unwrapped the towel and rested the Mossberg 500 on his lap.