Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

It was all he had right now.

That and a disfigured brown man with prison tattoos, sitting in the Jeep in the graveyard parking lot. The watchman had made it clear that he was going to shadow Burn until this thing was over, until he could get to the fat cop.

And kill him.

Burn had no reason to trust the watchman, which was why he stood with the bag of money between his feet, and the. 38 Colt belonging to the dead gangster in his waistband. He knew that the watchman was a killer, but for now, at least, they wanted the same man dead: Barnard.

Men stepped forward and carried the wrapped form of Mrs. Dollie toward the grave. They lay the body on its right side, facing Mecca. The prayers moaned along with the wind.

Burn felt his phone vibrating, and he stepped away from the mourners as he looked at caller ID. Mrs. Dollie. He was almost moved to hysterical laughter at the surreal juxtaposition of her body in the gravand her name on his phone.

Then he took the call from his son’s kidnapper.

Benny Mongrel sat beside the American, who sped through Salt River, toward Woodstock, on the frayed fringes of the city. Burn was tense, checking his mirrors, nosing the Jeep into gaps. Then he made a visible effort to calm himself, and he slowed down, dropped to the speed limit.

Benny Mongrel had a cell phone in his hand, looking at it as if it might bite him. He’d seen people using them, sure, the guards at Pollsmoor, many people since he was released. But he had never held one in his hand. Never mind used one. Burn had given it to him earlier, saying it was a spare he kept as a backup. It would allow them to keep in contact during the drop-off of the money.

They had stopped at a light. Burn was looking at him. “You understand how to use it?”

“Ja.”

“Call my phone. Just to see everything is okay.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do it. Please. We can’t afford screw-ups.”

Benny Mongrel shrugged and jabbed a finger at the tiny phone. Burn had showed him that he only had to push that one number, the three, and it would dial his phone. Burn’s cell, lying on the seat between them, chirped and flashed.

“Okay, hit the red button.”

Benny Mongrel’s finger searched, found the red button, and jabbed at it. The chirping stopped. They were driving again.

“You clear on how we’re going to do this thing?”

Burn overtook a minibus taxi, which suddenly veered into their lane, and he had to swerve, almost colliding with an oncoming truck, horn blaring.

“Jesus!” When they had passed the taxi, Burn shot him a look. “You clear?”

Benny Mongrel nodded. “Ja.”

He was clear. Burn would drop him off just before they got to the Waterfront. Benny Mongrel would make his way to the place where he could observe the drop-off point. Burn had drawn him a map. He would watch the fat cop pick up the money and follow him. If the cop didn’t leave the boy, Burn wanted to know where the fat man was, to go after him. Benny Mongrel had no doubt the boy wouldn’t be left. The fat cop would take the money, and he would go back to his car. Benny Mongrel would follow him and kill him. He had no use for this stupid little phone.

Burn was talking, asking him to run through details of the plan. Benny Mongrel grunted, nodded, but his hand was in his pocket. He gripped the knife, the blade honed to perfect sharpness.

The Waterfront, Cape Town’s dockland development, attracted twenty-two million visitors every year, and it looked like most of them were there that day. Part shopping mall, part theme park, the Waterfront sprawled around the working dock. Restaurants, street musicianoat trips, and spectacular views across the city packed in the crowds.

Burn, duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, pushed his way through throngs of European tourists, skins fried Bockwurst pink by the African sun. They strolled in their shorts and sandals, digital cameras slung around their sunburned necks, wallets bulging with euros. Burn checked his watch; he had five minutes to get to the drop-off point.

Barnard’s instructions had been clear: Burn was to leave the bag on the stairs of the Mandela Gateway and cross the pedestrian bridge toward the shopping mall. Once the money was in place, Barnard would call his cell and tell him where in the Waterfront he could find his son. Burn’s gut instinct was that Matt was nowhere near the Waterfront. Barnard would be keeping him as an insurance policy.

If he was still alive.

Burn had tried to argue that he wouldn’t part with the money until he saw his son. Barnard’s counter was simple: if Burn didn’t shut up and follow instructions, he would remove one of Matt’s fingers. Burn shut up.

Burn skirted a group of black boys stripped to the waist, doing a loud and energetic gum boot dance. They blew whistles and clapped, the boots like gunshots on the cobbles. He approached the Mandela Gateway. The area teemed with tourists, queuing up for the half-hour boat ride across to Robben Island, to see where Nelson Mandela spent twenty-seven years in jail. Shortly after getting to Cape Town, Burn and Matt had taken the trip. Susan had begged off; she was suffering from morning sickness, and there was no way she was getting on a boat. While Burn had stood and looked into Mandela’s cramped cell, he had felt uneasy. Too vivid a reminder of where he could end up.

Burn checked his watch. Two twenty-nine. He forced himself not to look up at the first floor of the shopping area-curio shops and African theme restaurants-where he had told the watchman to take his position.

Burn headed for the stairs. He knew that Barnard wouldn’t waste time collecting the bag. The Waterfront had been the target of bomb attacks in the late nineties, and the security personnel were ultravigilant. An unattended bag would be spotted immediately.

Two thirty. Burn stood on the stairs, gave the area a sweep, then set the duffel bag down against a pillar. He headed off toward the pedestrian bridge, not looking back.

Barnard sat under an umbrella at a table outside a German restaurant, his eyes not moving from the Mandela Gateway. An untouched mug of pilsner stood in front of him. He thought it made him look like a tourist. He wore his cap and a pair of sunglasses, sweating into a T-shirt. Barnard took the sunglasses off and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He checked the watch that cut into the fat on his massive wrist. Almost two thirty.

Then he saw him. The American. Carrying a bag, heading straight toward the stairs. Barnard would let the American drop the bag and walk away. Then he would collect the money and drive over to Paradise Park. Put the Mossberg to the heads of the half-breed bitch and the American kid. Shut them up for keeps.

He regretted that he wasn’t going to be able to kill the American. He’d made a promise to his friend U.S. Marshal Dexter Torrance that Burn would be made to pay. Well, his dead son would have to be pyment enough.

The fat man stayed seated until he saw the American place the bag on the stairs and walk off in the direction of the pedestrian bridge. Barnard stood, hitched up his trousers, shifted the position of the holster under his T-shirt, and went to get his money.

Benny Mongrel waited at the railing on the first floor, outside an African restaurant, his cap pulled low. He watched the stairs. He saw Burn drop the bag and walk away. Benny Mongrel kept his eyes locked on the bag. He was aware of somebody coming up next to him, on his right side. Instinctively he felt for his knife; then he saw it was some young white girl with blonde hair, wearing a backpack.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where I find the taxis?” To Benny Mongrel’s ear, the German accent was nearly incomprehensible.

He turned to her, favoring her with the carnage of the left side of his face. “Fuck off.”