Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

touchy before the curtain went up. On seeing that I had company, Chandler beckoned us into the room with a nod of approval as if he’d assessed my newfound friends and hadn’t found them entirely lacking. He stood up as we entered, his eyes on us as he listened to the person on the other end of the phone call. He studied each one of the new arrivals intently, and shuffled the papers before him distractedly as if he was going to pack them away, but then threw his head back and spoke in a voice that was not angry, but was laden with threat.

“You think I care about your bureaucratic problems?” he hissed. “You get them loaded by this evening. I’ll be flying in at sunset with Freddy and if those beasts aren’t riding the Benguela current Freddy’s going to pull your fat fingers off one by one. You know how Freddy gets when I’m angry.” Chandler turned away from us, took two strides and opened the glass door without the blinds, as he had rehearsed, then stepped out and was swallowed by the sunlight on the terrace. He closed the door behind him with a menacing gentleness, and Vusi’s shaking picked up pace like the applause of the crowd. The Van Rensburg entourage were still stopped in their tracks at the doorway. Roelof turned to me.

“You sure this is alright?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, and smiled apologetically. “So sorry about that. Bureaucracy is the bane of our lives. Getting all those bits of paper signed. Transport is nothing but a hurdle these days. And this air traffic delay hasn’t improved the colonel’s mood any. Vusi, fix some drinks all round for our fellow shipwreckees.”

Hendrik had a rum and coke because he didn’t mind playing to stereotype. His father took his rum on the rocks. Melissa worried about her job in the morning and posed beside Hendrik on the deep leather couch with a lime and soda. Roelof’s was a sparkling mineral water, and the final member of their entourage was introduced to me by Piet as Kenneth. Kenneth also had a sparkling water. He was a muscular black man with huge hands and knuckles that looked purple with bruises. He wore a collection of rings on his fingers that could have served pretty well as knuckledusters when the occasion arose, and under his baby blue sports jacket he was wearing a shirt that must have been purchased before he spent all that time in the gym. Good quality cotton, it stretched accommodatingly over his pectorals, but the buttons didn’t look like they’d make it through the day. And when he took his jacket off the sleeves were revealed, gripping tightly above the biceps like tourniquets. He had a big smile and a bald head and tried not to look like the protection, although he did remain on his feet, and kept his knees loose in case he needed to move quickly.

“You been out in the park?” I asked conversationally, when everyone had their drinks and had taken their places. “The Kruger Park, looking at the game?”

Hendrik sipped his rum and gave me the blank look of a man who employed people to answer stupid questions. His father answered, his bright eyes studying me as he tried to position me within the hierarchy. “Lunch with business colleagues,” he said and smiled.

“What line of work are you in, Mr Moss?” asked Roelof, who was taking his mineral water standing up, positioned behind Piet van Rensburg and near the big meeting table so that if we started playing musical chairs he’d be assured of getting to a seat before anyone else.

“Freddy,” I said. “Logistics, nothing very interesting. Mostly we seem to be dealing with bureaucracy and red tape. And trying to get things from A to B.”

The shadow of Chandler striding angrily past the door cast a momentary gloom, and the menacing sound of his voice suppressed our conversation. I went over to the door to check that it was closed, which it was, then sat down at the table to play host from the other side of Chandler’s papers. I indicated that Roelof should take a seat, which he did a little reluctantly.

“I don’t need to ask about your line of business,” I said. “You don’t get to run Media-Mark without your picture being splashed about town.”

“Roelof did all the running,” said Piet. “I was just the pretty face, wasn’t I, Rudi?”

“Nonsense,” said Roelof, and he gave a dutiful smile. “Mr Van Rensburg started the company in his parents’ garage,” he explained.

“Water under the bridge,” said Piet, and he finished his rum with a gulp. Vusi was there in a moment and refilled it. Worth every cent of his fee, Vusi was.

“Mr Van Rensburg has stepped aside from the management of the company,” said Roelof in a confidential tone.

“Spilt milk,” said Piet, revising his choice of cliché, but he took some more rum for the pain.

“I read about that,” I said.

“The papers made it sound like a political move,” said Roelof, “but it wasn’t. Mthembu is the right man to take the company forward. He’s done some good things, hasn’t he, boss?”

“Good man,” said Piet. “Company’s in good hands.”

Roelof leaned over the table towards me and spoke quietly. “Mr Van Rensburg remains the major shareholder,” he said, as if that was a secret he was sharing.

I nodded and almost said what a good thing that was, but instead put that thought into my expression and also leaned forward a little over the table where my attention was naturally taken by Chandler’s papers. I could read the title at the head of the page: “Terms of Agreement”, and a little lower in bold text the name “Richard Mabele”, and the name “Steven Colchester”. Chandler like to keep the initials constant; that way he could use the engraved accessories when appropriate, and the entwined ‘SC’ on the platinum fountain pen wouldn’t raise suspicion. I moved the papers as if suddenly aware that