Ivory Nation by Andy Maslen (free children's ebooks online txt) 📕

and Stella swung the doors wide and jumped out before slamming them again with a stuttered double-bang.

They’d paid just as much attention to their outfits as to the choreography. ‘Joyce’ was in her business suit, but this time with low-heeled boots beneath the trousers. She’d tucked the little revolver into the back of her waistband.

‘The help’ wore black jeans tucked into black combat boots and a black, sleeveless vest beneath a black silk bomber jacket. In a holster on her waist the Glock sat, stripped, cleaned and oiled, with a full magazine and topped off with one in the chamber.

Each woman also had a slender-bladed knife tucked into her right boot.

Eli singled out the biggest lad in the group of drinkers by the front door. She pointed at him.

‘You!’ she shouted.

He placed a palm flat on his chest and raised his eyebrows. Me?

‘Come here.’

The tone of authority was unmistakable to everyone gathered around the two women. Eli was used to giving orders and watched with satisfaction as his feet began to carry him towards her before he’d had a chance to think it through. Still got it, El!

Recovering some of his poise he sauntered over, taking his time, winking left and right at his friends. He stopped in front of her, hands loose by his side. Looked her up and down. Kissed his teeth.

Then he smiled, a slow, lazy grin that stretched his lips wide, revealing perfect teeth, even and straight.

‘You, ah, want something, darling?’

‘How much do you make in a week?’ Eli snapped out the question.

‘None of your damn business.’ It came out nun ya dam bidness.

She stretched out a fist towards him making him jerk back. Rolled it over and opened her finger to reveal a rolled $50 note.

‘Watch the truck and you get another when we come out.’

He stared at her for two or three seconds, popped an unlit match into his mouth and gripped it between his teeth. A cheap gangster move from an old forties Jimmy Cagney flick, but somehow he made it work.

He took the note and pocketed it. Nodded briefly.

Eli took a gentle but firm hold of the front of his shirt and drew him closer. Up close she smelled clean male sweat and a tang of tobacco.

‘It would be in your interests to be here when we come out,’ she murmured into his left ear.

Having done what she could to arrange security for the truck, Eli led Stella past the newly respectful crowd and into the Oasis Lounge. The band from before were playing and the singer nodded to Eli as she made eye contact.

Before they reached the bar, Peter Mafombe materialised at Stella’s side, dressed in a shimmering shot-silk suit that changed from powder blue to maroon as the folds and creases caught the bar lights.

‘Joyce!’ he said, beaming. He extended his right hand and shook Stella’s vigorously. He turned to Eli. ‘And the help.’ He bowed a little from the waist.

Stella turned left and right then looked back at Mafombe.

‘Where is he?’

‘In the back. Come with me, please.’ He looked over at the barman, whose eyes were locked onto his. ‘Bring some beers,’ he shouted. The barman nodded and turned to the low-level row of fridges behind the bar.

Eli hung back, allowing Stella to precede her through the door at the back of the room. She pressed her forearm against the gun beneath her jacket, feeling its reassuring bulk against her ribs. Nobody was looking at them. Nobody shot them death stares, despite their being the only two white people in the bar. Or, she suspected, the entire neighbourhood.

Beyond the door, a dark, narrow corridor stretched for twenty yards. Stickers – for bands, nightclubs, car accessories and political parties – spattered the wall at shoulder-height all the way down. A fire door closed off the end, secured with a dull-steel push-bar and a green-and-white emergency exit sign.

‘Down here, please,’ Mafombe said over his shoulder, indicating a door to his right. A skirted stick figure had been chalked onto the matt-black paintwork. Beneath it, the word ‘Basadi’. Eli didn’t need Gabriel’s linguistic skills to translate it. ‘Women.’

Mafombe stood aside and pushed the door open.

Eli’s heart rate had jumped significantly as soon as they’d left the relative safety of a crowded bar. Now it ticked up still further. The ladies’ toilets? What was this? She pushed the side of her jacket behind the Glock’s butt and rested her hand on it.

Stella was playing her part to the hilt. Somewhere the woman had deep reserves of chutzpah, because she strode across the threshold as if she owned the Oasis Lounge instead of Mafombe.

Eli followed her in and stopped dead.

31

To the right of a row of three cubicles a tall man leaned against the single sink. He smiled at her. His beige silk suit, rust-and-cream-checked waistcoat, open-necked gold shirt, tan-and-white wingtips and gold-topped cane gave him the appearance of a 1920s New Orleans jazzman.

Flanking him were two beautiful black women with the lean, muscular look of Olympic athletes built for strength as well as speed. Heptathletes. Or javelin throwers. Each wore a bored expression: lazy eyelids coloured white and peacock blue, weighed down by exaggerated false eyelashes.

Mafombe left, letting the door bang closed behind him. Eli suppressed the urge to look behind her.

‘Good evening,’ the man said in a mellow baritone voice that could have secured him a gig in Sun City any night of the week. ‘My name is Joshua. You must be Joyce,’ he said to Stella before taking her hand and bringing her knuckles gently to his lips.

She inclined her head.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Joshua. Is this your usual place of business?’ she drawled, encompassing the toilet cubicles, sink and battered metal tampon dispenser with a sweep of her left hand.

He laughed, a deep, indulgent sound. Beside him, the two black panthers, as Eli had mentally named them, allowed themselves the briefest of smiles.

‘Ha! Very good, Joyce. My usual place of business,’ he repeated, chuckling. ‘No.’ His smile vanished.

He