Free Zoo City by Lauren Beukes

REVIEWS]
    Recommendations If you enjoyed this, Get Real thinks you might also like:
    • The Shift (2001)
    • Des Anges au Bestiaire (1998)
    • Zoologika: Perspectives from Chinese prisons to Chicago's ganglands (2007)
    • Great White Totem (2003)
    • Traffic (2006)
    • Warlord of Kayan (1989)
    • Steering by the Golden Compass: Pullman's fantasy in the context of the ontological shift (2005)
    • Claws Out: The Rise of the Animalled Rights Movement (2008)

9.
    "Can I just say, wow! I am so surprised you called!"
       Maltese is driving up Empire at a fair clip, about 50 kays over the speed limit in an old Mercedes in '70s gold, with the Dog on his lap, head out the window, tongue flapping. They insisted on picking me up, even though it would have taken half the time if I'd caught a taxi.
       "Mm. We thought we were going to have to hunt you down," Marabou says from the back seat. Her bird flexes its wings and refolds them, feathers scraping the roof. The car isn't really built for carrion-eating storks needing to stretch to their full wingspan. There is a horrible smell in the car, a sweet and rotten undertone to the scent of leather and the Maltese's citrusy cologne. He notices me wince and mouths the words "Bird breath" with a wrinkle of his nose.
       Sloth makes a grumbly sound in the back of his throat, his claws padding my arms like a cat. This is why I can't play poker. Nothing like having a giant furry tell to ruin your bluff. I try to keep my grip on the door handle casual as the car races up Empire and barrels through another orange light. Sloth buries his face into my neck. I focus on the newspaper headline posters to fight back carsickness. CORRUPTION CASE POSTPONED. HOMELESS MAN BURNED TO DEATH. AIRPORT DRUG BUST.
       "I still don't like little dogs," I say.
       "That's okay," says Maltese says, remarkably chipper. "You won't be working for us anyway."
       "I might not be working for anyone at all. This is just a look-see."
       "You're such a tough guy. I love it."
       We pull up to a boom marking the entrance to a gated community. The uniformed guard has a Rat in his pocket, its pink snuffling nose poking out just above the Sentinel Armed Response logo. Zoos do okay in the security sector, especially with Sentinel, which is the largest and therefore, as a matter of practicality, the most open-minded armed-response company in the city.
       The Dog bristles, and as the guard leans down to look in the car window, it springs up, in a frenzy of yapping and snarling. The Rat blinks at the Dog, whiskers twitching, but it doesn't budge.
       "Down, biscuit! I'm sorry, Pierre. You know how excited he gets."
       "It's João, Mr Mazibuko. But it's no problem."
       "Gosh, I'm sorry. You'd think I'd remember such a handsome boy. I promise I won't forget again." He looks at the guard calculatingly. "I don't suppose you can sing, by any chance?"
       "Mark." The Marabou's voice is sharp and low.
       "No, of course not, how silly of me. Never mind, Felipe.
    João. Whatever your name is. Can you let Mr Huron know we're here? If you don't mind doing your job, sweetie?"
       "Yes, sir." Unfazed, the guard takes a smart step back from the car, speaks into his radio and then raises the boom to allow the Mercedes through. There's something about the way he does it, a staccato snap to his movement that says ex-military. That's the thing about Africa. There are a lot of wars. A lot of unemployed ex-soldiers.
       The car pulls away, a little more vigorously than required, under the boom, over a speed bump and into the rotten heart of leafy suburbia. The suburbs are overshadowed with oaks and jacarandas and elms. Biggest man-made forest in the world, or so we're told.
       The grassy verges on the pavement are more manicured than a porn star's topiary, running up to ten-metre-high walls topped with electric fencing. Anything could happen behind those walls and you wouldn't know a