Free Devil's Peak by Deon Meyer Page B

potential truth was the story he was fabricating now?

“A broker?”

“A broker.” There was a time when it was possible, when it could have been true. But that lay in the past. What lay ahead? Where was he going?

“And you have something for Johnny Khoza?”

“Maybe.”

Shouts rang out above the music and they looked around. The strong colored man was dancing on the table now with his shirt off. A dragon tattoo spat faded red fire across his chest while bystanders urged him on.

Boss Man Madikiza shook his head. “Trouble brewing,” he said, and turned back to Thobela. “I don’t think Johnny is available, my friend. I hear he’s on the run. They got him in Ciskei for AR and manslaughter. He did a service station—Johnny never thinks big. So when the court case went wrong, it cost him big money to buy a key, you know what I’m saying. I don’t know where he is, but he is definitively not in the Cape. He would have come creeping in here long ago if he was. In any case, I have better talent on my books—just tell me what you need.”

For the first time the possibility occurred to him that he might not get them. The possibility that his search could be fruitless, that they had crept into a hole somewhere where he could not get at them. The frustration pressed heavily down on him, making him feel sluggish and impotent. “The thing is,” he said, although he already knew it would not work, “Khoza has information on the potential job. A contact on the inside. Is there no one who would know where he is?”

“He has a brother . . . I don’t know where.”

“No one else?” Where to now? If he couldn’t find Khoza and Ramphele? What then? With an effort he shook off the feeling and concentrated on what the Boss Man was saying.

“I don’t know too much about him. Johnny is small time, one of many who try to impress me. They are all the same—come in here with big attitude, throw their money around in front of the girls like they were big gangstas, but they do service stations. No class. If Johnny has told you he has a contact on the inside for a serious score, you should be careful.”

“I will.” The farm was not an option. He could not go back. With this frustration in him it would drive him insane. What was he going to do?

“Where can I get hold of you? If I hear something?”

“I will come back.”

The Boss Man’s little eyes narrowed. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust nobody.”

The little laugh bubbled up, champagne from a barrel, and a marshmallow hand patted him on the shoulder. “Well said, my friend . . .”

There was a crash louder than the music. The dancing dragon’s table had broken beneath him and he fell spectacularly, to the great enjoyment of the onlookers. He lay on the floor holding his beer glass triumphantly above him.

“Fuck,” said the Boss Man and got up from the stool. “I knew things would get out of hand.”

The colored man stood up slowly and gestured an apology in Madikiza’s direction. He nodded back with a forced smile.

“He will pay for the table, the shit.” He turned to Thobela. “Do you know who that is?”

“No idea.”

“Enver Davids. Yesterday he walked away from a baby rape charge. On a technicality. Fucking police misplaced his file, can you believe it—a genuine administrative fuck-up; you don’t buy your way out of that one. He’s more bad news than the Financial Mail. General of the Twenty-Sevens. He got AIDS in jail from a wyfie. More cell time than Vodacom, and they parole him and he goes and rapes a baby, supposed to cure his AIDS . . . Now he comes and drinks here, because his own people will string him up, the fucking filthy shit.”

“Enver Davids,” said Thobela slowly.

“Fucking filthy shit,” said the Boss Man again, but Thobela was beyond hearing. Something was beginning to make sense. He could see a way forward.
    * * *
    His hands trembled on the steering wheel. They had a life of their own. He felt cold in the warm summer night and he knew it was withdrawal. He