Free Last Train to Retreat by Gustav Preller Page B

about her illegal status stopping her. His men
had
to find her. And now this thing with Gatiep! He thought of competitors who might want to muscle in on him. The murders could have been planned. Cupido would have been an easy target walking the streets around the stadium, but the killing on the train so many months afterwards? What’s more, according to Curly the girl and the man had already been on the train, sitting separately, when Gatiep and Curly boarded. Of course, it could simply have been fate – guys wanting fun on their way home, picking on the wrong people and finding death instead.
But what kind of people were these?
    Random or planned, Hannibal wanted revenge. He had no idea who had murdered Cupido or where the Thai girl was, but he could get descriptions of the train killers from Curly and check if they had disembarked. There had been loss of business as well as pride and
someone
had to pay. Hannibal had to watch it, the
gattas
would investigate and for a change they might do a good job. He hated cops, despised them as unworthy adversaries – talking big to communities and the media, and strutting the streets of the Cape’s badlands like sheriffs yet lacking the courage to reclaim them. The police had taken to military titles, again – majors and colonels and generals instead of superintendents and directors and commissioners.
Alles kak!
He, Hannibal, was the only real general. They were fat, unfit and crooked. Take away the uniforms, pips and guns and not one of them would last a round with him in the cage. The cage separated the men from the boys. Hannibal hated weakness. It was the problem with people like Curly and many others before him, people whom Hannibal had favoured only to find they had no balls. And then there were those who had done him wrong.
    Hannibal was ravenous. In the kitchen he removed the dental bridge from where his four upper front teeth used to be and proceeded to make a bunny. He hollowed out half-a-loaf of bread, microwaved last night’s bean curry, slopped it into the hole, squeezed Mrs Balls chutney onto it, closed the bunny up again with the part he’d taken out, and devoured it with gulps of milk. He loved bunnies – no plate, no knife or fork, just fingers. He licked them one by one afterwards making smacking sounds and staring fondly at the letters ‘J-A-G-S’ printed on the bridge. He chuckled. In bed the word ‘horny’ drove women crazy. He never used his bridge for eating – he didn’t want food acids on it. He kept it wrapped in cloth in his cupboard with his other removable bridges, each with a different four-letter word on it.
    Hannibal felt tired and worried. He’d get the full story from Curly tonight and go to the Boss tomorrow. Get the facts and then sleep on them. He wasn’t the kind to dump problems on someone like the Boss and lose control in the process. One had to tread carefully with Jerome the Gnome. The fact that he was small meant nothing – so were tarantulas. What freaked Hannibal out was the possibility of nameless people out there planning to destroy him. He should change his sleeping pattern again, alternate between his house and various safe houses – families he could trust from the days when the God factor had given him a halo of respectability and made him a hero of the community.
    With bare feet and a swagger – swaying slightly from side to side – Hannibal walked through the house drawing blinds and curtains. He had spent money on the interior since hooking up with the Gnome. The outside he had left looking dilapidated so as not to attract attention. At the back, out of sight, was a big yard with recreational facilities for his members: two pool tables, some gaming machines, and a bar – all under cover, and all paid for by the Gnome.
    Gleaming in the light on a table in the lounge stood his Mixed Martial Arts trophies, the only things he personally cleaned because they were the only things he cared about. He held up his prized