Free Killer Country by Mike Nicol Page B

two old? No ways.
    ‘We have some words here until Pumla kicks me under the  table and I wise up. Okay, no Zulus. Next thing the breakfast doesn’t taste right, not the eggs, the spinach. It’s overcooked. I’m about to say, can’t be. You overcook spinach it disappears, when I catch Pumla’s eye. So we don’t go there. It’s not that there’s much spinach. The stuff’s a garnish, save me Jesus.’
    The drinks arrived, Pylon taking a quick pull through the straw deep into the mixture to get the whisky.
    Mace spooned up ice cream. ‘Pumla’s smart.’
    ‘It’s her mother. They’re born like razor blades.’
    ‘You hear about Pumla catching the druggie’s peg leg?’
    Pylon frowned.
    ‘Ex-druggie.’
    ‘What crap’s this?’
    ‘Fact. Down the line.’
    ‘Uhhuh.’
    Mace told the story, up to the green toenails.
    Pylon laughed. ‘She’s good that kid. Not too much in the world that scares her. Like her mama. Packaged dynamite. This’s what we’re talking.’ Pylon relaxed in his chair, then came forward again, lowering his sunglasses to stare at Mace over the top. ‘Never guesswho I saw this morning?’
    ‘The pope in shorts?’
    ‘Sheemina February.’
    Mace stirred ice cream into the Coke, sucking the rising head noisily through the straw. ‘I’ve seen her around. You mention it now, probably more than usual in the last two weeks. Before that I hadn’t seen her for a long stretch. Even wondered if she’d left town.’
    ‘You don’t think she’s tagging you again?’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Old time’s sake.’
    Mace thought about it. Couldn’t see an angle. ‘Nah. It’s coincidence.’ 
    ‘Interesting, though. It’s at her place that Mrs Lindiwe Chocho rocked up.’
    ‘Her Bantry Bay place.’
    ‘A new place she has in town. University Estate.’
    ‘Still the property mogul.’
    Pylon tapped his finger on Mace’s hand. ‘You listening to me?’
    Mace nodded.
    ‘Good. It’s to her, Sheemina February, that Lindiwe went after shagging Popo Dlamini all night.’
    ‘You can see why Lindiwe needs a lawyer.’
    ‘Mace.’ Pylon, pushed his shades up his nose. ‘Sheemina February’s not mainstream. She’s coloured. There’re black lawyers would’ve creamed to handle the lovely Lindi, a name like that. So if she’s gone outside the tribe it’s because her husband said so.’
    He reached for his cellphone lying on the table. ‘Where we’re in the shit is on account of she got to Popo.’
    ‘Meaning?’ Mace glanced up from his Coke float, met Pylon’s gaze.
    ‘Meaning…’ Pylon gave some attention to his drink. ‘I like Popo, he’s sharp. Brought us – our consortium – a strong link into government. Even against Obed Chocho. With Popo’s contacts we were in the deal. Fighting. Especially you add Klett’s backing. That’s talking hard cash. Euros. Outside investment. Foreign investment. Not some local bank putting up the capital. You want to know who owns the country after these black empowerment deals? The banks. Brothers and sisters can’t trade in an AK for a seat on the board. Got to have something else. You know the president, that’s helpful. Some moola that’s better.’
    Pylon dialled, put the phone to his ear. Mace stretched, tipping back his chair. The square had movement. People stirring for a late breakfast or an early lunch. He heard Pylon say, ‘Popo, my friend, we’ve got to talk.’ One person he didn’t envy was Popo Dlamini being braced by Pylon. Sleeping with the enemy wasn’t something Pylon appreciated.
    The noon gun boomed across the town, and Mace checked his watch, thinking, every time he heard it he did that. Automatically, like he was conditioned. You heard the gun, you knew it was twelve, still you had to check your watch.
    Pylon closed his phone. ‘Bloody gun. It goes off I have to apologise, sorry, say again.’ He placed the phone on the table. ‘I’ve got him. Tomorrow. Twelve o’clock. At his golf estate. The one other side