DUP Departs

GAVIN MILLS

DUP Departs

A Time To Go

First published by Gavin Mills 2016 Copyright © 2016 by Gavin Mills

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Gavin Mills asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Third edition ISBN: 9798227659811

DEDICATION

For Zarret and Revlyn who over the years have taught me the true meaning of honour, courage, commitment and love. To my parents for creating in me the zeal to find roads less traveled, and for the freedom and support to explore them.

1. This Is The End

2. Get Outa Town

3. Expect Lip Gloss

4. Break

5. Sarah

6. SleazeKnees

7. Home Sweet Home

8. Louanne

9. The Law

10. Ivan Bazckowski

11. Party Time

12. High Society

13. Mikky

14. TheDeck

15. Home Calls

1 - This Is The End

He could hear the howl all the way from the far side of town, the naked rage of a full-house Suzuki GSXR 1000 pumping through the gears, unmistakable above the inner city cacophony of the midnight hour. It could almost have been any Suzuki, he knew - but not that sound. Not that riding.

He did not bother looking up when he heard her arrive, and didn’t bother looking round when he heard the bike mounting the curb somewhere behind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see her anyway from where he sat on the dilapidated slab; almost all that was left of the once elegant Yeoville homestead on Highland Street, looking out over Johannesburg .

The litter-strewn shell could not be called an abandoned house any more – it hadn’t been for the past twenty years - or as long as he could remember. He had always come here when he needed to think - before he went to France, and from five years later when he returned. And that was how many years ago? The only thing that had changed in all that time was the mess and the graffiti.

He heard biker boots scuffling across the slab below, and footfall mounting the broken stairs as he compressed the spongy weed mix down into the Rizzla, added the gerrick, rolled, licked and rolled again to stick. He was inspecting his work by the smog-smeared halo of city lights when she sat down beside him, dangled long legs in black leather over the front of the slab, flicked a Zippo and held him the flame.

“Been a rough night?” she said, a husky voice.

He lit the joint and dragged deep, closing his eyes, waiting for the calm before a long exhale.

“A rough fucking life.”

She chuckled. He knew it was with him, not at him.

“So I take it you didn’t get it...”

Now it was his turn to laugh, but his was bitter, cynical. He offered her the joint with a twisted smile. Quiet for awhile, taking in the city before she asked.“So tell me about it?”

Late night traffic streamed like LED ants down Saratoga Street, heading for the city. ...They watched some mad idiot flying down Nugget Hill in a puke green Mazda revamp. Strange how so many fuck-wits came out after the midnight hour.

“Not much to tell really...”

“Yeah right.”

“Well. Okay... Let’s see.“...Load-shedding last night - I couldn’t finish my preso. Up early, power still down. Sarah dropped the kids late – got back late with the car. Car fucks out. We call the AA – an hour to arrive. The bank phones. Tells me I’m behind on the bond. Whoopee. Never saw that coming... Urgently want a payment plan - which is gonna be easy: got jack shit coming in. Then just before I go in, Sarah again. The phone’s been cut off. Thank fuck for cell-phones – or at least for another month ...Are you gonna marry that thing?”

She smiled and passed the joint. He sucked hard, catching his breath against the burn.

“Get to the preso late. And who is there to meet me? ... Remember Yvonna? That prissy bitch that used to work for me? ...That I fired? Well guess what: She is their shining new production secretary! She sits me down on ice. Comes back a few minutes later – they are ready. But by this stage, I am fucking not. Strung as tight as a kite – but still out to blow them away. Then I see I forgot my VGA adapter, have to present from my laptop which proceeds to freeze... Other than that, a walk in the park...”

Silence as they both gazed out over the city. She took the joint from him, inhaling long and smooth. “Fuck me...” she said softly.

Yeah, fuck me alright, Dup thought. It was a Friday night – or now Saturday morning. The night people were out and the sounds of the city took on different tones. Maniacs and police sirens. Seemed to go together.

She took a final toke, chucked it over the edge and got up.

“Let’s go drink tequila,” she said, grabbing her helmet and making to leave.

“What ...now? I never told Sarah. It’s after midnight...”

“And that’s bothered you before? Let’s ride.”

He hesitated for only a second.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it. But I ride.”

She smiled through challenging eyes.

“Do you still remember how, old man...”

“Fuck off.”

He heard her sexy giggle already heading down the stairs. She passed him the spare helmet and waited for him to mount.

“Where we going?” he asked.

“Anywhere out on the open road. Let’s head for Harties.

Some places out there good to turn ‘dronk verdriett into piss-up deluxe.”

The bike roared to life on first kick when he turned the key. He backed up, turned and eased onto the road.

“You coming?”

“Right behind you.” she said climbing on.

He felt his hackles rise as he opened up and the motorbike surged forward.

“Fuck. Now this is what I’m talking about,” he smiled into the helmet and opened her up.The girl riding pillion had her arms around him, her hands resting easy on his thighs. As he opened up and G-forces pushed her back, he felt her hands slide up his inner thighs. His hackles stood down again, for other sensations. Was she playing him? ...Whether she was or not, he was getting a hard-on.

2 - Get Outa Town

He had been Dup for almost as long as he could remember. His actual name was Arnold Du Preez but no one called him Arnold. Not even his father - since dead - or mother living with his sister, waiting to die.

Dup was tall, dark and handsome as the book always goes, but not in the conventional way. He had good eyes and a good jaw, but his nose was worse for wear from biting off more than he could chew while growing up, and from snorting enough powder during his party years, to finance a villa in France.

That was still after he got married, but came to an abrupt end when the kids arrived.

His life was not normal. It had never been normal. Even at school, shit seemed to find him before it even realised itself, it was shit. People liked Dup, but more like the party clown than the best mate. He was too mad to be a buddy - but for a party? That seemed to fit, so it was not surprising he had always been where it was happening. And with him would always be the predictable pack like wild dogs or pilot fish, hanging on for morsels from those that pulled the action.

‘What the fuck happened to those parasites now...” he thought bitterly as he weaved through the traffic towards the highway heading north.

The back of her hands rested easy against the tank, cupping his balls but not quite touching. He opened the throttle surging through an orange traffic light and pulled himself into the tank, gripping with his knees. ...Her hands didn’t flinch.

‘She’s playing me, the little tramp,’ he smiled into his helmet.

Dup had known Louanne for about ten years. She was the younger cousin of Sarah’s ex-boss Matt, supposedly a hot TV director who had been hitting on Dup’s wife. It was before they were married. It had been at a party in Rosebank; a crap party, salvaged by the fact that he met Matt - who he didn’t care for apart from wanting to punch him in the nose - and Louanne, hot as sex on toast, on the same night. An interesting coincidence Dup thought, since he disliked Matt intensely from the moment he saw him, and Sarah seemed to have similar feelings towards his cousin. Dup had been working for an inside track and Matt apparently was it.

Okay, so somehow Dup ended up drawing the long straw, because Sarah and Matt didn’t talk anymore, while he and Louanne hit it off like a house on fire, and ultimately he pulled a deal right from under Matt’s nose. ...Until Matt eventually bought the Producer - and that same fucking dick was now threatening his entire business! But he got one up on the dick-wad that night – and became best buddies with his cousin... Take that Matt, you brat!

After Lanseria, the road to Hartebeespoort is built to ride. The trees flashed through the headlight beams, a pitch-black sky melting into a pitch-black landscape on all sides, and the only sounds in their ears, the wind and the howling scream of the Suzuki. This was exactly what he needed.

The wind was warm with cold pockets in the dips, and Louanne folded herself tightly in to his back. She felt warm, strong and reassuring. Louanne was tall and lithe. Like a racehorse – a body honed through dance and tumbling ...of many kinds. She was a stripper, did it for the money, made a lot of it, and didn’t give a fuck if you approved or didn’t. She loved winding up the inevitable drunks that tended to float to the surface in strip clubs and the kind of places she plied her trade. There were the pervs and dogs - they were the easy ones. There were the rich ‘n famous – the comb-over Trump wannabes who spent valuable time trying to convince you that they had it all in one breath, in the next trying to get free shows. They were tedious. Then there were the philanthropists. Those out to convert you... 'Why the fuck would anyone hang out in a strip joint and try convert? Wouldn’t it be much easier just to hang out at a church with like great minds,’ Louanne would question. But she knew the answer. These fuckers normally did both. But by her acting the slutty little lost soul en route to redemption, she could and did milk them plenty.

Louanne wore her height like a glove. She had a great ass, great eyes that turned from green to yellow when she got pissed off, and a pair of tits that would have made any cut artiste proud. And she made no bones of the fact that God and her surgeon had colluded to create her perfect 36Cs.

She tapped his right arm and pointed off the road to the side. He couldn’t even see it yet through the darkness, but realized it must be there. It was a small green sign that most would have missed, with the name Crew Cut hand painted on a battered board too small, tied to the wire-mesh fencing holding the road outside. He throttled down through the gears, careful not to spin on the loose sand turning into gravel, as Crew Cut loomed closer. The rusted tube-frame gate stood ajar, not open not closed, suggesting no hint at whether it was happening or not. The road wound for a few hundred meters though darker shades of scrub, leading eventually to an old farmhouse looking building that had been converted into a bush bar and club. ...Club in name more than anything else. But bush bar, on the money.

There were old-school party lights framing the enclosed terrace wrapping the weathered corrugated iron roofed building on three sides. They could see color flashes on the windows and spilling out of the entrance, proof-of-payment for a low budget lighting rig.

There were a couple of 4 x 4s and three Harley Davidsons parked outside in the tree bare parking lot begging for illumination from the single naked globe above the entrance. Dup played with the throttle as he pulled up and reverse parked next to the Yank bikes. Even in his day, he never liked Harleys - old man bikes - and loved pulling up to News Café or ESP, tickling the throttle and making ‘an entrance’ when Harley boys happened to be around.

They dismounted, heading for the door, taking off helmets. She smacked him sharply on the butt.

“Hey. What was that for?” he whined.

“Keys, honey. Let’s get this done before the tequila.”

Reluctantly he flipped her the keys.

“And I must trust you...?”

“Or you can walk,” she chirped, strutting her leathers to perfection as she made for the door.

Sexual Healing hit them before they were even inside. The sound was slightly distorted through oversized speakers flanking a bored looking deejay at the decks, who wiped his nose far too often. Three worse-for-wear party girls were doing their bump and grind Friday-night mating ritual on the dance floor, while the Harley boys stood back to the side clinking beers, downing shooters, flashing Hitler helmets and rubbing their balls like home boys.

The women looked like Farmer Brown's frustrated house-wives, probably augmenting their husbands’ incomes through laying - not eggs, and the bikers looked like they were preening up to get lucky. That was until Dup walked in with Louanne.

The music kept going, ‘...Baaaabeee, I can’t take much longer...’

The four bikers - one obviously doubling up - turned idly, did a double take, and it was conference time. The party girls could have shot daggers.

Dup steered Louanne to a beer bench, back from the bar, protected a little by shadow from the flashing lights. Purposely Dup placed Louanne with her back to the dance floor. He had had enough experience with bikers to know firstly keep your date’s face away from their line of sight, and secondly, keep them somewhere you can see what’s around. A beer bottle on the back of the head can cause damage. Better to see it if it’s coming. Then you can decide whether you wanna stand and fight or get the fuck out of there.

Tonight Dup felt like neither. A bored looking barman with shiny muscles bulging through a Virgin Active vest and a foreign accent came ambling over. He flicked his hair, waiting for their order. Dup hated this. What happened to ‘good evening, how’s your father? ...fucking anything but ‘the hair flick’.

“Two tequilas – double, and two scotches straight up with ice. Doubles - and an ashtray.”

Muscles gave the reverse hair flick which obviously meant the order was taken, and minced back to the bar.

“So what you gonna do?” Louanne asked after they hit back the first tequilas. Dup thought about this and sighed, shaking his head slowly.

“Fuck knows. Not too many options...”

Silence again before Dup answered.“Can I ask you a question?”

“You wanna know if I’m married...”

“Nah... Have we fucked?”

She had been wiping condensation from her scotch. She stopped, lifted her head and looked at him. Then she burst out laughing.

“Darling, the fact that you ask that question provides your answer. Believe me, if we had fucked, you would never have married Sarah - and you would never have forgotten.

“Now enough shit. Do you have plans?” A weak smile. “I might not have fucked you but I do care about you.”

He smiled back, grabbed her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

”I know. Thanks. ...I dunno Lou. Gotta keep going and hope something breaks. Been too long doing what I do to change now. ...Fucked up doll - When I stayed working from home. Should’a got decent offices in Sandton or somewhere... Perceptions... Who goes for commercials to the wedding planner? That’s the problem. I’m still seen as the wedding video guy.”

“Horse shit man. Stop with the poor me bullshit. Your work is good. You know that. Ask me what I think...”

“Whadda you think...?”

“I think you’ve lost your balls.”

He looked up surprised. Lowered his eyes slowly to his drink.

“I see. ...Thanks for sharing.”

“No. Not like that man. I just don’t think you’re into it any more. And people can feel that.”

The music had changed to Cocker’s Little Help From My Friends and the bikers were launching their paunches over air guitars.

“You right... You right. I hate it. ...I hate the business. I hate the people. If I have another brand manager asking me if I see the bigger picture, I’m going to lose my load over them.”

She giggled at the thought.

“I dunno Lou. I wanted to make movies... What happened? Now I can’t even make enough to feed my kids - and that was before that fucker kicked our ass out. Our only contract, but five years! ...Thanks to your cousin...”

“Yeah. He’s an assehole,” she slurred.

Dup studied her waiting for the backlash, but it didn’t come.

“I wish I could get outa here...”

“You mean Jo’burg?”

“Yes ...No.. Yes... Jo’burg. South Africa... Me and Sarah were talking Oz. Got quite a few mates - school and from Europe. They are cooking on gas...”

“So why don’t you ask them...?”

“What? ...Ask them what? To give me a job?”

Downing another tequila, he sat back and looked at her.

“It’s the age thing. Hey I’m 48. The only way in is with a bucketful of cash or a business. Man. I’ve got neither...”

The alcohol was kicking in big time with the Harley boys. The girls had lost interest in the macho posing with no follow through, and had decided rather to go to the bar and get shit- faced. And by the looks of it, they were succeeding. The boys had sidled over to the bench obliquely behind Dup’s. Their monkey charades trying to attract Louanne’s attentions did little more than irritate Dup – her back was to them.

Louanne leveled yellow eyes at him, studying him.

“How bad do you want it?”

He downed his third double scotch chaser of his third double tequila and gazed at her like Don Quixote.

“How bad... How bad can one want it? What would I do?...Sink the Titanic. ...Shag the Queen! ...Fuck. How bad... Why? What you got in mind?”

“I know someone. Let’s get out of here.”

Louanne was never one to fuck around. When she wanted to go, she went; when she wanted to come. ...Well as she’d said earlier, he’d never had the pleasure.

She was not even halfway to the door when Max grabbed her.

3 - Expect Lip Gloss

Max was big, but not as big as his mouth. In fact, if you listened to some who had crossed him, there wasn’t that much around as big as his mouth. He, Alex and Rob bounced at Queens, a shitty club downtown where Max had earned a reputation for starting, but not often finishing. He generally left that to Rob – a monster with the intellect of a 12 year old.

There was a story going around that not long ago, they were working when they heard Big John was coming to the club to get his wife – and Big John was not someone you took lightly. She had arrived at the club with some pretty boy and John had got wind of it.

Anyone would have thought the Marines were on the way from the reaction of the bouncers. It was into the office and arming with everything from batons to sawn off shotguns.

The bouncers were standing huddled away from the entrance when John arrived. He walked straight past them and headed for the club. One wannabe took a wild swipe with a baseball bat, bouncing off Big John’s shaven skull with about as much affect as a toothpick on a crocodile’s back. John swung around grabbing the first thing that came to hand – which happened to be Max.

Max whimpered like a child while his back-ups stood by watching, not eager to attract attention their way. John held him for a while undecided whether to eat him alive or spit him out like a bad taste. There was never gonna be much contest and luckily for Max, John had other things on his mind.

Max escaped with his teeth and little less than a dent in his bravado as John went inside, got his wife and left. Credit to Big John, he never even bitch-slapped the punk that was trying to piss on his parade.

But that was not the story Max would tell anyone prepared to listen to his shit for free drinks. Unsurprisingly, as is so often the case when dogs bark louder than they bite, or put another way, when studs suffer from small dick syndrome, something needed to be done. And Max had the means to do something about it. First, his family had money to burn, and second he had the dubious talent of making more as a collector for the Nigerians who preyed on the Queens party set. And nothing added inches to a penis faster than a Harley Davidson - and Alex, Max and Rob had added the whole nine yards.

“Hey honey, how about fucking some real men...” Max slurred to Louanne as he grabbed her.

Dup stepped forward and tried to push between them.

“Give it a break mate. We’re done here and don’t want trouble. Why not...”

Next moment, all he saw were stars as Rob hit him with a beer bottle from behind. Dup was down, with the three bouncers moving in to do him good. His vision was swimming as he floundered, trying to get back to his feet when the vicious kick to his ribs knocked the wind from him. This was not going to end well.

“Get your fucking hands off him else I’ll blow your balls off!”

The voice came to him from far away. ...A voice he knew. A female voice. Trying to clear his head, he saw movement around him, but they were backing off. Dup staggered to his feet trying to make sense of it all. Then he saw Louanne. She stood facing the three bikers, a stub nosed thirty-eight special tight in her grip, swinging from one to the other.

“Take it easy lady. We don’t want...” It was Max.

Snarling through clenched teeth, not taking her eyes off any of them„ Louanne turned on him. “You don’t want what fucker! You don’t want your nuts? You don’t want your eyes? I’m easy, you prick. What’s it to be...?”

“Relax baby...”

The pistol flashed in a wide arc, collecting him on the left temple.

“I’m not your baby, bitch. Dup... Let’s go. Are you okay? ...Let’s move!”

Dup had recovered enough to get the picture. He started unsteadily for the door.

“You fuckers don’t breath else I’ll blow you away! So help me God.”

She was talking to everyone, and everyone listened. No one moved.

Dup was outside heading for the bike, hearing Louanne backing out behind him. Never taking her eyes or gun off the entrance, she barked at him. “Your helmet. Get your helmet on. We’re leaving.”

He wrestled his helmet on. She was on the bike and the motor screamed into life.“What you waiting for, a farewell committee? Let’s go!”

He climbed on behind her and gripped tight as she laid on the juice and headed for the gate. Once on the road and his nerves had settled, he tapped her on the shoulders and shouted through the helmet. “You’re the last person I would have expected to pull out a gun. I never knew you packed!”

She smiled over her shoulder and shouted back, “I’m a stripper, wear leathers and ride a bike. What did you expect, lip gloss?”

4 - Break

Twenty minutes later they pulled into News Café in Sandton. It was after two and the Friday night madness was beginning to thin.

“Tequila or coffee?” she said, heading for a table out on the terrace.

“Let’s do coffee. What were you on about when we left? You know someone... For what?”

A waiter came over and they ordered coffee. Louanne wanted a schnapps as well.

“You said you need a break. I know someone who could possibly help – but at a price...”

“Who...? What do you mean at a price.”

He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the tequila from his brain.

“I don’t know... But there’s always a price. ...Marcel. ...At SleazeKnees...”

“SleazeKnees. The strip club? How do you...”

“Gimme a break Dup. I’m a stripper for God’s sake. I work there from time to time.”

He smirked, “So now you want me to be a stripper? Don’t you think I’m a little...”

“Come Dup. I’m being serious. Do you want this or don’t you?”

“I don’t see...”

“Listen to me. Marcel is a total bastard. I wouldn’t trust him with disease. But he’s got connections. I know he has dealings with people all over – including Australia.”

Dup crossed his arms defensively, “Dealings? What kind of dealings?”

“Don’t know... Probably grey at best, criminal at worst. But who knows...”

“I don’t know...”

She became agitated.“That’s Dup all over again. Look. I don’t know what he’s got – if he’s got anything. But the way I see it, your options here are not great and if you don’t do something, you’re going down. I can set it up. For you guys to chat. No promises – and as I said, there will be a price.”

She studied his eyes trying to read his thoughts. She looked down, shrugged her shoulders.

“Look. Let’s forget about it. Pretend I never mentioned it. Maybe it’s a stupid...”

“No. Hold it. I never said...”

“You didn’t have to. I know you darling. Anyway. You have a family. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah but maybe not.”

Dup was thinking now. He had lost his only client. He was about to lose his house, and how long would it take before he started losing his family? The president was fucking up in style, the country was going to the dogs. How long would it be before they started coming for the whites? And even if they didn’t, what chance would his kids have in a new South Africa where they would always be second-class citizens? How much could it hurt just to have a chat?

Louanne flashed him a flirty smile.“So what’s it gonna be, lover boy?”

“Let’s check it out. When do you think we can...”

“You got any plans in the next half-hour?”

Dup shrugged and smiled. Typical of Louanne. Never put off until tomorrow what you can milk today.

5 - Sarah

The kettle started whistling and Sarah headed back to the kitchen. That’s all she needed was the kids to wake up and come down looking for daddy.

The neighbor’s dogs going mad, had woken her about a half-hour ago. She had looked sleepily at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was quarter to three. She looked at the bed where Dup should have been and he wasn’t there. No clothes lying all over the place, no bathroom light left on, no music downstairs. Her man wasn’t home and she was wide awake.

She had come downstairs for some coffee. He had phoned her after work to tell her about the interview. Not good news by the sounds of it. And now she was worried. If he was going to be late, he always phoned – unless... When pushed in a corner, it was anyone’s guess how Dup would react. And they were in a corner of note.

He had told her he was going to meet Louanne for a drink. That little bitch. Sarah hadn’t hated her at first, when she was still friends with Matt. But when that turned pear shaped, and cousin became buddies with her man... Couldn’t she just have fucked off into the sunrise with her blood? It wasn’t so much the girl – and Sarah wanted to believe Dup when he said there was nothing there - but a stripper for God’s sake? Her husband was buddies with a tart that took her clothes off for money – and probably kicks.

She poured the coffee and went back to the lounge. The lamp in the corner threw soft light and darkened shadows around the room. A comfortable room – a far cry from their current financial status. And if they didn’t get their shit together soon, a room which would soon start becoming very empty – and then not theirs.

Her favorite armchair had the second best view of the TV mounted above the fireplace, and the best view of the front gate. She had tried to call him but his phone was flat – or off. ‘With all the shit we’re going through, this is not a good time to go on a buffalo’, she thought feeling grim.

Should she go to bed, call the cops? ...Go looking for him? She remembered she couldn’t go looking for him. No fucking petrol. She leaned back into the armchair and sipped her coffee. It was going to be a long night.

6 - SleazeKnees

Situated in Rosebank, as far as strip clubs go SleazeKnees was neither the best nor the worst. It didn’t have the five-star pig-out-while-you-perv cuisine of the Grande, but at least you could still get a good lapdance from mostly Eastern-block honeys, without catching the clap. There was a cover charge and drinks were bloody expensive, but the décor was good, lights subdued and the main attraction, more than enough flesh to go around.

Louanne and Dup reached the club at about the same time as Sarah was making coffee.

“Hey Duke. Whassup,” she greeted the Kenyan doorman holding domain at the entrance like a school bully at the tuck shop. He grunted at her, gesturing to Dup to come closer for the body search. Not one to put himself out too much with pleasantries, our Duke Dup thought. Some thought Duke was gay with a fetish for looking tough, but Dup could see, gay or straight, the dude was tough.

After the touch-down or up, depending how you looked at it, they moved inside. A couple of bored-looking strippers were on the ramp, pulling at their clothes with as much enthusiasm as Grandma Grundy at Bingo classes. Dup knew they would much rather be working the steamers, getting them into the booths where in 5 minutes they could skin them for a grand before they wiped their fantasies out their eyes. But they had to take turns dishing out cheap thrills.

Louanne led him straight through the club, waving and blowing kisses to a couple of the girls and a couple of the regulars, upstairs and down a dark carpeted hallway to a closed door with glass window and shutters. She knocked and after a few minutes, a gorilla in a tuxedo opened.

“Hey Ben. Coming to see Marcel,” Louanne smiled sweetly.

Ben looked her up and down, did the same to Dup and disappeared, closing the door. Two minutes later, the door opened. It was Ben again, looking like he was about to deliver an obituary.

“Yeah. He says you can come in.”

He held the door open for them, but just enough that they could sidle through.

Marcel was on the phone.

“I don’t give a fuck what time it is. You call him now. Find out what’s going on, and I want my money before I go home!” slamming the phone down. Turns and unleashes teeth and shmarm.

“Sugarlips! Howzit darling. I was just thinking about you...” Opening his arms for a hug.

Louanne returned his hug, pecking him on both cheeks, “Hey Marcel. ...You were thinking about me?”

“I’m always thinking about you baby. Gimme some love,” He squeezed her roughly, his hand grabbing her ass. Dup felt his hackles rise but did nothing for two reasons: Firstly, he would have had his head taken off. And secondly, he had no claim to her - they were friends. ...So why did her boss grabbing her piss him off? Funny...

“To what do we owe this pleasure. Looking for overtime?”

“In your dreams lover,” Louanne smiled.“Actually, it’s not about me... Have you met my friend? This is Dup.”

Marcel turned and gave Dup the 3rd degree.

“Ah Dup. Now why haven’t I heard about you. ...Good to meet you,” holding out his hand.

Dup shook it hoping he wasn’t advertising his uneasiness, “Hey.”

“Take a seat. Take a seat.”

Marcel gestured towards two easy-chairs facing a massive ebony desk framed by a full length one-way window looking down into the club below. “You are just in time ...and I am feeling gracious.”

He smiled taking a small wooden box from a side draw. Dramatizing the moment he opened the box, removed a small mirror, a razor blade and one of a few small white packets.

“Hey darling. It’s been a long night. We’re just here for a chat,” Louanne began to protest.

“You turn me down?” Marcel smiled at her feigning hurt and then changed pace. “Chat about what...?”

“Dup. He makes movies. Having a rough time here. Was thinking Australia. I know you...”

“A movie man. Australia? ...And you thought of good old Marcel. How interesting. Now this is different...”

He poured some of the white powder onto the mirror and cut three lines.

“If we are to talk about what Marcel can do for ...Dup? I gotta know Dup. Isn’t that fair?” offering Dup the straw. “Dup? Let’s just call it ...a toast to a great future.”

Dup looked at the straw hesitating, ...looked at Louanne. She was looking out at the club, saying nothing. He had not done coke since the kids. This was wrong. ...But so was his fucking life. Anyway, there was no going back. He had seen Marcel pull out shit. That kind of ammo was not for the uninitiated – who valued their lives.

Dup took the straw and hit the line, and sat back for the rush.

7- Home Sweet Home

It was a few minutes after six when Dup finally navigated his way with difficulty into the garage. He tiptoed inside, his footsteps and the key in the door sounding like drums in his ears, sure to wake the entire neighborhood, let alone his wife. And if she saw him like this, the poo would really be in the pudding.

The lamp in the corner was on, but thankfully she was not there. He took his shoes off, cursing himself for not thinking of it in the garage, and stole unsteadily upstairs. He got past the kids rooms undetected. One to go. The bedroom door was open. Another plus. He undressed in the hallway and inched into bed. She was still asleep, her back towards him. Maybe there was a God.

He lay staring at the walls for another hour and then fell asleep.

It felt like one second later when Sarah came waltzing through. “Morning lover, rise and shine. Breakfast’s up and the kids are ready for Aikido. It’s your turn remember?”

She leant over and gave him a playful peck on the cheek. What the fuck! It felt as though a steam train had rolled over his head, and was still coming.

“What time you get home love? Sorry I didn’t stay up. Long day today!”

He groaned inwardly. He was going to die.“Err. I think it was around midnight. Didn’t want to wake you... Give me five minutes...”

“Okey dokey. See you downstairs in five,” and she was gone.

Dup pushed himself up. The room was spinning. The world was spinning, out of control. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t talk – and now he had to drive the kids to training. There was no way. ...But there was no option. He labored to the bathroom. He had to shower. Take the flack for being a few minutes late before having to suffer the consequences of a no show. First ice cold, then steaming hot, then ice cold again. Some sharp slaps to the face. ...He felt the knob on the back of his head from the beer bottle. Could have been worse: he could have been cut.

He cleaned his teeth like he was trying to re-engineer his jaw and finally felt good enough to endure the morning. Or least the first hour or so.

Breakfast passed without incident. Somehow he managed to drive to the kids’ Aikido in Bryanston and then, thankfully he got two hours kip in the car while waiting for them.

“Hi Mom, we’re home!” Casey called as she burst into the house. She was always first in, last out. Jon was in no rush. ...Jon was seldom in a rush – unless it was rugby or computer games.

Casey was going on fourteen. ...Pretty like her mother, and as far as Dup was concerned, was turning from his little baby into a woman far quicker than was decent. Jon was more like Dup. He was ten, not tall not short but with a body with potential. He was good at Aikido and tumbling, but not much of a team player. And this didn’t seem to bother him. He got on with his life and let life get on with itself. Dup wished he could be as cool as his son. Nothing seemed to get to him. ...But if he would have thought about it, this was exactly what people liked about him in his day – and before.

Sarah came through looking good even in the chef’s apron with cartoon hanging tits.

“We’re doing an early lunch so wash up and change. Be here in ten. ...And Jon, no switching the computer on!”

Dup felt he was going to die again. Why today? Sarah was right earlier, it was going to be a long day. Lunch was done and Sarah hadn’t even noticed that he had only toyed with his food. As usual the kids had dominated the conversation with bad manners and squabbling. And for once Dup was relieved.

“Think I’m just gonna chill,” Dup stretched and headed for the lounge.

“Okay kids, free time. Off you go.”

Sarah cleared the plates away leaving the place meticulous and came through to the lounge. She sat down and got comfortable.

“So what time was it more or less? Last night.”

Dup was caught off-guard.“Huh...? Ummm – I think a little after twelve. ...My phone died.”

“How much after twelve?” she asked sweetly.

Dup became defensive. “Look. Why the twenty questions?” smiling weakly.

“Why are you lying to me?”

Silence.“I’m not lying...”

“Don’t bullshit me Dup. I came down around three and you weren’t here. Where were you?”

“Working...”

“Working? Working! What fucking work are you doing now Dup? Hooking with that little bitch friend of yours?”

“...And your friend.” She looked at him long and hard.“What’s going on Dup? What’s happening? ...What’s

happening to you? ...What’s happening to us!”

“Relax baby. It’s gonna be okay. Trust me...”

“Trust you! That’s all we’ve done these past four years - is trust you. And where has it gotten us? We’re going to lose everything and you don’t care! Trust you? Have you got a plan? Some piece of magic that’s gonna fix all this? Then this is the time to play it Dup. Right now. Because I can’t take this anymore...”

Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried in vain to suppress deep locked-in sobs. Dup got up and went over to his wife. Sat down cross-legged on the floor facing her. He pulled her face close, eye to eye.

“I have, baby. We have.”

She swallowed back her tears, quietly looking at him with the smallest glimmer of hope in scared eyes

“What my baby...?” barely mouthing the words.

Dup reached up and pulled Sarah gently down to the floor in front of him.

“Last night was one insane night. And yes I did lie to you. But I was going to tell you... It just wasn’t the time... Anyway I’m so sorry. But please let me tell you about it...”

He told her about meeting Louanne, going to Crew Cut, the bush bar – he never told about the gun thing - and then going to Marcel’s.

“And we sat down in his office. The next thing, he pulls out coke. Sarah stiffened perceptibly.

“Please don’t tell me...”

“I have to tell you everything. It’s important. And yes, I did the coke.”

Sarah crossed her arms and listened tight lipped.

“Seems this Marcel – he owns SleazeKnees and a couple of other clubs and bars. ... Not the sweetest looking dude. Anyway he’s also into the movie business. ...Adult movies.”

“Adult movies? No Dup. Don’t go there...”

“Please just listen.“He imports his stuff, mostly from the Eastern block, Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary. ...And also from Australia.”

Dup could see Sarah was listening now, thinking, and slowly she could see the sense. The insanity yes, but also the sense. Soon Sarah was all ears.

“He has contacts there, and he could set me up with a studio. They would give me a job. There would be a fixed income in Australian dollars! They would give us a house... medical health, social security. Everything.”

“And you have to shoot porn.”

“Shoot and edit porn,” he corrected.

Her face lit up, her emotions pent up for too long, coming out.“Oh Dup. Who cares! No one knows us there. The movies won’t be coming here anyway so no one will know! And in the future, who knows... maybe you could meet people, ...for real movies? Look at Rambo!”

“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe...”

“Yes! Yes. Let’s do it! Oh Dup. I knew you would, ...could. When?”

“There’s only one catch”She stopped, her face frozen, waiting. “I’ll be making movies, seedy, but above board - but the big game, the real play... the whole schpeel will all be a front - for getting Columbian coke to Australia.”

8 - Louanne

Louanne poured herself into bed at about half six after taking Dup to collect his car. A miracle of rare delight she made it home, but she did. The phone rang at about eleven. She let it ring and covered her head with a pillow. It was a Saturday morning for God’s sake. It wouldn’t stop. It rang and rang until it felt like it was drilling into her head

.

“Speak...” she answered.

“Louanne?” it was a young guy’s voice. Vaguely familiar.

“The one and only. Who’s this...?”

“It’s Clint, Rachel’s friend...”

Louanne tried unscrambling her thoughts.“Rachel...”

“Look, is this a bad time? Rachel the actress. From the club...” She heard his voice break. “...She’s dead.”

Louanne sat up. Rachel. She knew Rachel. Not bosom buddies or anything but a nice enough soul – and a bod to die for. Louanne shook her head, running her nails to her scalp, now trying desperately to clear the cobwebs.

“What was that... Did you say dead?”

“Overdose. Coke. Last night. Alicia found her this morning. They had a shoot. She didn’t come out when she hooted. She tried the door. It was open. ...She found Rachel in the bath. It’s not sure whether she drowned or OD’d.”

Same thing, Louanne thought, her stomach twisting in a knot.

“You sure coke? I didn’t even know... Jeesh. Insane. I’m so sorry... Were you...”

“Yeah. You could say that. ...I’ve met you – at Samba with Rachel. The birthday?”

“Oh yeah. Clint. I’m so sorry. ...I’m ...ahh ...sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“They’re going for the Nigerian. The movie producer. The one Rachel was doing the...”

“Yeah the movie. I know. Why him? Were they making out?”

“No... Nothing like that. Some say he supplies. A big boy.”

“Does he? Rachel never said anything. Those actors - for him... I heard he was clean?”

“Don’t know... I don’t know...”

“Was she getting from him?”

“No. At least not that I ...”

“Who was she scoring from?”

“Please don’t ask me... I can’t say. ...I don’t know...”

“Clint. Listen to me. Did she get from the Nigerian? This is serious shit. Are you somewhere in the middle? What were you guys...”

“I don’t know, Lou. There’s gonna be shit. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. The cops. They gonna know. It’s only a matter of time and I’ll be in the firing line. This is fucked up.”

“When were you with her?”

“I left her at home at about eight last night.”

“Were you partying?”

“We had...”

“No. Better don’t go there. Were you with anyone else last night? Did anyone see you – can back you up?”

The sound was not quite a sob, not quite a sigh. “No. Went home. Took in a movie and went to bed.”

“No one phoned. No SMS. Nothing?”

Silence...

“Clint?”

“Got an SMS from Rachel at about midnight...”

The phone went quiet again.“Tell me Clint. I can’t help you... I gotta know.”

“We had a fight just before I left. Stupid. But anyway, I was not gonna go there so I ducked. ...The SMS said we should spend some time in our own space. She was breaking up...”

Louanne was gobsmacked.

“Fuck.”

“I know. But I had nothing to do with it. I loved her...”

Louanne ruffled around on the bedside table. She found the packet, took out a cigarette and lit it. Where was that fucking ashtray...

“Clint. I don’t have to tell you, the cops are going to want to chat.”

“I know. And they’re gonna want to know about the shit and they’re going to want to know where she got it. If I tell them, I’m dead. If I don’t, they go after the Nigerian and I’m dead. Fuck Louanne. What am I going to do?”

“Listen. Don’t run. Wait for the shit and take it. You run they think you’ve got something to hide. Wait until the hand is played. I’m gonna make some calls. Call me tonight. And don’t go out.”

“Thanks Lou. ...I’m sorry...”Yeah. We all are, she thought.“No problem. Hang in there, relax. You haven’t done

anything. Only wrong place at the wrong time. ...And Clint, don’t fall apart.”

9 - The Law

“I told you. I do not even know her.”

Ghenghis was at least 1.9m tall with plenty of meat on his massive frame, like an American football player

or wrestler. He wore a size sixteen boot and a 48 jacket. Not a small man by any means. His face was chiseled, he had a wide scar of a mouth in a square jaw, straight nose, and dark, paradoxically serene eyes below a close cropped head.

Ghenghis had been in the movie business for a long long time. He had started out in his teens with a shitty 8mm movie camera, getting his friends to act in stupid pantomimes which he would somehow get spliced together. The movies were not good. Anyone would know that. But Ghenghis was not the type of guy to let that stop him. And somehow, frame by tedious frame, he pedalled his movies. ...Good enough to buy himself a decent camera and move the next rung up the ladder.

Fast forward a decade or so and Ghenghis Kahn was known to those in the movie know in Lagos as Nigeria’s Tarantino. Genghis was not his real name. He was christened Gladman Jonssen. But he realised Gladman was not gonna do it in action movies. He needed a name that was strong. Dominating. And so it was Gladman died and Ghenghis was born – and not too many were going to argue. ...Someone that big can call himself what he wants.

They had picked him up at the Michelangelo somewhere after two. He was just finishing lunch in the piano lounge upstairs with his stunning daughter Serena and three business associates. Serena doubled as PA and production secretary. In fact, nowadays, she just about ran his life.

Rachel was dead. A drug overdose. Rachel was doing a movie for Ghenghis. Ghenghis was Nigerian and in the money. So it wasn’t that surprising that Ghenghis at some stage would be taken in for questioning. What was surprising was how quick it happened.

There were four of them. In plainclothes – but it would have taken a retard not to work them out the minute they walked in.

“Ghenghis Kahn? Sir could you please come with us sir... We need to ask you some questions,” the white cop said. He was short and squat, with a six-beer-a-night paunch and too-much-boerewors frame.

A fleeting look of surprise. Ghenghis lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth delicately.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“There has been a case of homicide sir. Someone that works for you.”

Ghenghis turned to his guests.

“Sorry gentlemen. It seems there’s some confusion... Serena will call you, and I see no problems. What we discussed should be fine. Thank you for your time.”

Two of the cops led the way while the white guy and his side-kick waited for him to go ahead.They had wanted him to travel in the paddy-wagon, but Ghenghis wasn’t going there.“

My driver will take me. Trust me officers. I’m not going to do anything stupid. Let’s just get this done, shall we?”

A short drive to Sandton cop-shop and for the next three hours they had been working his case.

“How can you tell us you don’t know her? For God’s sake man. She fucking acts for you!”

Ghenghis had learnt that the white cop was a sergeant. Sergeant Koena Smal. And he was playing good cop bad cop with Detective Pumlo Singwasi.

“Do you know anything about the Nigerian film industry?” Ghenghis said.

They were in an interrogation cell. The walls grey and beige, more from wear than from taste. Ghenghis squinted past a naked bulb lamp on a fold-up steel table makeshift desk. Smal and Singwasi were pacing up and down volleying questions across the table.

Kahn knew not to play wise guy, but was getting pissed off. He had answered their questions, but enough was enough. Time to go.

“Yeah. Kak movies.” Smal laughed, looking to his mates for support. He laughed alone.

“I make five movies here a week! Do you think I know all the cast and crews? I have teams, man. I don’t have time...”

“Forget the movies. Tell us about the coke,” Smal snarled at the Nigerian, the accusation loud in his eyes.

Ghenghis met his gaze, sighed and crossed his arms.

“Not all Nigerians deal drugs. You are making a mistake...”

“We’ll decide that, okay! Your coke killed a girl! One of your stars. Coke she got from you and your boys! We are gonna find out where, find out how, and we are going to burn your lying ass!”

A spray of spittle ending his threat landed on the other’s cheek. Calm, without breaking either a sweat or eye contact, Kahn took out a pressed white handkerchief and wiped it away.

“Can I go now?”

10 - Ivan Bazckowski

There would be hell to pay and heads would roll. If there was one thing Ivan was sure of, it was that. A little up-and-coming actress did not simply snuff it and disappear into the great unknown. There would be questions. They already probably knew she was as high as a kite when she croaked. It didn’t matter if it was an overdose or simply related. Drugs were involved and there would be questions.

And the bitch of it all, he actually liked Rachel with her innocent eyes and victim face – and a body that turned into a machine when the right buttons were pushed with the right chemicals. They would want to know where she got the shit. That was as obvious as the scar on his cheek, earned once when some fuck-wit decided to try dance in his parade. And there were those that knew. ....Like that lily assed excuse for a man of hers - and then there was Louanne.

Louanne. Now that was a piece of meat he would like to fuck. Take those leathers of hers and tie her up, and ride her like a biker bitch should be ridden. Anyway. What of it. It wasn’t his fault. Sure he went around.

And sure they partied. But hey, there’s a limit, even in Poland. When he left, she was still alive. Not his indaba as they said in this fucked up place.

But times of turmoil were good for his trade. He had worked out long ago that his business was not so much where everyone was happy and full of the joys of spring. It happened where there was too much stress, too many problems. ...Too much money. And in the right circles where he played, there was more than enough of all, in spades.

Ivan Baczkowzki had only been in the country for five years. He came with nothing – but connections ...And Eastern Europe had written the blueprint for corruption, extortion, protection, trafficking – in anything and everything. He knew what to look for and where to look.

It wasn’t hard to find shit and it wasn’t hard to sell. And the price of success was as easy as putting petty cash in the back pockets of the police. What police? All of them. They were all on the take, from the top – and I mean the top – to the bottom. The only thing that changed was the price. Within a matter of months, he had the cops almost doing his distribution. They would be there when he collected. They would hit the opposition and sell his goods to those who looked after them. Ivan learnt that with money – cash – you can buy an army, and ultimately a country!

But Ivan always knew he needed an ace. A wild card that he had so tightly by the balls that he couldn’t wriggle without castrating himself. And Smal and Singwasi were at the right place at the right time. Smal was earning less than the lifestyle tastes his bragging-rights wife demanded. Don’t get her wrong. She was not only a floozy. She was a clever floozy. A bookkeeper – and a good one, who proved useful as business started going.

She had the know – and he was a cop. Better: a special Narcs cop under the Hawks. But as lust mounted while touch and feel began drifting away, Smal knew he had to raise the stakes so he could keep on buying his pound of flesh.

It was a silly thing really. Just a leaked word about a sting. Smal was pushed and he gave up the name and the time. And just like that he was hooked. The back door had been closed, sealed and bricked up. All he could do was ride the train and hope like hell he made enough cash along the way to hop off some day while the going was still good.

“Sorry Ivan, Mikky here to see you”.

Ivan moved to the seat on the other side in the Jacuzzi, to face into the office. He loved female staff and in essence had only three rules: be hot, wear short, and forget about underwear. And Lisa was one of the A-team. And from where he was in the Jacuzzi below floor level, there was nothing like a room with a view.

“Yes. Send him in – and give me a wiggle while you walk...”

Lisa smiled coquettishly and worked her sleaze-ville biz suit into a coma.

“There’s shit, boss.” Ivan could see Mikky was wound up. No mincing of words today. Ivan lent back into the Jacuzzi, flashing his lunch to the world, with the background of the city through his 12th floor Sandton penthouse wall to floor windows, trying to look the player he liked to believe he was.

“Talk.”

“That girl. Rachel. Last night... She’s dead.”

“And you only learn of this now?”

“Smal says they’re looking for the boy. ...Louanne too. This is bad.”

“Relax. Are there any other suspects?”

“They pulled in Kahn. The Nigerian. But he’s clean. He will walk.”

Ivan steepled his hands, leaned forward thinking.

“Kahn. They went for Kahn? Why?"

Mikky moved to a blue leather sofa below some abstract monstrosity.

“She worked for him. Movies. He’s Nigerian. You know?"

...Don’t know.”

Ivan demonstrated headlines, “Nigerian movie mogul - a cover for Cocaine Kingpin. I like that. Hey if that goes. That’s my line.”

Mikky stood to go. Then remembered and turned.

“By the way. Marcel called. There’s some guy looking to get out of here. Australia. Bit of a 2nd rate movie producer. Marcel says he could be right for the Australia operation.”

“How so...?”

“I uhh. I dunno. Marcel just said.”

Ivan stepped from the Jacuzzi, reaching for a towel on the rack nearby.

“When do we meet him?”

“He ...didn’t say. I...”

“Tonight.” Ivan smiled like a general. “Let’s meet him tonight at Sifiso’s party. Tell them to come about 10.”

Mikky acknowledged with a nod and left. This could turn out to be a better day than he expected. Genghis Kahn the Nigerian set up for a fall and a stooge for Oz. Who knows, maybe he sets them both up and gets rid of plenty steam in one shot... Genghis Kahn and Ivan Baczkowski went back a long way. ...And there was no love lost.

*********

His head was finally starting once again to feel like part of his body when the phone rang.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it.” Sarah’s voice carried from the hallway.

He heard the conversation short, over friendly, then serious. Dup felt his hackles rise. Footsteps down the passage, stopping just short of the carpet.

“It’s for you. Marcel. ...The guy at the clu...”

“Yeah I know. What’s he want?”

“Wouldn’t say. Asked for you.”

With a grit teeth sigh, Dup lumbered himself off the sofa and headed for the phone.“Dup here...”

“Dup my man. Good news! Spoken to the man. He wants to meet you.”

Dup felt uneasy excited.“Err... Great. Great! Tomorrow I’m a little...”

“Tonight friend. That’s how he rolls. He wants to meet you tonight. There’s a party. I’ll text you the address. Be there about 10.”

“Hell Marcel. That’s a bit sudden. I’ve got kids, a family, ...work”

The voice on the phone turned as gritty as flint.

“Listen Dup. Listen. Do you want this or not, because...”

“No Marcel. No. It’s not like that, it’s...”

“Let me put it another way, how much do you want this – and how many other offers are on the table?”

Dup’s mind was racing but he knew there was no option.

“Okay. I’ll do my best.”

Marcel was all honey again.“Your best?”

“I’ll be there!”

“...At?”

Dup sighed resignation.“I’ll be there at 10.”

“Oh by the way man, bring that spunky wife of yours and tell her to look good. Ivan loves pretty ladies.”

Dup’s blood ran cold. Ivan. He had heard of Ivan. Ivan Baczkowski. It could only be. The gangster whose always in and out with the law. Drugs, human trafficking, extortion. Was it the same guy? What were they getting pulled into...

“What’s he say?” Sarah called, now from the kitchen.

Dup went to the sideboard, poured himself a good shot of scotch and downed it.

“What’s he say honey?” the voice from the kitchen again.

“Don’t cook for us. Just the kids. And call Angie for the kids. We’re going to a party.”

11 - Party Time

The doorbell rang followed the next second by her voice echoing down from somewhere upstairs.

“Please get that Hon. It’ll be Angela.”

Dup could never understand why Sarah called her Angela.. She called herself Angie. ...She was Angie. It was as if the formality for her christened name in Sarah’s eyes, somehow made the girl more responsible for babysitting.

“Okay. Got it.”

Dup hesitated levitating from the easy-chair facing the TV. It was the news. Some girl had died of an overdose and they had taken a Nigey movie dude in for questioning. Drugs involved.

Not wishing to miss the Nigerian thing, Dup turned back for the lounge, shouting behind him.

“Come in. Make yourself at home. You know where everything is...”

Kids ranting in the background from upstairs. Angie stopped to check her make-up at the triangular mirror above the antique sideboard in the hallway. Pulled back a wisp of hair from her eyes, tucking it efficiently into the loose bun in her Rasta hat.

“

I like the hat. The kids have eaten and hopefully are getting ready for bed – as you can hear. Sarah will be down in a minute.”

By the time he got back into the lounge, the newsreader was finishing the cover.

'Other suspects have been identified and will soon be brought in for questioning, but obviously names may not be mentioned at this time. We’ll keep you posted on this developing story... In other news...'

Dup killed the remote. His name would be even deeper in the dwang if Sarah came down and he was watching TV. Fucking Nigerians. Not satisfied to fuck up their own country, now they have to come here like parasites, like locusts to devour his world. Movie maker my ass. Do they have movie makers in Nigeria? Sure a monstrous money machine, but ‘movies’?

Just a cover up. Drugs. That’s what it’s about. Ask anyone. If it’s Nigerian, it’s illegal and nine times out of nine, coke. Polacks. Nigerians. All these fucking foreigners. He could not make a go of it in his own country – because he’s white – while these fucking thugs from the sewers of the planet were making a killing. But he knew that they were making killings that he would not be prepared to make. There is always a line.

Dup threw back the dregs of his Scotch. He was still wasted from last night and strung up from the screaming match with Sarah.

There wasn’t much discussion about the party. Dup had told her about the phone call. ...and that he should bring his wife and she should look good. He told her about Ivan and she freaked.

“Jeez Dup. Are you talking ...”

“The gangster. The foreigner. The drug guy on the news. I think so...”

“He’s Polish. You know that...”

“I think so...”

She knelt down and rested her hands on his legs in his easy chair.

“Dup. I know these people... We must not go...”

Dup put his hands on her shoulders and locked eyes.

“Sarah I know. But think about it. What happens here? Do we wait until it’s all gone.? Even if there is the smallest chance... We owe it to the kids.”

“But at what price?”

“Look. Let’s just go meet them. We don’t have to do anything. Let’s just hear what they have to say.”

She pushed his hands away and stood up.“What does he want with me?”

Dup gave her a smile, “Maybe he wants to recruit you for my movies?”

“Come on Dup. This is not time to play”.

“I don’t know angel. Maybe he knows you were Miss Poland and wants to meet you.”

*******

DECEMBER 1992...

It was the night of the Miss World Pageant at Sun City and Dup was pissed.

The show was over, Miss Russia crowned and it was time to party. And where better to party on Earth in December 1992 then Sun City South Africa.

The Palace, Superbowl and Lost City had just been built. With Mandela’s release and the roller coaster ride towards the the end of apartheid, South Africa was becoming the playground of the international jet set, and Sun City was the jewel in the crown.

Dup had danced in the Pageant because in those days, Dup was a dancer. A professional dancer. He had performed all over Europe, Africa and the Far East. He had wanted to go to the States, but somehow never got there.

He had come back to South Africa the previous year – after getting kicked out of the Estoril Casino in Cascais, Lisbon. And to this day, he did not quite know why.

He had arrived in Portugal after a 3 year stint at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. In Lisbon he had screwed his leg up and had a fallout with his woman and did some crazy shit - like ram her house with his car, shave his head, ... and then went out for a night on the town in the Old Quarter. He remembered getting shitfaced in a bar owned by some South African Arab of all things, and then nothing further.

The next minute, he feels himself being dragged out of bed by two of the biggest heavies he’d ever seen. They told him to pack. He was leaving Lisbon. He could go back to Paris, to Spain, to Germany. Wherever he wanted, but he should not be in Lisbon after dark. They presented him with a ticket to SA, took him to the airport still half pissed, dumped him on a plane to SA, leaving his car and his life behind. And ten hours later he was back in sunny SA.

Dup had had some hard times, but these were up there with them. His leg was stuffed so he couldn’t dance, and besides dancing there wasn’t much he could do. Especially since he was getting on in life. Dancers expire young. Back in South Africa on a bumrush, Dup lost all interest in life. The woman he loved was in Portugal - over another dancer in the show. A street dancer. Why was it always street dancers. They were fuck-wits with intellects of horseflies.

He started choreographing for strippers, doing bar work and partaking in the darker trades of the night. His friends started drifting away – no one likes a hard luck story. It was around this time Dup learnt to bullshit. The worse you are, the better you should project. Say you’re as happy as the Pied Piper and the crowds will follow.

Somehow he managed to get his leg fixed, started getting fit again. Telling himself that all was good. And after awhile, he started believing himself. Then the Miss World job came up. One of twelve males on stage with eighty-five of the hottest honeys on the planet. But they were royal game. ...Had these chaperones the size of gorillas keeping the little virgins intact with their hymens.

One day Dup wanted to video rehearsals. Anyone would have thought he had pulled out an AK-47. Chaperones from everywhere. Even the two big dogs or dog and bitch would be more like it. There was to be no videoing the girls.

Dup never liked the Morrisons who ran the show - or the bouncers.

“So what you going to do, confiscate cameras when these honeys tan their tits at the Cascade pool in the mornings?”

That went down like a brick, so Dup made it his business to video some Miss World boobies over the next few days.

They had two parties for the contestants that the dancers and crew could attend. Dup was at one of these when he first met Sarah.He had been a bit wary of the Miss Worlds. They were eighteen! Like it would look a bit bad for a guy over thirty to be trying his luck. But he liked to dance and was on the dance floor with the party animals when Miss Poland came up.

She was with a friend moving through the crowd, grooving to the pumping house. She stopped and looked at him. He hesitated, making eye contact. She lowered her eyes with a smile and started dancing with the group.

They danced together the rest of the night, but talking only with their eyes and smiles. Not a word was said. Eventually the chaperones descended, herded up their bevy of beauties, and she was gone. Dup could have kicked himself later for not even trying to make a move.

Now the Pageant was over, Dup was drunk, and Miss Worlds were stampeding through Sun City like beautiful young ewes on heat. Miss World 1992 was done and dusted, but the night was still a spring-chicken.

There were two afterparties that night: One, a Gala Ball for rich old farts paying fortunes for the privilege of sitting at a table with an eighteen year old, albeit friggin’ stunning, Miss World honey. Next door in the Pilanesburg Room, the Rappers Party for dancers, management and crew; the party people from the show. They had all got to know some of the girls even if it was just to share a joke or smile backstage. So it was little wonder when the beauty queens started making to escape their responsibilities and boring company, to head for the action at the Rappers Party.

Dup smiled to himself. Before the final event, all were as good as little angels, but now the winners had been named, there was nothing to lose, it was their last night at Sun City and it was open season. The girls would sneak into the Rappers Party, dance their asses off, and then the chaperones would descend like a plague and herd them all back.

This had happened a few times when Dup saw the Polish girl. He moved in. This time he would go for it. And then the bouncers moved in and she was gone. Dup was sitting near the Deejay booth being pumped by the sound, contemplating his options. There was no ways they would be allowed back in. Should he try his luck with some of the other stock floating around, or move. It was stuffy and the lights were getting on his nerves. It was time for some fresh air and a smoke.

He was outside in the foyer area when he saw her coming towards him, overladen with suitcases. She was taking costumes and stuff back from the theater. Recognizing her, he straightened up as much as the tequila would allow him and offered to help. Her beautiful face lit up and she said Sure - about the only English word she knew.

He grabbed two of the cases and led to the Cascades foyer and lifts. The massive blonde chaperone was at the lifts.

“You cannot go in. From here she goes alone.”

“Relax mate. I’m just helping her with her bags.”

The bouncer smiled ice.“Up to here.”

Dup turned to the girl and smiled, shrugging, kissed her cheek – and whispered in her ear, “Get back down here.” She smiled but said nothing, and once again she was gone.

Okay. So now it’s time for some serious drinking, Dup thought bitterly. He was on his third tequila of the late-nite shift when he saw the pack of beauties. About five of them. Led by Miss Poland.

“How’d you get out?” he slurred.

“Can we get away from here. They come...”

Dup got the message and he knew Sun City. With the band of beauties, he slipped behind the black draping and led them out into the night down the labyrinth of out of sight tunnels meandering through the guts of the Superbowl.

He did not know what happened to the rest, but Miss Poland was with him, her eyes excited, below a flowing mane as black as a panther. At first he was unsure. They were out. But now what? Up to the staff flats, onto his night black Suzuki 750 and into the balmy night. Up to the satellite tower, they watched the night twisting to the tune of moths working the lights. Riding with abandon through the abandoned rural streets beyond the complex. Smiling and sign language and one or two stolen kisses. But nothing hard. Nothing to regret – or brag about... What was wrong with him!

At five in the morning he brought her back and dropped her at the Cascades, heading for the Cabanas. A time to sleep, think and fantasize over missed opportunities.

He saw the last thing he expected when he headed for his room. The place was swarming with beauty queens. Coming out of rooms, going into rooms. He chuckled. There would be many stories to be told after the first Miss World Pageant at Sun City.

The next morning, Dup was up shortly after the sun. He could not sleep back at the room. All he could think about was Sarah. That was her name. Back to the Cascades just in time to see them in the Foyer. She came over smiling from ear to ear, beauty on every square inch of her.

“Can you come up to carry my suitcase?” she asked sweetly.

“And the Chaperones...?”

She scowled a smile. “How you say? ...Fuck ém.”

Dup burst out laughing and with one quick look behind, charged into the lift behind her.

She was on the top floor. Sharing with Miss Russia, the winner from the previous evening.

“Don’t worry. She will not be back soon. She is with the press.”

The room looked like a bomb had hit it. Dresses, make-up and shoes all over the place.

“I’m not good to pack...” She shrugged with a look of resigned hopelessness.

‘No shit’ Dup thought – but Dup was good to pack. Dancing is traveling, and when you travel a lot, you learn to pack mountains into molehills. Ten minutes later her bags were packed

.

“My God. How you do that. I could not...”

She was right in front of him. A short black mini dress that flared at the bottom. He grabbed her waist and pulled her close. She came easily and he pulled her body against him so she could feel his rising hard-on as he kissed her. She opened her mouth, grinding her hips forward and searching his mouth with a hungry succulent tongue. Okay. So do or die, Dup thought, rubbing his hands up her legs and under her dress, cupping her tight little ass. He hesitated for a second, but just a second when he realized she was not wearing panties. Then the phone rang.

“I must answer it”, she giggled trying but not really, to break free.Suddenly, she cupped the phone and turned to him, a nervous look on her face.“It is my boyfriend,” and spoke back into the phone.

Dup couldn’t understand a word, but he could understand the tone. And this tone did not sound that pleased to hear from Prince Charming. Or at least, not at the moment. Dup moved behind her, kissing her neck and moving his hands slowly up her stomach to her firm young breasts. She tilted her head to let him kiss her, still maintaining the conversation, although the guy on the other end would have had to have been retarded, not hearing her a little breathless.

Dup read the body language and felt even more aroused. She let him push her away, turn her around and back her slowly to the bed. Their eyes did not move from each other, her talking and he pushing her back slowly, opening her legs and sliding the flimsy dress above her waist.

She was small and tight like an unopened flower, crested by a small well trimmed flash of dark hair. She allowed him to open and slide between her legs, lying back across the bed, talking to her lover while Dup lowered himself down to taste her delights.

He licked her, touched her, kissed her and finally fucked her while she had her conversation. And Dup realized she was the one for him.

A year later, she came out for a holiday. One of the best, most erotic Dup had ever dreamt about, let alone lived, and the following year she moved to South Africa.

And now married with two kids and two cats, they had been together, inseparable ever since.

Dup was on his second scotch when she came downstairs.

“How do I look?”She twirled in front of him and his jaw dropped.

“You’re not serious, babes!”

The dress was slinky, black with sparkles, short, slit up the one side, straps over the shoulders and nothing much else. Her beautiful rounded breasts showed white skin between tan both at her cleavage and where they swelled out at the sides. Under were thigh high lace stockings and he could see, there as well, nothing much else.

“I thought you said they said ‘look good’?”

“Fuck Sarah. They said look good, not ready for bed!”

“Well I think I look hot...” she said petulantly.

“Of course you look hot. Like wear this one night at home when the kids are asleep, hot - not go partying with a pimp and drug dealer, hot.”

“So what do you expect Dup? A business suit? Look. You said we’re doing this thing. We do it or we don’t - your choice. But we cannot sit on the fence.”

She was right. He knew it. But ...making movies of some other tarts he could live with, but pimping his wife... But as she said. No sitting on the fence. ...They better be cool: Keep their eyes on any prize but his, their comments to themselves and hands in their own space.

It was an hour later that Angie had arrived. Sarah came downstairs, smelling like spice and looking like sugar. It was time to go. And Dup was not sure he was ready.

12 - High Society

“Fuck. Can you believe this place...”

Coming off Bompas Road heading north, cold feet took on new meaning when he saw the mansion

fortresses in seclusion, doing their best to look cloaked in opulence, on each side. Dup had never been to a party in Saxonwold before. And it was hard to see what was hidden behind five meter walls and Fort Knox gates.

“39... Must be this one.”

Dup eased on the brakes and looked where Sarah was pointing.

“Yeah. I think you right.”

The wall was no different to the rest up and down the street. What was, were the mini fleet of cop and security cars lining the street like a nite-club, outside the gate.

No self-respecting jacker would be within a mile of this place. Dup did a double take at the cops, trying to rationalize the irony of being invited to the party by a drug dealing gangster - the picture didn’t quite fit.

“You sure this is right?”

“Yeah, see. Number 39.”

She pointed to the ethnic art carvings of the street number mounted at the entrance behind the intercom. Dup aimed for the entrance and was stopped by a cop in uniform with a face not made for humour.

“Good evening sir. Your name please.”

Dup told him. Added he was a guest of Marcel for good measure. Wasn’t gonna push it with the Ivan thing.

The cop checked a list on a clipboard, looked up and squinted, sizing up the couple like they were guilty of something, only needed time to work out what. He looked down at his list, scanned and back to them.

“Just one minute please...” and strode off like at a cold war border post.

Another cop in a suit came out of the control office. Even in the suit, he could only have been a cop – or robber. The two mumbled, shooting glances at the couple. Someone else ran up with another list. The three stooges consulted. One pointed like he had just deciphered the Rosetta Stone, and the first cop came back all smiles.

“Thank you sir. Please go straight up to the estate. You will be shown where to park.”

The massive copper and brass gate slowly slid open, reveal- ing a long driveway stretching the headlights into darkness beyond.

Okay. So they were having a party and maybe subdued, but this looked like jack fucking all. Dup thanked the cop and headed for the driveway. As they pulled forward he let out a sigh of relief and smiled to Sarah.

“Well if they have the whole of Squad Car providing security and the party sounding subdued as a library, maybe we were crying wolf a little early, huh?”

“Shit I hope so,” Sarah smiled back, a nervous husk in her voice.

The driveway went straight for about a hundred meters through gardens washed in black and saturated with land- scaping. It then curved slowly to the right where they saw and heard reaffirmed, that money can always buy all. The house was not a mansion. It went a lot further than that. Obviously modeled off the Palace at Versailles, a tiered marble stairway cut between meticulously manicured gardens to the grand vehicle entrance and approach on the one side, and on the opposite, a massive cobble parking area, neatly trimmed with silver chains draped from white stanchions. Car attendants, almost one per car awaited guests on ar- rival. They showed Dup to stop, came to his window with an expansive-to-please smile.

“Good evening sir. My name is Claude. I will be your car attendant this evening. May I...”

He opened Dup’s door as an usher synchronized to perfection, opened the passenger side for Sarah. After the couple sneaked a sniggling giggle of excitement and got out, Claude was in the car and heading for the parking area.

“Be careful, she’s my baby!” Dup called out, charged with bravado. It was like a movie. Might as well get into it.

“Shut up man,” Sarah hissed under her breath.

“This way please sir.” It was a tall freckled usher with red hair gesturing the way.

“Has anyone told you you look like Harry?” Dup chirped, Sarah squeezing his hand.

“Not in the last hour sir,” the usher answered with a smile, addressing Dup but not for a second taking his eyes off Sarah.

Dup felt his hackles rise, not sure if the tone was sarcastic or hospitable. Then he was gone, back to the carpark action and Dup knew it best to let it go.

Now they could see the lights, could hear the music, hear the commotion, ...hear the shrieks, laughs and carnal sounds of a party only just this side of control, or maybe over. Dup grabbed Sarah by the hand, placed his other firmly behind his wife, steering her forward while in his mind he wished his hand was the size of a tennis racket to cover her sexy ass from popping parking attendant eyes.

The entire façade was perfectly symmetrical. In the middle of the grand staircase leading to the estate was a plush red carpet which they would find out extended from the drop-off all the way to the entrance three tiers ahead. The staircase was flanked on each side in finely polished marble, and on each level, marble lions were perched. The first two sitting opposite each other perched like the kings of the jungle they were, looking out serenely towards the car-park. On the second level, the lions bared their teeth, hackles up, looking ready to attack. On the third level, the lions were crouched, snarling, heads facing in, giving the couple the uneasy feeling they were being watched, threatened, attacked.

Beyond the stairwell on each side, perfectly symmetrical dancing fountains, programmed with a spectacular array of water formations subtly lit, to create the impression somehow of the four seasons. As they rose to the top level, the red carpet extended further than expected to another staircase curving in on each side to the grand main entrance. At the base of the entrance stairs, another two lions in gold, seated on massive orbs of the earth. But these lions were different.

“Don’t you dare stare!” Sarah hissed at him.

Dup couldn’t find words.An array of colour changing lights positioned below, cast long shadows up the lions – of two young girls, totally nude apart from body paint, backs arched against the orbs, with guys like Greek gods body painted gold, between their legs, eating their heart out.

“What kind of party is this Dup? You never said...”

“Christ. I didn’t know.”

Dup’s head faced the entrance but he was having trouble getting his eyes to toe the same line. The two couples flanking them moaned and groaned; it was as if the startled arriving couple weren’t even there.

Dup went to push open one of the double doors when they both opened to give them their first view of what they could expect that night. Everything was in abundance but clothes. It looked like Rio at Carnival on speed.

The space opening before them was like a ballroom, a bling paradise of gold gilt, gold mirrors and masterpieces lining walls on each side, leading to another grand staircase on the side facing opposite.

The floor was marble and filled with people of all ages, bumping grinding and throwing their names away to revellers who just didn’t care. The men looked old and decayed in ostentatious tuxedos, in contrast to the flock of nubile girls clad in from nothing to sexy, pulsating and gyrating for the frenzied attentions of horny men old enough to be their fathers, probably with sexual appetites reflective of barks much more dangerous than their bites.

As they watched, they saw a man probably in his sixties with flowing silver hair, place two small white objects on his tongue, and sticking it out towards a near naked honey. She laughed hysterically, putting her hand behind his head and licked the objects off his tongue. Dup looked towards the shadow just in time to see a girl looking not much older than Casey, sniffing a straw off a small mirror another old perv was holding in front of his crotch.

Wherever they looked, both men and women had their hands in each others’ clothes, grabbed at breasts, were licking, touching, feeling, no cares about being watched, no worries about what they did.

“This is a fucking joke. Let’s go...”

Sarah grabbed Dup’s hand and pulled him after her to leave.

“Ah. You made it! You made it... Dup. I am so glad...”

Dup cringed when he felt the hand on his shoulder, passive resistance urging him back.

“Marcel. Hi. Yeah. We made it. But not sure...”

“Relax my friend. Ah! Look at this gorgeous woman. Now that is what I call a woman... Let me look at you”

Marcel pushed past Dup, taking Sarah’s hands and opening them out to inspect, admiration clear in his eyes.

“Darling you look gorgeous. Come. Meet some of my friends.” Sarah hesitated, one side of her wanting to pull away, the other side softening to the compliment. It was a long time since a man had shown that kind of appreciation for her looks. Cresting forty does crazy things to a woman’s mind.

Marcel steered her inside, Dup smiling but fuming behind.

“There are so many people you must meet. Ivan is going to love you. I hear you were Miss Poland...?”

“That was a long time ago,” she said through a coy smile, allowing herself to be led.

“Which goes to show that women, like good wine only improve with age. Champagne?”

He grabbed two glasses from a roaming waiter, black pants and waistcoat stretched across toned tanned muscle. He passed one to Sarah. Dup grabbed a glass before he could disappear. This would be another long night.

“Do you know who’s house this is?”

“Err. I presumed Ivan?” she answered.

Marcel guffawed with laughter. “My God no. He should be so lucky. ...Have you heard of Siphiso Manhene?”

Sarah had heard the name but could not remember where until Dup answered.“Manhene – as in the Commissioner’s mate?”

Marcel smiled mischievously. “The one and only.”

“This is his house?”

“Strange world we live in, no? You want to meet him?”

Dup answered. “Thanks. I’m sure he’s busy. Maybe later.”

So it was true. There were rumors, stories in the paper, speculation – that the good Commissioner had his hands in quite a number of dubious cookie jars. Was he in with the likes of Ivan?

Marcel flitted like a humming bird around the party, introducing them to loads of people of all shapes and sizes. Some they recognized, some they recognized the names, others they would be lucky to remember their faces by the next day. And all had one thing in common: their eyes. Wide, dilated and unfocused, like rabid dogs before they tore your throat out. And all of them bar none undressed Sarah with their eyes. It was about one ‘o clock when Marcel finally turned to the couple and whispered like a conspirator.

“Come. It’s time...”

Dup looked at his watch, feeling defensive.

“Time... For what?”

“To meet the man of course. Ivan. ...He’s waiting for us.”

Seeing the couple hesitate and look at each other...

“Oh come now. You don’t still think we’re gonna kidnap you or something. Come. Relax...”

He laughed and gestured for them to follow. Sarah shrugged and headed after him towards the massive staircase leading upwards. On the upper level, a walkway balcony extended all the way around the massive ballroom below with couples, groups and party animals catching up, making out or just looking down at the action below. Off the walkway, closed doors led into hidden rooms on each side. Marcel led them back towards the opposite end over the entrance, knocked on the heavy ironwood door. The door opened a fraction. Marcel spoke in whispers, the door opened and he led them inside.

13 - Mikky

What Mikky liked best about Jose’s was not so much the true Portuguese menu. Nor was it the subdued lighting – or mind your own business attitude of the clientele. It was that Jose’s was in Kensington. Close enough to be accessible, yet far enough and insignificant enough to be off the beaten track of those that counted.This was why he chose most times to meet Sergeant Koena Smal and Detective Pumlo Singwasi here. They had been talking since before midnight and now it was almost two. Apart from the slick in the corner still trying to plead his case to the blonde who the way things looked, expected more than a meal for the price of her thighs, the restaurant was empty. Waiters were faffing around noisily clearing and preparing tables for the next morning and Jose was where he always was at this time of night, at the till clucking and moaning over the evening’s take.

“The thing is, it’s all about perceptions. What people think. And the way things are, what they’re gonna think is not good for business. ...Not good for us.”

The two narcotic cops looked tense. Uneasy.

“Nothing is pointing your way. But the Nigerian is clean. What you want me to say? Can I have another round here!”

Smal looked around for the nearest waiter. He was getting irritated, and when he got irritated he got loud. One of the things Mikky hated most about him.

“He’s got a big mouth that one,” he had said to Ivan many times.

“And when he sings too loud, we’ll cut out his balls, and push them down his throat. But right now. Please...”

This shit was getting hot before the bitch OD’d. Now it was only a matter of time. Smal doodled with the salt cellar in one hand, his half empty beer in the other.

“They’re bringing in the boyfriend tomorrow. He knows. You say he was with Rachel once or twice when you delivered... If he says something, what am I supposed...”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Mikky hissed. “You are well looked after. A favour. That’s all we’re asking for.”

“But how the fuck! If he’s clean, he’s clean.”

Mikky stretched back in the weathered bentwood chair and crossed his arms.

“That is what we want you to tell us. He’s a Nigerian for fuck’s sake. Make up something. Plant something. I don’t care. But make sure you shift the spotlight. You know Ivan.”

“Fuck Ivan, man! All I hear is Ivan. We’re busting our balls. Try not be so stupid.”

Singwasi leaned forward and gripped Smal’s arm. He had been quiet most of the night.

“Cool it Koena. Enough. Listen Mikky. We’ll think of something. Relax and just give us time.”

Mikky looked long and hard at Smal.

“Your friend has a big mouth, and people die from that. I trust you will settle the bill,” and got up and left.

14 - The Deck

Ivan was sitting in a high-back leather armchair behind a renaissance gilt & marble desk, a Cuban cigar clenched in a large square jaw boasting a 3 day shadow framing flashing white teeth. The air hung heavy with trailing wisps of cigar scented sweet, touched by the smells of wood, leather and men.

The room was panelled mostly in mahogany, boasting an impressive collection of renaissance art and medieval artifacts. A truly elegant office or cigar lounge.

Flanking the desk to the one side, in front of a walk-in fireplace framed in cherry wood, was a period chaise longue desecrated in leopard skin and draped with a body of curves contained in black latex, crested by a platinum bob framing a succulent blood red mouth with blue black eyes peering out, both bored and mildly interested, like a milk placated cat.

Dup looked at the platinum blonde sex goddess on the chaise; their eyes locking for a second. He thought he saw something there. Recognition? She looked familiar he was sure of that, and something told him she knew it too. Probably someone he had met with Louanne. Anyway, not really the time to ponder ships passing in the night.

On the opposite side, two Louis XVI red velvet chairs and sofa with finely crafted legs, provided a cozy lounge area around an out of place, glass topped coffee table. Notable for being in contrast and out of place, the coffee table was littered with an overflowing ashtray of stale cigar and cigarette butts, and a clutter of seedy porn magazines and DVDs.

On the far side, subdued in shadows from the waist up, the smoke swirled thickest around a French polished pool table. Two massive heavies in the standard black suits were stationed at the only two doors leading from the room, and another two flanked the double doors leading through heavy burgundy curtains, onto the balcony.

Apart from the heavies and Madonna on the chaise, there were three other men. Two big with pumped shoulders, thick limbs, and square jaws were playing pool, barely bothering to look up as Dup and Sarah entered – until they noticed Sarah. Probably Eastern block buddies of Ivan, Dup thought. Dressed in pimp-on-a-bad-day suits that fitted about as well as a round end in a square hole, it was obvious they had money, but at the same time proved money can’t buy class.

The other, black as the ace of spades, was thin, trim and slick looking in a body fitting black leather jacket and black skinny jeans, with pointed ankle boots and broad Fedora Hat giving him an aspired-for look of Kid Creole. He sat sprawled on the red velvet sofa chewing a toothpick, discarding a magazine on the table as the husband and wife were ushered in.

“Marcel. My friend. I was beginning to think you make me wait.”

Ivan didn’t bother to stand to meet them, and didn’t bother to smile.

“Hey boss. We said one thirty. One thirty it is...”

Dup heard alarm bells. Boss? Did Marcel work for him? How deep did this hole go? They were being coerced, not assisted. Ivan ignored Marcel, glancing disdainfully at Dup giving him the once over, and then his face split into a cigar embossed smile as his head turned to Sarah.

“Ah. Excuse me madam. And you must be...”

Sarah did a small self conscious curtsy.“Sarah... My name is Sarah” she half smiled.

Curtsy? Curtsy! Dup thought, concealing a grimace. He wasn’t a fucking king!

“Ah. Sarah, our beauty queen.”

Ivan had risen, disposed of his cigar in the ashtray on the coffee table and come out from behind the desk.

“Empty that ashtray will you. There is a lady with us,” he said to no one in particular.

Both Marcel and Kid Creole stepped up to the line. Creole got there first. Made some lame attempts at wiping fallen ash from the table with his hand, trying not to let the ash touch his sleeve, then emptied the ashtray in the bin behind the desk.

Making a point of ignoring Dup, the Pole went to Sarah, gently curled her arm though his and escorted her to one of the luxurious red velvet chairs facing the desk. Dup wasn’t sure what to do. No one took notice of him whatsoever, all eyes on Ivan and his wife. Fuck it, he thought to himself and headed for the other chair opposite his wife, King Creole between them, sitting as Ivan reached his throne behind the desk.

“Take a seat,” Ivan said to him sarcastically, his eyes as warm as a dead fish.

“Don’t mind if I do – thanks for offering,” Dup smiled back at him.

Ivan raised his one eyebrow. Leaned forward as if to say something. Then thought better of it, leaned over and selected a cigar from the box on the desk, settled back and smiled. He took his time lighting up, enjoying the tension, knowing everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to set the deck.

“So tell me Sarah. We only just meet and you want to leave...?”

Sarah was caught on the wrong foot.

“Leave. No. Not yet...?” she giggled nervously and looked at Dup. What was this fuckwit doing? Was he trying to seduce his wife in front of him – the first time they had even met?

Ivan looked at Dup. He knew exactly what was going on in Dup’s mind. And the frustrating thing was Dup knew that he knew. He had met asseholes like this before. Too much money, not enough breeding, and ethics and morals that would make a hyena shudder.

Dup thought back to the many times at Sun City, in Paris, in Portugal. Irrespective of the country, this breed was all the same: slimy as a greased eel and as smooth as custard over rippled shit.

It was always the girls. The dancers. A fact of life and perk of the job, dancers are without doubt the hottest women on earth. They are beautiful, toned and can be bent into positions that at first made his mind boggle, until he had started exploring the almost limitless sexual permutations. But because they were so hot – and because others fantasized about dreams that Dup was living, they attracted wannabe gigolos like dogs to the proverbial bitch on heat.

Rich ones, poor ones, fat ones, thin ones, hot or dogs. They all came sniffing. Suffice it to say that money trumped. If they had money, not too many questions were asked about looks or anything else for that matter. If they were super hot, the hot girl would break pattern to get her rocks off.

But what few understood was that the girls were mostly in it purely for the good times money can buy – and most times that had very little to do with either sex or romance. It was going for weekends to exotic locations, going for parties on Mediterranean yachts. Flips in private jets and hot air balloons. If it cost money – and lots of it – and you could pay for it, you were on the A list. ...And often that worked for Dup and some of his mates.

At first when he arrived at a new gig, it had been about working through the cast, fucking their brains out and counting his blessings. But after awhile, the girls became friends. With time better friends than lovers. Mates to hang out with without them feeling threatened or hit on – and with all the attention they pulled, this was refreshing for most of them. Then when they were hit on by high rollers and big spenders, they were only too happy to spin the plot.

Dup could always see when the deed was done. They would laugh and chink, and Dup would amble over.

“Dup! Guess what! Eduardo has invited all of us to a party on his yacht in Antibbes tomorrow. Isn’t that cool! We go out with his jet to Nice at nine in the morning and we sleep over. How cool is that!”

Dup had his role down to a ‘T’. He would look awestruck, looking at Eduardo or Jose or whoever the fuck it was, his hand to his heart.

“All of us! Wow Eduardo. You’re the man...”Eduardo would be carving him into small pieces with his eyes while his mouth did its utmost to hold a smile. Yeah I know you, you greasy fuck, Dup would think. You want us guys on your floating whorehouse as much as a poodle wants anal sex from a pit-bull. But guess what asshole, hasta manyana!

“Yeah no problem. As long as there’s room on the plane...” Eduardo would try back peddling. But Dup had played the game before. Invariably, the target would mentally count the number of hot female legs around and divide by two – and the plane would have that number of chairs plus for him and his buddies. Then one or two of the girls would say that’s perfect cos they had other plans – and for Dup and cohorts, the party was on. After that it was a small deed to blow enough smoke up Eduardo’s ass to make him look forward to being fucked, but not in ways he had in mind. ...Very seldom in ways he had in mind.

Once or twice things got ugly and Dup had to call on a silver tongue to backtrack and save significantly more than his pride. But that was only once or twice.

“You are planning to go to Australia, is it not?” Ivan smiled at Sarah through practiced charm.

“The way I hear it, that depends very much on you,” Dup smiled sweetly, leaning into the picture.

Ivan studied Dup and Dup could not see his thoughts. Frustrating. Worrying...

“Yes. So it seems,” he said at last. He became business like, his eyes turning to dead-fish glass.

“You are a movie maker, yes...?”

Dup hesitated, “Err...”“A simple question Dup. Do you make movies or don’t you?”

His eyes never wavered, never blinked. Just cold, chlorine water blue and glassy.

Dup grimaced inside. Get your shit together man. He’s gonna eat you alive.

“Yes. Yes. ...I make movies”

Ivan smiled, leaned forward on the desk, grabbing for a small leather bound notebook and Mont Blanc pen.

“Titles...?”

“Sorry...?” Dup said flustered.

“Titles. Your movies?”

Dup tried to hide his squirming discomfort behind a smile. “No. Not that... I haven’t. ...At the moment. Mostly

commercial. I do ads, promo videos, conferences. That kind of thing...”

The only change, Ivan tilted his head slightly. Creole was back to his toothpick, enjoying the discomfort like a pilot fish enjoys a seal.

“But no movies. I see. ...What ads?”

Dup was sweating, Sarah watching him, expressionless. No concern, no worry, not a smile. Good thing Dup thought. Don’t get involved.

“Umm. No really big ads... Done one or two for Ghana and Congo...”

“But no big ads.” It was obvious Ivan was enjoying this.

“Look mate. I’m a bloody good movie maker. I’ve been in the game for 20 years...”

“Then why are you wanting to leave?” Ivan sat back, steepling his hands, looking over his fingers, concealing his smirking smile.

Dup needed at the least, to let off some steam. “This fucking country for a start!”

This amused Ivan and his mates. Tweedledee and Tweedledum at the pool table moved closer, feeling the tension more than hearing the conversation. Dup was on his bicycle. He thought he might as well pedal.

“And the fact that I’m fucking white!”

“Yeah right white bitch...” from Kid Creole through his toothpick, “not so sweet on the flip side, huh?”

Ivan just chuckled.“I am white... and I have no problems?’“

Yeah but I don’t do...” Dup stopped himself just in time from saying the dirty drug dealing whore selling shit you do. Rather ending with, “the same kind of work as you... The movie business is about BEE – Black Economic Empowerment! And the economy...” he ended rather lamely.

“But you make good movies.” Ivan’s smile was of the dead.

“He does. He does good work.”It was Sarah. She lent forward, reaching out and putting herhand on Dup’s leg.“

And you would know ...how? Do you make movies as well?”

The men burst into callous laughter, Madonna made eyecontact with Sarah. Raised her eyes to the ceiling. Little men playing alpha dog games.

“Believe me I know.”

Ivan pouted... “Ah babushka. No one is doubting you for a second. I’m sure he does. Has he made any movies of you...?

Sarah looked down. Blushed.

“Ah. Do I detect we have a movie star here? Tell us about your movies. Are they. ...How you say... Saucy?”

Sarah crossed her legs self-consciously feeling for the first time, maybe she should have been less adventurous with her choice of attire. Ivan waited but when he saw Sarah was not going to answer, he turned back to Dup, now a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Maybe I can help you...” he looked back at Sarah, his eyes slowly peeling clothes away from top to bottom. “It seems you might have the kind of ...experience - I’m looking for.”

He turned to Tweedledum, the younger and bigger of the pool players and barked at him in a foreign tongue – what Dup presumed to be Polish. The man reached down on the table for one of the DVDs and headed for a cabinet beyond the chaise. He reached down and pushed something and a massive LED screen rose from the sideboard. He fiddled again, obviously inserting and starting the DVD and the screen came to life.

“Let us have a look at the kind of thing I am looking for, shall we?”

He nodded to Tweedledum who hit play.

Both Dup and Sarah had been expecting the worst. Porn which was disgusting and obscene. They were both pleasantly surprised to see the video was more erotica than hard core porn.

“Is this porn? I thought...”

“My friend,” Ivan stopped him.“Marcel has told you what my business is. This is merely, how would you say it. A supporting attraction? My operation plans to ship 1000 kilogram of cocaine to Australia - to start! Do you think I want to fuck up where I eat with shit that brings attention down on me? No. Nice and light and no one cares. No one watches...”

“But then why don’t you make legit movies?”

“Use your head my friend. Next minute I have every wannabe producer, director and actor pissing down my neck. As I said, nice and light and no one cares. ...Can you do like this?”

Dup suddenly felt elated. This was not going to be so bad. This work was even on the right side of legal!

“Like this?” he sat forward smiling. “Man I’ve done better than this with my wife!”

As the words came out, Dup regretted his bravado.

Ivan turned to face him, a patronizing smile as he reached for his deadened cigar.

“Oh really... So when can we see?”

Dup raised his hands with a weak smile.“Bad joke. But yeah. I can do this.”Ivan leant forward on his elbows on his desk.

“But I would still like to see your videos of our beauty queen.

”Dup laughed, trying to make light of the moment.“Forget it. That’s private goods.”

Instantly, Ivan was another man. Cold, dangerous, threatening.“Dup... That’s what they call you, no? I want you to understand. There is no private goods. Now we are family. You are my family.”

Dup stood up, pissed off, but not sure how brave he should be to show it.

“Listen. Nothing’s signed or sealed. We haven’t decided. We...”

“You haven’t decided?” Ivan exploded. “You come in here with your prissy missy cunt, wanting my help, but you haven’t decided?”

Ivan came around from behind the desk. Kid Creole sank down foetal on the sofa and Tweedledee and Tweedledum gave him space.“I have not decided! You will do what I decide! Do I make myself clear? I have opened my heart and told you about my business. And you think you can just walk out when you want? Just like that? Fuck you. ...Fuck you. Fuck you!!!”

Spittle foamed in the corner of his mouth. Dup was dumb- struck and Sarah sat frozen, her eyes riveted to some unfo- cused horror on the floor.

“Now I tell you what we do. I want to see your woman’s ass...”

Dup tried to placate him. “No problem. I’ll show you some... ”

“Now!” Ivan raged.

Dup felt the first claws of panic closing. There were four heavies, a mad Polack and four other men, let alone Madonna who looked the only sane one there. If this went pear-shaped, they were fucked. These were gangsters, killers. They had probably been here before. He hadn’t. Especially not with Sarah.

“But...” He looked desperately to Marcel for help. “...Please. Marcel? I’ve got no movies here...”

“Fuck the movies. I want to see your wife. Now! Come beauty queen... show me your pussy.”

That was it. Dup had had enough. ...Needed to say something. This was his wife - and Australia or not, killers or not, this had gone far enough. “Listen I...”

“Where do you want it...?

”They all stopped and looked round at her. It was Sarah. Ivan was surprised as the rest, but suddenly he was shocked back out of his rage.“Err... Here. Here in front of my desk. ...Is good.”

Dup shot to his feet alarmed, unable to believe his ears.

“Sarah. Are you out of your mind! What are you doing...?”

“Shut the fuck up Dup, and just sit down,” she answered softly, taking to the floor, her eyes calm and cool, not leaving Ivan for a second.

15 - Home Calls

The M1 at 4 o clock in the morning is always quiet. Maybe the odd car heading for some early morning rendezvous, but for most part, late night party animals doing their best to travel a straight line, to avoid attention after a night that should have ended much, much earlier.

Dup was driving, his eyes not leaving the road. He was not one of those heading for early morning engagements. Nor was he one of those trying to get home in a too-much-too-late state of mind. Sarah too had her eyes on the road. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the party, both too scared to say the wrong thing. Too scared to think too much about what had just happened, or what lay ahead. Dup lit a cigarette and drew hard, sighed and tried to steady his voice and anger before he spoke.

“I cannot believe you did that.”

A blue light brigade came screaming past. About six cars, all black, tinted windows with sirens and flashing lights. What pressing matter of State could there be at this ungodly hour to warrant their breakneck speed, their flagrant disregard for law and safety. Probably a party of the rich and famous – like the one they had just left,

Dup thought bitterly. This country was going to the dogs faster than a wet turd slipped on porcelain. The sky was paling to an insipid grey. The birds would be chirping by the time they got home. In the old days, this was the normal time to head out of their trees for home. Not anymore. Recovery was too long and painful, not to mention trying to get your act together with kids acting ...like kids.

“What can’t you believe Dup. That I took my clothes off for them, or that I did something to save your sorry ass!”

He looked across at her curled like a child in the seat next to him.

“What do you mean save my ass. There was no ways... I would have...”

“You would have what, Dup? Looked for a telephone booth and come back as Superman to save my honour? Don’t you get it? Don’t you realize the kind of people we’re dealing with here?”

“Of course I do. I’m not a fool. But completely naked, sitting back on that fucking couch next to that black pimp and opening your legs wide enough for them to see your heart beat? There are limits, ...should be boundaries.”

“They are gangsters Dup. Drug dealers. Probably killers. Do you think they were just going to smile, shake hands and wish us bon voyage? Did you see his face...?”

“Whose...”

“All of them for Christ’s sake. When Ivan lost it, the others. Did you see them? Were you looking at what was happening? “Ivan made it clear. This is not our choice. We’re being played.”

Sarah put her face in her hands, started crying. “Oh God. What have we got ourselves into. I don’t think we can go back. What have we done!”

Dup sighed, reached across and put his hand on her leg.

“Relax my baby. You’ll see. It will all work out. Just give it time...”

She stopped crying and studied her man.

“So what are your plans Dup? Are we going to do this? Become drug distributors in Australia? ...And how long for? In their game, you don’t simply decide one day it’s time to retire to the country with two dogs in the yard. The way I see it, there’s only two options: We land up in jail and lose our kids, or we end up dead and the kids will lose us!”

Dup answered softly through gritted teeth.

“This is my problem. Not yours. I got us into it. I will get us out. It’s my problem.”

“It’s not Dup. Your fight is my fight. We swim together, we sink together. Remember: ‘Til death us do part? I just didn’t expect the death thing to turn up so soon... Fuck!”

“We will be okay. I promise.”

“Are we going to do this?”

He thought for awhile before answering, the off-ramp just ahead. He indicated and changed lanes. “No.”

“So how do we get out of it?”

“I don’t know. I need to think – and God knows now is not the time. But I promise you, we will find a way – and come out of it better and stronger.”

She looked back at the road, rested her head back and whispered softly. “I hope so. I truly hope so.”

About the same time, Sgnt Koena Smal and Detective Pumlo Singwasi of Hawks Special Narcotics Unit were heading home on the Eastern bypass in their dilapidated looking pale blue Nissan Skyline. They didn’t know that the Kia they passed heading for Rivonia belonged to Dup and Sarah. They didn’t know Dup and Sarah. But they did know enough not to attract the attention of the Blue Brigade that came hurtling past a few minutes earlier.

“I don’t care what you think. Yeah. They’re asseholes – but they’ve got us by the balls. You more than me!”

Singwasi was highly pissed. He and Smal had been partners for going on three years now. The guys back at the station had labeled them Laurel and Hardy. They could both see why, in a way. Smal was short, on the heavy side, a heavy brow that made him look like a cross between a fighter and a Neanderthal, with lips too smoochy for a tough guy. Always untidy and mostly unshaved. Looking more like a hobo than anything much else. Singwasi was tall, slender but well cut - as were his clothes. Classy, stylish and neat. He would have looked like an operator if it wasn’t for his age and baby face. But what he personally couldn’t get over: he was black, Laurel and Hardy were white!

Smal had his feet on the dashboard, arms sullenly crossed on his chest.

“I say fuck it ...it’s done. Fuck them. What they gonna do, shoot us?”

“Yes, you dumb shit. Shoot us! You know them. You introduced me to them! How many times haven’t you seen...”

“Fuck them. We’ll do something...”

“What, for fucks sakes? You need to call Ivan...”

“Forget it. Not going to happen.”

They were both quiet and let the highway flash by like an amber wonderland.

“The boyfriend,” Singwasi said.

“Huh?”

“The boyfriend. Rachel’s boy. We need to pick him up tomorrow. Let’s go see him.”

“Now?”

“Now.” Singwasi sat forward gripping the steering wheel, his eyes seeing through the road, the flashing pictures in his mind.

“He’s the only one that knows. Forget what anyone thinks. He’s the only one that knows. We scare the shit into him and tell him he says a word, he dies. He will shut up, believe me.”

“So where is he supposed to have got the shit?”

Singwasi smiled grimly. “Genghis Kahn.”

Smal rolled his eyes.“Yeah right. He got it from Kahn. And where’s the evidence? Only the possible word of a coke-head.”

They traveled on in silence, then Smal leaned forward.

“His daughter.”

“Whose?” Singwasi wanted to know.

“Kahn’s.”

He turned to Singwasi, suddenly energised.“Look. Kahn? No way. But that daughter of his... Snotty

little bla... err... bitch.”

Singwasi kept his eyes on the road. Didn’t say a thing. But his mind did: ‘Ja you fucking boer. Reconciled and part of the new South Africa. But still a racist. Still Mlungu – but he smiled at his own thoughts, knowing he felt little compassion or tolerance for these people who had colonized his world, decayed the future of his people.

Smal’s eyes were fired by his train of thoughts.

“Listen. This is complicated and a long shot, but it could work... We plant shit on her.”

“Are you fucking nuts! You want to plant cocaine on the daughter of an international celebrity millionaire movie big name?”

“Listen to me. It could work! We pick her up. ...Stop her for anything, who cares. We break her tail light. She steps out of the car. We plant. Search and voila: In possession.

“We take her back to the station and do our business. We tell her the only thing she can do is say she was in possession and gave to Rachel. ...You’ll probably find she and Rachel know each other. We tell her if she does, she will get off with a suspended sentence which gets lost. She’s off clean as a whistle. She doesn’t, we go for Genghis. ...And we make sure she understands he will fall. Disgraced at best, he’ll be lucky to head back for Nigeria. Worst case scenario he could spend a long time at Pollsmoor Prison - ‘Sun City’ - or one of the other glamorous quarters of state.”

Singwasi pulled to the curb outside Smal’s typically suburban home, and looked at the white man.

“It’s fucking crazy. But then again so are you – and somehow your shit always works. This could work.”

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