Black Mischief (31 page)

‘Mister Rubai, this is a young man's work. You learn early, make your pile and then retreat to some pretty part of the world.'

‘I see.' Hearing Rossi speak brought him his second surprise. Rossi was a small man, neat and muscular with stereotype Italian looks, olive skin, dark eyes and shiny, black hair swept back from his forehead. But the accent was good quality, cut-glass English. This man had style and presence. Abel had seen such men in the gentlemen's clubs in England, the product of the best of the country's public schools.

‘So now it's the accent. Simple. My father was a self-made man. For his firstborn he wanted what he saw as something better than the Bronx school where he and his brothers learned a lot of lessons about survival on the streets of a hard city. He asked a big man in Chase Manhattan for advice. He sent me to Eton. You've heard of this place, I know. You had a boy there. Well, I met a lot of clever people in that place, learned a lot about a lot. The downside was that, when I went back home, I was late coming to those street lessons. But I'm a quick learner, as you will soon discover. Also, my family said that I talked funny. My mother liked that. Made me sound special, she said. So, I thought that I would run with that. I think it works. Of course, I can toyn on da Brooklyn, if I need that stuff.'

Abel was impressed, and excited. This one was different, definitely a professional.

Not much was said on the ride out to the farm. Rossi spent his time taking in the one amazing sight after another he saw by just looking out at the people and the places they passed on the way. It was his first time in Africa. He understood that his line of work was not often called on out there. The locals had the market covered.

Abel was happy to let his fellow traveller enjoy his exotic adventure. He was troubled and annoyed with himself for being so. He could not shut out of his mind the absurd letter that Sally had read to him. Who was behind this nonsense and why had they sent it, and sent it to Sally? He recalled a similar message, plea, that he received, delivered to him at home by Sonya Mboya and Maura McCall. Did they think that they could use Sally in some way to undermine him?

The unpalatable truth was that they were succeeding. He loved Sally and he was desperate to retain her good opinion of him. It was a silly weakness but a real one.

He was afraid that these little invasions would begin to sow a seed of doubt in her mind. But he was too far in now and the only way through was to keep wading on. This was one reason, the main one, why this ruthless, efficient fixer was sitting next to him on their way to his private lair outside the city. He had brought him to solve his problem with the McCalls, but he could throw in the tart. He was paying enough. One extra should cause no dramas.

It was a meeting for three. This time the guards, six of them, were posted outside. Abel was curious to see how Patrick Uchome reacted to the new man on the Rubai enforcement team. Uchome had overseen two failures in the last twenty-four hours. He had suspected for a few weeks that the boss was up to something and it was his bad luck that this muscular midget had arrived at this worst of times. So there was a handshake but no smiles. Uchome was wary and it showed in the attempt at relaxed swagger in his body movements.

Rossi was genuinely at ease and keen to get down to work. When he turned down the offer of a drink, ‘No, Mister Rubai, we celebrate after the job is done,' Uchome turned towards his boss with his eyebrows raised on a scowling face. What was going on here? This guy is English with looks like that? But he had no time to work out the puzzle.

‘Mister Rubai, now that we are face to face, I want to know precisely what you want of me. Who, where, when and what. Forget about the why.'

This time Rubai was as puzzled as Uchome, but, while his Kenya man suspected that this newcomer was too fast with his tongue, Abel was, once more, delighted. New York had come to Nairobi.

‘Mister Rossi …'

‘Alfredo.'

‘Yes, well.' For a few moments Abel was stumbling about setting out his wishes. He remembered how uncertainty had undermined him once before. He had failed to allow Uchome to finish the McCall kid months before. The picture on his desk of Sally smiling at Julius taken on his last day at his English school served its purpose again. It cleared his mind and focused his thoughts. At once he became more fluent.

‘Alfredo, I'm not quite sure how far you …'

‘Mister Rubai,'

‘Abel, please.'

‘Mister Rubai, anything, anything you want me do will be my pleasure.'

Abel hesitated, took a deep breath and opened up.

‘Alfredo, for many years I have been a man who has kept his important business close to my … heart. Uchome here knows this. That is why he is going to leave the room now to check on things outside. I'll call you in later.'

Patrick Uchome was on his feet and out of the room quickly, and glad to be going. Being privy to the boss's deepest secrets could be interpreted as a kind of delayed death warrant.

‘Hate is a big word,' Abel continued.

‘Excuse me, Mister Rubai, but are you sure you want to go through with this? No more philosophy, please. We're wasting time here.'

‘McCall, they are a family who have been a curse on my life.'

‘How many people and do you want to get rid of them all? You will appreciate that numbers will dictate methods.'

‘Of course,' Abel lied. He did a rapid calculation. ‘Six, plus or minus.'

‘Mmn, okay, we'll pick up final details on that later. Now, where do they live?'

So began a long and detailed interrogation, mainly concerned with people. He wanted to know about ages, physical and personality details and he insisted on spreading his inquiries beyond the immediate family.

‘This Bertie Briggs sounds important.'

‘Another of the old-time bwanas who cannot get it into his head that this country is not ruled from London any more. Arrogant white Europeans who think that they are real Kenyans.'

Abel was working himself into a rage. But this was not the red-hot boil-up that he experienced on the night of Julius's death and which was repeated many times in the months that followed when thoughts of that devilish family came into his mind. The emotions now were cold, the anger, the hatred, the longing for revenge. To him the reason was obvious. And at last he had found the man who could bring him peace. Those days of frustration that were all too common when the local boys were on the job were about to end.

‘Mister Rubai, you have given me everything I need for now, except for locations, but I understand that Mister Uchome will supply all that information.'

‘Yes, indeed.' How like an ordinary business transaction this was. Put your signature on a contract, write a cheque and problems disappeared, as easy as switching a light on to bring brightness to a dark room.

‘Patrick, get in here and bring your stationery.' He stood and offered his hand to his saviour. ‘I have to leave you now.

My boys will see you back into the city. Anything you need, anything, they will organise it.'

‘The rest of today I'll be making preparations. I will be in Naivasha in the morning. I'll be in touch.'

‘Mr Rossi, I want these people to hurt. Don't worry about the girl, Lydia. We'll see to her later if it's a distraction. I think, maybe, that she is less … No matter. We will meet again very soon. Uchome, take care now!'

ews has always travelled fast across the plains of East Africa. Now that a little more of the light of civilisation has come to silence the mysterious messages that were sent on the wind by the romantic beat of the drums, the family mobile does a more efficient job. Or so some people believe. No more need for the sensitive ear to interpret the latest bulletin from the bush.

By the time Tom had turned off South Lake Road onto the bumpy murram of the track that led to Londiani, a dozen stories were flying up and down the villages of south Naivasha. A single phone call from Paul Miller's house to Rafaella and Angela who were together in the McCall kitchen had created a score of rumours. Variations on the basic themes of murder, kidnap and rescue brought great excitement to the beginning of the working day. But could so many twists and turns have been possible in so short a time, between bedtime and sunrise?

Stephen Kamau, the trusted chief foreman, heard some of the different stories and understood that no work would be done in the fields that were noisy with continuous chatter. He gathered his people together into a large tent that had just been cleared of its last row of roses. By the time he stood in front of them, Rebecca was at his side. She was smiling.

‘It must be good news. Rebecca knows all the secrets of this place.'

Stephen was brief. He focused on the kidnap of their beloved Bwana Alex and his rescue, his ‘miraculous rescue'.

‘Bwana will soon be safely home. I think he will come down to talk to us later. For now, let us thank and praise our loving Father for his goodness and mercy, and return to the tasks of the day.'

There were two meetings later that day. As Bwana Alex slipped into the large tent, the excited hubbub of expectation soared into a loud, prolonged cheer that itself turned into a more traditional harmony of blended voices. The improvised choir of a thousand accompanied itself with rhythmic clapping and swaying movement. As he walked among them, his workers, his friends saw some proof of his ordeal in his pale face and sunken eyes. They were distressed and angry that violence had come again to bring danger to the McCall family, their family.

He returned to the jua kali platform and raised his arms in triumph, wearily some thought. As he spoke his words of thanks, very few even in the front row paid attention to the slim, pretty figure behind him standing between Rebecca and Signora Rafaella.

Lydia was entering a new phase in her education. The years spent in a way of life that most of those in the crowd in front of her would have described as sordid, if not downright disgusting, had taught her many lessons. She had learned to read characters quickly. Her life might depend on her ability to pick out the customer who came to her wanting more than to use her body for a brief, intimate encounter in the privacy of a bedroom. Some men thought that their money bought them the right to indulge their wildest sexual fantasies. There were friends who had been murdered by such sadistic perverts.

For now, she enjoyed looking up and down the rows of these flower people with families to return to when their work was over. Why could she not have been one of these girls, with their glowing faces, their colourful kikois? But she had chosen to sell her body, not her labour.

Alex and Stephen chatted for a few moments. A loud cheer went up when the big foreman announced that work was over for the day. The large crowd of workers dispersed quickly through the open sides of the tent.

Half a dozen girls made straight for Rebecca. They had been friends from their schooldays before Don and Rafaella McCall had sponsored their foreman's bright eldest daughter at Santa Maria in Nairobi. Rebecca was no longer the famous singer but one of the Naivasha gang, noisy with their shrieks of uninhibited laughter and high spirits.

Lydia was welcomed into the group. It was a new experience to be in such company. Her city friends seemed older and wiser with their pretentious air of cool, street smart ways. They would not have been so ready to embrace a stranger so wholeheartedly. These flower workers had kept some of their girlish enthusiasm, their love of getting up to things.

As they made their way up to South Lake Road, the bubble of excitement moved along slowly, a colourful piece of Africa, enjoying life to the full.

‘I want to show you my favourite place.' Rebecca and Lydia were strolling back to Londiani after the last of the girls had boarded their matatu to their homes on the other side of town.

‘The washing garden. It is beautiful, Rebecca, but a surprise, too. Where is the machine for the clothes?'

‘There isn't one. Plenty of hot water from the boiler. See, over there. We carry it to the two troughs, put in the powder and work away, like baking bread, only better. No flour on the hands and the hot water is like dawa. It makes you feel good. I love being on the stage, but this is better. I think there is water. I will show you.'

In ten minutes the girls were caught up in the rhythm of the kneading and the slapping and the rinsing.

‘This is a good place to think. To talk, also. Lydia, New York, will you come with us?'

‘On Sunday? I think I must go back to Nairobi. My family will be worrying.'

‘But someone will be watching the house. We could send a message. Paul will take it. And he is working to help you travel. So it will be easy for you. Just two weeks.'

‘New York, is it like Nairobi?'

‘Come and find out.'

‘Do you think they will give me a job down in the fields? Those girls, your friends, are they happy?'

‘Yes.'