The industrial section nestled behind Johannesburg’s inner city had boomed in the early 1900s during the gold rush, and slumped into seedy decay when the last of the surrounding mines had closed. Now, Jade discovered, it was back in busi-ness again. The traffic was worse than she remembered. Streams of hawkers threaded their way in between the queues of cars selling newspapers and squeaky toys, beanies and sun-glasses, batteries and replica perfumes. Jade wound down her window and bought a bottle of mineral water from a dread-locked man wearing a Coca-Cola T-shirt.
The place she was looking for used to be a warehouse with a sad empty plot lined with vicious-looking weeds on one side and a dilapidated building on the other. Now it was one of twenty warehouses. Jade recognized it just in time.
She stamped on the brakes and honked in front of the big metal gate. A faded sign outside read “Auto Parts.” She guessed it hadn’t been repainted since she was last here.
A man wearing dirty blue overalls came out to meet her. He was tall and gangly, with a dark olive complexion. The black peppercorn curls on his head had been bleached orange-blond. The effect was garishly amateur. Beneath it, his nose showed the signs of a botched re-setting, and his eyes were hard and wary.
She got out of her car.
“Robbie.”
“Jade.” He wiped his oil-stained hands on his overalls before giving her a hug. “Good to see you.”
They walked into the warehouse.
Jade looked around. It was so cold her breath steamed in the air. A receptionist was sitting at the table inside the door. She had long dark hair and was wearing tight pink jeans and a fluffy hooded jacket that zipped up. The zip wasn’t pulled up very high, and she didn’t seem to be wearing anything under the jacket. She looked like the prize performer at an Eskimo strip club.
“That’s Verna,” Robbie said.
“Hi, Verna,” Jade said.
Verna smiled back at her. Jade thought she probably smiled even wider for men.
Inside the place was surprisingly clean and tidy. The steel shelves were stacked with parts. She wondered how many were new and how much came from cars that had been stolen. There was a strong smell of oil in the air.
Robbie’s office was at the back, protected by a sturdy secu-rity gate. He took out a set of keys and unlocked it.
“How’s business?” Jade inquired.
“Never been better.”
“I’m sure Verna is good for sales.”
Robbie smiled. “She’s good for lots of things. And for sales.”
He pulled up a chair for Jade and punched a button on a CD player. Whitney Houston came crooning out of the loudspeakers. Jade was pretty certain that the CD player was stolen, and if the album had been anything else, she would have guessed it was pirated, because that was Robbie’s way. But why anyone would want to pirate Whitney Houston was beyond her.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No thanks. I had some on the plane.” She hadn’t forgotten the taste of Robbie’s coffee. It left a lasting impression. She wasn’t willing to gamble on the possibility that he might have learned how to make a better cup since they’d last seen each other.
Social obligations over, they got down to business.
“So. Same again?”
“Same again.”
Robbie nodded. “Thought so.” He pulled open the desk drawer and took out a gun. He winked at her. “This is the best I’ve got.”
It was a Glock 19. Compact, black, stubby and functional, with a simple but brutally efficient design that always made her think of a shark. Her fingers closed around the ridged grip and she felt it nestle into her palm. It felt hard and cold and familiar. She looked at it more closely. It was very familiar. It had a C-shaped nick on the barrel that she’d been in the habit of running her fingers over the last time she owned it.
“Robbie.”
“Yes?”
“This is the same gun.”
“Am I good or what?”
She frowned at him. “You promised to get rid of it. You said nobody would ever be able to find it.”
“What’s your problem, Jade? Nobody did find it. That’s why it’s here now. I kept it safe for you. Oiled, that sort of thing. Nobody’s used it since then, I’m not that daft.” He ran a finger over the barrel. “It’s a good piece and I didn’t want to get rid of it. You know, for me, a Glock is a cultural weapon. One of my grandfathers was Austrian, which I’m sure I’ve told you before. That’s where my white genes come from. The Nazi side of the family.”
“You told me your grandfather was Irish.”
“Oh. Well, I was trying to get into your pants then. Irish sounded better.”
Jade sighed. “What if the Scorpions had raided you?”
“They didn’t. I haven’t had a problem with any of the cops recently. And if they had, they wouldn’t have found it. I didn’t keep it in the damn desk drawer the whole time, you know.”
Jade ran her fingers over the nick again.
“You were supposed to throw it away for me.”
“In a week or so you can do what you like with it. Go out on a paddle ski and chuck it in the middle of the Vaal Dam. Bury it on a mine dump. Whatever.”
Jade looked down at the Glock. The grip felt cold and clean in her hand, as if it had never been exposed to the hot sweat on her palms that left wet streaks on the hard black plastic the last time she had touched it. The gun had done its job. Afterwards, she’d never wanted to see it again. She felt uneasy holding it now.
“Robbie, I don’t want this one again. It’s too risky. I’d prefer another piece.”
“You think I know the history of everything that comes in here? You want me to sell you something that was used to shoot some bloody kid in a robbery? If they don’t catch you, nobody’ll be any the wiser. In any case, it’s the only suitable one I have right now.”
He grinned, and yet again Jade was reminded of a shark.
“There’s too many people dealing in guns. It’s not a prof-itable business any more. Or a safe one. So I don’t do it much. I’ve got a damaged piece I wouldn’t sell to you, and the only other one’s a Desert Eagle. You can have it if you want, but you won’t even be able to get your hand around the grip.”
Jade shook her head. “That’s not an option, then.”
“I won’t charge you for the Glock. You bought it off me once already. I won’t even charge you storage.” He slid a cloth bank bag across the desk. “Give me five hundred rand and you can have this lot. Holster, extra mags and a stack of ammo. If you run out, it’s because you’ve pissed off too many people. Not because I short-supplied you.”
Jade counted out five notes. The currency felt unfamiliar in her hands. She saw a blue line drawing of a gloomy-looking buffalo head on the topmost note. Then Robbie’s fingers covered it as he swept the money towards him and shoved it into the drawer.
“There we are then. Done deal. You can smile, you know. Be happy. You got your old weapon back. It’ll work for you again. You watch.”
She picked up the bag of ammunition, feeling its weight.
By sitting here with Robbie, holding an illegal, unlicensed firearm in her hand, she knew she was betraying David. But unless she went through with what she planned to do, she couldn’t help him with the case. It would be too dangerous. Because Viljoen would learn she was back.
Viljoen, the convicted murderer who’d spent the last ten years of his life locked away in a high-security prison cell while Jade roamed the world. She’d timed her return per-fectly— he was due to be released in a couple of days.
She snapped a magazine into place. In his own way, Robbie was right. There was nothing that made this gun different from any other. It was a machine designed to kill people. No more, no less. In a few days it would be able to fulfill its func-tion and get rid of somebody who’d deserved to die a long time ago.
“So.” Robbie continued, drumming his fingers on the table in a frantic rhythm that bore no relation to the slow love song playing in the background. “Plan’s going ahead?”
“Yes. As soon as Viljoen’s out. Do you still want to help?”
“I promised. I always keep my word.”
The way he said it reminded Jade of the first time she’d met him, ten years ago, in the cigarette reek of the Hill-brow nightclub. They’d sat on a cracked leather sofa, their faces almost touching. They must have looked as intimate as lovers. She shouted in his ear over the pounding music. Who she was, what she wanted, why she was on the run. Why she was desperate.
When she’d finished, he shifted back on the couch and looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned close and shouted, his lips against her ear.
“I don’t think you’re a cop, OK. The cop chicks I’ve seen are all pig-ugly Afrikaans women. But I’m giving you one chance now. If this is a set-up, walk away. Because if I find out you’re trying to screw me around, I’m going to come after you and I’m going to kill you. That’s a promise. And you’d better believe it. I always keep my word.”
She had stayed. And she believed him then, just as she believed him now. She didn’t know if Robbie always kept his word. But she knew he did when it came to killing people.