Juba Good by Vicki Delany Page A

to argue. Deng growled. The guard changed his mind.
    â€œWe’ll wait.” I gestured to the guard hut. Just a shack to keep the rain off their heads. “You’ll wait with us.” I didn’t want him sneaking away to tell his boss. I could see only the one guard. The others must be patrolling the grounds. It was late. The car park was almost empty now.
    The three of us went into the hut. There were two blue plastic chairs. I took one. I gestured to the guard to have a seat. Deng leaned on the wall by the door. He crossed his arms over his chest.
    We didn’t have long to wait.
    A burst of female laugher had Deng and me glancing at each other. I got to my feet.
    Nigel and a woman came down the path. Her secondhand dress was too tight for her lush figure. She tottered on her high heels. Nigel’s hand gripped her arm. “Steady there, Ella,” he said, and she giggled.
    I held up my own hand. Telling the guard to shut up. Telling Deng to wait.
    Wait and watch.
    Nigel and the woman crossed the parking area. They reached the Rav 4. Ella staggered. Nigel opened the passenger door for her.
    I signaled to Deng, and we stepped out of the hut.
    â€œNigel Farnsworth,” Deng said. “I am arresting you for car theft.”
    â€œWhat the hell!” Nigel spun around. “Christ, not you again, Robertson. What, you’re a vice cop now?”
    â€œI was at the rugby game,” I said. “I saw you hotwire this car. Of course, I immediately reported it to the police.”
    The woman’s eyes blinked rapidly.
    â€œGet lost,” Deng said to her.
    Ella didn’t have to be told twice. She kicked off her shoes and darted into the bushes.
    â€œYou bastard,” Nigel said. “You always have had it in for me. This car belongs to a friend of mine.”
    â€œWe can sort it out at the station,” I said.
    People were gathering. The kitchen staff. Some of the waitresses. A few stragglers from the bar.
    â€œThis is an outrage,” Nigel shouted. The restaurant manager broke through the circle of onlookers.
    â€œWhat’s the problem here?”
    He looked at me. He looked at Deng. He reached into his pocket. “I’m sure we can find some way to settle this.”
    Deng growled.
    Nigel moved. He didn’t try to get away. No point in that. Nowhere to go except into the bush. He wouldn’t last long there. He pulled a knife out of his belt. It was a goodsized camping knife. The blade, sharp and clean, flashed in the light. It came at me, slicing air, heading for my belly. Startled, I jumped back. I tripped on a rock. My sore ankle gave way. I went down. Guards, cooks, waitresses and drinkers scattered. The restaurant manager squealed. My head hit the ground hard. My vision blurred. I shook my head to try to clear it.
    Nigel bellowed and brought the knife down. A straight thrust. This time it was heading for my throat. Gravel cut into my hands as I scrambled backward.
    Then the knife was rolling across the ground.
    Deng’s big hand was wrapped around Nigel’s right wrist. With a sharp twist, the Englishman’s arm was jerked up behind his back. He grunted in pain and dropped to his knees. He lifted his head. His eyes blazed at me. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “Race traitor,” he spat.
    I felt hands on me, and one of the security guards lifted me to my feet. Now they were being helpful. The other guard bent to pick up the knife. I shouted at him to leave it where it was.
    Once all danger had passed, the manager hurried over.
    â€œWhat seems to be the problem, officer?” He rubbed his hands together. His smile was strained.
    â€œDon’t think I won’t be back,” I said. “I know what’s been going on here. I know you’re involved.”
    â€œYou’ve completely misunderstood. I’ve never seen that man before.” He shouted at the waitress who’d been beaten for talking to me.