kids.”
He stared at her. “You’ve spoken to her?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t need to speak to her.”
“So where does this leave me?”
“I don’t know, Jack. That’s for you to decide.”
C HAPTER 6
When the Sniper Security truck pulled up at the site, the builders were leaving, talking loudly in Xhosa, laughing as they walked down the road to the taxis. Benny Mongrel jumped down from the truck and helped Bessie to the ground. The truck drove off, and Bessie squatted against a pile of builder’s sand, her back legs unsteady as she pissed. Benny Mongrel looked away, giving her the time to do her business.
He had arrived at Sniper Security an hour earlier than his usual reporting time of 5:00 p.m. He had looked around for Ishmael Isaacs, the shift foreman, ready to report for inspection. Before getting the taxi to town, Benny Mongrel had stood in the tin bath in his shack and scrubbed his body with Sunlight soap. Then he had been forced to ask the fat bitch in the next-door shack if he could use her iron. Even though she nearly shit herself when she saw his face, she was greedy enough to demand money. Back in the day he would have smacked her and walked with the iron. But he paid up, pressed his uniform, and took the iron back to her. She had grabbed it and slammed the door in his face without a word.
Anyway, there he was smelling of soap, with creases like knife edges in his uniform.
But another guard had told Benny Mongrel that Isacs had already gone for the day. He wouldn’t be back. Fucken asshole.
While Bessie pissed, Benny Mongrel took in the view from high up on the slope. All was still. Honey-colored sunlight washed Table Mountain, Lion’s Head, and Signal Hill. Toylike yachts caught the breeze on the placid ocean far below.
He saw the red BMW still straddling the yellow line. A pink parking ticket was glued to the driver’s window, flapping in the soft breeze.
Bessie appeared at Benny Mongrel’s side and licked his hand. He took hold of her chain, and the two of them headed into the unfinished house.
Burn felt like he had been sucker punched. He was relieved that Matt, tired out after the time on the beach, was asleep in his car seat as they drove home.
Burn knew that Susan was serious. He also knew that she was right. That didn’t stop him from feeling as if his entire universe had fragmented and been sucked into a black hole. Being without his wife and son was something he couldn’t process. Not being there to father his daughter was too painful to imagine.
He knew he had brought this upon himself.
As he drove over the Neck and down toward Sea Point, the panorama of mountain and ocean was invisible to him. What he was seeing was the ease with which he had been set up back in the States, and how willingly he had slipped his head into the trap and let it spring shut.
After Tommy Ryan left, Burn had become a regular down at Gardena, sitting at poker tables with strangers who were prepared to wager more than most of them could afford. Burn hadn’t let sympathy get in the way of him taking their money. Money that helped him grow his business and make things more comfortable for Susan and Matt.
And Burn couldn’t deny it: he’d enjoyed the rush gambling gave him.
So he started betting on sports. A guy he met at the poker table put him onto a bookie named Pepe Vargas, who drove an old Eldorado and wore pinkie rings. Vargas amused Burn with his cheesy suits and easy humor. He was a character, and somehow having him around made Burn feel that he was leading a more interesting life. Vargas seemed to like Burn and extended him credit. He never acted bothered if Burn was late in paying.
Then the slide began. Horses stumbled on the homestretch, quarterbacks fired bum passes, and hockey pucks followed paths that defied any reasonable logic. Suddenly Burn owed Pepe Vargas nearly twenty grand, and Vargas started calling the house, looking for his money.
These calls,
He stared at her. “You’ve spoken to her?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t need to speak to her.”
“So where does this leave me?”
“I don’t know, Jack. That’s for you to decide.”
C HAPTER 6
When the Sniper Security truck pulled up at the site, the builders were leaving, talking loudly in Xhosa, laughing as they walked down the road to the taxis. Benny Mongrel jumped down from the truck and helped Bessie to the ground. The truck drove off, and Bessie squatted against a pile of builder’s sand, her back legs unsteady as she pissed. Benny Mongrel looked away, giving her the time to do her business.
He had arrived at Sniper Security an hour earlier than his usual reporting time of 5:00 p.m. He had looked around for Ishmael Isaacs, the shift foreman, ready to report for inspection. Before getting the taxi to town, Benny Mongrel had stood in the tin bath in his shack and scrubbed his body with Sunlight soap. Then he had been forced to ask the fat bitch in the next-door shack if he could use her iron. Even though she nearly shit herself when she saw his face, she was greedy enough to demand money. Back in the day he would have smacked her and walked with the iron. But he paid up, pressed his uniform, and took the iron back to her. She had grabbed it and slammed the door in his face without a word.
Anyway, there he was smelling of soap, with creases like knife edges in his uniform.
But another guard had told Benny Mongrel that Isacs had already gone for the day. He wouldn’t be back. Fucken asshole.
While Bessie pissed, Benny Mongrel took in the view from high up on the slope. All was still. Honey-colored sunlight washed Table Mountain, Lion’s Head, and Signal Hill. Toylike yachts caught the breeze on the placid ocean far below.
He saw the red BMW still straddling the yellow line. A pink parking ticket was glued to the driver’s window, flapping in the soft breeze.
Bessie appeared at Benny Mongrel’s side and licked his hand. He took hold of her chain, and the two of them headed into the unfinished house.
Burn felt like he had been sucker punched. He was relieved that Matt, tired out after the time on the beach, was asleep in his car seat as they drove home.
Burn knew that Susan was serious. He also knew that she was right. That didn’t stop him from feeling as if his entire universe had fragmented and been sucked into a black hole. Being without his wife and son was something he couldn’t process. Not being there to father his daughter was too painful to imagine.
He knew he had brought this upon himself.
As he drove over the Neck and down toward Sea Point, the panorama of mountain and ocean was invisible to him. What he was seeing was the ease with which he had been set up back in the States, and how willingly he had slipped his head into the trap and let it spring shut.
After Tommy Ryan left, Burn had become a regular down at Gardena, sitting at poker tables with strangers who were prepared to wager more than most of them could afford. Burn hadn’t let sympathy get in the way of him taking their money. Money that helped him grow his business and make things more comfortable for Susan and Matt.
And Burn couldn’t deny it: he’d enjoyed the rush gambling gave him.
So he started betting on sports. A guy he met at the poker table put him onto a bookie named Pepe Vargas, who drove an old Eldorado and wore pinkie rings. Vargas amused Burn with his cheesy suits and easy humor. He was a character, and somehow having him around made Burn feel that he was leading a more interesting life. Vargas seemed to like Burn and extended him credit. He never acted bothered if Burn was late in paying.
Then the slide began. Horses stumbled on the homestretch, quarterbacks fired bum passes, and hockey pucks followed paths that defied any reasonable logic. Suddenly Burn owed Pepe Vargas nearly twenty grand, and Vargas started calling the house, looking for his money.
These calls,
Similar Books
