Glittering Gallows

Chapter 20

139 C Chapter 20 ésar Sergio Miguel stepped out of the riverside house, the Colt .45 and a torch in his hands. Listening, he discerned no threats except the distant cry of birds and animals, perhaps jackals and hyenas, he wasn’t sure and he didn’t care. Wildlife wouldn’t be a match to a predatory man of his calibre. He walked into the night, a labyrinth of footpaths taking him away from the house and the river, the torch illuminating his way. A sweet smell of decaying vegetation and damp soil tried to speak to him of an earthly life of romance and peace. He denied nature a chance to coerce his senses; he was an assassin, a candidate of perdition, there were no two ways about it. After some time, wind-drifting country music reached his ears and he stepped onto a gravel road. From here he jogged to dry his clothes, especially the T-shirt. His trousers being tanned and polished leather, it hadn’t absorbed much rain. The road curved eastwards towards Hennops River, but downstream to the desolate house. After about twenty minutes his T-shirt was dry and the road had taken him to a sleepy riverside resort with a florescent signboard that read: WHY-NOT HIDEOUT INN See no evil, hear no evil The country music emanated from the tree-obscured inn. Beyond the inn, he discerned rapid splashes of the Hennops River as it flowed towards the Reitlvlei Dam some thirty or so kilometres downstream. The concentration of noisy rapids at this stretch of the river was the inn’s prime attraction, aside from its remoteness that lured prostitutes and adulterers and all manner of shrewd patrons. César Miguel liked the inn’s hear-no-evil and see-no-evil policy. Patrons were free to use pseudonyms on checking in. Nobody was C 140 asked to identify themselves formerly. As such, the place was notorious for refusing to cooperate with the police in instances when the management was asked to do so, usually following the commission of violent robberies in the vicinity, or when they suspected the inn harboured felons. Using a handkerchief, he bent and quickly wiped dirt from his shoes, and walked through the gates of the establishment. Couples were fondling, kissing or roasting meat on charcoal grills in the resort’s dimly-lit gardens. Nobody took an interest in him and he was disinterested in the patrons too. At the resort either a man brought his own company or he would be comfortless for the duration of his stay. Attempting to find a woman among possible felons and fugitives often resulted in gun battles and death. He stowed away the torch and the pistol, descended some rocky steps and vanished through an archway by-passing the reception. The inn resembled a stonework medieval castle. Decorative artefacts on its walls reminded patrons of the Anglo-Boer War, the pioneer column, Paul Kruger and Cecil John Rhodes. From the archway, he stepped into a bar with a handful of patrons, but the air was thick with cigarette smoke. A jukebox belted the country music. Light dragon tattoos on his arms, cheeks and forehead, he was at home among the dishonourable patrons. Two men in leather vests played snooker. The atmosphere was lethargic. Through a window he saw a section of the parking area. His Harley-Davidson, the Sportster Forty-Eight, distinct and glistering under a security lamp, stood between two cars, his helmet strapped on a handlebar. He bought a double-tot of gin and tonic, gulped it in a flash standing, belched, bought another one and sat on a stool by the counter. Through the same window, he looked at the sky above the distant and relief-obstructed desolate house by the river. It was now lit. Gloomy clouds above the house seemed to shift and gyrate in tumultuous movements. César knew he was on the brink of making more money than the premier had promised him, and he would return to Madrid rich. In the bars of Palacio Gaviria, Santceledoni and Planet Hollywood Madrid, women would fall at his feet. ...