Blood is Dirt

‘Thirty-five per cent of thirty million dollars.’

‘Yes. No,’ said Napier, and his face crumpled. He was losing it. We sat in the silence left over by the traffic. The coffee and croissants arrived. Two cafes au lait for Bagado and I, and a double tarantula juice for Napier. He sipped it, rattling the cup back into the saucer each time. Thinking. Thinking. The brain turning and turning like a hamster’s wheel.

‘What did you make supplying the sewage treatment chemicals?’

‘Two per cent of the shipping, about three thousand dollars, but I did the product as well. Took five per cent of that. I don’t usually do product.’

‘Who did you get the product off?’

‘Dupont,’ he said, too quickly.

‘French Dupont?’

‘Yes, it was,’ he said, wanting to fill that out a bit more but having nothing else to say.

‘Sweet deal?’

‘Very.’

What are we talking about? Two hundred, three hundred grand.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Takes care of your running costs for a bit.’

‘Sure.’

‘Now, the ten million dollars, that’s different. That’s retirement money. Don’t have to push the pen any more, hump the phone to your ear. It can solve big problems, too, that kind of money.’

‘Like?’

‘Debts. Payoffs. Muscle.’

Napier slugged back the last dram of tar and refitted the cup. He lit another cigarette and threw the old butt out on to the balcony. He folded his jacket over his arm and shook his legs in his trousers, which were clinging to those parts where dogs like to stick their noses. He picked up his zip-top briefcase by the ear.

‘It’s like going to a shrink, Napier,’ I said. ‘You have to relive the trauma to get over the neurosis. Have a think about things. Straighten them out in your head. Come back and talk to us again.’

‘Do you have a home number?’ ‘I do, but I don’t give it out. This kind of business and a happy home life don’t go together. You’ve got a card, I take it?’

‘Yeah. The guy in the British High Commission gave it to me.’

‘We have an answering machine here. Office hours are eight a.m. to one p.m. and five p.m. to eight p.m. Where are you staying, Napier?’

‘The Hotel du Lac, just across the lagoon there.’

Bagado and I listened to the man who’d nearly been our tenth client scuffing down the untiled concrete stairs.

‘That was close,’ said Bagado.

‘We can still nail him.’

‘You better be quick.’

‘With all the competition out there, you mean?’

‘I think he’s a dead man, or heading that way.’

‘Really? He just looked a little scared to me.’

‘Victim,’ said Bagado, shaking his head.

‘Hotel du Lac,’ I said, thinking about that for a moment. ‘That’s middling, but they’re doing it up. It’s still cheapish. He must be a bit short. If he’d been in the Aledjo or the Sheraton, even the Golfe, I’d have felt better about him.’

‘Is that why you asked him?’

‘No. I thought I might go and hustle him some more this evening.’

‘Even if he’s a dead man and he hasn’t got any money?’

‘Nobody’s got less money than us, Bagado.’

‘Do you want his croissant?’

‘See what I mean?’

2 (#ulink_51fc7748-f559-5775-bd0d-6933b8c22008)

Bagado didn’t show for the evening sitting-around session. He had a sick daughter and a wife who’d had to take to the streets selling live chickens from a calabash. Life was getting hard for him. All the money he earned went straight out into the extended family, and worse than that-there just wasn’t enough for his brain to chew on.

If I hadn’t heard from Napier Briggs by the close of business I was going to go round to the Hotel du Lac and try and necklock him into being a client, even a nonpaying client. Maybe we could do something on a commission basis for him like those ambulance-chasing lawyers do. Us, desperate? Forget it.

I turned the light out to save on electricity and hobbled out on to the balcony to see if I could hook any other passing suckers who’d want help from a couple of strapped PIs working from a stripped-down cell in a dog-poo coloured apartment block at the epicentre of Cotonou’s pollution.

I hobbled because I’d had gout. A bad bout of it, but I was coming out the other end. Sympathy had been low on the ground-with lepers on the street it tended to be. I tried telling people it was the purine in anchovies and sardines rather than a weekly intake of a bottle of … what’s the point, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I sniffed the air over Cotonou and caught the usual gagging mix of sea breath, rubbish, drains, grilled kebabs all wrapped in a heady concoction of diesel and two-stroke fumes. Yeah, the bicycles have gone and we’ve been overrun by a million mopeds. Marxism is finished.

We had the Francophonie conference here at the end of last year and they stripped the place down, repainted it, repaired the roads and introduced mobile phones. In three months the Beninois became capitalists.

The transition wasn’t completed without pain. The economy, in the jaws of the free market, was given a kick in the pants by the French who devalued the CFA franc by a hundred per cent to one hundred CFA to one French franc. The whimpering is still going on. Imports are hellishly expensive, trips to France are out, supporting kids in school in Europe is painful; on the other hand, exports are cheap. But who gives a damn about that if the wife can’t afford twelve metres of Dutch Wax African print to adorn her body? No one.

I dragged myself back inside and called Heike-my English/German girlfriend, the one who towed me out of the desert all those years ago, the one who works as a latterday saint for a German NGO1 aid agency – to see if my priapic driver Moses’s blood-test results had come through. He’d been sick for a month and a half and my toe had been through hell on the brake pedal. Heike had persuaded him to go and see a doctor last week and it had been like a child’s first day at school.

The receptionist told me that Heike had left the office, and the blood tests hadn’t come through.

I sat in the dark and listened to the radio playing Africando from the tailor’s shack across the street until it seemed like the time to close up for the night and get down to the Hotel du Lac to see if Napier was in pieces yet and needed gluing.

It was a thick, hot night and the stench in the stairwell from the overflowing sceptic tank added a ripeness that had the mosquitoes dancing for blood. I hacked through it and folded myself into my battered Peugeot estate which was so old and decrepit that I’d quite often been mistaken for a bush taxi on the open road.