Zoo City Part 48

"That can be arranged."

"So can a lawyer, Inspector."

It takes committed former addicts to drag their sorry a.s.ses out of bed at ten in the morning. Or, judging by the faces, perhaps people who don't know how to sleep anymore. Pa.s.s the Midazolam.

I help distribute polystyrene cups of truly disgusting instant chicory-coffee mix to the patrons of today's early bird meeting at New Hope, using the opportunity to show round the photocopy of the burned man's ID at the same time.

The problem is that all anyone wants to talk about is Slinger, and how he's not the real makhoya makhoya after all. They're pa.s.sing round a copy of after all. They're pa.s.sing round a copy of The Daily Truth. The Daily Truth.

"Fo sho, darkie's Hyena was a fake," a very tall, very nervy guy says with telltale ringworm patches in his hair. He is carrying a funky old baseball cap upside-down with a Hedgehog curled up in it.

"This whole time?" says a lanky redhead with drawnon eyebrows. "And no one noticed? Don't you people have a way of telling if an animal is real or not?"

"'You people?' 'Real or not'?"

"Ag man, you know what I mean." man, you know what I mean."

"It's not like being gay. We don't have some magic zoodar to detect other zoos."

"I think it's sad. That man was doing a lot for zoo relations."

"That man was doing a lot for his own publicity. Playing Mr Big Tough Gangster Zoo Guy to stir up controversy."

"Can I see that?" I ask, indicating the newspaper. The guy with the Hedgehog thrusts it at me and launches back into lecture mode. "Man like that knows how to work the media and rile up parents. You check his alb.u.m sales. Same with Britney Spears. And Eminem and that freaky vampire guy with the weird eyes? They're just going for a reaction."

There are two photographs side-by-side dominating the front page under the headline CIRCUS ACT. The first is of Slinger holding an Uzi, posing tough with the diamondcollared hyena and a veritable posse of p.u.s.s.y in gold micro-bikinis with a.s.sault rifles of their own. It's contrasted with a harried man in a dark green tracksuit with a jacket over his head, fleeing the paparazzi towards an SUV with the door open to reveal a woman twisted round to hide her face.

I flip through, past the page-three b.o.o.bs and the story about the people who have been so hard hit by the recession that they're hunting house cats until I find the report on the Sparrow's murder. Dave promised it would be front page, but Slinger's dirty has pushed it to a narrow block on page six, just another police file item.

The Daily Truth POLICE FILE POLICE FILE Hate Crime Hack Job The body of an The body of an oulike oulike young boy young boynooi was found yesterday afternoon on one of the Crown Mine dumps in the deep dark south of the city. After a hot tip-off, our photographer was first to discover the hacked-up body. The victim, said to be a ladyboy of the night, had apparently had magical and surgical alterations done before the madman killer did a little altering of his own, cutting he/ she/it to b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons with a panga. Was it a hate crime a dissatisfied customer complaint taken to the extreme? The Gauteng police say no comment. was found yesterday afternoon on one of the Crown Mine dumps in the deep dark south of the city. After a hot tip-off, our photographer was first to discover the hacked-up body. The victim, said to be a ladyboy of the night, had apparently had magical and surgical alterations done before the madman killer did a little altering of his own, cutting he/ she/it to b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons with a panga. Was it a hate crime a dissatisfied customer complaint taken to the extreme? The Gauteng police say no comment.

I have some comments of my own, but they don't involve h.o.m.ophobic inters.e.x hate crimes. I don't think that's the story behind this at all, but so far I haven't received any mysterious emails from the beyond to explain otherwise.

I stick around for the meeting, but no one recognises Patrick Serfontein from the photocopy of his ID, including the facilitators. I wasn't really expecting them to. After all, Kitsch Kitchen's leftovers aren't quite the same thing as "eating things from planes", although it did give me the idea. Along with the muti muti vision of a burning trolley laden with plastic forks. vision of a burning trolley laden with plastic forks.

I spend the morning on the phone to the airlines under the cover of doing a story for Better Business Magazine Better Business Magazine on "giving back". It turns out only two national air carriers donate leftover meals to the needy. As FlyRite's Corporate Social Responsibility person said, "We live in a litigious society. I can understand that other airlines might be afraid of the possibility of a food-poisoning claim. But we stand by the quality of our food. Even when it's a day old." She adds brightly, "If it's good enough for our pa.s.sengers, it's good enough for those in need!" on "giving back". It turns out only two national air carriers donate leftover meals to the needy. As FlyRite's Corporate Social Responsibility person said, "We live in a litigious society. I can understand that other airlines might be afraid of the possibility of a food-poisoning claim. But we stand by the quality of our food. Even when it's a day old." She adds brightly, "If it's good enough for our pa.s.sengers, it's good enough for those in need!"

Two phone calls later and I have a list of all the welfare facilities catered to by FlyRite and Blue Crane Air. Based on Patrick's age, I eliminate the Bright Beginnings halfway house for juvenile offenders and the Vuka! underprivileged schools feeding programme, which leaves me with the St James Church soup kitchen in Alexandra towns.h.i.+p and the Carol Walters Shelter situated just off Louis Botha, a stone's throw give or take an Olympian athlete doing the throwing from Troyeville. Call it a guess, but I go there first.

The shelter is a graciously decrepit Victorian house with cornices and broekie broekie lace and blue paint peeling off the walls like sunburn. The interior is deserted and resolutely clean, but all the Handy Andy and Windolene in the world can't scrub away the air of desperation that hangs over the building like mustard gas. A man with a mop directs me towards the administrator's office. lace and blue paint peeling off the walls like sunburn. The interior is deserted and resolutely clean, but all the Handy Andy and Windolene in the world can't scrub away the air of desperation that hangs over the building like mustard gas. A man with a mop directs me towards the administrator's office.

Renier Snyman is somewhere in his early thirties, young enough to still believe in making a difference, old enough that he's beginning to feel the weight of trying. He's friendly, but wary when I introduce myself as a journalist on a murder story.

"I can't promise I can help you. We don't keep records

of the people who come through here."

"Can you take a look at a photograph?" I unfold my photocopy and put it on the desk in front of him.

"Hmm. I have to say he doesn't look familiar. But that could be because this ID was issued in 1994. No one looks like their ID photo anyway, right, especially if they've been living rough for a few years. We could ask some of the long-termers. They're out at the moment. We cut them loose between ten and five, but a lot of them hang out nearby. Let's take a walk."

We head down to Joubert Park where the dealers are already out in force, as well as a few office workers taking an early lunch-break in the sun. Renier heads straight for the public toilets where a group of obviously homeless people are huddled pa.s.sing round a silver foil papsak papsak of cheap wine. They glare at us suspiciously, and a gnarled woman grabs at the arm of the old man standing next to her and draws against him for protection. of cheap wine. They glare at us suspiciously, and a gnarled woman grabs at the arm of the old man standing next to her and draws against him for protection.

"Wa.s.s'matter, Captain?" the old man calls out as we approach. The lines in his face are set so deep you could go creva.s.sing in there. "Something got stolen? That dief dief back again?" back again?"

"Nothing like that, Hannes. This young lady would like to talk to you and Annamarie about a man who may have stayed with us."

I show them the photocopy and they hand it round with the same seriousness as the papsak. papsak.

"Nee, man. I don't knows this okie okie," Hannes shakes his head.

"Are you sure? He might not look the same anymore." Definitely not after being burned to charcoal, but I won't show them that set of photographs. "His name was Patrick Serfontein."

"Se weer?" asks the old lady clinging to his arm.

"Patrick Serfontein. He was fifty-three years old. From Kroonstad."

"No, lady,'' Hannes says again, shaking his head.

The old woman smacks his shoulder. "Jong! Dis Paddy! Paddy! Jy onthou! Jy onthou!" She grabs the photocopy with shaky hands, either Parkinson's or the drink. "Ja, okie with a beard, ne. ne. En dinges wat daar woon. En dinges wat daar woon." She makes a scrabbling gesture at her chin as if scratching at lice. "You remember, Mr Snyman. With the Miervreter, mos Miervreter, mos."

"So he did did have an animal?" I say. have an animal?" I say.

"I do remember him." Snyman shakes his head. "That d.a.m.n Aardvark used to get its tongue into everything, especially the sugar. It drove our cook crazy."

"And he used to feed it baby c.o.c.kroaches, Mr Snyman. You remember?" She holds her finger and thumb two inches apart to demonstrate.

"That's not a baby c.o.c.kroach," a sullen man with a strong German accent corrects. He's leaning on a shopping trolley loaded with the remains of a single mattress.

"It is is around here!" boasts the old lady, slapping her thigh, and even the sullen German and Snyman laugh. around here!" boasts the old lady, slapping her thigh, and even the sullen German and Snyman laugh.

"When did you last see him?" I ask.

"Must have been a few weeks ago," Snyman muses. "Maybe even a month. He came and went a lot, if I recall correctly."

"He was his own man," Hannes says, approvingly. "The shelter isn't for everybody, hey. Some people like their freedom. They can't be dealing with other people's rules all the time." He gives the old biddy on his arm a little warning nod.

"Jy! Don't make me laugh," she says.

Snyman says, "A lot of our residents come and go. They'll live on the street until it gets cold our highest occupancy is in winter or something happens. A fight, a beating, an accident. It's ugly out there."

"Is there anyone else you haven't seen in a while? Anyone with an animal?

They exchange looks and shake their heads.

"How would we know?" says the sullen German guy.

Exactly what the killer is counting on.