The Big Killing. Robert Thomas Wilson

one end covered his crotch and the other stuck out like a tongue from the black-hole density of the knot at his top button. The tie was white with horses pounding across it with jockeys on their backs in wild silks. He hid behind some steel-rimmed aviator sunglasses and did what he was good at – letting his tie do the talking.

      Kwabena was a colossus. His cast was probably taking up some valuable warehouse space in the steelworks where he’d been poured. His frame was covered by very black skin which had taken on a kind of bloom, as if it had been recently tempered by fire. He wore a loud blue and yellow shirt which had been made to go over an American football harness but nipped him around the shoulders. He sat with his mouth slightly open and blinked once a minute while his hands hung between his knees preparing to reshape facial landscapes. He looked slow but I wouldn’t have liked to be the one to test his reactions. If he caught you and he’d been programmed right he’d have you down to constituent parts in a minute.

      ‘What was it you say you doin'?’ asked Fat Paul, the fourth pineapple fritter of the morning slipping into his mouth like a letter into a pillar box.

      ‘When I’m doing it, you mean?’

      He laughed with his shoulders and then licked his fingers one by one, holding them up counting off my business talents.

      ‘Management, negotiations, debt collection, organization, findin’ missin’ people, talkin’ to people for udder people…no, I’m forgettin’ some…’

      ‘Transactions,’ I said.

      ‘Transactions,’ repeated Fat Paul, nodding at me so I knew I’d got it right.

      ‘As long as it’s not criminal.’

      ‘And no fucky-fucky business,’ finished Fat Paul.

      ‘I’ve not heard it put like that before.’

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, beckoning to Kwabena for a cigarette, “swat ‘sall about, you know, jig-a-jig, fucky-fucky. I no blame you. Thass no man’s business. But transactions. Now there’s somethin'. Somethin’ for you. Make you some money.’

      ‘What did you have in mind?’

      Fat Paul clicked the fingers he’d been sucking and George opened a zip-topped case and handed him a package which he gave to me. It was a padded envelope with a box in it. The envelope had been sealed with red wax and there was the impression of a scorpion in the wax. It was addressed to M. Kantari in Korhogo, a town in the north of the Ivory Coast, where I was expecting to be sent any day now to sort out a ‘small problem'.

      ‘How d’you know I was going to Korhogo?’ I asked, and Fat Paul looked freaked.

      ‘You gonna Korhogo…when?’

      ‘I don’t know. I’ve got a job to do there. I’m waiting for instructions to come through.’

      ‘No, no – this not for Korhogo.’

      ‘That’s what it says here.’

      ‘No. You deliver it to someone who take it to Korhogo.’

      ‘I see,’ I said, nodding. ‘Is that strange, Fat Paul?’

      ‘Not strange. Not strange at all,’ he said quickly. ‘He gonna give you some money for the package. You go takin’ it up Korhogo side then you up there wid the money and we down here wid…’

      ‘Waiting for me to come back down again.’

      ‘That’s right. We got no time for waitin'.’

      ‘Why don’t you deliver it yourself?’

      ‘I need white man for the job,’ said Fat Paul. ‘The drop ibbe made by ‘nother white man, he only wan’ deal with white man. He say African people in this kind work too nervous, too jumpy, they makin’ mistake, they no turnin’ up on time, they go for bush, they blowin’ it. He no deal with African man.’

      ‘There can’t be that many white people up in Korhogo.’

      ‘Ten, mebbe fiftee', ‘s ‘nough.’

      ‘The drop? Why did you call it the drop?’

      ‘You callin’ it transaction. I callin’ it a drop.’

      ‘Where and when is this drop?’

      ‘Outside of Abidjan, west side, down by the lagoon Ebrié, eight-thirty tomorrow night.’

      ‘Why there?’

      ‘The white man no wan’ come to Abidjan, he no wanbe seen there, he have his own problems, I donno why.’

      ‘Why don’t you just go to Korhogo and cut out the middlemen?’

      ‘We’ – he pointed to himself who could easily pass for plural – ‘we no wango Korhogo, too much far, too much long.’

      ‘Well, it sounds funny to me, Fat Paul. Nothing criminal. Remember.’

      ‘I rememberin’ everythin’ and this no funny thin', you know. You jes’ givin’ a man a package an’ he givin’ you some money. You takin’ you pay from the money an’ givin’ us the rest. I’m not seein’ anythin’ crinimal,’ he said, getting the word wrong and not bothering to go over it again.

      ‘What’s in it?’ I asked rattling the package, and Fat Paul didn’t say anything. ‘A video cassette?’

      Fat Paul nodded and said, ‘What you puttin’ on a video cassette that’s criminal?’

      ‘How about child pornography?’

      ‘Hah!’ He sprung back from the table. ‘This nothin’ like that kind thin'.’

      I gave him his package.

      ‘You not gonna do it?’

      ‘I’m going to think about it.’

      He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

      ‘Mebbe I’m helpin’ you think. I’m payin’ two hundred and fifty thousand CFA do this job, a thousand dollars, you understandin’ me?’

      ‘But none of it upfront?’

      ‘You workin’ for African people now, we no have the money ‘fore somebody give it. Not like white people, they always havin’ money…’

      ‘Well, now I know what you want, I’ll think about it.’

      ‘You got any questions you wan’ aks?’

      Tomorrow. I’ll have some questions tomorrow.’

      ‘You tekkin’ long time think up you questions. How many you got?’

      ‘If I knew that I’d ask them now.’

      ‘You jes’ give the man the package. And the man’ – he slowed up for my benefit – ‘the man he give you an envelope, wax sealed like this one. In the envelope is the money. You don’t have to coun’ it. Just tek it. Give one hand, tek the other. Is ver’ simple thin'. I mean, Kwabena he could do it without troublin’ he head ‘cept he black. He only jes’ come down from the trees. Still scratching hisself under the arms. No be so, Kwabena?’

      Kwabena grinned at Fat Paul’s insult with a twinkling set of ivories and so little malevolence it would concern me if he was my bodyguard.

      ‘Don’ be fool',’ said Fat Paul, reading my thoughts, ‘he lookin’ kind and nice like mama’s bo’ but, you see, he got no feelin'. He got no feelin’ one way ‘rother. You go run wid the money. I say, “Kwabena, Mr Bruce go run with the money.” He find you, tek you and brek you things off like spider thing. You got me?’

      ‘No plobrem,’ said Kwabena slowly.

      ‘Time we goin',’ said Fat Paul, looking at a watch on a stretch-metal strap which was halfway up his forearm. ‘Leave Mr Bruce time for thinkin'. Time for thinkin’ all these questions he gonna aks. I’m