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  • Snake
  • Written by James McClure
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  • Written by James McClure
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A Kramer and Zondi Investigation Set in South Africa

Written by James McClureAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by James McClure

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List Price: $14.00

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On Sale: August 09, 2011
Pages: | ISBN: 978-1-56947-969-8
Published by : Soho Crime Soho Press
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Lieutenant Kramer and Sergeant Zondi have their hands full. On the same day that an adult entertainer known as Eve is found accidentally strangled to death in her dressing room, her pet python wrapped dead around her neck, a beloved candy shop owner named "Lucky" Siyayo is shot to death at his counter in a botched robbery. The detective duo quickly realize neither death is as simple as it looks on the surface: Lucky Siyayo's cash register was all but empty the day he was murdered, which suddenly throws a whole rash of fatal neighborhood robberies into perspective—were none of them robberies at all? It becomes clear a killer is on the loose, but Zondi and Kramer must figure out what the killer is after.

Meanwhile, postmortem analysis reveals that Eve didn't die at the time her ex-boss had stated he'd discovered her body; the more Kramer picks the circumstances apart, the less they make sense. With two very different sets of crimes to solve, Kramer and Zondi set off on treks that take them all over town, from the poorer villages to the sleazy dressing rooms of con artists and pimps to gorgeous steop of the South African countryside in another surefire investigation full of both stirring observations of Apartheid and plenty of mischief. Only one thing is for sure—no one is getting to take his day off this week!

Excerpt

EVE DEFIED DEATH twice nightly, except on Sundays.

Sunday had just begun when there was a soft rap of knuckles
on the dressing room door.

“Go away,” she lisped, resentful.

Monday through Friday, she did a show at eleven and a show
at one. The first timed to catch and hold the after-the-movies
crowd, the second to prime them for their beds, titillated and
eager to return for more. Come Saturday, however, both shows
had to be over before the laws regarding public drinking and
entertainment on the South African sabbath came into effect.
Making a total of twelve hours in all, but it was tiring, stressful
work.

So when her week ended on the stroke of midnight,
she gladly turned into a pumpkin. Her taut orange skin
and round face were just right for one, for a do-nothing,
think-nothing, vegetating pumpkin which—once she had
removed her small top plate—smiled gap-toothed into the
mirror like a Halloween lantern. Nobody paid her to be
pretty in private.

The knuckles rapped again.

Her smile quite disappeared. She replaced the plate and
twisted round on her stool.

“Go on, voetsak you!” she called out with cold clarity. “Leave
a girl in peace.”

A shuffle of feet moving closer to the door.

“Eve?”

“That you, baby?”

“Can I see you for a minute, please?”

She had heard that one before, yet reached round for her
gown and hitched it over her shoulders.

“You can see me from there,” she said, opening the door a
crack.

He really was a baby, a great big baby who just wanted
mothering—and, like a baby, was liable to kick up a terrible
rumpus unless he got it.

“I wanted—do you think it’s a hell of a cheek?”

“I’m listening.”

She was also trying to work out what he was up to this
time.

“Well,” he said diffidently, bringing out a hand from behind
him and showing her the champagne bottle grasped in it by
the neck.

“Oh, ja?”

He offered her the bottle.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t have to come in.”

She was obviously meant just to take it. But, what with
clutching her gown across her bosom, she hadn’t a hand to
spare. And besides, that would have seemed mean.

“For me?”

“Please.”

“Who gave you this idea? An old film?”

“I—I just thought of it.”

“Oh, ja?”

“It’s been a wonderful week.”

“So you acted on impulse, hey?”

He smiled broadly, somehow flattered.

“That’s me, Eve. I just wanted to—well—thank you and
that. All right?”

Her instincts had cried wolf so often it had become impossible
to make a fair assessment—one fair to him as well as to
herself.

“You’re on your own?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s a big bottle.”

“We don’t have to—”

“Look,” she said. “Just you wait a minute and I’ll see.”
She glanced down at his patent leather shoes. Neither tried
to wedge the door. So she closed it gently and looked across into
the big mirror. Her reflection was never much real company,
and on this, her last night in Trekkersburg, the truth was she
did feel a bit flat and lonely. On top of which, the spontaneity
of the gesture had touched her. Nobody’d ever brought her
champagne before, and she was close to a mood that hinted
nobody else ever would.

“Okay, then?” she mouthed silently.

Her reflection raised an eyebrow that quivered, querying
her judgment on the basis of the known facts—such as that big
babies were always easy to kick out once she had had enough
of them. Then it slowly regained its penciled symmetry. She
shrugged. It shrugged.

Ach, that’s it,” she said, fastening the belt of her gown
properly.

Then she lifted a large wicker basket onto the divan and
undid the leather straps. From inside it she took a python,
roughly five feet long and almost two inches thick in the
middle, beautifully patterned with light-brown shapes like
round leaves, and draped him over her shoulders. The weight
was that of a protective pair of arms.

He did a double take. It was usually the last she saw of the
ones who weren’t sincere.

“You don’t mind?” she said. “Clint gets so restless after
a show if I put him straight back in his basket. He’ll be good.”

His eyes gleamed. She took this for amusement, then was not
sure, but by then he had politely sidled round her to take up a
position beside where her street clothes hung from a hook.

Pressing the door closed behind her, she made certain it
would stay shut against any other callers, and then pointed to
the stool.

“Like a seat?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks—thank you very much.”

“Well, I’ve been on my feet long enough for one day,” she
said, sitting down. “Glamorous, isn’t it?”

She was getting in another dig about the way she had to
live. The dressing room had three walls showing their brickwork
through a thin coat of whitewash, a fourth wall made
of bulging chipboard, an uneven cement floor, and a ceiling
all stained and saggy like old underwear. As for furnishings,
there was the blotchy mirror stuck crookedly to the wall
opposite the door, a row of wire coat hangers on hooks for
a wardrobe, a junkshop dressing table, a grass mat, a divan,
and a wash basin with bad breath—plus, of course, the stool
she was perched on, which gave you splinters if you weren’t
careful. No window at all.

“You are a bit untidy, Eve.”

That was true, but one of those annoying surface remarks
all the same.

“I bet where you live is worth keeping nice!” she said.

“That’s a bit nasty! You don’t really expect what film stars
are given, do you? Although, mind, I’m not saying you’re not
worth it!”

“You trying to butter me up?”

“How?” he asked, in that abruptly innocent way of his.

Ach, forget it There’s a glass and a mug by the basin.”

“I should have thought to bring some!”

“You’ll have to wash them. I use tissues for drying.
Here—catch.”

He fumbled his catch and dropped the box. Then made a
dreadful clatter with the things in the basin. It gave her a certain
amount of unkindly pleasure to see him doing such work.
God, but he had a soft life.

The cork came out of the bottle with a sharp report. Snakes
have no means of picking up airborne sound, but her sudden
flinch caused the python to contract his coils, and she had to
coax him out a little in order to stay comfortable. Very soon,
once she was sure everything was as before, Clint could go
back in his basket.

She was handed the more ladylike glass, filled to within a
splash of the brim.

“To you, Eve!”

“Ta. And to you.”

They drank.

“Is that your proper name? Eve?”

“Can you think of a better?”

He dimpled and shook his head.

“Put it this way,” she added, finding she had almost downed
the lot. “It’s not what they’ll put on my tombstone.”

Why that sent a shudder through her as she said it was the
booze for you. She was young, fit and healthy, and never really
did anything dangerous.

“Goose walk over?” he asked, grinning.

“Pardon?”

“Too late! Not bad stuff—didn’t know we had decent bubbly
here. You and I should have started earlier on it.”

He was beginning to assert himself. Beginning to feel more
at home, perhaps, than he ever did in his own place, from what
she had heard of it. The woman sounded a right bitch. Poor
little chap.

“The whitewash will come off on your jacket.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got more—this isn’t my only
one.”

She had noticed; a different suit practically every night—as
if less-regular customers would ever notice.

“But let’s talk about you for a change,” he said. “Why not
do more with yourself? Take this act to Lesotho and go the
whole hog?”

“In front of natives? That’ll be the day! Besides, what’s this
‘nude’ rubbish? I thought you were the one who appreciated
the psychological way I use—”

“Please, please. I was only wanting things better for you,
the sort of—er—contracts you really deserve. You’re a real
artist and it’s high time you realized it! What’s Trekkersburg?
There’s a limit here on what it could ever do for you. And, I
agree, the same applies really to Maseru. But have you ever
thought of London? Hamburg? Vegas?”

“I see—and you could be my manager?”

“Why’s this making you angry?”

Ach, because every five minutes some bugger tries that lot
of smoothie talk on me. I’m sick and tired of it!”

“Is that how it sounded?”

“Yes!”

“Then I’m sorry, really sorry to have said the wrong thing,
although I promise you that I meant it. Come on, have another
drop.”

Typical. Do what you like, say sorry, and everything was fine
again. All men stayed babies, when you came to think of it. Bit
your finger and then went goo-goo. She was saddened but not
surprised to find it all turning sour. Such was life.

But at least the champagne had not lost its sweetness. It must
have cost a bomb retail. Sweet and tickly and gone in an instant
down into a tummy kept empty for the more difficult positions.
And from there, moving on to make her sore limbs feel better
than a warm bath would have done, which the boardinghouse
didn’t seem to own anyway, and her head so pleasantly muzzy
that the bare light no longer hurt her eyes.

She let him refill her glass.

“There—watch it doesn’t spill! Can’t let any go to waste. You
know what I’ve decided to do? Take a little holiday on my own.”

Plan B was being put into operation.

“Oh, ja?”

“Do you ever take a holiday?”

“Sometimes. When Clint has eaten a big meal.”

His eyes became fixed on the python.

“Clint doesn’t like being stared at,” she said, then finished
the line from her family show: “He thinks you’re trying to
hypnotize him.”

He laughed loudly. “What does he feel like, Eve?”

“Smooth and nice—not slimy.”

“How strong is he, really?”

“One his size can kill a duiker—even a buck much bigger.
Touch him.”

His free hand went into his pocket, and he raised the other
to show it held the mug. Baby didn’t want to.

“What’s the matter—do you want your mummy?”

“That isn’t like you, Eve,” he said, very hurt.

Then the fingers, with their bitten-down nails, reached out
and just dabbed at the scales. Clint tried to escape from her
shoulders. She pulled him back

“Not so cold,” he said. “Super.”

“Room temperature.”

“I see. And you feed him on. . . ?”

“Guinea pigs.”

“Dead or alive?”

“I just chuck them in his basket. Sometimes nothing happens
for hours, then you hear the squeaking. Only I don’t give
him them often or he’d get even lazier. Wouldn’t you, you old
bastard?”

And she held the python’s head with deceptive firmness as
she nuzzled noses with him.

“Can I see him eat one?”

“Not feeding time.”

Please.”

That was another of his magic words, like sorry.

“I’ll pay for it. Clint can have one on the house, so to
speak.”

I’ll pay.

“If you can tear yourself away from this club some night,
come down and see us in Durban. I’ve got a spitting cobra that
eats when he likes.”

“Come off it, Eve! You know you’re the real attraction!”

Double meanings next—he was doing well.

“Oh, ja? I fascinate you, do I?”

“Well, in a way, yes—yes, you do.”

“And why?”

He shrugged, looking more thoughtful than she had
expected.

“Because I play with snakes?”

“That might have been it to begin with—I thought it would
be interesting talking to you—but I’ve also had this funny
feeling. . . .”

His sentence seemed to quite genuinely tail off, and his eyes
left her as he frowned and bit his thumbnail. There was a job
for him in show business as well, no doubt of that.

“My God, you’re not going to sulk, are you?” she said.

“Me?”

And he laughed softly, topping up her glass again, returning
it to her with a flourish. The professional charm was switched
on and off so suddenly you could almost hear the click.

“What exactly did you want to thank me for? I get paid for
doing it, don’t I?”

“You. Your show. All of it.”

“Turns you on?”

“Does someone I know.”

“Hey! This is something new! Don’t tell me you’ve actually
got a girlfriend hidden someplace?”

“Oh, she’s not here. She’s—she’s on holiday.”

Ach, I realize that she isn’t standing outside the door, man. I
was just surprised because, after what you’ve told me, it hardly
seems likely that your old battleship would approve.”

“I never take her home with me,” he said solemnly.

“Hell! As bad as that, is it?”

He laughed longer than she did.

Sick, that, him wanting to watch Clint gobble up a guinea
pig. Things were now taking a little time to sink in, which was
also nice. She’d never watched, even though it was just a fact
of life like any other Clint had to eat, but nobody had to see
him do it. Most people would think the same way she did, so
he couldn’t be all that typical. He was weird.

“Are you weird?” she asked, sipping a little more.

“What a question!”

“I was thinking about you wanting to gawk at Clint having
his num-nums.”

“I’d just be interested. What’s weird in that?”

Nothing, when you thought about how excited the same
thing would make small kids. If they saw it happen in a
game reserve, they’d love it and show no pity or other
inside things. If the snake came for them, that would be a
different matter, but their fear—like his—was an outside
one. And she saw that happening all around her every night
to grownups.

“What are you dreaming about?” he asked, making his voice
friendly but not quite covering his nervousness.

“I was thinking.”

“Is it catching?”

As if able to read her mind, he reached out again to touch
the python.

“Not too close to his head,” she warned.

“Pythons don’t bite.”

“Who told you that?”

“But they’re not poisonous.”

“Blood poisoning. You can catch blood poisoning from his
teeth—they’re dirty.”

He winced. “Can’t it go in the basket?”

“Just now.”

So the girlfriend was away. Oh, yes, that began to explain
a few things. Such as a bottle of champagne so big that two
people could get very drunk on it. A bottle that had probably
been shown to quite a few eyes in the club earlier on, and there
had also probably been jokes about her. Even a few coarse bets
laid. It was becoming clearer.

“You haven’t been to my dressing room before,” she said.

“I know. So?”

“It wasn’t so private at the table.”

“What—what are you hinting at?”

Quick as a flash, he was. Look at the innocent smile.

“You told your friends you were coming here?”

“What?”

“Friends, pals, closest buddies.”

He frowned, as if he didn’t understand.

“Am I right?”

“I don’t really have any,” he said. “Certainly nobody I’d tell
this to.”

Tell this to.

She hesitated. This was the moment to kick him out. Yet she
could still be the loser: he could go back and make up something
filthy for his cronies that would have them all outside,
banging on the door, waving bottles. Or waiting for her in the
alley, or tailing her back to the boardinghouse. The bugger of it
was she had allowed him to stay too long already, and so kicking
him out wasn’t going to solve anything. If only there was some
way she could stop him from telling anyone stories that could
hurt her—make him run off home with his tail between his
legs. If only. . . .

There was a way! And by the time she had finished with
him, he wouldn’t even want to think about it, let alone talk.
She knew men.
Praise

Praise

Praise for James McClure:

"The pace is fast, the solution ingenious. Above all, however, is the author's extraordinary naturalistic style. He is that rarity—a sensitive writer who can carry his point without forcing."
The New York Times Book Review

"A revealing picture of the hate and sickness of the apartheid society of South Africa."
Washington Post

"So artfully conceived as to engender cheers.... A memorable mystery."
Los Angeles Times

"This well-plotted, well-written murder mystery is exceptional ... sometimes grim, sometimes sourly comic, always shocking."
The Atlantic

"Soho completes its reprinting of one of the finest police series to begin in the 1970s, James McClure's eight books about Tromp Kramer and Mickey Zondi, a South African biracial detective team in the days of Apartheid."  
—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

"A superior story by any yardstick."
Portland Oregonian

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