mulling this shift. LB hadn’t kept count of the pilot’s beers, only his own, and maybe Marius had been further along than he’d known. The big Afrikaner’s features dulled the way a drunk’s would, sudden and unreasoned.
“Alright.”
Without turning his sunglasses away from Marius, Wally reached behind him to snap his fingers.
“First Sergeant.”
LB had no urge to fight, but also none to capitulate. He hovered between the two choices, impressed with himself in this moment that he had the presence of mind to wonder what sort of story this would make for later. But the only people to tell it to who might care or understand were the men around him right now.
“Sorry, pal. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
This defused Marius, but not enough for Wally to walk away. From behind his shades, Wally saw something that kept him rooted between LB and the big pilot. Doc and Jamie set to putting the table on its legs. A waitress with a broom and dustpan wended through the stunned and gawping military men and women from around the globe. Still, Wally faced Marius.
The pilot aimed an arm thick as a post past Wally, at LB.
“Hy’s vol kak.” This bit of Afrikaans was easy to interpret: “He’s full of shit.”
Wally nodded. “I agree.”
The pilot wavered on his feet and between languages. He growled in a jowly, accented English.
“Just be glad he’s one of yours.”
“Most days, I’m not.” Wally leaned in an inch, just enough. “But understand, friend. He is one of mine.”
Marius backed a step, not in retreat but to better look Wally up and down, a sort of public dressing-down.
“You’re the moffie who took the knee on the radio, eh?”
Wally cocked his head.
“I don’t know that one.”
A British airman at a nearby table provided the translation.
“Pansy.”
Wally rubbed the back of his neck with long fingers.
“He told you?”
LB answered before Jamie.
“I thought it was a laugh.”
“Was it?”
“Yep.”
At this, LB stood. Doc, Quincy, and Jamie, all taller than LB, rose, too. They stacked in a line, ready as ever to jump behind him.
LB closed the distance to Marius, stepping beside Wally to dig a finger into the Afrikaans pilot’s burly chest.
“But understand, friend. He’s our moffie.”
Marius’s lips parted, but he had no quick words, stymied just long enough for LB to walk on. Doc tugged Wally by the sleeve to get him moving, too, past the waitress working the broom. The bar, like a tree full of birds when a cat has gone away, began to chirp again.
Chapter 3
When the chopper touched down, a hundred buzzards burst skyward in a dark spiral, a swirling, squealing pillar. On broad, black wings they rode the hard stench into the air, leaving feathers and white droppings over the carcass. The buzzards fluttered into a high, lazy circle to wait for the living to go away.
Neels stepped out of the chopper first, rifle in hand should there be big cats about. He tucked his sunglasses into a pocket, then held up a palm to keep Opu and the photographer in the helicopter until he’d cleared the area.
He did not approach the dead rhino but walked a wide circle around it, to leave the crime scene untouched for Opu. Nothing leaped out of the brush, though tracks were everywhere—of lions, leopards, spotted hyenas, jackals, wild dogs, and men. Neels signaled that it was safe.
Opu approached with his metal detector and knives, the police photographer with his camera and notepad. The pilot finished his shutdown, then emerged in his white bush hat and blue flight suit. The midday heat flooded down, unbroken by wind or shade. Insects kept a constant chatter in the brush, and flies clotted on the carcass.
With no breeze to push the smell of rot away, Neels could find no place to stand out of it. He backed away to lessen it. Opu noticed his grimace and shook his old, black head at Neels, who, even after so many years and carcasses, could stand the sight of fresh death better than its