Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

“Why don’t you suggest he stop doing that?” I said to Fat-Boy.

“Stop with the kicking,” called Fat-Boy.

“You said it was quick setting,” complained the operator.

“Quicker than the other type,” called Fat-Boy.

“But it’s full of bubbles. You guys know what you doing?”

“We know what we’re doing,” said Fat-Boy confidently as we entered the last twenty metres.

“It’s like bubbly jelly. Won’t be dry by tonight,” said the operator.

“Not by tonight,” said Fat-Boy. “Tomorrow morning. That’s what the boss lady said. They’re parking the boat a bit further up tonight, so you’ve got the other cranes to offload. It’s all arranged. That’s what the boss lady said. And what she says is what goes. Ask my buddy here, he knows all about doing what the boss lady wants – she’s a bit of a sex bomb.” Fat-Boy gave me a final glare through his droopy eye and climbed out of the forklift.

“Big ship coming in tonight?” I asked as the operator lit up another of my cigarettes. Fat-Boy and I bounced a cigarette between us to encourage the sense of camaraderie. The operator shrugged and blew smoke through his nostrils.

“Gonna be a long night,” he said.

“For all of us,” I agreed.

The pilot ship went out just as the sun melted into the horizon and it left a curved golden feather behind, which faded gradually as if it was sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The clouds crowded down upon us and squeezed the last of the day’s warmth off the quay, which made Fat-Boy shiver. He pulled his overalls tighter. I gave the concrete mix in each of the twelve frames another casual poke to make sure it wasn’t setting too fast because we needed to set our gold bars into it when they arrived. Fat-Boy came over to tell me he could feel the tingling in his fingers, which meant that our gold was approaching.

“Or it might just mean that the blood is flowing into them again after sitting on them for so long,” I suggested.

“They were cold,” he said, “and it was your idea to sit on them.”

“I might have underestimated the weight that was applied, and the length of time the blood would be cut off.”

Fat-Boy looked at his hands and flapped them like they were rubber gloves.

“Nope,” he said. “It’s my little soldiers floating on in here. I can feel it. And don’t think I didn’t notice what you said about my weight. I’ve come across enough of you people in my life. I’ve got a radar that detects your words before you say them.”

“All my words?” I asked, and dipped the stick into the next frame, “or just the words about your size?”

“There is nothing wrong with my size,” said Fat-Boy.

“I didn’t say there was. I said I underestimated it.”

Fat-Boy grunted and turned back out to sea.

“How long’s it going to take d’you think?” he asked.

“The pilot gets on board our boat and will have it at the dock in about an hour. Half an hour for tying it up and positioning the cranes, then it’s two crates every minute for each crane.”

“Two thousand crates,” said Fat-Boy, “six crates a minute. Five hours and thirty-three minutes to offload.”

“But the trucks won’t keep up. You heard what that operator said. They’re looking at seven hours for the full offload.”

“And we don’t know where ours will be,” said Fat-Boy as if this was a new objection that he was raising, although he had said it at least four times in the course of the afternoon.

“We don’t,” I confirmed.

“What time d’you think that big Afrikaner boy will turn up?” he asked.

“Whatever time he turns up, we stick to the plan,” I said. “It’s a good plan.”

“You think so?”

“I do. We get the gold out while they’re still offloading. Before the customs inspections, before they allow the public in. Even if Hendrik turns up early, they won’t let him in. By the time he gets through the fence it will be weapons and lions only in those boxes.”

“What if the Afrikaner bribes his way in early?”

“That’s why the colonel and Robyn are in the warehouse. They’ll divert them, and we’ll just have to move quicker.”

“Hmmph,” said Fat-Boy, and he glowered at the fading light.

“When it’s all over,” I said, “what are you going to do with your little yellow soldiers?”

“I’m gonna find myself a beach, a couple of curvy babes with big asses, a skinny bitch for contrast, and I’m gonna kick sand in your face,” he said.

“Just my face? Or will you be sharing the sand around?”

“I’m like an elephant. I remember everyone.”

“I thought you liked being called Fat-Boy,” I said. “I could call you Stanley if you’d prefer.”

“Only my friends call me Stanley,” said Fat-Boy.

It took only twenty minutes for the first twinkling lights to appear in the strip of murky horizon visible from our quay. Fat-Boy rubbed his hands together for warmth and told me they were still tingling. The lights slowly split apart to form a cluster of fireflies, and then they rose above the horizon as the size of the vast ship became apparent. The quay came to life as a line of heavy flatbed trucks rolled into place, their headlights casting golden arcs over the water as if they were trying to show the way. The cranes started trundling along their rails, ushered into position by helmeted men with radios held to the side of their heads.

“Told you guys,” called the deep bass voice of the crane operator. “You got it wrong, didn’t you? That jelly shit isn’t gonna dry.” He was dressed for work, wearing the obligatory helmet, and was accompanied by two other operators. They considered our array of frames with disdain.

“Full of bubbles,” the operator explained to his colleagues.

“Gotta get the bubbles out,” insisted the one in a yellow helmet.

“They gotta be heavy,” said the red helmet. “Bubbles won’t make it heavy.”

“They’ll be well heavy enough,” said Fat-Boy. “We’re bringing the metal