Excerpt/Release Notes

Supreme Judgment and Ice on the Track are both available from Amazon.Com as well as other retailers.  If they are not in stock, your favorite book-seller will be glad to order them for you! 

Check back around the 1st of each month.  A new excerpt from one of the novels will be posted monthly.

An Excerpt from Ice on the Track

   George Moeketsi slid off the seat of his old red bicycle and

walked it silently up the long winding driveway towards the

large three-story home that dominated the mountainside

overlooking the vineyards of the Groot Wine Estate in the

Constantia development southeast of Cape Town. George

didn’t know if the owner of the large home was involved with

the winery, and he didn’t care. As he moved the bicycle quietly

around the last bend in the driveway he thought of the wad of

cash that he had rolled into his pants pocket. He checked his

watch in the moonlight, guiding the bike with one hand. It was

just after one in the morning. He had made perfect time.

 

   As he rounded the turn George could see the lights shining in

the first room to the left of the front door. He felt for the small

bag that was suspended around his neck and right arm. The bag

was hanging limply against his hip and, George thought, was

remarkably light for something that he was being paid a large

amount of money to deliver. He leaned the bike against a statue

of a lion, which along with its mate on the other side marked the

start of the concrete walk that would lead him to the front door.

He shifted the bag and held it as if weighing it. For a split second

George thought of looking inside the bag but then he

remembered the warning that he was given a few hours before

when he was hired to deliver the bag to the owner of this house.

 

   With money short and three little ones and a wife to provide

for, George was easily persuaded by the Afrikaner stranger that

approached him at his job at the Alta Bay villas in the Higgovale

section of Cape Town. George knew that the trip to Constantia

would be a long one on his old bike, but, when he was offered

ten thousand Rand to make the trip, George had to accept. As a

member of the Mfengu tribe, George’s prospects were not good.

He could trace his lineage to the early 1800s, a period of tragedy

for his people when the warring Zulu tribe displaced them. The

situation of the remaining members of the Mfengu, and their

descendents, had not improved over the years. George could

barely feed his family, and they lived in a two-bedroom

apartment that stretched his limited financial means. The ten

thousand Rand, and the promise of some more jobs in the

future, would mean that George could finally afford the downpayment

on a small home in a better neighborhood.

 

   George walked slowly up the front walk and continued up

the six widening steps that led to the large front portico. He

approached the large mahogany doors, found the button for the

doorbell, and, hesitantly, pushed it. He could hear the sound of

the chimes inside the house and he waited patiently for the

occupant to answer the door. George looked around behind

him, suddenly nervous about what he was doing. There was no

sound inside the house. He pressed the button again, and again

heard the sound of the chimes inside. He waited. He checked his

watch and saw that it was now five minutes past one in the

morning.

 

   He reached up and ran his fingers over the large brass

doorknocker. He pulled it back, waited a second, and then,

lightly at first, banged it five times. He waited again, shifting his

weight back and forth on his sandal-covered feet. There was still

no answer. He thought about leaving, and then remembered

that the tall, lean Afrikaner had insisted that the bag be

delivered this evening. He waited what seemed like an hour,

and then checked his watch again. It was ten past the hour. He

reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pushed. He was

somewhat surprised when the door pushed open.

 

   George opened the door until he could poke his head through

the opening. “Hello? Anyone home?” he spoke only slightly

louder than his usual conversational voice. Then, “Hello?

Anyone home?” he asked, louder.

 

   There was no answer and George couldn’t see any movement

in the large foyer or in what appeared to be a sitting room to the

right of the foyer. He stepped inside, careful to let the door open

behind him. He took a few steps towards the archway that led to

the well-lit room to the left of the foyer.

 

   “Hello?” George asked hesitantly as he stuck his head around

the corner. The room was obviously someone’s study and was

dominated by a large desk and credenza and two large easy

chairs, all of Victorian design. George stepped into the room.

 

   “Anyone here?” he called out and was again greeted with

silence. As he moved towards the desk he saw the shoes.

 

   George stood, still as a rock, staring at the large black shoes

that were extended beyond the corner of the desk. He thought

about running but he knew he had to see if the person behind the

desk needed help.  Slowly he pushed his way between the easy

chairs and then made his way around the desk. As the body

came into view George felt the bile rise in his stomach. He

looked away for a second, and then turned back again to the

figure that lay sprawled across the Oriental rug behind the desk.

The man’s face was barely visible behind the blood that had

poured over his staring eyes. The urge to flee again ran through

George’s mind but he steadied himself, thought of the bag that

he still held over his shoulder, and, hand shaking, he reached for

the telephone that sat on the near corner of the desk.

 

   The loud ring startled George and he nearly screamed. He

stared at the phone as it rang again, and then again, a third time.

Reasons to answer the phone, or not answer it, ran through his

head as it rang yet again, and then again. Like a moth drawn to

a flame, George’s hand reached out to the phone, and as it rang

for a sixth time, he picked up the receiver. He held it in his left

hand, just above the base of the phone, as if paralyzed, unable to

hang it up, and unwilling to bring it to his ear.

 

   “Mr. Moeketsi,” he heard the voice in the receiver. “George

Moeketsi,” he heard it again. He was shaking now as he slowly

raised the receiver to his ear. “Mr. Moeketsi, we need to talk.”

 

   The phone went silent, as if taunting him, daring him to

answer. George stood still, holding the phone inches from his

ear, expecting to hear the sound of the dial tone at any moment

but it remained quiet. His mouth opened as if to speak but no

sound came. Finally he found the strength to answer.

 

   “This is Mr. Moeketsi,” he said quietly.

 

   “Mr. Moeketsi,” the voice answered, almost jovially. “How

nice to speak with you! I’m sure you’re aware that your host is

otherwise disposed,” the voice continued.

 

   “Who is this? Who am I speaking to?,” George asked, turning

to look at the receiver as if he could see through the wires at who

was making light of the dead body only a foot away.

 

   “Mr. Moeketsi, may I call you George?” The voice asked as if

they were meeting at a social gathering. The pause was shortlived,

and George did not answer but the voice went on.

 

   “George, I’m afraid I need you to do me a favor. Judging by the

way you have nearly completed this delivery, I’m sure that a

further trip will not be too challenging.”

 

   “I…I have to get some help,” George stuttered. “There’s a

dead man…”

 

   “Oh I realize that,” the voice, chuckled. “I’m well aware. That

unfortunate soul wasn’t happy with his arrangement. It turned

out to be unfortunate for him and for me. That’s why I need you

for an additional trip. Open the cigar box on the desk, George.

I’m sure you’ll be happy with what you find.”

 

   George turned to look at the cigar box that set inches from the

phone base. He stared at it before reaching with his right hand.

“Go ahead, George,” the voice said, as if watching him from

across the room.

 

   George flipped up the lid of the cigar box and his eyes

widened. One hundred Rand bills lay wadded up in the box. He

pulled them out and let them unfold in his right hand.

 

   “There are fifty bills George. Five thousand Rand is nice pay

for one small favor, don’t you think?” the voice asked.

 

   “Yes,” George said, nodding as he stared at the bills that were

draped in his hand.

 

   “Excellent,” the voice said, and George thought that he could

almost hear a smile, “now, can you tell me what you have in the

bag?”

 

   “No. No sir. I didn’t look…I was told not to,” George said,

suddenly looking around, afraid that he was being watched.

 

   “Even better, George. You just passed the first test,” the voice

said approvingly. “I don’t have to remind you not to look again,

do I, George?”

 

   “No sir.”

 

   “Good, very good. Now, George, listen closely. You need to

make this delivery by four this morning. Do you understand?”