Killers, diamonds and Rhino-Butt

Author's note: The story is set in South Africa where the local currency is RAND.

Hubert confirmed two things as he walked through the entrance of the Verlatenfontein bar that Friday afternoon. The first was that he was not the right guy for this job. The second thing was that this job was definitely not legal in any way. In fact, it could only be described as illegal, fishy or decidedly unlawful.
         He had first started to suspect something when his boss, Mr. Joe, had made it clear that he was not to discuss this deal with anybody. Especially anybody that had any connection to that jewellery store that was robbed off some diamonds the previous month. Mr. Joe was also a jeweller and he wanted diamonds. Another clue was that Hubert had to tape the money to his inner thigh, in case something happened.
         So Hubert had driven to this little town in the middle of nowhere, well not exactly nowhere but close enough, and to meet with a guy that had some diamonds to sell. The guy would be wearing a standard army cap. Hubert was to pay him ten thousand rand and then bring the diamonds back to Mr. Joe. A simple plan, true enough. Mr. Joe had repeatedly told Hubert that everything would be fine if he just followed the plan.
         The bar that Hubert stepped was not exactly what Hubert had expected. It was much, much worse than that. The whole place, though very small, was only lit by a single sixty Watt globe and the only drinks served were beer, tequila and something called Rhino-Butt. Hubert decided to not find out what exactly Rhino-Butt was.
         At least the young man wearing the army cap was already there, sitting at the bar. Hubert walked over to introduce himself.
         “Hi, I’m Hubert. I work for Mr. Joe.”
         “Hi. I’m Joe. I work for Mr. Serfontein.” The young man was smiling warmly.
         Hubert had no idea who Mr. Serfontein was but he took this friendly introduction as a good sign. The irony of the young man’s name made Hubert smile and he relaxed a little. Maybe the plan would work.
         He got onto the barstool next to the young man. The latter said nothing further to indicate what should happen next. This bothered Hubert slightly as he had no idea how to approach the subject of stolen diamonds. Thus he decided to buy a round of drinks for the both of them to show the young man that he was forthcoming as well as calm his own, easily excitable, nerves.
         The first round was a beer, as was the second and the third. Yet, the young man still did not volunteer any information about the diamonds. So Hubert kept the drinks coming and, not being used to drinking, lost his powers of reason somewhere between the seventh beer and the first shot of tequila.
         Tequila singles was followed by tequila doubles and then came the Rhino-Butt, although Hubert had to admit later that he never actually figured out what that consisted off.
         That was how, only three hours later, at only six a clock that early night, Hubert was just drunk enough to stumble out of the Verlatenfontein bar, loudly making a vocal attempt on the first act of Madam Butterfly and relieving himself against what he initially thought was a sign post but later found to be the left leg of the only policeman in town.
         So Hubert, scared into apparent sobriety, soon found himself sitting in the only cell in town wondering if urinating on a policeman was considered destruction of public property since the taxpayer was technically paying for the lawman’s uniform. But that was truly the least of his problems.
         The power to the police station had gone out when the officer shoved him into the cell. Hubert had only caught but a glimpse of his cellmate before the lights went off. That glimpse revealed the other man to be big, hairy and any other scary thing that skinny, meek Hubert could think of. Then it got worse.
         Since early childhood, Hubert had been given to an overactive, severely pessimistic imagination and stress always seemed to aggravate this affliction. Whenever the other man moved, coughed or farted (which he did regularly) Hubert would interpret the action as a sign of an impending attack and each time he tried to squeeze himself deeper into the corner where he was sitting on the floor. This continued for a couple of hours and then Hubert thought of something more concrete.
         Joseph H. Callaghan.
         The criminal master mind.
         The serial killer.
         The escaped convict.
         He had escaped during the previous month and was apparently last seen in the vicinity of a small town not three hundred kilometres from this small town. Well allegedly anyway. As a man on the run, he would need money. So what better way to get cash than to rob a jewelry store, get somebody to pose as a seller in some far-off little town and then kill the buyer for the cash.
         The perfect trap became apparent to Hubert. Callaghan’s accomplice in the bar would get the buyer drunk. Hubert thought about the strange drink called Rhino-Butt. The paid-off policeman would wait close by to arrest the unsuspecting buyer.
Than Callaghan would wait in the cell and strike like a viper when the buyer passed out, taking the money. Yes! It was as clear as day!
         Unfamiliar bravery took hold of Hubert and he decided that the only way to save his neck was to utilise his sharp wits. If there was no money to steal then there was no need for Callaghan to kill him. But what to do with the money? It was still taped to the inside of his left thigh. He would not be able to find a suitable hiding place in the pitch black cell. There was nothing for it. He knew what had to be done. Hubert went to work.

The following day the policeman called Hubert into his office and gave him a stern warning to never drinking another cocktail named after any part of animal anatomy, especially if that animal was a member of the African Big Five.
         Hubert’s splitting headache agreed.
         The policeman also warned him about getting drunk in small towns with only one holding cell. Because then he would have to spend the night with armed robbers like he had the previous night. Hubert asked him to clarify, starting to doubt his escaped-serial- killer-master-mind theory for the first time.
         “That other guy, “said the policeman, “I caught him trying to rob the liquor store next to the police station. Not very bright. Kept babbling on about some diamond deal with a guy from the big city.”
         “Oh,” said Hubert, noticing the standard issue army cap on the policeman’s desk.
         He said goodbye started walking to his car that was still parked in front of the bar. His path led him past the only garage in town and he noticed a sign that read: “Dirk Serfontein and son, Mechanics.”
         “Oh,” said Hubert with vague remembrance.
         And as he got into his car it hit him.
         “Oooh,” he let a moan.
         Because eating 50 two hundred rand notes will do that to your stomach.