Diamonds up the Creek

By Luc Iver de Vil

With repairs taking longer than expected, Luc keeps himself busy by investigating rumors of disappearances and murder. Only to discover with the help of a few locals, numerous crimes in attempts to steal a diamond mine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luc Iver de Vil
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215382257

Luc Iver de Vil

Apparently I was born in a mining village in the old Western Transvaal, South Africa, but my memory does not want to stretch that far back. My dad got into some kind of political trouble, so he moved his family to South West Africa, now Namibia. I had a great childhood in that country, which then was still wild and uncivilized, doing an incredible amount of travelling. Although I did attend school from time to time, most my education I received from my dad while in a Land Rover, or on foot, in the Namib desert or in the bush. When we eventually moved back to South Africa, never staying in the same place very long, I had to attend school full time, What a bore, and if I add up correctly, I actually attended 8 different schools in my life. My dad did settle down and became a farmer, and I was sent to university to further my education, after I did a stint in the SA Navy for my National Service, I quickly learned that to make it in society you have to "Yes and Amen" all those in authority appointed over you, like "cut your hair", "wear a tie and jacket" and "Go to Church". This awoke the family trait of rebelliousness in me, and I got expelled. I started working, first for an international company that built Power Stations, and then one that made and sold computers. This was not for me, so I obtained my Professional Hunting license, and I was off on living my life. Done many things since then, news reporting, construction, smuggling, and even ran a pub among other forms of employment. Went through one marriage, a number of engagements and a list of girlfriends. Have now settled down, farming, like my dad, happily married to a delightful Indian girl, have a beautiful daughter, enjoy writing down my memories and taking my family to the far-off places I had been.

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Diamonds Up The Creek

TO: COLLEEN MIRANDA

LAUREN PAIGE

And

MONIQUE

Diamonds up the Creek

By Luc Iver de Vil

Published by Luc Iver de Vil at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Luc Iver de Vil

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Authors note: All characters in this work of fiction are 18 years of age and older

1

I was worried, as worried as a thirsty man is when sitting in a pub filled with strangers, an empty wallet in his pocket. My old Land Rover had caught the new flu virus; it had started coughing about ten kilometres back. And the cough had grown worse, joined by some heavy sneezing and wheezing. I knew there was a small town a few kilometres ahead, but would the Rover have enough strength in it to get me there, for I could feel the wheels getting lamer and lamer, more and more reluctant to turn into the next rut.

It was semi-desert country, more desert than semi. Hardly a tree could be seen, here and there a knobbly Camel-thorn amongst the spares nearly black desert bushes and low big-thorn small-leave shrubs, with tufts of short hard-stemmed grass breaking the monotony of the sand and stones between them. It was sheep country, with the average individual farm bigger than many European Kingdoms and principalities. The small population was widely spread; they had to be to survive in the hard landscape and dry and hot climate, but good and generous people, so I have heard.

There would be a mechanic in the widely spread out town, I knew, for all small towns that serve a farming community always have mechanics, the farmers demand it; their tractors and trucks need servicing and repairing regularly. I knew the town from sight as I had driven through it many times over the years going and coming, but had only stopped there once, about seven months ago, for lunch, at the small cafe which also served as delicatessen, restaurant and bakery.

In the subsequent weeks I learned that most of the baking was done off premises, the cakes and bread were supplied by two old ladies who baked to supplement their husbands’ meagre pensions, who in turn grew a bit of vegetables in their small gardens for home consumption, and to supply the excess to the local green grocer, or the café.

The café was run by a young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, of medium height, very pretty with a voluptuous body in a men’s magazine centerspread sort of way, long dark blonde hair with large green eyes, a wide mouth and a slightly tilted up nose, biggish in the chest, to fit double D cups was my estimate, with a narrow waist with wide hips and the legs of a girl that grew up running and walking.

She seemed to be the only staff member in the establishment, serving behind the counter, waiting on the three tables, and preparing the meals in the kitchen. Her country style cooking was not bad, and she was friendly, in an aloof sort of way, never smiled and she would discuss the weather, the heat and the lack of rain, but would clamp up when I tried to steer our chat into a more personal direction, so I didn’t know her name, if she was married or single, or if she was born in the town or on a nearby farm.

The Landie chucked up the last hill and as we reached the zenith it coughed a loud throat clearer, farted a cloud of black smoke and expired. I hit the starter button repeatedly; the starter turned the motor, but there was not the slightest indication that the engine was prepared to go back to work again. I could see the little town across the dry creek with the white bridge at the bottom of the hill, and selected neutral in the gearbox and let the Land Rover freewheel down the hill. As we hit the slight incline into the town on the other side of the bridge the Rover ran out of momentum and I just managed to steer it to the side, out of the way of any traffic that might make use of the road.

In front of me was a large sign by the side of the road, riddled with bullet holes, it must have served as target for some frustrated hunters through the years of its existence. The lettering on it was faded, but still readable: Welcome to NOWHEREVILLE Please drive slowly and see what we have to offer We NEED your CASH.

At least somebody in the town had a sense of humour.

I sat there for a while, contemplating my situation and cursing my luck, blue Monday indeed. There was nothing else to do but walk into town to see if I could find a mechanic that was willing to tow the Land Rover to his workshop, and to hope that he could get me back on the road again. I got out and started walking, but managed to progress only a few meters when my city dweller caution kicked in, I couldn’t leave my few valuables in the vehicle as the Land Rover could not be locked. So I returned to the car, put the bag that contained all my cash, a fair amount, and my passport in my pockets, hung my camera and binoculars around my neck and hooked the two rifle bags each to a shoulder. The rest I left, a thief who stole any of the dated camping equipment, or my duffle bag with a few changes of clothing and my toiletries in it was welcome; he would be doing me a favour.

As I strolled down the street I looked around to see what the town had to offer. There were two grocery stores, which assured some tough competition for custom, a used car dealership that did not seem overstocked; two tractors, one eight tonner truck, four light pickup trucks and five cars of various vintages and manufacture. I spotted a ladies hairdresser and beauty parlour, with a men’s barber right next door, a clothing store that catered for men, women and children. There was a store that sold the requirements for pet owners and livestock farmers which also seemed to house a traveling veterinarian for three days a week, there was a butcher, a hardware store, a pharmacy, a Doctor’s consulting rooms, a lawyer who was available twice a week, one bank with limited daily banking hours, a small post office with many post boxes, obviously no mail deliveries at homes was done in Nowhereville, and a store that specialised in selling and repairing bicycles. The most important outlet in any town was also represented, a liquor store flanked by a pub that served ‘from noon till 8 pm’. There were a few more shops and what appeared to be offices, but I could not discern what their specialities were. I saw a sign that pointed to the right showing the way in which a primary school that took in boarders could be found, and the steeples of three churches pointing in the direction where heaven is supposed to be. Only the main street, the one which I was on, seemed to be paved with demarcated sandy sidewalks, the other streets I could see were gravel tracks.

After walking about a kilometre I spotted three fuel pumps on the left of the street, above them a sun-faded sign that read Smittie’s Petrol and Service Station. I turned into what I assumed was the workshop, and had to stand still for a few minutes so my eyes could adjust to the gloom of the interior, after the bright sunlight on the street. I could not see anybody, but I could hear some banging and a male voice using language I hadn’t heard since leaving the navy. I walked around a tractor that was blocking my view and behind it found the source of the chief-petty-officer language, two oil and grease stained former blue overall legs with heavy booted feet stuck out from under a truck on blocks. To the right was another pair of legs dressed in less greasy blue, keeping an exquisitely shaped backside in the air while the rest of the body disappeared underneath the bonnet of a luxury German sedan. To draw attention I imitated my Land Rover and coughed. A very pretty face popped up from the engine bay of the German car, a wide smile showing even white teeth under a straight nose flanked by hazel eyes topped by dark auburn hair haphazardly stuck into a red cap, a black oil smear on the left cheek to emphasize the whiteness of the girl’s skin. The overalls she was wearing did not fully hide the gorgeous body of an athlete, with smallish breasts and long legs. At a guess I thought she had seen her twenty-first birthday, but the twenty-fifth one was still to come.

She looked down at the legs protruding from under the truck and shouted: Dad! Dad, there is somebody here!

Who the hell is it? came the rough voiced reply.

Don’t know, never seen him before! But I think he is an assassin, he is carrying a lot of guns! and she winked at me.

Like a shot the body attached to the legs jutting from under the truck appeared, lying on a flat small wheeled trolley I have seen a number of mechanics use when working underneath a vehicle. From the shape of the body I could guess that he was an exceptionally strong man, not tall, but broad, in his mid to late forties, with the same hazel eyes as the girl, but no hair on his head whatsoever.

He looked up at me from his prone position, And who the hell might you be, my man, and what can I do for you?

I gave him my name and explained that I was on my way to a neighbouring country on a hunting trip, hence the rifles, which I did not want to leave in my Land Rover that had broken down, as the doors could not be locked.

So you want me to fix your Land Rover? Right? Where is it?

Just down the street, I managed to freewheel across the bridge.

Ok, we will have a look at the damned thing tomorrow, that SOB Malan wants his effing truck tonight to send some bloody sheep to the abattoirs in Cape Town in the effing morning, and the dominie wants his damned car that Hazel is servicing tonight too, says he has to do house calls on the widows of the district to pray for them, more than likely to effing prey on them, to my mind. He then addressed his daughter, Hazel honey, grab the tractor and help Buffalo Bill here to tow his heap of aluminium scrap in. But be bloody quick about it, otherwise dominie is going to condemn us to damn hell or something for spoiling his effing evening with the widows.

Hazel, as I gathered her name was, disappeared through a door at the back of the workshop and I addressed her father, Mr Smit, do you mind if I leave my rifles here till we get back, I feel a bit, ..eh,… Buffalo Bullish going up and down the street with them.

I saw then that Hazel also got her smile from her father, like her eyes, Sure, stand them up there next to that cupboard in the corner. They should be safe there.

I could hear the tractor coming around and stop by the entrance, Hazel waved at me to get on and to stand beside her, holding onto a mudguard to prevent me from falling off. With the tractor going through ruts or over stones my body swayed a bit, me bumping against the driver. She looked up at me and smiled, Hay Billy boy, the seat on a tractor is made for one only, and if you sit on my lap I can’t see and will more than likely run over your Landie, and my dad’s entire vocabulary won’t be able to fix that.

Once we reached where I had left the Land Rover she very efficiently got it hooked onto a tow bar without any help from me, and told me to get behind the steering wheel and to keep it going straight behind the tractor, No time for jiving now, the dominie is waiting for his car.

Back at the workshop she quickly disconnected and drove the tractor around to the back of the shop again, before getting her head back under the bonnet of the German saloon. Her father was under the truck again banging away and speaking to it as if it was the crew of a 7 inch gun on an imaginary battleship that had missed the target by a mile.

I stood around for a while, not too sure as what to do. Accommodation for the night, I will have to find somewhere to sleep, went through my mind. I could not remember ever seeing a hotel or motel sign in the town, but decided to walk down the street in case I missed it previously. Nothing, so I wound my way back to the workshop. I stood next to the car in which Hazel had her head buried, softly mumbling some words she must have heard her father use when he was not happy with the way a spanner refused to turn a nut. Again I did my Land Rover cough, and she turned her head to look at me without straightening up: Sorry to disturb you in your work, but is there a hotel or somewhere one could rent a room?

She then stood up, Nope, there used to be a small hotel down the street next to the bottle store but when old Opperman drank himself to death his children closed it, none of them wanted to come back from the cities where they are getting rich to run it. Maybe you can ask Maggie there at the cafe, she has some rooms in her house she occasionally rents out to travellers who need to stay over in town. If she can’t help you, maybe you can ask my dad if you can pitch your tent at the back of the workshop, or sleep here in the shop on the floor, but that would leave you well oiled. On that she grinned wickedly and looked down at the floor that had black old oil patches all over.

Thanks, I will try Maggie first! and I walked down the street towards the cafe.

Maggie was behind the counter, ringing up some purchases for an elderly lady who was complaining about the price the butcher next door charged for beef bones. She looked up as I walked in, Be with you in a second. And she smiled; something she did not do the last time I was in the café for lunch. So I waited for her to finish packing a carry-bag for the elderly lady, and to nod in agreement about the price of bones.

As her customer stepped out she again smiled at me, Some people take better care of their dogs than they do of themselves. Like old Mrs Scheepers, she would rather buy bones for her three old mongrels than food for herself. What can I do for you?

Hi, Maggie is it? Hazel Smit down the street said you might have a bed to rent out, otherwise I will have to sleep in one of her dad’s oil ponds, which I don’t really fancy on doing. My car broke down and Mr Smit doesn’t have time to look at it today, he seems to be a busy man.

Yes, I am Maggie, and you are?

Luc de Vil, but Mr Smit named me Buffalo Bill. Glad to meet you.

Again she smiled, Yeah, old Smittie, the only man I know of that can curse a car or truck back to work again. I have three bedrooms in my house that I do rent out to people when they have to stay over, they are not in the five star range but there is a bed in each, and the bedding is clean. I charge R150 a night, which includes a light supper, early morning coffee and breakfast. Unfortunately the breakfast you will have to take here in the shop, I open up early and have to do some cleaning before and don’t have time in the mornings to make breakfast at home.

Not a problem, where is your home?

Oh, I live on a farm about seven kilos up the creek, she said that with a big smile, on the other side of the bridge. If you are prepared to wait for me till closing time I will give you a lift, and you can come back into town with me in the morning. If you don’t want to wait, you can start walking, I will pick you up on the way.

I returned her smile, and took out my wallet, I didn’t want people to see that I carried a large amount of cash in my money bag so I always kept a few notes in my wallet, and handed her two R100 notes, I will wait. Let me pay you in advance; then you can’t give my room to somebody else. Should I fetch my luggage from Smittie’s, or will he still be there when we go and we can pick it up on our way, if you don’t mind?

No, Smittie will still be there. I saw Malan had sent one of his trucks in this morning, and he will only have it fetched late, so Smittie will have to wait. Malan is one of those people who do not consider others; everybody must jump to do his bidding because he has money. I could see that there was a lot of animosity in Maggie for this Malan guy.

When she took out my change I told her to hang on to it, I was going to have a cold drink or two while waiting. I got one out of the display fridge and Maggie handed me a glass from behind the counter. Normally I would drink straight from the bottle, but seeing that I was going to sit at a table I thought I’d better show a bit of sophistication. I also took a two month old hunting magazine from the newspaper rack that carried week old newspapers, deliveries to the town was obviously not a regular occurrence, waving it at Maggie so she could charge me for it, and took a seat at the table by the window.

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the magazine, sipping my way through a few cold drinks, while Maggie served the occasional customer who came in for some provisions, a cold drink, a loaf of bread or a litre of milk. Our conversation was limited to Would you like another cold drink?, No thanks or Yes, please.

Shortly after five the outer door again crashed open and in walked Hazel, now dressed in tight fitting jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of comfortable looking sandals. Her long auburn hair, freed from the cap, framed her pretty face now sans oil smears. She obviously had had a shower, her hair was still damp and her hands as clean as one who constantly works with oily engines can get them. She looked like a gem freed from a rather crude setting. After getting a cold drink from the fridge and paying Maggie for it, she walked over to the table I was at and sat down. I noticed that she drank straight from the bottle, and seeing me looking at her doing so she again blessed me with her smile, Why give Maggie more work by dirtying a glass she then has to wash?

I returned her smile, Didn’t think of that, and raising my voice I addressed Maggie where she was busy refilling a cigarette dispenser, Maggie, Hazel had just volunteered to do all the dishes after I have finished dirtying this glass.

Hazel gave me that look, Huh! and with a smile said to Maggie, Sure, no problem. I will get my dad to add an hour’s labour to Buffalo Bill’s account at the garage, we can share it.

Maggie smiled and Hazel addressed me with a more serious expression on her face, I had a quick look at your Landie and I think it is going to take my dad’s expertise to diagnose the problem, but he is still busy composing love poems to Malan’s truck, so it will have to wait till tomorrow. By the way, can Maggie help you with a bed for the night?

Yep, and she threw in transport, dinner and breakfast too. I thought you would help your dad to finish with that truck, or are your overtime rates too high?

No ways! My brain is not big enough to learn the language my dad uses when he speaks to trucks!

Having finished replenishing her display racks, Maggie came over to the table and started clearing away the empty cold drink bottles and the glass I was using, I think I will close up now, I don’t want to be here if Malan comes into town himself to give your dad a hard time about the cost of repairing the truck, I can’t stand that man. Hazel, we can give you a lift home if you want.

Both of them went into the kitchen and I could hear them chatting while doing dishes and packing away, but I could not distinguish what they were talking about. Once finished they came out and with a Let’s go to me from Maggie we left the store, Maggie closing the door and locking it. We got into her car, a small Japanese hatchback, parked in an ally adjoining the store, and she drove us to Smittie’s workshop to collect my luggage. Smittie was too busy discussing the truck’s ancestry with it to notice me, so much for the security of my possessions he promised.

Just before the bridge Maggie turned left onto a narrow dirt street and stopped about 400 metres further on, in front of a small house that was not imposing in the least, although it was set well back in a large cared for lawned yard, with a few trees scattered about. Hazel got out and with a wave and a See you tomorrow trotted down the driveway. Maggie turned the car around, and then turned left, over the bridge, and then right onto another narrow dirt road.

As Maggie drove slowly down the bumpy track she gave me Hazel’s background. Smittie was the transport manager for a big company in Cape Town, and from what I have heard was doing quite well for himself. Then Karin, Hazel’s mom, got very sick and the doctors recommended that they move to a dryer climate. That was about ten years ago. Because of medical bills Smittie’s finances were a bit stretched. When he sold his property in Cape Town old Opperman, who had the hotel where they were staying as there were no houses to rent in town at the time, sold Smittie the old building where the workshop is at a very reasonable price, and threw in that stand where they are now living as part of the deal. There were some old unused stables on the property and during his free time and at night Smittie worked and converted the one stable into a room, into which the family moved. Over time the Smits changed all the stables into that little house, that is why Hazel sent you to me for a room, the house is too small to accommodate a visitor. It is not much to look at from the outside, but you must see the inside, it is unbelievable! Hazel’s mom was an artist, and before she passed away five years ago she turned that little house into a fairy palace on the inside. Since Karin’s death Smittie had to transform Hazel into an adult from being a teenager by himself, and I don’t think he had done a bad job, although her becoming a mechanic is a bit much. Smittie has the philosophy that people who can work with their hands assisting their brains are much better off than those who only want their brains to do the work.

"At times Smittie and Hazel struggle to make ends meet, the pumps do