croc’s nose poked up, centered in his viewfinder. “Sometimes, a guy just needs to break a few rules.”
“Even if she is easy on the eyes, you should be watching out for your job. We both should. There was no work in Harare--so many guys showed up for the protest because they didn’t have jobs anymore.”
“David won’t fire me. I’m his best. Besides Jeremy hardly knows a kudu from an eland.” Brett rewound yesterday’s video tape. “Take a look. I managed a great shallow depth of field shot when we were all parked by the ellies. Her profile, her fingertips, Henry.”
“You don’t put people in your shots.” Isaac squared his shoulders like he was testing Astrida’s wrap-up job. “There she is now.”
Brett aimed at the lawn. Elise had changed from shorts into a blue-green dress, with slits up the sides. Brett focused. Her blue sandals, legs, tight butt, braided hair--then she stared in their direction. He froze. Nobody in the chairs or on the lawn ever glanced at the roof, their attention always glued to the waterhole.
She nodded slightly, another regal nod, and sat, pulling a thick book out of her bag. He wondered if she was angry he hadn’t driven her. Hell, she’d probably flirted with David anyway. Brett couldn’t see the title of her book, but it wasn’t a glossy magazine like tourists usually read.
David crossed his line of sight, walking to the row of chairs. “Heads-up. David below.”
“Did you show him the leopard shots yet?” Isaac asked.
“He says they’re too dark, but I know they wouldn’t be on a bigger screen. Bollocks.” Last year, the dining room curtains served as a backdrop for Brett to show his videos and stills, a fun way to educate the tourists about the animals. Now David used the end of the supper hour to sell the tourists extras like walking safaris and fishing trips, activities that used to be free. David disappeared from their view, but perhaps he was close enough to the building to overhear them. Brett whispered, “He’s such an asshole this season. Have you told him about Harare yet?”
Isaac looked away like he did when he was planning what to say. Brett steadied his viewfinder against the bridge of his nose and waited.
“I told him the license plates were stolen. That’s all he has to know. Maybe it’s enough so he won’t--”
“Jesus!” Brett blurted. A blur of fur passed the corner of his viewfinder. Its nose, sniffling, jabbed at the breeze. Racking the telephoto to catch the widest frame, Brett caught a wave of seven, eight, then more wild dogs as they loped out of the brush. He adjusted to midrange, tracking them. They moved as if they were one body, separated only by fur--a mixture of brown, black, and cream, a spiky texture. The sunlight highlighted creamy splotches as the dogs trotted to the water’s edge.
“Stay steady, you damn fool,” Isaac said.
Brett kept his focus tight to follow the pack. The wild dog leader yelped and the pack raced off into the trees, disappearing into the shadows. Brett lowered the camera. Elise and all the tourists stood, talking and pointing after the dogs.
Brett slapped the roof. “Man, I haven’t seen that many together in years. Must have been a dozen dogs.”
“I thought they were all gone.” Isaac lifted his beer, swirled it, staring at the bottle. “I remember the first one I killed, with the 22 your dad gave me. Your dad and I killed so many. We had great times.”
“Now they’re rare enough to be interesting, you asshole.” Brett jabbed. “You and my dad shot enough of them.”
“I didn’t care about the hunting. I just liked walking around with your dad at twilight. We’d talked engines and guns and crankshafts.” Isaac tapped his fists, one onto top of the other, mimicking some mechanical motion.
Brett chuckled. “Remember that spring when I was twelve and you turned fourteen? Your rifle scope had broken. Ba-Noah and I tracked that pack of three dogs the wrong way, leading you and my dad all the way into the foothills?”
“I remember how furious Owen was, until he and I laughed like all hell, but we gave up shooting them. You and my dad made your point.” Isaac stopped his tapping. A hoopoe skimmed past. He tapped the camera. “Did you get the whole sequence?”
Brett ran the clip for Isaac. Damn-- color, action, depth. All the vital bits were in the composition, exactly what he’d hoped for.
“Runt, it’s good. Maybe your best so far. You should show it to some travel magazine or those travel publicity people in Harare. It might give you another job if you lose this one.”
“Nah, I want to keep this one. Besides I’d never find anybody in that mess.” Brett hated Harare ever since he’d got lost in the crowd outside the hospital the day Isaac’s mom died. A crowd of people off a bus had swept him down the concrete sidewalk. He’d bolted across the street, dodging cars and trucks, and hid in a bunch of bushes until his own mom found him. Cities and strangers and rejection--a risky combination now more messed up with politics and cops gone crazy.
The whole city idea made Brett itch. He reached for his beer and missed, knocking it over, the beer trickling down the shingles. “Nuts, got another? You could show the tape around Harare.”
“Maybe,” Isaac said, but he was shaking his head. Brett tipped the bottle high, shaking out the last few drops. If only he could spend all his time getting video clips like this one, no rules, no stupid time schedules, no interference from the city. “Hey-- what time is it?”
“Damn. We’ve got afternoon drives in thirty minutes and I have to check the tires on three vehicles. We got another two groups on the noon flight.” Isaac opened the hatch and started down the stairs.
“No more quiet drives this week. I’ll help you with the tires.” Brett scrambled off the roof, his camera bag tucked under one arm, following Isaac, pulling the hatch shut.
VI Bumi Hills, Friday, afternoon
In the vehicle shed doing his end of the week checks, Isaac wiped the Land Rover’s sparkplug and twisted it into its slot. Another vehicle finished. Sliding past the fender, he tapped his forefingers in time to the drummer’s roll swelling from Colton’s portable radio. He turned the ignition, raced the engine once. A comfortable sound-- all firing together. Nothing worked quite like cleaned up sparkplug points. He stretched and jerked the hood to close it, testing Astrida’s tape-up job of his collarbone. No pain today.
Isaac picked up his rag. The sax wafting out of the radio had the same sound as the quartet he’d heard in The Bird in The Bottle, the Harare jazz spot. He tugged another wire and the alternator cable wobbled at his touch, so he began unscrewing the clamps. A sweet voiced chippy sang with the sax now. He added a bass back-up.
“Isaac, am I interrupting?” A low female voice spoke.
For a second he thought the radio’s singer had spoken and he pivoted to the radio, but an “Excuse me” echoed behind him. Elise stood in the doorway. Isaac lay down the alternator cable. Brett accused her of flirting with everything male--was it his turn? “I’m checking loose wires and connections. How may I help you?”
“I’ve missed my connection this afternoon. Brett isn’t under the hood of that Land Rover, is he?” She peered into the shed, gazing past him, no interest in him at all. “I’m
