Of Cops & Robbers

by Nicol, Mike;

  Up on the rocks, the Fisherman’s jigging about.

  Blondie feels sweat clammy in his armpits, damp on his face.

  The car rolls, Blondie drops the clutch, the motor coughs, the wheels skid. Dust swirls in the window. The dry grit on his teeth.

  Ten metres, fifteen metres, twenty metres.

  The car’s rolling, the starter motor swinging naaah, naaah, naaah.

  About halfway to the bend, he drops the clutch again, the motor catches, the BM lurching backwards. Blondie stands on the clutch, the brake. The engine doesn’t stall. The car stops. He hauls up the handbrake, juices the engine.

  The Fisherman’s waving him up with both hands. Desperate.

  Blondie shifts into first, wheelspins on the gravel, thinking, mad plan, this isn’t a plan, this’s suicide. He fishtails, straightens, calms the car. Creeping back to the top bend. He can see the Fisherman’s shouting, can’t hear a word. The Fisherman pointing downwards at the bend.

  Blondie eases the clutch out, glimpses sunstrike on the windscreen of the car coming out of the bend. A white car. White Toyota Corolla. Three guys in it. He accelerates at them.

  Sees the alarm on the driver’s face. Sees him yank the wheel leftwards. Sees the car swerve towards the edge. Sees the wheels skid on the oil patch. The car sliding, sliding.

  Blondie brakes. Sees the Corolla upend, disappear over the edge.

  He’s out of the BM, got the can of petrol from the boot. As he dreaded, the Corolla’s slammed up stuck against some boulders, hasn’t pitched into the ravine.

  The Fisherman’s bloody plan.

  Blondie scrambles over the edge. The Fisherman’s with him, the two of them slipping down the slope to the car.

  It’s wrecked. Crumpled.

  The driver’s slumped against the wheel, the only one moving’s in the back seat. He’s saying, ‘Help me, help me.’

  There’s blood on the windows.

  The Fisherman grabs the can of petrol from Blondie, pours it over the car. Blondie flicks a match. Through the flame crackle he can hear the man screaming, banging on the window.

  They climb back to the road, Blondie and the Fisherman, watch the car burn. Can’t hear the man’s screams any longer. Five minutes, the Commander and Rictus Grin pull up. Rictus’s driving, does a cautious about-turn on the narrow pass. The Commander stands with Blondie and the Fisherman, watching the fire.

  ‘All done,’ he says.

  ‘Ja,’ says the Fisherman. ‘Thought there was supposed to be four.’

  ‘The VIP didn’t pitch,’ says the Commander. ‘No big deal. Follow us. We ditch the BM in Somerset East, take the long way back to the Bay.’

  Going down the pass, Blondie says to the Fisherman, ‘That’s kak, what you were saying earlier. About babies looking like their fathers.’

  What the Fisherman said was, ‘First thing a man checks when his child’s born, does it look like him. The first year everybody says, the kid’s the spitting image of you. They all say that. Oupas, oumas, friends, everyone. What they’re telling you is it’s yours. That your wife wasn’t screwing around. Cos if it didn’t look like you, you’d say, get rid of it. You would, hey? You wouldn’t want some other oke’s sperm fertilising your wife’s eggs. So the kids pop out, they look like you. For the first year, then they look like their ma, if they’re girls. You know why? Because we screw around. That’s what we do, all of us, men and women. That’s what we meant to do. Naturally. A natural attraction.’

  Now the Fisherman sitting up, turning to Blondie. ‘You reckon I talk shit? Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know the history, okay, not down to the century but I’d guess, mirrors weren’t everywhere two, three hundred years ago.’

  ‘Twak. Bull.’

  ‘No really. I’d say if you weren’t rich you didn’t know what you looked like. You yourself, I mean. Unless you had a bucket of water handy.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So. Yusses, if you don’t know what you look like, how d’you know your baby looks like you?’

  ‘Because everybody says so.’

  Blondie takes his hands off the wheel, holds them up: help-me-Lord fashion. ‘Maybe they’re lying. Ever thought about that? To keep you happy. To stop you causing grief.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ says the Fisherman. ‘Sometimes you talk absolute shit.’

  32

  Vicki follows Fish’s directions into Muizenberg ghetto at Killarney Road, first right into Church, stops the MiTo opposite a semi in want of paint and TLC. Some of the windowpanes boarded up.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ says Fish.

  ‘Uh uh, I’m not waiting here. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Not a good idea.’

  ‘Not a good idea sitting here either.’

  ‘Gonna be two ticks. Just want to see if he’s there.’

  Vicki sighs. ‘You’re not going in alone.’

  ‘I’m not going in. Place looks shut up anyhow.’

  The semi’s got a small patch of dirt in the front that’s a cesspit of bottles, bloody tissues, condoms, tins, doll parts, syringes. Some weeds straggling through. The gate’s long off its hinges, the pathway’s cracked concrete, faded red. On the stoep two chairs, their seats burst open. Reminds Fish of old tomatoes, rotting.

  The door’s the 1930s style: panes of dimpled glass, every one cracked, two replaced with wood. A security grille fronting it, unlocked. To the side, dangling through a hole in the ceiling’s a length of string with spark plugs weighting it. Fish pulls the string, hears pipes clanging in the house. No human stirrings. He jerks the string again. Keeps the pipes banging.

  No movement.

  He cups his hands over his eyes, squints through the glass. No flickering shadows inside.

  Turns to Vicki in the car, shrugs. ‘Nothing doing.’

  Nothing doing the next day either when Fish calls. Late afternoon Vicki’s headed back to her city pad, Fish’s at a loose end: wanders over the vlei bridge into the warren. Some people about, mostly the street’s empty, the houses shut.

  Two girls are ahead of him clanging the pipes at Seven’s crack house. They glance at Fish, ask, ‘You know where he is?’

  Teenage girls. Fourteen, fifteen, both in sheepskin boots, tight jeans, cutaway tops with their bra straps showing. The white one thin, her shoulder blades etched beneath her skin. The black one dumpy, her stomach falling over her belt. Gives Fish the shivers just to look at them. Fish in a jacket zipped to his neck.

  ‘No idea,’ he says.

  ‘You got any stuff?’ says the thin girl.

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘You know, doobie?’

  The girls jiggling in front of him, naked arms pimpled with cold.

  ‘No,’ says Fish, ‘I’ve come like you.’ Leaving it there vague.

  The fat girl, tugging at her friend’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  The thin girl whining, ‘He hasn’t been here all weekend.’

  Fish watches them slope off towards the beach, follows at a distance. They score from a car guard, run giggling to smoke among the bathing boxes.

  Easy as that, thinks Fish. Why’d they bother with Seven?

  He’s standing there on the sea wall, eye on a small brown swell. An offshore wind’s holding it down. The ocean looks cold, depressed. Forecast is a front’ll pump up the waves overnight, put some life into this murky soup. Already the sky’s clouding over.

  As Fish turns away, he stops, notices a family: mom, dad, teenage daughter playing frisbee on the low-tide beach. It’s Daro, Georgina, their Steffie. He can hear their laughter, enjoyment. Makes him smile.

  33

  His cellphone wakes him: one o’clock Monday morning. Mart Velaze lies there without looking at it, considering, should he answer it? This time of a Monday morning could be a range of people: Jacob Mkezi heading the list.

  Except he spent much of the hour ten o’clock to eleven o’clock on the phone talking to Jacob Mkezi. Not talking, listening to Jacob Mkezi telling him some
weird adventures of the lost rhinoceros horn fairytale. Like Jacob Mkezi had been in a parallel universe for the weekend. Walking with Indiana Jones.

  Telling him, first thing in the morning arrange lorries to collect rhino horns from a cave. A cave in some hills. Some hills where? Mart Velaze had managed to get in.

  ‘I don’t know, Angola, somewhere,’ Jacob Mkezi snapped back. ‘And maybe fly the freight straight out. Get a cargo plane, an Airbus, a Beluga should do it or an Antonov, the small one, the turboprop. They’re good, they can use a smaller runway.’

  Like Jacob Mkezi was on magic mushrooms.

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ Jacob Mkezi said. ‘Make it nine. My place.’

  Mart Velaze hummed, then bit down. ‘It’ll have to be later. I’m meeting your car dealer first thing. That guy Daro Attilane.’

  He could hear Jacob Mkezi clicking his tongue, recalling the Daro Attilane request. ‘Oh, ja, him. Okay, that’s important. Meanwhile, get some people putting this thing together. No don’t. I’ll do it.’

  Now Mart Velaze lies listening to his phone. Looks at the time on the bedside clock, looks at the pulsing screen. Lord Mkezi written there. First the dad then the son. Mart Velaze sighs, sighs deeply, connects.

  ‘Bra Mart,’ says Lord. Two words, they’re enough, for Mart Velaze to know Lord’s freaking out.

  ‘Yes, Lord,’ he says. ‘What’s it?’ Knowing it has to be major crap this time of a Monday morning.

  ‘I hit someone.’

  ‘More detail, Lord.’

  ‘Just now.’

  Mart Velaze taking a stab at it. ‘You were racing?’

  A sob from Lord.

  ‘In the new car?’

  The new car that wasn’t yet registered which if anybody had got the plate number would go straight back to Daro Attilane, the paper trail ending at the office of former police commissioner Jacob Mkezi. Nice one, Lord.

  A sob from Lord.

  ‘The person you hit, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Lord.

  ‘You left the scene?’

  A sob from Lord.

  Mart Velaze thinking, thank the Lord for that. Says to Lord, ‘Keep the car garaged. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll sort it.’

  Lord sobbing, ‘What about my father?’

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ says Mart Velaze.

  He does. Finds out which hospital admitted the victim. Finds out the guy’s in a coma. Finds out his name’s Fortune Appollis.

  He phones Clifford Manuel. It’s now three in the morning, he doesn’t give Manuel any advantage. Says, ‘Clifford, we’re dealing with some problem here.’ Outlines the situation, says, ‘Who’ve you got can work pro bono for the victim? Keep that side covered? I’d like it to be Vicki Kahn.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Clifford Manuel. ‘She could help you.’

  ‘Don’t tell her anything. Brief her like it’s a genuine one.’

  34

  Fish and Daro paddle their longboards through a rising sea to the backline, sit on the ocean watching the sun come up behind tattered clouds.

  They let a set slide under them to get the feel of the swells.

  ‘It’s building,’ says Fish.

  On the peak there’s a sense of the wall dropping away, a pull and suck in the water.

  ‘Not as big as Thursday.’ Daro’s facing the shore, watching the back of the waves feather then drop down in white water. The peak’s breaking right. You’re fast you can get a long ride ahead of the soup.

  ‘Getting there,’ says Fish. ‘Be even better this afternoon.’ He angles his board towards Daro. Says, ‘I was at Seven’s place. Twice. Saturday and yesterday. You must raid him again, Daro.’

  ‘I know,’ says Daro. ‘The weekend raid didn’t happen.’

  ‘There were kids there, teenagers, wanting to buy stuff. Like he’s running a takeaway.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have to surprise him.’

  Daro’s nodding his head, holding his hands up. ‘I know this,’ he says. ‘I know this.’

  ‘You don’t want Steffie rocking up at his door.’

  ‘You say anything to him about Steffie?’

  ‘I didn’t talk to him. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘So why …?’ Daro leaves it hanging.

  ‘Something else came up with Seven’s name on it. The shithead’s bad news. You’ve got to move him out. Lock him up.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So then? You’ve got the forum, pull some weight. Force the cops down there.’

  ‘Not that easy.’ Daro’s got an eye on the incoming, points over Fish’s shoulder.

  Fish glances back. Sees the ridges on the sea, rising up. He flattens, starts stroking shorewards to catch the first swell. ‘You still want me to arrange a talk, I can do that,’ he shouts. Doesn’t hear Daro’s answer.

  The wave’s under him, pulling him onto the wall. Fish feels the take, slides onto his knees, hesitant, gripping the board’s rails, bottoms out too far back, the wave closing on him. First wave, and a wipe-out. He surfaces, goes back for more.

  35

  Vicki Kahn has set up office at Knead. Outside on the pavement beneath a roaring gas heater. On a morning like this, a paradise morning, who wants to be inside? Even though it’s in the winter shadow, you want to be outside breathing ozone air.

  She likes Knead, Knead’s the smart place, especially when the surf’s running. Half-naked boys traipsing through to get to the surf shop at the back, flat washboard stomachs. Firm young flesh. The sort of flesh you’d love to caress your hand over, just for the feel. Instead of her palms, she runs her eyes.

  Sexy pastime. One Fish isn’t averse to either, checking out the girls, that is. Their wetsuits skin-tight over their thighs, dangling down from the waist; their skimpy bikini tops just doing the job. Fish giving them the sneaky eye.

  ‘You’re leching,’ she’d tell him.

  He’d blush. This man blushing. So sweet. Then he’d retort, ‘So why’s it okay for you?’

  And she’d grin at him, reach out, give his thigh a feel.

  She plonks down her handbag, laptop, iPhone, car keys. Keeps on her coat with the fur collar. Real fur collar. None of this faux stuff for Vicki. Some animal might have worn it once, but now it’s her turn.

  Vicki orders cappuccino from the Nigerian waitress with the pixie smile. Asks, ‘My boy out there, I assume?’

  ‘For about an hour.’

  ‘Time he came in.’

  She powers up her laptop, plugs in a 3G flash drive. There’s an email from Clifford Manuel.

  ‘Further to the Fortune Appollis case, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the loop.’

  I’d appreciate it – Clifford-speak for You will. In the loop – Clifford rolling with the hip lingo.

  How much in the loop did he want for a pro bono? Detail by detail? Briefing memos? What?

  He phoned her at seven thirty, said, ‘Can you handle a pro bono?’ Implication: you will.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to get points for this? It’ll show up in my bonus?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Clifford Manuel giving her the brief, saying, ‘See what you can do.’

  Then sending the email. Keep me in the loop. Why? Fortune Appollis was nobody. A bystander. An ordinary youngster from an ordinary family. A kid out watching the thrills of urban racing. Why were the fortunes of Fortune Appollis of even the vaguest interest to Clifford Manuel? Vicki Kahn clicks her black fingernails on her laptop, stares up at the mountain, bright in the winter sun.

  Sees a beautiful apparition in a wetsuit, barefoot, dripping, standing next to his board like it’s a shield, grinning at her.

  ‘Fish,’ she says, ‘get dressed’ – wishing she could say undressed. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’ Calls to the waitress, ‘Bring him the breakfast. The one with bacon and sausages. And a cappuccino.’

  THE ICING UNIT, SEPTEMBER 1987

  Paris is Blondie’s job. The Command
er handles him. Rictus Grin is the point man. The Fisherman does surveillance.

  The Fisherman takes a short stay in Gay Paree. After two weeks, he decides a bomb is best. He flies home, reports to the Commander. His scheme: the target’s car is parked outside her apartment. A Peugeot 505, still looking good. Mostly she uses it for joyriding out of the city. Connect something to fire on ignition would be the answer. Over to the explosives man, Blondie.

  Blondie gets a manual of the 505, works out a plan. Compiles a shopping list. Five grams of P4 he reckons should do the trick. A military detonator from East Germany. Wiring sufficient to carry the charge. A plastic funnel, five-centimetre diameter. Same colour as the dashboard would be best.

  Rictus flies to Berlin. Checks into a pension in Kreutzberg. Next morning makes a deposit in US dollars at a branch of Deutsche Bank AG, checks through Check Point Charlie for a day tripper excursion with a straggle of Americans.

  Not the first time Rictus’s been through. He gets a kick out of the grey, decaying, bullet-smacked buildings of East Berlin. Likes to see people scurrying through the streets, eyes cast down. Frightened as the rabbits in no man’s land behind the Wall. Rictus sees this and grins. Convinces him he’s fighting the good fight. Communism’s a kak story.

  He wanders through Mitte, feels like the day after World War Two ended. Takes a tram to Prenzlauer Berg. Climbs the hill to an apartment block drab as dripping washing. Up two floors to the arms dealer. Grim man never smiles. Rictus has dealt with him before, twice. Always the same protocol: the Kraut has the hardware on his kitchen table. Rictus inspects it, hands over the bank deposit slip. This detonator’s so small he slips it into his pocket. Grins at the grim spectre.

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

  The man doesn’t respond.

  The following day Rictus trains through to Paris. Long tedious trip via every small town and Frankfurt. Rictus hates trains. Hates sitting in the compartment with people who smell of sweat, eat garlic salami rye bread sandwiches. Swill it down with lager. At Frankfurt he changes trains, almost misses the connection looking for the platform.