Of Cops & Robbers

by Nicol, Mike;

  In Paris, Rictus sources the PETN – pentaerythritol tetranitrate – from a black trader in Clichy-sous-Bois, other side of the ring road. Cocky Senegalese floppy offers him a bankie of heroin as a thank you for the business. Rictus grins. Tells him nicely, not his scene. The man raises his eyebrows, considers Rictus, holds up a finger. Says something in Frog Rictus doesn’t understand. Next thing he’s cracking open a wooden box with a claw hammer, whips out a Johnny Walker black. Rictus takes it gently in his hands. The two of them standing there, grinning at one another.

  Heading for the subway, the whisky and the PETN in a plastic bag, Rictus reckons it’s a toss-up between Prenzlauer Berg and here. Clichy-sous-Bois being another reason to keep the Bantu bastards down. Give them a building they turn it into a location. Overnight.

  In a small supermarket, Rictus locates a funnel. Colour: off-white.

  Next day the Commander and Blondie fly in, check into separate hotels, two-star joints on the rue du Faubourg Montmartre. Blondie hasn’t been in Paris three hours, the Commander takes him to Les Deux Magots. It’s a Sunday. A sunny Sunday. Parisians out getting the last of the summer’s golden rays.

  ‘Sartre mean anything to you?’ the Commander asks, as they stroll up Boulevard St Germain. The Commander affecting the European style, his jacket coat-hangered on his shoulders, empty sleeves flopping about.

  Blondie shakes his head. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Fitzgerald? Hemingway?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve read Hemingway. A Farewell to Arms.’

  ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls? The Old Man and the Sea?’ The Commander showing off. Long thin cigarillo between his fingers.

  ‘Uh uh, something about a gun.’ Blondie clicks his fingers. ‘Have Enough Gun.’

  ‘That’s Ruark. Robert Ruark. Use Enough Gun. Airport stuff. Ruark’s not Hemingway.’

  ‘About a guy called Harry Morgan.’

  ‘Harry Morgan?’

  ‘That was his name. The main man.’

  ‘Morgan’s in Hemingway.’

  ‘So, okay, he’s a Hemingway guy, he was the honcho.’

  ‘Hell, man. You’ve been surfing too long.’

  ‘To Have and Have Not.’

  The Commander stops, squints at Blondie. ‘You’re taking the piss?’

  Blondie shakes his head again. ‘No, man. I’m not, I’m serious.’ Giving the Commander the full eyeball, holding the twitch out of his lips.

  The Commander keeps up the stare. ‘Sometimes I don’t know about you.’

  They sit down, the Commander orders Pernods.

  ‘Great place, hey?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Blondie.

  ‘Same place where Hemingway sat.’

  ‘Really?’ says Blondie, eyeing the French birds. Almost like they were creatures of a higher order. Long legs, tits, attitude. Cigarettes and perfume. Sitting there in the sun. This bird two tables away in a linen jacket, nothing underneath. She leans forward he can see her boob. Perky shoo-shoo boob with a raisin nipple.

  ‘One thing you got to appreciate,’ the Commander says to Blondie, ‘you’ve got a loo to sit on. Used to be the Frenchies were squatters.’

  Blondie hauling himself back from his ogling.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The Commander laughs. ‘Randy sod.’

  Blondie grins, blushes.

  ‘Something else? The dolls.’

  ‘No kidding.’ Blondie’s eyes alive, glinting. ‘Far out.’

  ‘What I was saying,’ says the Commander, ‘about the loos …’

  ‘Yes,’ says Blondie.

  ‘… The first time I came here, the loos were a hole in the floor. These two places in the ceramic for your feet, you squat over a hole.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘You said it.’

  The waiter sets down their aperitifs.

  ‘What’s this?’ says Blondie. ‘Gin? Vodka? I don’t do spirits.’

  ‘Taste of Paris,’ says the Commander.

  The waiter holds a jug of water, the Commander nods at him. ‘S’il vous plaît.’ Sounding to Blondie like ‘Seeboplay.’

  The waiter splashes water into the glasses.

  ‘It’s gone milky,’ says Blondie. ‘Look at that.’

  The two men clink glasses, sip at their drinks. The Commander smacks his lips, Blondie pulls a face. Says, ‘Takes some getting used to.’

  ‘You’ll do that,’ says the Commander. ‘Get used to it. Tomorrow you’ll be wanting one first thing.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I do, boykie. I do.’

  They do some catch-up talk, the Commander telling Blondie about his daughter, now thirteen years old. Deals some photographs of her out of his wallet. No photographs of his wife. Photographs of the daughter alone, no mom in any of them. Blondie thinks about it, the Commander’s never mentioned a wife. He’s this single parent raising a daughter by himself. Helluva thing.

  The Commander says, ‘We’ve got the stuff for you. You’re sure about the P4?’

  ‘It’s stable.’

  ‘Czech?’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘My plan is tomorrow night, we, you, do the job. You reckon she’s not gonna see the funnel?’

  Blondie shakes his head. ‘Think about it. You start your car, you know where the key hole is, you’re looking through the windscreen while the motor swings. You’ve got your head full of stuff: where you’re going, who you’re going to see. The last thing you’ll notice is something under the dash.’

  The Commander nods. ‘Okay. I’ll go with that. How long, to do it, the job?’

  ‘Bout four, five minutes. All that’s got to be done is hook up the wires. Glue the funnel to the dash.’

  ‘Won’t drop off.’

  ‘Uh uh.’

  ‘Even after a week?’

  ‘Serious surfboard glue I’m using.’

  The Commander smiles. ‘I shoulda known.’ He sees Rictus talking sign language to the waiter, pointing at them. He comes over, sidling through the tables. Sits.

  ‘Bloody Frogs, don’t understand simple English.’

  ‘It’s France,’ says the Commander.

  Rictus grins. ‘No excuse.’

  They all laugh, order another round of Pernods.

  The Commander says, ‘Where’re the goodies?’

  ‘Don’t need them,’ says Rictus. ‘Job’s done.’

  The Commander’s face goes rigid, he leans forward. ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘Job’s done. Mission accomplished.’ Rictus grinning, cocky. Holding up a hand of flashy rings.

  ‘Job’s done? What d’you mean job’s done?’

  ‘Job’s done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I got an opportunity, I took it.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I’m clean. No trail.’

  ‘You’re sure.’

  ‘Ja. Of course. No problems.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  The drinks arrive. They shut up while the waiter splashes in water. When he’s swirled away, the Commander says to Rictus, ‘Where? Where’d it happen?’

  ‘The Metro. Montparnasse. About forty minutes ago.’

  The Commander shaking his head, ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody …’

  ‘No. Relax, man, relax. I’m clean.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I was following her. She’s in front of me, big Sunday crowd, pushing ’n shoving to get on the train. I thought: do it. Do it now. Stiletto in, stiletto out. Walk on by. I got on the train, she didn’t. She’s standing there on the platform holding her side, sort of swaying.’

  The Commander takes the rest of his drink in a swallow.

  ‘You sure she’s dead.’

  ‘Pretty much. Midline in deep. Fatal. Most cases it’s fatal.’

  ‘Most cases?’

  ‘Long as you don’t miss.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You gotta cut the aorta, the thoracic portion. You do that she bleeds out.’


  ‘Before medics get there.’

  ‘Long before.’

  The Commander stands. ‘You better be right.’ He adjusts his jacket over his shoulders. ‘Where’s the bomb stuff?’

  ‘My room.’

  ‘Let’s get it. In case. Hell, man, we had a plan, you shoulda stuck to it. This could’ve cocked up everything.’

  ‘The coolie’s dead.’

  ‘She bloody better be.’

  36

  Fish, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt under a blue hoody, leans in for a quick smooch with Vicki, her naughty tongue in his mouth. His hand goes over hers, pinning it to the table.

  He likes the tongue bit.

  Vicki pulls back, jerks her hand out from under his. ‘You’re frozen.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Fish, sitting down, ‘it’s chilly out there.’ He leers at her. ‘This’s early. Why’d you go back? You could’ve stayed.’

  ‘This’s not what you’re thinking.’

  ‘What’s it I’m thinking?’

  ‘You’re thinking a quickie.’

  Fish shakes his head. ‘Uh uh. Not a quickie.’

  Vicki stays with a wry face. ‘Trouble with you, Bartolomeu Pescado, you’ve got a one-track mind.’

  Fish swipes a slice of toast through egg yolk, forks it into his mouth, ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘I compartmentalise. My life’s ordered, sorted.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘Miss Lawyer.’ He grins at her, goes head down back to his food. ‘Sorry: Ms Lawyer.’

  Vicki finishes her cappuccino, dabs with the paper serviette at her top lip, says, ‘Fish, serious. For a moment.’

  ‘I’m dead serious. Always.’ Fish wolfing the last mouthfuls. ‘I could do that again.’ Signalling to the waitress for another, slurping at his cappuccino.

  ‘Listen to me first.’ Vicki tapping her laptop screen with a black fingernail. ‘Please.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘We’ve got a client we’re taking on pro bono.’

  ‘Wow, Vics, Cliffie’s being very generous.’

  ‘Fish.’

  Fish eyeing her over his cup, getting off on the light in her eyes, her straight face. Scheming, come on, Vics, what’s the real vibe here? Thinking, God she’s stunning. Those cheekbones. Those brown eyes. That latte skin. He reaches over, runs the back of his hand down Vicki’s cheek. Lovely. Silky.

  ‘Fish.’

  ‘Vicki.’

  ‘Will you listen to me?’

  ‘All ears.’

  ‘We’ve got this client, Fortune Appollis. Twenty. Nice ordinary Cape Flats family. Dad’s in the printing trade, mom’s a shelf-packer. Fortune’s at tech, graphic design.’

  ‘Cape Flats: Mitchell’s Plain? Cape Flats: Delft, Belhar, Bonteheuwel?’

  ‘It makes a difference?’

  ‘You’re the Athlone girl, you don’t come from the wild parts, you’d know.’

  Fish loving the frown Vicki’s giving him.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m teasing.’ Reaching for her hand.

  ‘You leave Athlone out of it.’

  ‘Athlone’s major. All those larney lawyers.’

  Vicki putting the no-kidding look on him. Fish getting a kick at the beauty of this woman.

  ‘Are you going to listen to me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then do so.’

  Fish leans back, opens his arms, expansive. ‘All yours.’

  ‘Good. Now focus. My client …’

  ‘… Fortune Appollis …’

  ‘… Fortune Appollis is into cars. Urban racing, specifically. Not doing it, he’s not got the money, but following it. Like the drivers have got fan clubs. Even on Facebook. You know, these kids. Post goes up on Facebook, or they get a Mxit SMS about where it’s happening, when it’s happening, and they drift over to watch. For the thrill of it.’

  ‘The cops pitched up, Fortune got arrested.’

  Vicki shakes her head. ‘Fortune got injured. Badly. A driver lost control, ploughed into the bystanders. Well, into a bystander.’

  ‘Fortune Appollis.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And now the driver’s disappeared. His car’s disappeared. Nobody knows anything. And the Appollis family’s facing medical bills.’

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘And he might die.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The waitress slides in Fish’s second breakfast. He squints at her. ‘Can I get a coffee? Americano instead?’

  ‘You don’t want the cappuccino?’

  ‘Too much foam.’

  She shrugs. ‘First time I’ve heard that one.’

  ‘Special favour,’ says Fish, giving her his boy-grin.

  When she’s gone Vicki says, ‘Stop it.’

  Fish chews down on a large bite of toast and egg and bacon. ‘What?’

  ‘You know what. Now listen. He’s in ICU. Unconscious. He’s bad. Probably not going to make it.’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘Opened a culpable homicide charge. So what?’

  ‘They’ll find him, the racer.’

  ‘Maybe. More likely maybe not.’

  ‘You think I can?’

  ‘Sure. It’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ Fish catches her glance. ‘It’s a job. You need the work.’ She sets up an index card against his cup.

  On it, Fish reads two addresses. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All we’ve got. First one’s the Appollis’ contact details. Second’s where the accident happened.’

  ‘That’s it? No witnesses.’

  ‘That’s it.’ She purses her mouth. ‘When the medics got there, the bystanders took off.’

  ‘This’s not a lot to work on.’

  ‘Sorry. But it’s money. The stuff you don’t have much of.’ Vicki closes down her laptop, gathers keys, iPhone, handbag. ‘Got to rush.’ Kisses him on the cheek. ‘Later. After work, my place?’

  Fish chews, swallows. ‘What about a proper kiss?’

  Vicki’s refreshing her lipstick. ‘Oh no, not that egg mouth.’ She beeps open her MiTo, gives Fish an air kiss. ‘Don’t worry about the bill, I’ve paid.’

  ‘I love lawyers on expense accounts.’

  She pulls a face.

  37

  Mellanie’s there, BlackBerry to her ear, pacing the floor, talking loudly. Mart Velaze would rather Mellanie pissed off, but that doesn’t look likely to happen any time soon. He’s facing Jacob Mkezi from the far end of the man’s ten-seater dining room table. Jacob Mkezi at the head eating segments from a halved grapefruit with a silver spoon. Telling Mart Velaze over and over about this cave of rhino horns like it was some mystical experience.

  He breaks off. ‘Why’re you here? You said you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘It’s Lord,’ says Mart Velaze, glancing at Mellanie. She’s engrossed, not part of their talk.

  Jacob Mkezi doesn’t look up, keeps at his grapefruit. ‘Lord’s in trouble? He’s totalled the car already?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘How’d I guess? Give the boy anything, he wrecks it. When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘He phoned you?’

  ‘Ja.’ Mart Velaze shifts on his chair. ‘Ja. Must have been after one, almost two o’clock.’

  ‘He doesn’t phone me. He phones you?’

  ‘He knows I fix things. For you.’

  ‘He knows you fix things. He doesn’t think his father fixes things.’

  Mart Velaze’s is about to speak. Jacob Mkezi holds up the grapefruit spoon. ‘Stop. Leave it. Lord is what Lord is. My son but not my son.’ He pushes away the eaten fruit, dabs at his lips. ‘Thank you, Mart. I appreciate what you do for both of us.’ Lifts a silver warming lid from an English breakfast, sniffs the aroma. ‘One thing useful the English gave us: bacon and eggs.’
He starts in. Through a mouthful says, ‘How bad?’

  ‘A spectator was knocked down.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘In a coma.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Dented. Scraped. Will need some panel work. It’s not too bad.’

  Jacob Mkezi chews through a couple of forkfuls. ‘Which hospital?’ Mart Velaze tells him.

  ‘I can’t have this coming back.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Nothing. Not a word. Nothing in the press, no whispers. You keep it dead quiet.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’m not joking. This thing must go away. Whatever you have to do. Make it vanish’ – Jacob Mkezi blows a puff of air – ‘Poof.’ Looks down the table at Mart Velaze. ‘You’ll sort it?’

  Mart Velaze nods.

  ‘Whatever you think best. Do it. I don’t care. Just no comeback.’ He forks a mushroom. ‘One other thing, you know someone called Vusi Bopape?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not national intelligence? Some other spookery?’

  ‘Never heard of him. You want me to check him out?’

  ‘You could. Why not? Might be useful to know.’

  Mellanie sits down, pulls a grapefruit towards her. ‘What’s that I heard about Lord?’

  Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘You were on the phone, talking.’

  ‘So? What’d I miss?’

  ‘Lord had an accident.’

  ‘Typical,’ says Mellanie. ‘Buggered up his new car, no doubt. What’d I tell you would happen?’

  38

  Fish, at Knead, finishes his breakfast, his coffee. Leans back, watching two chicks suiting up. Both wearing black Speedos. Probably better than them standing there naked, he reckons, imagining the hidden boobies, taking in the tummy swell, the hips. Costume cut high like that meant bikini wax, gives Fish gooseflesh. The thought of hot wax, the tear of hair ripped out. The way Vicki prefers it. Almost a Brazilian.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’ he asked her once.

  She shrugged. ‘Body art. It’s what we do with our hair.’ She pointed at his groin. ‘Not much you can do with that tangle.’

  Which got Fish flushing, Vicki riding his embarrassment. The way she did, teasing him.

  But he’s cool with that. Vicki’s not angling to move in. Not throwing a hissy fit that he doesn’t love her, that he’s selfish, that he doesn’t talk, that she feels locked out. Vicki doesn’t do any of that stuff. Vicki Kahn gets that little smile on her lips says, ‘I’ve got to go, dude.’ Gets in her fiery Alfa MiTo, zips off.