Of Cops & Robbers

by Nicol, Mike;

  Lets him chill with Shawn, Jesse Sykes, Alison, the new local he’s discovered, Laurie Levine.

  He brings his mind back, refocuses on the women chatting, students probably, zipping one another’s wetsuits, lovely as impala bokkies. Picking up their boards, heading for the water.

  A short spliff. That’d make this a perfect day, Fish believes. But he’s not one to smoke in public. He pulls off his hood, feels the winter sun warm on his head.

  Not a bad start: a surf, a breakfast, a job. A paying job.

  The waitress with the pixie smile, says, ‘That all?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Fish. ‘I’m good’ – patting his stomach, standing.

  ‘She paid,’ says the waitress, ‘your girlfriend.’

  Fish grins at her. ‘What I call WEE,’ he says. ‘Women’s economic empowerment.’

  Next thing on this lovely morning, he’s got the professor calling. Fish’s sitting in his inherited Isuzu, tapping his fingers on Fortune Appollis’s card, staring at the sea. Still wondering if he shouldn’t do another surf before starting the day. Considering how a trip to see a guy in a coma in ICU is hardly a wow activity.

  Jim Neversink’s on his CD player: ‘Skinny Girls are Trouble’. Fish hearing Jim’s lament. Thinking the skinny girl could be Vicki. No it couldn’t.

  His cell rings. ‘Prof Summers’ on the screen.

  Thumbs him on, doesn’t even say a word, the professor’s up and away, ‘Fish. Two baggies. There any likelihood you can provide?’

  ‘No reason why not,’ says Fish, thinking, the prof must’ve smoked up all weekend.

  The prof says, ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. I lost what you brought me.’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything, prof,’ says Fish. ‘When’re you in?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Fish. ‘Certainly tomorrow.’

  The prof saying, ‘Who’s that playing?’

  Fish watches the two young women hit by a hard break go into the wash. Sucks in his breath. ‘Jim Neversink.’

  ‘Interesting. Not Mozart but interesting.’

  ‘I’ll make you a copy.’

  The professor laughing as Fish thumbs him off. His phone rings, like someone saw him end the conversation. His mother, Estelle.

  Fish hesitates, just for a second, but he hesitates. He could press her to voicemail. He looks at the ocean, at the horizon stretched across the bay connecting Hangklip to the peninsula, at the waves so perfect. Takes a deep breath. Keys her on.

  ‘It’s eight thirty-five in London, Bartolomeu, nine thirty-five your time. I thought I’d save you the cost of the phone call. Tell me you’ve got what I want. That you’re about to email your report.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ says Fish.

  He hears his mother sigh. Imagines her in some Victorian rental, in the kitchen at a little table with her laptop open to her Gmail account. She’d have a cup and saucer to the right, a pot of green tea under a cosy on the nearest counter. There’d be a notepad and a pencil. She was probably tapping the pencil on the pad.

  ‘What’s not so easy? Explain it to me.’

  ‘Where are you, Mom?’ he says.

  ‘I’m here, Bartolomeu, in London waiting for some information from you.’

  ‘Where in London?’

  ‘What d’you mean where in London.’

  ‘I don’t know where you stay when you’re there. You’ve never told me.’

  ‘You’ve never asked.’

  ‘I’m asking.’ Fish watches a surfer shredding a wave. The sheer exhilaration of it. Doing that would be way better than sitting here with Estelle on his case.

  ‘You can call me Estelle now,’ Estelle said to him when he turned thirty. ‘Calling me Mom at your age is silly.’

  But he couldn’t call her Estelle, not in person. That didn’t work for Fish. He wasn’t getting on first name terms with his own mother.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  She shrugged, ‘Suit yourself.’

  But he calls her Estelle in his head.

  ‘I’m in Bayswater this time,’ she says. ‘A very nice flat, very comfortable in a leafy mews. Thank you for asking. Now what’s your problem?’

  ‘I need more time,’ says Fish.

  ‘You’ve had all weekend. All you had to do was make some phone calls.’

  ‘I’ve left messages,’ Fish lies. Stares out the windscreen at the high tide running up the beach, licking the bathing boxes.

  ‘Bartolomeu, this is important to me. These Chinese investors have come to me. The company I work for. I can’t let them down. We have to show that we want foreign investment. That we’re not about to nationalise our major assets.’

  ‘Find them another mine.’

  Again he hears his mother sigh. ‘They want this one. For whatever inscrutable Chinese reason they have, they want this one. But I need to know what I’m dealing with, Barto. I must know what Prospect Deep’s about before I make the approach. I don’t want anybody taken for a ride. Not us or the Chinese.’

  Maybe they want it because of who owns it, Fish thinks. Says, ‘I’ll get back to you. Soon. Promise.’

  ‘When? This afternoon?’

  ‘If I can. Tomorrow—’

  Is about to say, Tomorrow would be better. But she’s gone, leaving Fish with a bad feeling.

  39

  From the deck of his mountainside house, Daro Attilane surveys his kingdom: below, the slow curve of the vlei as it slides towards the ocean, on the horizon the mountains of the Hottentots misted back against the sky. In between, the warren and the Cape Flats with their drug dens and their gangsters, the townships and the shacklands of desperate people.

  Always when Daro looks at this view he sees what can’t be seen.

  ‘Paradise,’ says his wife Georgina, bringing out their coffees. ‘On mornings like this.’ Georgina in exec black for her exec job in the city, managerial placements. Georgina the headhunter.

  Daro doesn’t want to mention what lies in the distant haze or point out the three crack houses below them. ‘Paradise,’ he says.

  They sip their coffees, side by side.

  ‘Good surf?’

  ‘The best.’

  From their deck they can’t see Surfers’ Corner but they can see the sweep of the beach beyond the vlei mouth, the swells like ribs in the ocean.

  ‘Did you mention to Fish about …’ Georgina taking it for granted Fish would be there. Wouldn’t actually be on a job. Slacker Fish surfing, not much in the way of a care in the world it seemed.

  Daro told her he was in the investigation business. Specialised in finding people. Mostly for insurance companies. Sometimes men who’d run away from their wives. Wives who’d run away from their husbands.

  But she saw him as a surfer. Thirty-something, no sense of responsibility. The sort of guy would hang out on a beach at three o’clock in the afternoon checking the surf. What Daro found in him she couldn’t understand.

  ‘I did mention it.’ Daro with both hands wrapped round the mug for warmth. ‘He’s going to get hold of this woman he knows, she was a drug addict. She does talks to kids now. Seems she’s got a peg leg from shooting up. Which she takes off to show them.’

  ‘Nice. The kids’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘If it scares them out of drugs, I don’t care how she does it.’

  ‘Daro,’ says Georgina, ‘Steffie was experimenting, it’s what kids do. We all did. It’s part of growing up. Be thankful she did it here at home, not in some club.’

  ‘If she liked it she’ll do it again. Not dagga but pills, Ecstasy, coke, there’s a drug store out there they can pick from.’

  ‘Steffie’s not like that.’

  ‘I don’t think so either. I just don’t want her going down that road.’ Daro glances at his watch. ‘Dammit! I’m going to be late. I’ve got a client.’ He finishes his coffee.

  ‘This’s good. A prospective sale?’

  ‘Let’s hope so.�
� He kisses her, feels her hand on his cheek.

  He’s halfway down the stairs, she calls out, ‘Hey, Daro, did you say anything about that gangster? The one you think’s dealing.’

  He stops, looks back at her.

  ‘You know, the one with the number name?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Him. Did you say anything to Fish?’

  ‘I mentioned him, once.’

  ‘But not to do anything.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘If Fish goes messing around it’ll come back on the kids.’

  ‘Fish’s not going to do that.’ At least he doesn’t think so.

  40

  The surf’s still an option but Fish’s feeling flat after talking to his ma, decides maybe not. Time for a bit of action. Work her out of his system. He fidgets around under the driver’s seat of the Isuzu, pulls out the old Z88 he inherited.

  Another police gun. Licence applied for. Could take years for the cops to clear the backlog of applications.

  Now, standing at the open door of his bakkie like a TV hero, Fish sticks the pistol into his belt behind his back, flops his hoody over the bulge. Slams shut the vehicle door, tweets the remote. Sets off, unhurried, down damp Sidmouth over Atlantic into Killarney, goes right at Church. Three men on the corner – Congolese, Nigerians, Rwandans – talking, catch something in Fish’s face that moves them on. Fish smiles. Wants to say, Brothers, relax, I’m not the xenophobe, a whitey’s not going to hurt you.

  At Seven’s house, takes the short path to the front door. Nothing’s changed in the cesspit. He pulls the string, hears the pipes clank. Hears shuffling in the corridor behind the door. A voice says something, nothing Fish recognises as speech.

  ‘Where’s Seven?’ he says.

  Again the alien language.

  ‘Just get Seven.’

  The shuffling goes away, returns.

  The voice says, ‘Fok off.’

  This time Fish understands the drift. Says, ‘Ah, no. Don’t cause grief so early. Give him this, okay.’

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘Money.’

  A bolt slides back. A lock turns.

  Fish shakes his head, sometimes you don’t even have to try. He opens the security grille, reaches behind his back for the gun.

  The door squeaks open, Fish shoulders it hard. He’s in. The scrawny gangbanger sprawled in the passageway, snarling at him, toothless. Not a pretty sight this early.

  The house is a fridge, stinks of dead rats under the floorboards too. And something else, drains, toilet blowback. Fish gags. Says, ‘Jeez, you need Marvellous Maids.’

  Toothless squirms away, eyes on the Z88.

  Fish bends down, puts the barrel into the dental gap. ‘Which room?’

  These old houses, the front door opens into a long passage with rooms off either side. A sitting room, kitchen, bathroom at the end.

  Toothless points vaguely into the depths.

  Fish straightens, studies the drool-glisten on the barrel. Bends again, uses the guy’s T-shirt to wipe off the spit. ‘Now look at you, you’ve pissed yourself. Must learn to hold your fluids, bru. Didn’t mommy teach you?’

  Fish finds Seven in the third bedroom, sprawled on a bed, a girl in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest. A schoolgirl. Probably not sixteen. Probably should be at school.

  ‘Ah, Seven,’ says Fish, ‘not kosher, bru, not kosher.’

  The girl screams at the sight of the pistol in Fish’s hand.

  ‘Who’re you?’ says Seven, hand scrabbling under the bed for hardware.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Fish. ‘Best leave the weaponry, hey. You don’t want a hole in your arm.’

  Seven pushes the girl off the bed. She’s naked, runs shrieking past Fish. Seven glares, mouth open to show his teeth. He’s got perfect teeth, ruby studs in the front two.

  ‘Nice teeth,’ says Fish. ‘Falsies.’

  ‘Still bite,’ says Seven. ‘Love bites. What’s your case, whitey?’

  ‘And look at you’ – Fish pointing at his chest – ‘nice tats. A main man in the Twenty-Six gang. A main gang, hey. When’re you going to change your name?’

  Seven frowning.

  ‘Call yourself Two or Six. Two’s good. Completely “toe”.’ Fish waving his hand across his face. ‘The Afrikaans “toe”. As in stupid.’

  ‘Fok jy, ’ says Seven.

  The two men doing the stare, not breaking it. Seven’s eyes reminding Fish of a tuna’s: flat black. His face all bone and hollow cheeks. Men in the prison gangs no longer humans, in Fish’s reckoning.

  ‘Ja?’ says Seven. ‘Wha’ju wan, Mr No Name whitey?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ says Fish, stepping close to the bed, so close he can smell sour sheets. ‘Thing’s like this, I’ve got this picture here of you’ – he flips a folded copy of the printout at Seven. ‘Check it out.’

  Seven unfolds the page. Looks at the picture. Says, ‘Not me.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit,’ says Fish. ‘It’s you. I know it’s you. Guy taking this picture is Colins, the cellphone he used was mine. You’re up there, at the fort, to collect two rhino horns. Two rhino horns you stole.’

  Seven laughs, his teeth moving sideways. ‘You’s looney, whitey. What you been smoking?’

  ‘Where’s Colins?’

  ‘Dunno Colins.’

  ‘You kill him?’

  Seven gives him the hard black eyes. ‘I’ve seen yous. At the beach. Surfing with Daro the sparrow. Daro’s forum. Daro’s gonna have his wings clipped. You gotta watch out, Mr No Name. Yous don wanna be on the list as well.’

  ‘What list?’

  ‘Daro’s on a list.’

  ‘Whose list?’

  ‘Big business.’

  Fish racks the pistol. ‘Where’s Colins? Where’re the horns?’

  ‘Strues, whitey.’ Seven makes a gun of his right hand, puts it to his forehead. ‘One time. I tell you, ek sê. Daro’s gotta watch out. That’s what happens on the forum.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘’S not bullshit, Mr No Name. Cross my heart.’ Seven drawing the sign over the rising sun tattooed on his chest: six sun rays. Below it the number Twenty-Six either side a gun, his badge of membership in the Numbers gang, the gang that really ran the prison system.

  ‘Big business, what they calls organised crime. The manne think you’s a problem’ – he snaps his fingers – ‘you’s dead.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Don’t believe me, nothing I can do. What the larneys say, time will tell. You’ll see. Seven’s got connections, all the way. All. The. Way. Into big business, government.’ Seven cackling. ‘Pellie-pellie with the high-ups.’

  Fish lets him subside, taps at his foot with the pistol.

  ‘You listening?’

  Seven staring at him with those tuna eyes.

  ‘Nod.’

  Seven nods.

  ‘Where’s Colins?’

  ‘Don’t know Colins.’

  ‘Where’re the horns?’

  ‘What horns, whitey?’

  ‘How far you want to push me, Seven?’ Fish moves the muzzle up Seven’s leg, over the tattoos to his shoulder. Asks the questions again. Gets repeat answers. ‘One more time, okay, then I’m coming back with cops, forum, all the friends you don’t want to see.’ Fish puts the Z88’s stubnose next to Seven’s arm, pulls the trigger. Big, big explosion. Cordite, burnt skin, the bullet ripping through the mattress, smacking into the floor. Seven clutching his arm, rolling off the far side of the bed, howling. Swearing at Fish that he’s gonna get him. Eat his heart alive.

  Fish walks out, passes Toothless standing in the doorway, drool hanging from his lips.

  THE ICING UNIT, SEPTEMBER 1987

  ‘Why?’ Dr Gold wants to know of the Commander and Blondie. The question so softly asked Blondie’s not sure he heard it.

  The Commander shrugs. ‘Orders.’

  ‘Not my orders.’ Dr Gold wheezing.

  ‘Your
s aren’t the only orders we get,’ says the Commander.

  ‘Tell me again what happened.’

  The Commander tells him about the planned bombing, Rictus Grin’s decision to knife the target.

  ‘That was unprofessional.’

  Neither the Commander nor Blondie respond.

  ‘She was my contact.’ Dr Gold pausing to catch his breath. ‘She was a clever woman. Very thoughtful. She knew we had to talk, her people and ours. That we couldn’t go on with the war on the border, the war in the townships.’ He gazes at them with rheumy eyes, looks away, stares out the window at the lake. The water grey, cold green tinges on the mirror surface. A ferry in the distance approaching. ‘You don’t know where your orders came from?’

  The Commander shakes his head.

  ‘These days I cannot trust anyone. Not on my side, not on theirs.’

  Dr Gold wears pyjamas, is dressed in a towelling gown, his feet in slippers. He leans on the window sill for support.

  Softly he says, ‘It is beautiful among the mountains, don’t you think? You can see why the Swiss feel secure. They believe they are protected by all this high rock.’ He pauses, his breath ragged. ‘When you can’t see far your world is smaller, you are content. A chocolate-box world.’ He wipes at his mouth. Turns back to confront them.

  The Commander and Blondie have flown in from Cape Town on Dr Gold’s orders.

  ‘I want you to tell me what happened,’ he shouted at the Commander on the phone a week back. ‘In person. I want you to tell me who ordered this. You’ll come here and tell me. And bring Blondie.’

  It is ten days after the Paris hit. They watch Dr Gold, a thinner Dr Gold than the last time they saw him, a sick Dr Gold shuffle from the window to a chair, panting, wheezing. He takes shallow breaths, his mouth open. ‘Who gave you the order? I want a name.’

  ‘Not possible,’ says the Commander. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You are my men.’

  ‘We’re Security Branch.’

  ‘You are killing me,’ he says. ‘You and them, the blacks. Poisoning me. You both want me dead.’