Of Cops & Robbers

by Nicol, Mike;

  ‘That’s his handle. That’s how he rides. I don’t know his surname.’

  ‘Rides?’

  ‘Races.’

  ‘Give me a break. How old’s he? Young like you?’

  A shrug that Fish takes for yes. ‘He’s a big deal?’

  Willy Cotton coughs a high laugh, points into the sky. ‘Up there.’

  ‘Connected, hey? But you wouldn’t know who to?’

  ‘Government.’

  Fish’s turn to laugh. ‘All the main manne are connected to government, Willy. You’re not telling me anything. I need something specific. What’s he? A minister’s boykie? Son of a DG? One of the president’s kids, grandkids?’

  ‘No idea. Listen, man, I can’t help you.’

  ‘Course you can, Willy. You just don’t know it.’ Fish thinking from the sour breath coming out of Willy Cotton’s mouth the boy’s seriously nervous. ‘So, let me come up with a scenario: after your friend Fortune was hit by Lord’s car, everyone made a duck. Lord drove away, someone called the medics.’

  ‘I did. I stayed with him.’ Willy Cotton’s scratching at his goatee as if he’d like to scratch it off.

  ‘You see, now there’s a detail his folks don’t know, Willy. They’d like that, knowing their son had his friend with him.’ Fish gazes across the vacant ground of long-gone District Six to the harbour. From here the gantries and cranes, the towers of an oil rig seem part of the city centre. Always gives him a thrill to glimpse through the urban riggings the bay beyond, a white scythe of beach. ‘Then what?’

  ‘When the medics were there they didn’t worry about me.’

  ‘You drifted off?’

  ‘Ja.’ Willy Cotton leaves off the scratching.

  ‘Thing is the emergency centre had your phone number. The cops must’ve called for a statement? You make a statement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The cops never called?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you got a visit?’ Fish pulls his eyes off the view, looks square into Willy Cotton’s face. Sees there a young boy terrified. The same look kindergarten-Willy might’ve had watching a Dobermann bounding, snarling towards him. Huge guy like this with a face full of fear. ‘You don’t have to say anything, I reckon I could tell you who showed up, even what sort of car he drives.’

  ‘Leave me,’ says Willy Cotton, ‘leave me out of this. Fortune’s folks’ve got no chance. No chance ever.’

  ‘I hear you,’ says Fish, drums his fingers on the car’s roof. ‘All the same, help me out here. If I want to see this dude Lord racing, how’s that happen?’

  ‘There’s an SMS comes round. He’s racing tonight.’

  ‘That right?’ Fish chews on this. ‘Tell you what, I’ll pick you up, we can go together and watch him race. I’d like that.’

  ‘No ways. No ways.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Who’s going to know? I’ll pick you up, Willy, I know where you’re living. What time these things happen: ten, eleven, midnight?’

  ‘Eleven,’ says Willy Cotton, throwing his bag into his car.

  ‘Don’t let me down, Willy. That wouldn’t be a good idea.’ Fish backs off. ‘And, hey, give Fortune’s parents a bell, they’d like that.’

  64

  ‘Cake, my friend,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Not now. I’m in a situation, alright. I’ll call you, alright.’

  ‘This could be an issue, I think you should understand that,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘I am not happy here.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. But now’s not a good time, Cake, you with me?’ At which Mart Velaze disconnects.

  Mart Velaze’s situation involves a young woman sprawled naked on his bed. She’s German, works in the consulate. They thought a quickie over lunchtime was a good idea.

  ‘I’ve got this flat,’ Mart Velaze said, ‘just down Marine Drive, ten minutes out of the city.’

  ‘I can wait ten minutes,’ said the mädchen.

  Turns out she’s waiting a bit longer because now Mart Velaze is on the phone. For the second time. She levers herself onto her knees, reaches up to undo Mart Velaze’s belt.

  Mart Velaze thought her tits looked lovely when she was lying down, considers they’re even better gazing down her cleavage. He reaches for her, tweaks a nipple.

  The German consular official unzips him.

  Cake Mullins doesn’t have a situation, he has a concern. Two concerns: one major, one minor. The first concern, the minor concern, being Fish Pescado winding him up. The second concern, the major one, was delivered by courier. Inside, a photograph of a young boy getting into a Hummer. Jacob Mkezi’s Hummer. Also a picture at the hotel: him, Clifford Manuel, Vicki Kahn, Tol Visagie, Jacob Mkezi. This causes Cake Mullins concern.

  The first might be a photoshopped picture but Cake Mullins feels it’s not. Given the rhino horn venture, you don’t want pictures of Jacob Mkezi with rent boys floating around. Cake Mullins can see how this matter can get out of hand. His own small part in it might become known, well, messy is a word that then occurs to Cake Mullins.

  He’s standing beside his swimming pool, staring at the Kreepy Krauly chundering on the detritus of leaves, thinking, no, he’s not going to wait for Mart Velaze to phone him back. Mart Velaze has a reputation for not phoning back, especially when it’s a matter where Mart Velaze can’t see the angle.

  What worries Cake Mullins here is his own reputation. Cake Mullins in pressed white slacks and boating shoes, a jersey draped over his shoulders, his shirt unbuttoned to show a silver crucifix, does not need complications in his life. He has stripped his life of complications. He is living on investments. Nowadays, Cake Mullins is squeaky clean. Even his poker evenings are small-time. Last evening with Jacob Mkezi and Vicki Kahn being a blip on the radar. The last thing Cake Mullins wants is to have his golf days, his crony lunches, his Wednesday yachting afternoons at the Royal Cape spoilt by any kind of stain. The kind of stain association with Jacob Mkezi can cause, when Jacob Mkezi is pulling a deal involving rhino horns. So Cake Mullins gets right back to Mart Velaze.

  Who doesn’t answer.

  Because the German consular official is doing things with her mouth and hands that concentrates the mind of Mart Velaze. For a moment he closes his eyes, submits to the darkness there. But not for long. He brings his eyes back to those breasts, licks his fingers, tweezers a nipple once more. The phone’s in his other hand. He lets it ring to answermail.

  The woman stops sucking, says, ‘I want you inside me.’

  ‘I was,’ says Mart Velaze.

  The woman tosses her hair, lies back on the bed, her arms held up to him.

  ‘Come.’

  He has never seen a woman with so much hair in her crotch. He thinks of what the Americans call it. Her snatch. Her bush. He wants to run his fingers through the curlies, feel them.

  Mart Velaze steps out of his trousers, unbuttons his shirt, lays it carefully over a chair. He puts his phone on the bedside table.

  It gives an SMS alert. Mart Velaze ignores it, smiles down at the young woman.

  He combs his fingers through the mat of her pubic hair, raises his hand to judge their length. They’re four, five centimetres long. Silky.

  ‘You don’t like to shave?’ he says.

  She shakes her head. ‘You know muff dive?’

  He nods.

  ‘Please.’

  Mart Velaze’s cellphone rings again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘next time.’ Instead he lays down on the woman, slips inside her. She gasps. Groans with his thrust.

  With his right hand Mart Velaze reaches for the phone, sees it’s Cake Mullins again.

  ‘I will get back to you, Cake,’ he says. ‘I told you.’

  ‘No, listen to me,’ Cake Mullins says, ‘I’ve got this guy Fish Pescado, an investigator, threatening me about Vicki Kahn. Wanting to talk about Jacob Mkezi. I’ve got this photograph of a rent boy getting into Jacob’s car. You better check with Jacob what’s happening there. He listens to you, Mar
t. He’s not gonna listen to me. You tell him I’m out of it. Off the radar.’

  The woman beneath Mart Velaze is a groaner.

  ‘This is not my place,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘I’m a soldier, Cake, like you. Taking orders. You want to tell him something, you tell him yourself.’

  She’s grinding hard against him. Mart Velaze has to shut his eyes to concentrate.

  ‘I’ll … call … you … back,’ he says, the words spaced between the thrust of her pelvic bone. He’s glad she’s bushed, without the cushion he’d be grimacing. He thumbs off Cake Mullins, slides his phone under the pillow. Nothing that can’t wait seven minutes.Across the city in the vineyard suburb, Cake Mullins beside his swimming pool stares at his phone, disconnects. Bloody Mart Velaze. Always fucking around. Banging some bird when there’s serious dwang in the land. He sits down to his lunch at the table in the gazebo. Takes a long swallow from a tall rock shandy, gets the taste of the bitters under the soda and lemonade. He chomps on a ciabatta slice spread with pesto. This’s what he wants of life: sit here in his garden next to his swimming pool for a quiet lunch. Afterwards, maybe drift into the yacht club for a few toots, a perfect winter’s day like this. What he doesn’t want is the worry of people like Mart Velaze and Tol Visagie on his mind. Or the hassle of types like Fish Pescado.

  Quarter of an hour later his phone goes: Mart Velaze.

  65

  Daro clutches the bullet in his fist, sits at his desk staring at the cars on his forecourt. He has checked his answerphone, no calls while he was out. How long will Mart Velaze wait before he calls? Will Mart Velaze call?

  The pistol is in the desk drawer, within easy reach. He has drawn the necessary documents from the bank security box, made copies of everything: bank statements, letters, tape transcriptions, notes, including the photographs. The originals are back in the bank box; the copies in two envelopes beneath his palm.

  Daro has considered the options: best outcome, the matter goes away. Worst case, he’s killed. In which case there’s a contingency plan; doesn’t help him but it puts the whole story out there.

  Daro believes out there is not where Mart Velaze and his principal would want this.

  He sits through midday, one o’clock, two o’clock. He answers phone calls, does a sales spiel for a couple he knows aren’t serious. Passes another half an hour waiting for Mart Velaze to ring.

  At three he’s had enough. Drives in the Audi, shuts up shop. He needs distraction: phones his daughter.

  ‘How about a surf?’

  ‘Alright,’ she says.

  ‘Alright reluctant or alright great idea?’

  ‘Alright great idea.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Da–add.’ The long sigh of resignation.

  He laughs. ‘Just checking. Be there in ten.’

  Next, phones Fish with the same invite.

  Fish says, ‘I can’t. My board’s broken. Also Vicki’s on my case.’

  Daro taps the envelopes, thinks, what a pity. Says, ‘What’s with the board?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ Listens while Fish gives him a potted version anyhow.

  ‘I’ve got a spare for you, my old cruiser. Rides in anything, even southeast chop. You could surf the wake of that boat you’ve got sitting in your back yard.’

  ‘Sharks in the deep water,’ says Fish.

  ‘Sharks everywhere,’ says Daro.

  Fish mumbles some kind of gratitude. Daro brushes it aside. ‘Pick it up anytime. It’s in the garage, top one on the rack. Pleased to hear Seven’s gone.’

  After the call Daro still hesitates a minute or two. Stands in the office as if he’s waiting. He sighs, walks out. He’s locking the door when the landline phone goes. He hesitates, considers it better to take the call.

  It’s Mart Velaze. He starts in about how he wants to buy the car, couldn’t make it out today, how about tomorrow?

  ‘Cut the crap,’ says Daro.

  Mart Velaze says, ‘Daro, Daro, Daro, what’s up, my friend?’

  ‘This’s up,’ says Daro. ‘The bullet is childish. You’re the messenger boy, and I’ve also got a message needs to be delivered.’

  ‘I think we’re past messages.’

  ‘You mightn’t think so when you read this one.’

  Silence from Mart Velaze.

  ‘I’m going home now,’ says Daro. ‘Maybe we can meet later at Surfers’ Corner, you can have a little read. This is great stuff. Riveting. Some fascinating photographs too. Not the sort of information you’d want in the public domain, so think about this as a preview. A teaser. I’ve got more. Hear what I’m saying? Five thirty I’ll be waiting.’

  Daro cuts the connection before Mart Velaze can respond. Best scenario, it’s going to buy time. But time can be useful. He puts the bullet back into its box, takes it with him.

  Half an hour later Daro and Steffie on her brand new rounded-pin mini mal sit on the backline such as it is. A tame swell pushing in that’s good for a cruise but pretty much nothing else.

  ‘This is like naff,’ says Steffie.

  ‘It’s a surf,’ says Daro. ‘Better than homework.’

  They catch a ride both of them on the same wave: Daro chasing his daughter, trying to step onto her board. He goes over, comes up laughing. Steffie ends the same way.

  They paddle out, swing round to face the beach: the parking lot’s still jammed with vehicles, the office shift only now arriving. Daro checks his watch: in an hour he’s got his meeting. The shadow’s starting across the Corner, dragging a cold with it.

  ‘Last ride,’ he says.

  Steffie doesn’t argue.

  On the short drive home she tells him the cops busted two of her classmates in a crack house in the village.

  Daro comes in. ‘Let me guess, the house of a gangster called Seven?’

  ‘How d’you know?’ says Steffie.

  Daro smiles. ‘I know lots.’

  66

  Fish spends the afternoon on the balcony of Rafiki’s restaurant in town, working his phone, selling dagga. He has the same spiel for everyone, the professors, the lawyers, the advertising execs, the trust account officers: ‘I’ve got some schweet rooibaard, the best. Believe me, you don’t want to say no.’

  Some of them ask him what’s rooibaard? He has a riff ready about hidden KwaZulu valleys where the crop lies rich and green beneath a fierce sun. He tells them it is tendered by women in colourful skirts who draw water from ancient rivers. It is the herb of warriors. He lays it on until his clients are giggling, placing orders beyond the normal.

  He’s sold off twenty bankies before he’s halfway through his list. Twenty bankies will sort his tyre problem, still leave stock in hand. When he gets in among the surfers he can make a killing. For them, manna from heaven.

  At twenty, Fish puts down his phone, turns his attention to his Castle milk stout and the fading afternoon. He’s watching the mountain lose its light as the sun sets, musing on happenstance: the bakkie’s tyres get slashed, he lands a cheap bag of good herb; his board is broken, he’s lent another; he obliges a grieving father … The outcome of that isn’t written yet. Another way to look at it is he can’t leave well enough alone. Story of his life, not backing off where he’s got no business. Then again, what the hell. He watches the sunlight lose hold of the mountain’s rim, the shadows deepen in Platteklip Gorge.

  He thinks about his mother’s job. Sighs. Puts through a call to a broker at the insurance company he once worked for. Asks the guy for some background on the Prospect Deep goldmine. The proposed BEE deal. Board of directors. Financial statements. Anything that Google doesn’t have.

  Prospect Deep,’ says the broker. ‘There’s a story.’

  ‘What sort of story?’ says Fish.

  ‘Let me draw this other stuff. I’ll get back to you.’

  Fish thinks this is not what he wants to hear.

  Then his gaze is drawn to Vicki parking her MiTo across the road. Sometimes, he reckons, the world work
s.

  Like for Vicki now. She slides into a parking space right on drinks hour, right outside Rafiki’s. Most nights to get that spot on Kloof Nek you’d need to park at two a.m.

  He calls over a waiter, orders another stout, a vodka, lime and soda.

  Looks down at Vicki leaning against her car looking up at him. He waves. Gorgeous Vicki. Those white teeth. Lovely.

  ‘Why?’ he asked her a couple of weeks after she became the new woman in his life.

  She was over for dinner. He’d scored some lobsters from people he knew, steamed them. Made a garlic dip. Added salad, potato wedges he baked in the oven, a great meal. Candles. Cotton serviettes. His Boardmans cutlery. Quiet, romantic evening, right time to ask her why.

  ‘I like a bit of rough,’ she said, cracking open a lobster leg, happy too about the mess of the meal. He liked a woman who wasn’t fazed about lobsters. Not drinking wine either but beer. Okay, not his stout but Millers, from the bottle.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ he’d replied. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  She leant across, took a wedgy from his plate, popped it in her mouth. ‘Because I go for macho. You know, the surfing, rootin-tootin type.’ She chewed the chip, smiling at him, teasing. Her brown eyes impish. ‘I don’t know, Fish. You make me laugh. I like your taste in music. Isn’t that enough?’

  Now Fish rises as she strides towards him.

  ‘Babes, such manners.’

  He’s never quite sure, is she kidding?

  They sit. The waiter brings their drinks, pours the soda into hers.

  ‘All the way,’ Vicki says, smiling at the guy.

  Fish thinking, a bigger smile than he got.

  When the waiter’s gone she says, ‘How d’you guess? I might’ve wanted a beer.’

  He frowns, shrugs. ‘That’s what you always drink when we’re here.’

  ‘Except at home I drink beer sometimes. Except at Paulaner’s I drink weissbier.’

  ‘We’re not at home or at Paulaner’s.’

  ‘The point is, Fish, I might’ve wanted something different. You didn’t ask.’