by Nicol, Mike;
Fish stares at her, thinking, what’s this? Says, ‘What’s got your goat?’
Vicki takes a long swallow. ‘What’s really irritating me, Fish, what’s irking me big-time is a call I had from Cake Mullins. A very disturbed Cake Mullins. Disturbed because one Fish Pescado gave him grief. So Cake Mullins phoned one Vicki Kahn and made her pissed off. So pissed off she’s fuming right now. Just drop it, Fish, okay, just drop it.’
‘Only trying to help.’
‘I know. But letting it go would help more.’
‘Can you get a loan?’
‘I’m working on it.’
Fish runs a forefinger up the side of his glass through the condensation. ‘That story about the poker game, the man who lost everything to you, who was he?’
‘I told you, an old man.’
‘Come’n Vics, that wasn’t all of it.’
She stares at her drink, snorts softly. ‘Alright, it wasn’t all. He was a struggle veteran. MK. Been tortured, done solitary confinement, ended up on the Island for seven years. Was an officer for a while in the new army. But he liked drink and cards. Fourteen years down the line he’s facing a discharge or a package. He’s dying too, AIDS. He goes for the package, stakes the lot on that poker game. I took it off him.’
‘You knew this?’
‘Afterwards, I was told.’ Vicki’s not meeting his eyes, her gaze away towards Lion’s Head.
‘And Cake Mullins? Where does he come in?’
‘I told you, I owed him a favour.’
‘All these favours.’
‘It’s how we do it.’
Fish still looking at her, her eyes not meeting his. ‘There’re favours and favours. What kind of favour?’
Vicki takes her time. ‘A debt. He let me off. Alright? Years ago I went down at a game, I owed him money, he let me off.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know why. It happens out there. When the luck’s down, players sometimes give you a break. You do it too, for others. It’s a kind of honour system, that everything’ll even out over time.’
She looks at him, those sad brown eyes.
‘You don’t know what it’s like. Unless you’re in there you don’t know how tight it gets.’
Fish glances down at the intersection, at young people meeting, their voices rising, their laughter. The winter twilight’s losing colour, there’re lights coming on in the buildings.
‘Why didn’t you give the AIDS vet a break?’
‘I needed the money. I couldn’t. I’d been given one warning. I didn’t want another.’
‘Hah! This honour system?’
Vicki says nothing, takes a measure of her drink. Her lipstick’s smudged on the glass, a pink stain that catches Fish’s eye.
‘Why’d you hassle Cake?’
‘For you. To tell him you had protection.’
‘Did I ask for protection?’
‘No.’
‘Then why …?’ She taps a finger against her glass. ‘Men! You’ve got this other world. This weird place you all live in.’
‘Talking of which …’ Fish pushes back his chair, stands.
‘And now?’ Vicki looking up at him. ‘Where’re you off to? I’ve only just got here.’
‘Some things to do.’
‘That can’t wait?’
‘Not really.’
‘And Willy Cotton? What happened there?’
‘Oh yeah. We’re meeting tonight. You want to come?’
‘Meeting?’
‘One of those drag races. He’s going to point out the car that hit Fortune Appollis.’
Vicki takes his hand, pulls him down. ‘Sit.’
Fish does.
‘Why’re you doing this? The old man paid you to talk to Willy Cotton. Nothing more.’ She lets go of his hand.
Fish smiles. ‘Just because.’
Vicki stares up at the mountain, now dark against the sky. She sighs. ‘One night a poker game, the next night car races, how exciting can a life get? Alright, Fish Pescado, you win.’
He’s on his feet, all smiles. ‘Great. I’ll pick you up. Nine thirty, ten.’ He’s on his way out, he stops. ‘Oh, Vics, can you get the bill?’
In the back of his car, Fish makes up five parcels. He’s got a roll of plastic baggies for just such emergencies. The other orders can wait.
Top of the list’s an advertising exec. Woman about the same age as Vicki. Divorced. Fact is if there wasn’t a Vicki, he might’ve tried something on.
‘Jeez, Fish, thanks hey, dude. Thanks for thinking of me.’ Leaning over to brush his cheek with a kiss. Yeah, man, a serious contender if there was no Vicki.
He does two more drops in the city bowl, a dentist, an actuary, then tools over De Waal Drive, the city rising bright below, to the academic burbs.
First drop’s Professor Summers. The prof in his stained trousers, baggy jersey, standing in the doorway of his Mowbray house. The stench of cat piss and cigarettes all-pervasive. The music of Schumann emanating.
‘You like Schumann, Fish?’ the prof asked him the first time he delivered. ‘Or only Meat Loaf, like your dead friend?’
‘Shawn Colvin, Alison Krauss, Laurie Levine, Jesse Sykes,’ Fish replied.
The professor sucked on his cigarette, blew the smoke at out the corner of his mouth. ‘Interesting. You only listen to women, Fish?’
‘A lot of the time,’ Fish responded.
Now the professor says, ‘This better be good, Pescado.’
‘You’ll know the difference,’ says Fish. ‘This is your gold star, the finest in the land.’
The professor shelling out three hundred-rand notes. ‘You’re a good man, Fish,’ he says.
Next academic is the classics academic.
‘Fish, what a surprise, how lovely to see you,’ she greets him. ‘Come in, come in.’ But Fish doesn’t, keeps the transaction to the doorstep. Always gives her a little extra bang for her buck. She’s a country rock fan. Was at Woodstock, though you have to listen closely for the American in her voice nowadays.
‘What did you call this?’ she asks him. ‘Roy something.’
‘Rooibaard.’
‘Which means?
‘Red beard.’ Fish explaining about the red hairs.
‘How romantic, don’t you think?’
‘S’pose so,’ says Fish, although it’s not something he’s applied his mind to.
With two grand in his pocket for a day’s work, new tyres for the Isuzu are a dead cert. Fish makes his last call at Daro Attilane’s to collect his loan board.
Steffie answers his knock, tells him Daro’s out but she knows about the board.
Tells him they had a surf that afternoon in low swells. Wasn’t much really. Fun being with dad though.
‘Got to wait for the next cold front,’ says Fish. ‘Maybe after the weekend.’
At home Fish puts the board in the kitchen, notices a corner of an envelope sticking out of the foot grip. In the envelope are two photostats: group of guys on a beach; the other in a hospital ward: a man in the bed with a visitor sitting beside him. The faces indistinct but nothing a magnifying glass wouldn’t bring into focus.
Fish phones Daro, gets his voicemail. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘what’s with the envelope and the pix? Anyhow, thanks for the board. Give me a call.’
67
Jacob Mkezi has the same sort of envelope in his hands: brown manila except this has got the courier company’s tracking note stuck on it.
Jacob Mkezi is in a good mood. He’s enough Rattlesnake Sauvignon Blanc in his blood to make the world rosy.
He’s got confit duck in his stomach, also lemon meringue profiteroles.
He’s got rid of Mellanie all randy from the wine, coming on to him. Wanting to do a blowjob in the car outside the bistro.
On which he’d taken a rain check. Despite the Hummer being the ultimate sin bin.
Then said he’d call her later. When he’d finished the logistics, made sure the ducks stayed in a ro
w.
She said, ‘For a man with crocodile shoes you need to lighten up a little.’
Now he’s slitting open the envelope, drawing out photographs. Black and white prints of his meeting with Clifford Manuel, Vicki Kahn, Cake Mullins, Tol Visagie. The view from the mezzanine, the moment they’ve got their glasses raised in a toast. Date and time on the print.
Beneath that’s a picture of the rent boy getting into his Hummer. The view from the back of the vehicle, the registration plate clear. Number three: the Hummer in the McDonald’s parking lot, five minutes later. Number four: Jacob Mkezi getting out of the Hummer, going into a pharmacy, fifteen minutes later. Number five: he’s getting back into the vehicle holding a paper bag. Number six: the Hummer parked on the mountain road with the view over the city bowl. Time difference is twelve minutes. Number seven he’s dropping off the boy in the city; number eight he’s arriving at home, waiting for his gate to roll back.
Jacob Mkezi rubs a hand over his face, stares into the garden. He knows where this is coming from: his old comrades. The ones he made rich. The ones in power. The ones worried that he might tell his story of what happened in the good old, bad old days.
He keys through to Tol Visagie, says, ‘Tomorrow, we keep the contact minimum. Just SMS.’
‘Why?’ Tol Visagie wants to know.
‘It’s best,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘This sort of operation we keep the comms down,’ trying out a line of spook-speak to give the vet a thrill.
The vet says, ‘Comms?’
‘You know, communication.’
‘Ja, okay,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Makes me nervous though.’
‘It’s okay, my friend, it’ll be no problem. Stay away, stay sharp.’ Jacob Mkezi thumbs him off, his eyes on the photographs, his thoughts shading to red at the betrayal by his comrades. Their fingers sticky with blood and money. His cellphone rings: Mellanie.
‘Fuck, Jacob,’ she says. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing? If I’ve got AIDS, you’re … you’re … fucked.’
‘What’re you talking about.’
‘The photographs. You’ve got the fucking photographs?’
‘Photoshopped,’ he says.
‘They better bloody be. I’m coming over.’
‘No,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Tomorrow morning. We can handle this tomorrow morning.’ Disconnects. He dials up Vicki Kahn.
‘Who’s this?’ she answers.
Jacob Mkezi clears his throat, says, pardon me, gives his name. ‘I enjoyed last night.’
‘I didn’t,’ says Vicki.
‘Forget it,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘I’m not holding you to anything.’
‘A debt is a debt until payback time.’
Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘I hear you.’ Says, ‘Then, here’s the payback: could I tempt you with a job offer?’ Listens to the silence. Says, ‘You still there, Miss Kahn?’ Hears her hesitation. Says, ‘Don’t worry about Clifford, I’ll square it with him. Meet me, we can discuss this. I’m offering interesting legal work, a good salary, incentives, easy loan schemes, medical aid, pension.’
Hears, ‘This is a surprise. This isn’t what I was expecting.’
‘Think about it, Miss Kahn. I considered last night your job interview. Maybe we can meet tomorrow? I’ll be in touch.’
68
‘Say again,’ says Mart Velaze to Seven, frowning at him.
Seven shifts his weight from foot to foot, says, ‘Like I say, Mr Mart, we’s asking you for the horns back.’ Seven pointing at the horns on the table. Still in the plastic carrier bag.
Mart Velaze squints at the two men. ‘I’m having a problem here, my brothers. You want the horns back?’
‘It’s better, Mr Mart, we’s, me’n Jouma, don’t wanna bother you.’
‘How?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Mart?’
‘How’re you bothering me?’
‘Asking you to sell them. Giving Mr Mart a big headache.’
‘I said I’d do it.’
‘Ja, Mr Mart. That’s right, that’s what you and me’n Jouma agreed’ – Seven pointing at Mart Velaze, then at himself and Jouma. Jouma nodding, grinning, his lips pulled tight over his empty gums. ‘But we’s thinking we shouldn’ta bothered Mr Mart. Like I say, we’s asking for the horns back to help Mr Mart.’
Seven not looking at Mart Velaze. His eyes’re on the yellow plastic bag with the rhino horns.
Mart Velaze’s thinking that Seven’s thinking of grabbing them, making a run for it. That’s why they’re here. Mart Velaze not too bothered by this, even hoping that Seven makes the play. Saying, ‘How’m I going to do that?’
‘What, Mr Mart?’ says Seven. ‘What’s Mr Mart gonna do?’
‘Not do, Seven. It’s what I can’t do. What I can’t do is give you the horns back. You sold them to me. I bought them. You took advance payment.’
‘Was only five hunnerd.’
Mart Velaze comes round the table that serves as his desk, perches on a corner. Seven and Jouma edging back. They’re in the warehouse: still the tins of paint stacked against a wall, the broken motorbike, otherwise the place is empty.
‘Five hundred is money, Seven.’ Mart Velaze pushing the bag with the horns along the table. ‘You returning the money?’
‘It’s gone, Mr Mart. Sundries and petties. We’s owe yous.’
‘Doesn’t work like that.’
Seven doing hangdog, head bowed, his eyes on the rhino horns.
Mart Velaze follows his gaze, smiles. ‘What’d I tell you, Seven: be patient.’
‘We’s been patient, Mr Mart. Patient since last week. But Mr Mart hasn’t sold them.’
Mart Velaze looks from Seven to Jouma, back to Seven. ‘Rhino horn’s not Coca-Cola, buti. You got to find the right buyer. This takes time. Understand me?’
Seven and Jouma nod.
Mart Velaze sits square on the table, swings his legs. Lifts the tone. ‘I’m talking to people, you’ll get your money, this weekend, maybe early next week. Now. What about the other job? You want the other job? You can have an advance.’
‘What other job, Mr Mart?’
‘I told you last time it might come up. Twenty thousand. Ten before, ten after. You want it?’ Mart Velaze draws his finger across his throat. ‘Yes or no? Quick and easy job.’ He gets off the table, from one of its drawers takes out a 9-mil H&K pistol. Offers it butt-first to Seven.
‘Who’s it?’ says Seven.
‘This matters to you? Twenty grand is twenty grand.’ He stretches towards Seven, taps his chest with the pistol grip. ‘Easy money.’
From another drawer Mart Velaze pulls out a bag, empties it on the table, five bundles of notes. ‘Ten thousand.’ Again he holds the gun out to Seven.
‘Who’s it?’
‘Your friend from the forum, Daro Attilane.’
Seven bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning.
‘You want to do this favour. Twenty thou.’
‘Okay,’ says Seven.
As he reaches for the gun Mart Velaze says, ‘Let me check the load.’ Ejects the clip, holds it up for Seven. ‘Fully stocked.’ Palms it back into the grip. ‘You want to do it?’ The gun in his hand, butt towards Seven.
‘What’d I say, Mr Mart? We’s can do it.’
Seven takes the pistol, weighs it in his hand. ‘Nice rod, ek sê.’ Racks one into the chamber. Points it at Mart Velaze. ‘Ag sorry hey, Mr Mart.’ Pulls off two shots.
69
Fish and Vicki in the red Perana trawling slowly from street light to street light. No one about, the houses curtained.
‘There,’ says Vicki. ‘On the corner.’
Fish pulls to the kerb.
‘You’re late,’ says Willy Cotton, getting into the car. ‘You said ten thirty. I’ve been standing out here fifteen minutes.’
‘It’s not raining,’ says Fish. ‘Could have been worse. I told you, wait inside, I’ll knock.’
‘Like that’s going to happen. My dad opens the door to some white
surfer dude, he’ll freak. Sees a car like this in the street, he’ll freak. Think I’m into organised crime. Thank you.’
‘You scared of the streets, Willy? Athlone’s okay.’
‘Athlone’s Athlone. You don’t stand in the street at night.’
‘What’d I tell you, Fish,’ says Vicki.
Fish shrugs. ‘Your suburb.’
‘Who’s she?’ says Willy Cotton.
‘Be polite,’ says Fish. ‘This’s Vicki, she’s a speed maniac. Drives an Alfa MiTo.’
Vicki turns round in the front seat to smile at Willy Cotton. She extends a hand. ‘Hello, Willy, what’s your ride?’
Before he can answer Fish says, ‘A very nice Corolla, last year’s model. Seems Willy’s doing okay.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ says Vicki, shaking Willy Cotton’s hand. ‘So where’re we going, Willy? To see something exciting?’
‘Epping,’ says Willy. ‘You know where that is?’
Fish laughs. ‘Don’t be cheeky.’
He’s got Jim Neversink on the sound system. Neversink singing of urban grit. Jim Neversink has the vibe for this sort of job.
Willy’s running his hand over the black interior, can’t help himself ask, ‘This’s a Perana?’
‘It is,’ says Fish.
‘V8?’
‘V6.’
‘Nice car.’
‘It is,’ says Fish.
Fish drives out of Athlone towards the cooling towers, across the highway onto the Pinelands circuit road. They pop over the railway line come down onto Viking Way, nice straight stretch of tarmac with reserves either side. Factories of Gunners Circle to the right, a sleeping suburb to the left.
‘This’s it,’ says Willy Cotton.
‘What?’ says Fish.
‘The drag. This’s the drag.’
‘They race here? It’s a two-way.’
‘They’re only on that side,’ says Willy Cotton.
Fish shakes his head. ‘Nice one.’
‘You seen any accidents, Willy?’ Vicki twists round in her seat.
‘A couple.’
‘Of racers or people watching?’
‘Both.’ Willy Cotton fidgets with the goatee on his chin. ‘One time this guy’s tyre burst, the car flipped. He died, so did a child sitting with her parents.’