by Nicol, Mike;
‘What did you think of that?’
‘It was hectic.’
‘Like what happened to your mate, Fortune?’
Willy Cotton doesn’t respond.
Fish and Vicki let this hang, Fish slowing for a traffic light. Up ahead the road’s clear. There’s a car parked off on the Gunners Circle side.
‘This’s the end,’ says Willy Cotton, ‘the guys in that car call the race.’
‘What d’you mean, call the race?’
‘You know, who wins. For the punters.’
‘You can bet?’ says Vicki.
‘Of course.’
Fish glances at her. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Just don’t even think it.’
At the top end of Viking, the crowds are gathering. Fish parks well off in a side street.
‘Out,’ he says to Willy Cotton, ‘let’s take a hike.’ Willy Cotton’s shrugged into his hoodie, his hands buried in the pockets. He walks a pace behind Fish and Vicki.
The corner’s a carnival: cars lining the road, headlights on full bore, music pumping from their open doors. Fish’s offered a ‘sip, my bru’ from a flagon of Old Brown sherry doing the rounds. ‘Nay,’ he says, ‘zol’s my jol. I’m a smoker.’ Which gets the group laughing. Catches the eye of a big dude in a caftan standing like he’s Gaddafi, next to a sin bin. The sliding door of the van’s open, showing an inside of shaggy carpet, top, bottom, sides. There’re chicks lounging inside and out, drinking sparkling from flutes. Except, Fish sees, they’re not chicks, they’re cross-dresser Flats specials.
‘He’s a bookie,’ says Willy Cotton, ‘you don’t want to know about him.’ Willy Cotton edging Fish and Vicki away from the man, taking them across the intersection into the grumble and scream of engines, the gag of petrol fumes. People bump against them, people shout, signalling for the cars to line up.
‘That car,’ Willy Cotton yells in Fish’s ear, ‘the Subaru, the blue one in front with the foil. That’s his.’
The car’s low-slung on wide rims, rocking as the driver foots the revs. Looks like the one Fish saw at Daro’s. Has a half-finished spray job to the bodywork up front.
‘Where can I bet?’ Vicki shouts at Willy Cotton.
‘Hey, my sista, right here come with me,’ screeches a voice, a short man with a wispy moustache pulling at Vicki’s elbow.
‘I want to put it on him,’ Vicki says, pointing at the Subaru.
‘Fabulous, sista, fab-u-lous,’ says the short man, threading Vicki back through the traffic to the carpeted van.
Fish after them nudging Vicki, saying, ‘No, no, no, what’re you doing? I told you no.’
Willy Cotton’s hanging back.
‘Gambling,’ says Vicki. ‘Having a flutter.’
The bookie in the caftan flicks his chin at Fish. ‘Ja, mlungu, my whitey,’ he says, ‘how much for you and the sista?’
‘No,’ Fish says to Vicki. ‘No.’
‘Just do it. Stop being so heavy. Get with the scene, Fish. Come on. Do it for both of us.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I’m not involved. Not breaking my vows. Come on.’
Fish relents, this being no place to argue. Pulls out a bunch of notes. ‘Two hundred.’
‘Don’t be mean,’ says Vicki. ‘Put it down, Fish. Live dangerously.’
Fish looks at her. The fire in her eyes. Her smile, her white teeth.
‘After this, no more,’ he says.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Agreed.’ Takes the money, counts two thousand into the man’s palm. ‘On the Subaru. What’re the odds?’
‘Same for you two as for everybody, two to one.’ The money disappears inside the van.
‘Who’s it we’re betting on?’ asks Fish.
‘Lord the Lord.’
‘Lord has a surname?’
The man laughs, hands Vicki a chit. ‘Lordy lord. The Lord on high.’
‘All you gotta do is ask for Lord, baby,’ says one of the boygirls, blowing kisses at Fish.
‘What’s that?’ says Fish to the bookie, pointing at the chit.
‘Your man wins, you’ll want a payout, né? You want a payout, you’d better show me a receipt.’
Fish gives him the thumbs-up, steps away. ‘We’ll be back.’
‘All sorted, my bru?’ says the short man with the wispy moustache.
‘Uh huh,’ says Fish. ‘Except who’s Lord?’
‘No, man, he’s just the Lord, my bru. The Lord is the Lord. Chief of the drivers. Come see, come see. You’s gotta watch the race.’
Fish and Vicki follow the short man through the crowd. Willy Cotton’s nowhere to be seen. People are pushing and shoving to get to the front but the short man carves a path. The reason, he’s waving about an Okapi, pricking people with the blade’s point.
Fish says, ‘We’re never going to see that money again.’
Vicki’s grinning at him. ‘Course we are. Can’t you feel the luck?’
Fish gets close to her ear. ‘No. This’s gambling. You’re not supposed to be doing it.’
‘It’s research.’
‘Giving money to a black guy in caftan in a van like that?’
‘Guy in a suit in an office’s no better.’
Fish doesn’t argue.
They get to the kerb, there’re the two cars rocking in the road: Lord in his Subaru, an Audi beside him. Lord gives some juice and screams the engine. The Audi replies. The two dicers going rev for rev, the crowd loving it.
‘Here we go, my bru,’ yells the short man.
There’s a bumper-to-bumper crawl of normal traffic driving past. Freaked-out citizens heading home. Everybody hooting. A man in a white coat steps off the pavement, stands in front of the dragsters. He beckons them forward till they’re lined up either side of him, his hands on their bonnets. He looks at Lord, he looks at the Audi driver. He lifts his hands, takes three paces backwards. Looks from driver to driver again. Raises his arms above his head. Holds them there: one, two, three, four – the crowd calling the countdown. On ten he pauses, the crowd chanting go, go, go. Suddenly he drops his arms, bows to the drivers. The two cars fishtail past him on smoking rubber, the burn of hot oil.
Fifty metres out Lord comes in close on the Audi, sheers off the wing mirror, screeches metal against metal. The tail lights of the two cars holding until the Audi puts wheels on the gravel soft shoulder, clouds of dust filtering into the oncoming headlight glare.
Fish can’t tell who’s ahead. Vicki’s jumping up and down next to him.
‘Who’s in front?’ she says to the short man, the short man glued to his cellphone.
The tail lights have blurred to one.
‘You scored,’ yells the short man. ‘You scored, my bru, my sista. Two to one. Praise the Lord.’
The second race is lining up. Fish hears cop sirens. People are running now, scrambling for their cars. The short man’s tugging at his jacket.
‘Come get your money, quickly, my bru, quickly, my sista.’
Fish grabs Vicki’s arm, again they follow the short man through the laughing crowd.
At the van, Mr Caftan’s about to close the sliding door, make his getaway. He sees Fish.
‘Ah, mlungu. A mlungu never forgets about money.’ He throws out a packet. Fish catches it. ‘All there, mlungu.’ He’s grinning a deck of white teeth as he slams closed the door.
‘A small commission, my bru,’ says the short man. ‘A little per cent.’
Fish slides him a blue hundred. ‘You’s schweet, my bru, you’s schweet.’ The short man kisses the note, gives Fish a toothless grin. ‘Goodnight, my larney, goodnight my cherry. See yous in dreamland.’
Willy Cotton’s waiting for them at the car.
‘That was fun,’ says Vicki as Fish pulls off into the suburb to miss the cops. ‘And we scored.’
They’re laughing at one another. Fish says, ‘One and only time, okay. Never again.’
Vicki leans across kisses his ear.
‘Only th
ing is, Willy,’ says Fish, ‘I don’t believe you that you don’t know his surname.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Course you do, Willy. You could’ve saved us a lot of trouble. Vicki and me could’ve spent a romantic night. But that’s okay. We’re good. Now you want to tell me what it is?’
‘I don’t know it. Strues.’
‘Think about it,’ says Fish. ‘We can drive around a bit until you remember.’
Vicki says, ‘Wow. How about three thousand nine hundred. Amazing. That was so good.’
‘It was gambling.’
‘Last time.’
Fish glances in the rear-view mirror at Willy Cotton. ‘How we doing there, Willy. Your memory dredged it up yet?’
Twenty minutes later Willy’s still closed up, tight as a zip. Fish’s cellphone rings. It’s Georgina, Daro’s wife.
‘Can you come over,’ she says. ‘It’s urgent.’
70
The boys stampede him when he stops the Hummer. Shoving and scrambling over one another to get out of their blankets, to be at the vehicle first. Their faces howling at him. He slides down the window, looks for the boy. Points at him, ‘Jy.’
The other boys protest. ‘Me, my baas, me, I do’s it better.’
Jacob Mkezi keeps his finger pointed at the boy. ‘You.’
The boy opens the door, gets in, the others squeezing forward. Jacob Mkezi buzzes down his side window, holds out a hundred rand note. The boys see it, rush round the car.
‘Close the door,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He lets go of the money, sees it fluttering into the street, the boys diving for it. ‘You like a cheeseburger?’
‘Ja, my baas, please, my baas,’ says the boy.
‘Same as last time.’
The boy grinning at him. ‘Ja, my baas.’
Again they sit in the McDonald’s parking lot in the dark, facing the rising stadium, the boy tearing at the burger, hardly chewing the chunks he bites off.
‘Slowly,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He touches the boy’s cheek. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
The boy nods, his cheeks bulging.
‘You used the Zam-Buk salve?’
The boy keeps nodding.
‘Good,’ says Jacob Mkezi, smiling at him, sitting back. He watches the boy eat, bite after bite.
When the boy’s swallowed he says, ‘Ma-Brenda.’
‘Brenda Fassie?’
‘Ja, my larney.’
Jacob Mkezi slots in ‘Weekend Special’, the boy giving a jive of his shoulders even as he jaws into the burger.
‘Another one?’
The boy nods his head fast, jams a straw in his mouth to suck up Coke.
‘Wait.’ Jacob Mkezi gets out, walks around the other cars to the order point. Mostly young couples in the cars this time of the evening. Their idea of a date, have a burger, head up Signal Hill for a screw on the back seat. None of them worried they’ll be attacked.
No singles in the cars, no one he can see with a camera. Since he left home he’s been careful, eye in the rear-view, took the long way through the suburb until the thought occurred they’d probably have a tracker on him. Be watching him ducking and diving, amused. He stops for too long, they can hone in. But there’re ways round that game too, underground parking garages for starters. So Jacob Mkezi wasn’t overly concerned. He came out on Rhodes Drive at that point, took it through to Union Avenue, quit arsing about on his way into the city.
If they’ve worked out where he’s stationary, no problem. Pictures at a parking lot aren’t what they want. What they want is the full routine. They can wait.
Jacob Mkezi buys the boy another cheeseburger and Coke. Walks slowly back to the car, his gaze on the stadium construction. Amazing the speed of it going up. A project that impresses him: its scale, the logistics. Getting all the ducks in a row. Makes arranging a couple of trucks and a cargo plane seem chickenfeed. Then again, the kickback on his operation more profitable than a civil engineer’s take-home pay. Still, have to admire the activity.
He gets back to the car, the boy’s slumped in the seat asleep. Brenda Fassie singing softly.
Jacob Mkezi reaches in, puts the burger on the floor, the drink in a holder. He shifts the boy to the back seat, lays him down, covers his body with a blanket.
He sits with the boy’s head on his lap, wondering about his comrades. The jealous ones. The ones who don’t understand the part he played. The money he took possession of. He strokes the boy’s hair, feels grit on the palm of his hand. They got their cut, but a cut wasn’t enough. They didn’t want the dirt coming out.
He slides his hand under the boy’s clothes. Lays his palm on the boy’s chest, can feel the pump of his heart. Runs his fingers over ribs, slides them down to the boy’s waist, as far as he can reach. He caresses the boy, after long minutes gently withdraws his hand.
He sits with the boy’s head on his lap, his hands cradling the small face. Sits there for some moments before he smothers the boy. Suffocates him. The boy is drugged: his legs squirm briefly, his body jerks once. Then lies still.
Jacob Mkezi drives back into the city, in Bree Street leaves the boy’s body in a shop doorway, covered by the blanket.
On the way home he has Brenda Fassie up loud.
71
‘He went surfing with Steffie. He came back. He changed. He told her he’d be about an hour,’ Georgina Attilane tells Fish and Vicki. ‘That was at five thirty.’
Georgina’s hunched forward on the couch, a whisky in her hands, untouched. Her eyes sunk deep. Her skin zombie white. Over the time he’s known her he’s never seen Georgina other than made-up glam. She looks a wreck.
‘Something’s happened. He’s been hijacked. He’s been attacked. He’s lying somewhere injured. I know it. I know it, Fish.’
‘Maybe,’ says Fish. He gets no further.
‘Daro doesn’t do this sort of thing. He tells me. Or he phones me. He lets me know.’
Fish’s watching her, her hands rigid around the glass, sees her eyes come onto him, pleading. Gone the woman with the world at her beck and call. Fish’s never been sure of Georgina, always found her a bit stuck up, like she didn’t get the surfing-buddy thing he had with Daro. But this woman’s hurting.
‘He’s been gone seven hours.’ She puts the glass on the coffee table. Buries her face in her hands, pushes her hands into her hair, holds them there: gaunt, staring eyes. ‘He’s dead.’
Fish’s thinking, what does he know about Daro? The guy could be screwing his arse off somewhere.
‘Let’s try his cell again,’ says Vicki. Vicki not saying much for the hour they’ve been there, leaving it to Fish. Now asking Georgina for the number, ready to key the digits into her phone.
Georgina begins, ‘Oh-eight-three.’ Stops. ‘I’ve done that. Hundreds of times. It’s no use.’
‘Once more,’ says Vicki.
Georgina rattles off the number. Says to Fish, ‘Don’t you know someone, someone at the service provider? They can track him through his phone.’
‘Not as easy as that,’ says Fish. ‘Especially not at this time of night.’
They watch Vicki, when the call goes to voicemail she clicks it off. Shrugs.
‘I told you. I told you. Don’t you think I’ve been on at it all evening?’
‘Is Steffie upstairs?’ says Fish.
‘I made her go to bed.’
‘What’d she say about her dad?’
Georgina stares at him from her skull eyes. ‘That he was fine. That he said he’d be an hour.’
‘Did he take anything with him?’
‘His briefcase.’
‘Maybe there’s a family emergency? With his folks? His brother? Maybe?’
‘His parents are dead, Fish. He’s got no brothers or sisters. We’re his family, Steffie and me.’ She’s looking at Fish, staring at him with those dark eyes.
‘Alright,’ says Fish, standing. ‘Let me check out his office, maybe there’s something there.’
‘I’ve b
een through it. There’s nothing. No appointment written in his diary. I even checked the rubbish bin. Daro’s like a boy scout, everything in its place.’
‘Sure.’ Fish points at some keys on the table. ‘Those get me in?’
‘You’re wasting time. We should tell the police.’
‘You could. They won’t do anything, but you could.’
‘It’s been seven hours.’
‘I know,’ says Fish, ‘seven hours is long.’ He glances at Vicki.
She reads him. Says, ‘I’ll wait.’
Fish’s already at the front door. Ten minutes later he buzzes himself into Daro Attilane’s office. The remote disarms the security system, brings up fluorescent lights.
Georgina’s right, Daro would’ve made a good boy scout. A man of order and neatness in an office of order and neatness. One desk with two drawers. One grey four-door metal filing cabinet. Neither locked.
In the wastebin he finds a courier’s packaging, a card for Adler Solutions. He pockets the card.
Some pens, a notepad in the top desk drawer. Finance forms in the bottom drawer.
The filing cabinet’s also sparse: car brochures, car magazines, tarnished trophies for best sales figures from his days as a floorman, bank statements. In the bottom drawer a bulldog clip of receipts. Top receipt’s for a print and photostat shop in the Blue Route Mall. Shows that Daro did a lot of photostatting in the late morning. About fifty pages.
Fish’s locking Daro Attilane’s office when his cellphone rings: a number he doesn’t recognise. The voice he does. Willy Cotton.
Willy Cotton says, ‘The man you want is Lord Mkezi.’
Fish gets the keys out of the door, says, ‘Hold on, Willy, let me get a pen.’ On a bank statement jots down the name, repeating it aloud. ‘That’s good of you, Willy. I appreciate it, you’ve come through for your friend. You got an address?’
Willy Cotton tells him Durham Road, Salt River.
‘What’s that?’ says Fish. ‘A block of flats?’
‘Next to the mortuary,’ says Willy Cotton.
‘Handy. This Lord related to Jacob Mkezi?’
‘His son.’