by Nicol, Mike;
Fish whistles. ‘Explains one or two things.’
Willy Cotton saying, ‘I didn’t tell you this. I didn’t tell you this. Just keep away from me.’
Fish’s about to tell him they’ve never met, but Willy Cotton’s hung up. ‘There’s a good guy,’ says Fish to the dead air.
Half an hour later he’s showing Georgina the two photostats Daro sent him. Georgina with a tremble in her fingers as she holds the papers.
‘You ever seen the original photographs?’ he says.
‘Daro’s got no photographs. Except of us. There are four albums of us.’
‘What about pictures of his folks?’
Georgina shakes her head. ‘He always said … says … he wished he had photographs of them. I don’t know what happened. He lost them, they got thrown away. When I met Daro, he could pack everything he owned in two suitcases.’ She gives the photostats to Fish. ‘Why’d he give you these?’
‘Search me.’ Fish taps the group picture on the beach. ‘This’s so fuzzy it’s almost useless. This one, okay, you can make out the face of the dude in the bed but who’s the other guy?’
Vicki takes the photostats from Fish, says, ‘He’s familiar, the man in the bed. I’ve seen pictures of him.’
‘Strikes a bell with me too,’ says Fish.
‘Not famous, not celeb famous. Maybe a politician, a businessman. I don’t know. But I’ve seen pictures of him.’
‘So what’s Daro on about giving me this stuff?’ says Fish.
‘Where’s Daro?’ says Georgina. Her voice small, breaking.
72
‘What did you think you were doing, Jacob? Risking my health! Exposing me to HIV! Are you mad?’
Mellanie in full vent, holding up the photographs one at a time like flash cards.
‘Heaven’s sakes, rent boys! They’re toxic. Diseased. Oh, Christ, what a number.’ Throwing the photographs on the coffee table.
She and Jacob Mkezi in his lounge. He’s standing at the sliding glass doors watching the early sun brighten his lawn, catch the dew on the cobwebs. Hears, but doesn’t listen to her.
‘Are you a pervert? A paedophile? A kiddie-fucker. This’s sick, Jacob. This is completely depraved. Way, way, way out of line. Way out of my territory. I don’t do this, Jacob. I don’t talk people out of this sort of crap. Young boys, for Chrissakes. Street kids. Je–sus. How’m I supposed to deal with this? Emotionally. That I’m here with the virus in my blood, killing me. Professionally, how’m I supposed to handle a scene like this? Huh? You tell me? I’ll tell you: I don’t.’
Mellanie walking across the room, back and forth. Mellanie dressed for war in a black trouser suit with pointy shoes. Mellanie the pissed-off lover. Mellanie the spin doctor with her errant client, clenching her fists, taking another tack.
‘God’s sake, Jacob. I liked you. I fell for you. Bloody fool, Mellanie. Dumb blonde, Mellanie. Thinking she’s got a thing going with Mr Crocodile Shoes, turns out he prefers little boys. He’s just keeping her on the ups as his dolly bird. Big ups, Mr Mkezi, thank you very much. Nothing nicer than being his bit on the side. His arm-candy so everybody can see that Jacob Mkezi pulls woman. Jacob Mkezi the kid-banger. Dishing HIV to his dumb blonde.’
She stands still, shoulders slumped.
‘Look at me. Look at me, Jacob.’ Points at the photographs. ‘Tell me these are photoshopped.’
He turns to face her. ‘They’re photoshopped.’
‘They’re not. You’re lying. This’s your car. There’s this kid getting into your car. This’s you getting out of your car, going into the chemist. Don’t lie to me, Jacob.’
‘I’m being set up.’
‘I can find this boy, Jacob. I can go there right now and find this boy. I can ask him.’
Jacob Mkezi shrugs. ‘You can. Maybe you’ll find him. Maybe you won’t. Those kids move around.’ He comes up to Mellanie, puts a hand on her arm. She shakes him off, backs away. Jacob Mkezi smiles. ‘Say you find him, say you show him a photograph of me, he’s going to tell you, yes, that’s the man driving the Hummer. That’s the man bought me a McDonald’s. That’s the man bought me muti. He’s going to tell you whatever you want to know. And why? Because he knows you’ll give him fifty bucks, a hundred bucks. He’ll tell you whatever he thinks you want.’
Jacob Mkezi hikes up his sleeves, gazes at Mellanie. Jacob Mkezi standing there relaxed in stone-washed jeans, leather loafers, the casual businessman. The man with the lowdown. ‘They want me out,’ he says. ‘I know too much.’
Mellanie coming back, ‘Who’s they? Who’s they, Jacob? Name names. Who’re they?’
‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Then how’m I supposed to believe you?’
‘You wouldn’t anyhow.’
‘Try me.’
‘Forget it.’
‘The party bosses. The president. Tell me who, Jacob? Who?’
‘I said forget it.’ Jacob Mkezi relaxing onto a sofa, hands clasped behind his head.
Mellanie staring at him: one arm across her chest, the other resting on it, her hand at her chin, a finger over her mouth. Staring at him. ‘You’re unreal. What was I thinking taking you on? You’re a criminal. A bloody lowlife, Jacob Mkezi. You used me, big-time.’
Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘And you didn’t like it? Ah, tell me another one, get real. It’s what turns you on, sisi. Knowing you’re close to the deals. The bad men. The lowlife. Mellanie getting her thrills. Getting her jollies. Rubbing up against the hep guys with the power. What d’you say, Mellanie? Smell the money, sisi. It’s groovy, sisi. It’s sharp. Everybody’s chilled. Everybody’s getting their cut.’
Mellanie, hands raised, shaking her head. Saying, ‘No, no, no. Fuck you. Okay, Jacob. Just fuck you. Find yourself another PR. Find yourself some other woman to rub your dick. Your limp prick. Someone else you can give AIDS.’ Mellanie slamming out of the room.
Leaving Jacob Mkezi with the smile hard on his face. He hears the front door bang closed. Hears her car fire. He phones Mart Velaze. His call goes to voicemail. ‘Comrade,’ he says, ‘what’s happening? What have you got for me on Vusi Bopape?’
73
Fish phones Flip Nel. He needs a cop presence. The two of them side by side would block out the sun, be intimidating. Flip Nel tells him he’s doing paperwork on a drive-by.
Fish says, ‘Gangsters?’
Hears Flip Nel sigh, ‘Yup. Yesterday. Don’t you read the papers?’
Fish says now and then. Too depressing otherwise.
‘Tell me about it,’ says Flip Nel. ‘This’s also organised crime. One of the Russian mafia. Shot him up, his wife, his daughter. All in ICU. Their muscle and the driver died. Crap job, hey? Some guys shot the hell outta the car at a robot. Happens, doesn’t it? From time to time. Chances are we’ll never find out who did it.’ He hears Flip Nel light a cigarette. ‘So, you’re gonna tell me we’re going fishing?’
‘I need a favour,’ says Fish.
‘Such as a fishing partner?’
‘We’ll get there.’ Fish in his Perana, pulled to the side of the road to make the call.
‘Yeah, I heard that said before,’ says Flip Nel. ‘That boat’s been sitting in your yard a while since you got it.’
Fish thinking, Guy, guy you’ve been checking? Says, ‘I’ve got stuff happening.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ says Flip Nel. ‘Haven’t we all.’
Fish listening to a deep suck on the cigarette, imagining the pursed lips, Flip Nel probably holding the fag into the cup of his hand.
‘What’s the favour you want?’
‘About half an hour of your time. Probably not organised crime. But it’s Jacob Mkezi’s boy involved.’
‘Hey, ai-yai,’ says Flip Nel. ‘The man still pulls clout here. Maybe this isn’t something I wanna hear about.’
‘It probably isn’t,’ says Fish. ‘The dude was in a hit ’n run. The one he hit died.’ Fish letting the information wait there for Flip Nel to soak
it up.
‘Mkezi’s got a boy?’
‘He has.’
‘Ja, really, I didn’t know.’
‘It’s not much advertised.’
‘An accident like what: knocked a kid off a bicycle? Smacked into an old lady crossing the road?’
‘Late-night street race. As I said, not organised crime. But close enough. I thought …’
‘What?’
‘Not sure. That kind of stuff, street racing’s, got people gambling. Gambling means someone somewhere’s taking a cut. Somewhere there’s an organised crime link.’
‘This’s why you want me?’
‘Ah, not really. Scare tactics, mostly.’
‘One condition.’
‘Uh huh. And that’s?’
‘This weekend, we take the boat out.’
Fish pausing. Fish saying, ‘Okay,’ – drawing out the ‘o’.
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Dib, dib, dib.’
‘That’s cubs,’ says Flip Nel. ‘So where, when?’
Fish gives him the address, suggests about twenty minutes. Twenty-three minutes later he and Flip Nel are riding the lift to the sixth floor. Standing side by side, shoulders touching the mirrored walls. A renovated building, still smells of cement and paint. Security on the desk didn’t even raise an eye from her Sudoku when they stepped in.
‘You know he’s here?’ says Flip Nel as the lift stops.
‘I checked.’
Fish knocks on the door of a corner flat. The door’s opened by a short, thin dude in dreads, his pupils pinpricks, he’s well goofed. Wafts of sweet herb smell drifting past them.
‘Lord Mkezi?’ says Fish.
Lord stares at them.
Fish says, ‘Invite us in.’
Lord says, ‘Who’re you?’
Flip Nel pulls out his ID.
‘Oh, fuck,’ says Lord.
‘It’s not a big deal,’ says Fish. ‘Just about someone you killed.’ He pushes past Lord. ‘Best we do this in private.’
Lord’s sitting room has these floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner with a view over the corrugated roofs of Salt River. Mosque minarets, church steeples, in the distance the harbour derricks. Look left there’s the city’s tall buildings on the foreshore.
‘Great view,’ says Fish, gazing out.
‘That’s the morgue down there,’ says Flip Nel, pointing. ‘You ever seen them drop a body, Lord? It happens.’
Lord says, ‘I’m going to call my father.’ Fidgeting with his cellphone.
‘I’d wait,’ says Fish. ‘Listen to me first.’
‘My father was the commissioner of police.’
‘Sure. We know.’ Fish moving aside CDs to sit on a couch, the only couch in the room. Flip Nel leaning against the wall. ‘Take a seat, Lord.’ Pointing at some cushions stacked in a corner. Fish and Flip Nel watching Lord in his half-arse jeans, his blue NYPD T-shirt, that some New York cop must’ve given his dad. Lord a complete caricature.
‘Lord,’ says Fish, coming forward to rest his elbows on his knees. ‘Here’s the story: last Sunday night you flattened a young guy watching you street-race. You didn’t stop, you got the hell away. So did mostly everybody else. The young guy called Fortune Appollis died yesterday. Someone, probably your daddy, paid for his treatment in a private hospital but he died anyhow. Fortune’s got a mother and father. Nice people. Heartbroken people. Really aching for their dead son. Grieving, grieving, grieving. Mrs Appollis is spaced out. She can’t get her head around it, Lord, that her son’s dead. Her only son. Snap’ – Fish clicks his fingers – ‘like that, gone. You wouldn’t want to see them, the pain they’re suffering. It’s terrible. Emotional. So, Lord, now I know you did this, only thing is I haven’t got the hard stuff, the evidence. And I reckon it’s unlikely I’m going to get it. I saw your car last night with the half-done spray job on the front but right now I reckon it’s being made like new. So no joy there. One witness is too scared to give a statement. Can you believe that? So no joy there either. This leaves only one thing, Lord: ubuntu. Okay, how’s it go? I’m a person through other people type of nonsense. My feeling here, Lord, is that your ubuntu wants you to do the right thing. You with me so far?’
Lord staring at him, frowning.
‘Maybe you’re going too fast,’ says Flip Nel.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Fish. ‘Lord’s got a private education. He’s a Bishops boy. Not so, Lord?’ Fish snapping his fingers again to get Lord’s focus.
‘See what I mean,’ says Flip Nel, ‘he’s not with us.’
‘Sure he is,’ says Fish, leans forward, taps Lord on the foot. ‘I’ll talk slowly, Lord. What I want you to do is go round to see Mr and Mrs Appollis. Here’s the address’ – taking a folded note from his shirt pocket – ‘first thing you do is apologise, then you come to a financial arrangement.’
‘A what?’ says Lord.
‘You agree to pay them some money, Lord. Your daddy’s rich, you’re rich, a couple of hundred K would help the people in their grief.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Course you can. Believe me, Lord, you’ll feel much better afterwards.’ Fish stands. Gives a light nudge to Lord’s foot. ‘Hang loose, bru.’
Lord stuttering, ‘I can’t. You don’t understand … My father …’
‘I understand,’ says Fish, dropping a business card in Lord’s lap. ‘Do the right thing. That’s where you can get me. A couple of days’ time I want to hear how you’ve done. Please don’t disappoint me, Lord. You mustn’t do that.’
He and Flip Nel leaving the speedster, their last sight of him staggering up from the cushions, gaping at them like a guppy fish.
In the lift, Flip Nel says, ‘What was that about?’
‘Appealing to his good nature.’
‘He’s not gonna do anything.’
‘He’ll tell his daddy.’
‘And his daddy will be onto you big-time.’
‘Exactly what I want.’
‘And why was I here?’
‘To aid communication. Cops scare people.’
Flip Nel shakes his head. ‘Keep me out of it when Mkezi calls. The man eats human beings.’
‘Of course, no problem.’
‘So this weekend then?’ Flip Nel grinning at him in the lift mirror. ‘Hope the cold front stays off a while longer.’
Fish thinking how much fun it would be with Flip Nel in the Maryjane two kays out on a heaving ocean. Surfing the swells would be better.
74
Clifford Manuel walks into Vicki Kahn’s office, says, ‘So, Jacob Mkezi’s after you?’
Vicki deeply into some research: away in another time and place. She looks up from her laptop, catches hair behind her ear. ‘I’m sorry?’ Trying to focus on the man in the pink-and-white-striped shirt standing in her doorway.
He comes in, sits opposite her. ‘Jacob Mkezi’s just been on the line.’ He smiles. That smarmy smile Vicki’s come to know means Clifford’s pleased with himself. ‘He told me he wants you.’
‘He …’ Vicki stops.
Clifford Manuel grinning at her. ‘He phoned you, yesterday. He told me.’
‘He did?’ Vicki feels heat in her cheeks. ‘I …’
‘Stop.’ Clifford Manuel holds up a hand. ‘It’s fine. We’re not losing you. That’s not the way I see it. I see it meaning we’ll get more work from him. This is win-win, Vicki.’
Vicki flicks her eyes to the screen, a new page opening. ‘He hasn’t made an offer to me. He phoned, but nothing’s definite.’
Clifford Manuel sits back, hands clasped behind his head. ‘He told me the figures. They’re impressive. It’ll get you out of your … your trouble.’
‘He told you what he’ll pay me?’
‘In confidence.’ Clifford Manuel does the smarm smile again. ‘Relax, Vicki. It’s useful knowing your value.’
Vicki staring at him. Aghast. Like she’s a barter cow, a kind of lobola payment. Like these two men are invol
ved in some deal, some trade, using her as merchandise. ‘What’s going on?’ she says.
‘What do you mean what’s going on?’ Clifford Manuel letting go of the smile, creasing his brow.
‘It’s my private business.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Clifford Manuel. ‘Absolutely. And I’m not interfering. But with the former commissioner, well, with the former commissioner things are different. He has his own style.’
‘I don’t know, Clifford,’ she says. ‘I haven’t thought about it. I don’t think it’s where I want to be.’
Clifford Manuel stands. She has to look up at him: the neat trousers, the waist carrying no excess weight, the shirt not even creased yet. The clean-shaven face, the dark nostrils showing no hairs. His trim eyebrows. The eyes solid as mahogany.
‘He’ll phone you about a get-together. He told me he would. Hear him out, Vicki. This is an opportunity.’
Clifford Manuel leaving it there, walking out, pausing at the door to look back at her. He nods.
Vicki bows her head, closes her eyes: recalls the hotel drinks session with the vet guy, Tol somebody. Thinks, that’s when it started. Clifford trying to get her in with Jacob Mkezi.
75
Tol Visagie cannot stay away. In a sense it’s his stash of horn, he found it, he needs to see it one last time. One last time in situ. He wants to be alone in the cave with the stack. So he drives there in the afternoon after he’s finished treating some cows for heart water. How the hell is Jacob Mkezi gonna know anyhow?
He crosses the river, boys fishing in the shallows, otherwise no one around. No trucks, bakkies, beaten-up cars for the ten kays on the other side. As he approaches the turn-off, Tol Visagie takes a look in the rear-view mirror, no one even in the distance behind him when he swings right onto the dirt track. He drives two clicks towards the distant koppie, pulls up under a tree. Waits there ten minutes. No one’s following him.
He goes on around the koppie, stops where he stopped when he brought Jacob Mkezi and his woman. That was something worth watching in her jeans. Pretty face, though too much make-up perhaps. Nothing that a shower wouldn’t wash off. Tol Visagie shivers at the thought of stepping into a shower with Mellanie Munnik, soaping her down.