Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

‘No.’ Fish slurping up a long noodle.

  Vicki messaged: ‘You don’t think she knows about us, me?’

  She watched Fish twirl his fork in the pasta, his eyes intent on the effort. They flicked back to her. ‘That’s paranoid.’

  Vicki typing: ‘You’ve heard the rumours that we did the job?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Said, ‘You don’t think maybe …’

  ‘No.’ Fish lifted the forkful, bent forward to pop it into his mouth. ‘Why do that? Kill him. Kill his daughter.’

  ‘Diamonds? Gold? Wood? Coal?’

  ‘We got all that stuff here.’

  ‘As a favour?’

  ‘I could go with that, a favour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Here’s what’ll really make you paranoid.’ Keyed in the name: ‘Mart Velaze.’ Said, ‘He gave me the nod. Remember him?’

  Not a name she was going to forget in a hurry. A name that’d caused them both grief. Maybe even Mart Velaze who’d sent the shooter to kill them, the day she got shot. The sinister Mart Velaze who’d vanished at a finger click. She’d mentioned his name to the birds in the Aviary, come up with a blank. Not even Henry Davidson’d reacted to the name. Then again, Davidson didn’t react to anything. Henry Davidson was not the sort of player Vicki would want at a poker table.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘None other, apparently. Told her, get hold of Fish Pescado. Told her I was the man for the job. Kind of him, hey?’

  ‘And you took it, knowing that?’

  ‘I like mysteries.’

  Vicki drank water. Her mouth dry, the nausea for the moment suppressed by the pulse of her heart.

  ‘Jesus, Fish.’

  ‘Jesus Fish nothing. You can talk, with the job you do.’

  She had to accept that. Didn’t need to work where she did except it gave her a kick. Same as the gambling. You got that kick, you wanted it again and again.

  ‘Probably he’s one of your colleagues.’ He was shaking his fork at her. Smiling. Like he could read her mind.

  Vicki typed: ‘Could be. Though no one’s heard of Mr Velaze.’

  ‘Mr Shadow Man.’

  Said, ‘Don’t joke, Fish.’ Entered: ‘Get hold of him first, ask your client for his number. Find out why.’

  Fish went blurry. Skype repeated its bad connection message. Fish saying behind the pop-up, ‘You wanting to run me now? Give me the moves. Handle me. I’d like that.’

  She filled her glass with water from the bottle. Swallowed a mouthful. ‘Just a suggestion.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The two of them staring at one another. Vicki deciding no sense in backing off on her request. The more information she had, the better. Take the mystery out of Linda Nchaba.

  ‘So,’ said Fish, ‘what’s this favour you want?’

  Trust Fish not to let anything drop.

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘A small thing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Hesitated. Building up Fish’s curiosity.

  ‘Tell me.’

  This time did so. Typed a brief. Leaving out that there might be a leak at the Aviary. Leaving out the trafficking angle.

  To which Fish said, ‘Bloody hell, Vicki, what’s to work on?’

  ‘A name. You’ve got her name,’ Vicki said. Keyed in: ‘It’s probably Zulu. She’s done some modelling. Must be good enough to land a contract in Paris. Which means she’s got a reputation, she’s going to be on an agency’s books. Try Durban. How many agencies can there be? A couple only. Joburg. A couple more. Five? Ten? Two hours you’ll—’

  ‘Isn’t this something—’

  She typed: ‘I know what you’re going to say, the answer’s no, I can’t. I told you, unofficial.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not talking about it.’

  This time Fish messaged: ‘There’s a problem at the Aviary?’

  ‘I’m not talking about it.’

  She saw Fish’s mouth pucker, heard him whistle. Saw a new light pop on in his eyes, like she’d pressed a switch. Saw him lean back, his gaze now to his right, probably through the open back door at the boat in the yard. The Maryjane.

  He came back to her.

  ‘Okay, no problem.’

  ‘Asap.’

  ‘Asap only happens tomorrow morning.’

  Vicki nodded. They sat looking at one another. ‘Talk tomorrow,’ she said, knowing in Fish’s mind there’d be the worry: girl walks into a casino. Girl in a wild city would go out looking for a poker game. Satisfy that itch for cards in her fingertips.

  ‘I’m not going to do it, Fish,’ she said. ‘I’m staying in. I don’t do that anymore.’

  He smiled. Said, ‘Cool.’

  ‘Trust me.’ She watched the smile broaden, expose his teeth. Pretty Fish. Gorgeous when he smiled.

  ‘Sweet dreams, princess.’

  They went through their ritual air-kiss goodbye. Disconnected.

  Vicki stared at the screen, thought, one last look at the flash drive. Brought up professional shots of Linda Nchaba on the ramp: she had attitude, she had style. You could see Linda Nchaba making it on the European circuit. In another folder, couple of party-party snapshots: group round a table downing shots. A man with his arm over Linda’s shoulder, possessive. Showing off his trophy. Attractive dude, laughing. Confident. A face Vicki didn’t recognise, not someone with a news profile. Could be the man Linda Nchaba feared. The granny-stealer, the trafficker. She clicked through more pictures: no other boyfriends, no more pictures of the dude.

  Ended up at the protected file. Guessed some passwords: gogo, model, adnil. Told herself she could be at it all night guessing blind. No point when the techies would crack it in seconds.

  Vicki pulled out the stick, went online, clicked through to 888poker. She’d been off the gambling addiction programme, been on the cards for months. Keeping it real. Within financial bounds. Her lapse unknown to Fish. Fish would blow a fuse. The last thing she needed was Fish on her case. What she needed now was distraction. Something to get her mind off how her body felt.

  15

  Joey Curtains parked beneath the One&Only, took a lift to the foyer. Walked into grandeur. His first time in the hotel. Like flash, bru. Gold statues. Gold vases. Everything big and golden. Was surely a hit with the brothers and sisters swanning about as if they owned the place.

  Joey scanned the tables, the crowd round the bar. Saw Prosper Mtethu at a window table. Prosper scrubbed up: white open-necked shirt, black leather jacket. Even in close to thirty degrees heat, he’s wearing his black leather jacket. Sitting there quietly gazing at the people on the patio. Impressive playground, big view of Table Mountain rising behind as the backdrop. Nice this hour of the evening. Soft twilight, warm air. Prosper sitting with a blue cocktail.

  Joey Curtains slid into the opposite chair. ‘A draft,’ he said to the hovering waiter. The waiter rattled off a list of brands. ‘No, wait,’ said Joey Curtains. He pointed at Prosper’s drink. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Blue Lagoon,’ said the waiter.

  ‘No shit. Like what’s a Blue Lagoon?’

  ‘A cocktail. Vodka, Blue Curaçao, lemonade. Orange or lemon slice, whichever you want.’

  ‘Sounds alright,’ said Joey Curtains. ‘Cool on a hot day.’ He looked at Prosper Mtethu. ‘He’s drinking it, has to be alright. Don’t worry about the fruit though. Fruit’s for breakfast.’ To Prosper said, ‘Howzit, my bru.’ Got a nod for his trouble.

  He settled into the chair, feeling a little underdressed in his white shirt open over a grey tee. Jeans, Lonsdale slip-ons that’d cost a bomb on a London trip, no socks. The way he’d been dressed all day. Joey Curtains not giving it a moment’s thought that he should freshen up to meet Prosper Mtethu. He looked around. ‘Fancy place. I heard about it, heard about it being a top-class joint. Never been here before, myself. But now I can change that. Tick it off.’ He paused, brought his eyes back to Prosper Mtethu. ‘You like coming here?’

  Again got a nod for his trouble.<
br />
  ‘All the beautiful people. Who’re they? Advertising? Government? Private banking?’

  Prosper Mtethu shrugged. Swirled the ice in his glass. Since Joey had sat down, he’d kept his eyes averted, his gaze focused on those outside. The brush-off starting to irritate Joey Curtains big time. Went for one last breaker with a comment about the weather. The weather a big talker in this city. Heat and wind in summer. Slashing rain and gales in winter. Always a subject there to get the bounce going.

  Got a grunt out of Prosper Mtethu as he lifted his drink, took a sip.

  Enough, thought Joey Curtains. Came forward in his chair. ‘My brother,’ he said, ‘listen, okay, listen to me. Doesn’t matter what your problem is with me, the major put us together. We gotta sort this one. Me’ – Joey Curtains stabbing his forefinger into his chest – ‘and you.’ Pointing that forefinger at Prosper Mtethu. ‘Both of us, my brother, together. Tonight.’

  Prosper Mtethu sipped at his Blue Lagoon. Said nothing.

  ‘So what we gonna do, my brother?’

  Prosper Mtethu put down his drink. ‘What did the major tell you?’

  ‘We must fix it. Fix it properly. Tonight.’ Joey Curtains sat back, relieved the man had come out of his funk. Nothing worse than a darkie with attitude. Thought they were bloody owed everything. Thought they bloody should own everything.

  ‘You know this colonel?’

  ‘Kolingba?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘I heard of him,’ said Joey Curtains.

  ‘He is a good man.’

  The waiter came up all cheery, bearing the drink on a silver platter: ‘Your cocktail, sir.’ Placing the highball glass on a coaster in front of Joey Curtains. ‘One Blue Lagoon.’ Stepping back, smiling. ‘Enjoy, gentlemen, enjoy.’ The gentlemen nodding at him. Joey Curtains distracted, saying thanks. Coming back to Prosper Mtethu.

  ‘Yissus, my brother, what’s this? Philosophy? Every man is a good man to somebody. Know what I’m saying? Doesn’t mean anything. Good is good like it’s relative.’

  ‘He is a good man for his people. For his own country.’

  Joey Curtains waved a hand, irritated. ‘Ah, man, you can say that about anybody. Priests, presidents, princes. They still get up to shit. You take Barack, he says he’ll close Guantanamo. Like five, six years later, has that happened? Everyone’s still there.’ He tasted his drink. ‘Tjee, that’s sweet. You sure they throw in vodka, it’s not all lemonade?’ He drank again. Set the glass down. ‘You was there Sunday, my brother, don’t come with this good man nonsense to me. You didn’t have to be the driver.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was him.’

  ‘That would’ve made a difference?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have driven.’

  Prosper Mtethu shook his head.

  Joey Curtains eased himself back. ‘You were MK?’

  Prosper Mtethu stared at him.

  ‘Part of a icing team?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Let me ask you.’ Joey Curtains clasping his hands behind his head. ‘Let me ask you, my brother. You killed people in the townships? Shot them? Used bombs at bus stops where there’s women, children?’

  ‘It was the Struggle.’

  ‘Ja, it was the Struggle, okay. In the Struggle bad things happened. Good people died. Not so, my brother? In those times good people died. Everybody that died was a good man to somebody, like I said. So now what you saying?’

  Joey Curtains wishing the man would look at him. Make eye contact so he could read something there. Instead followed Prosper Mtethu’s gaze to the outside scene: people lounging back, making whoopee in the summertime.

  ‘You see that man there?’ said Prosper Mtethu, pointing at a man and woman sitting at a small table. The man, wearing sunglasses, facing towards them.

  ‘Sure,’ said Joey Curtains.

  ‘They’ve been here since before I got here.’

  Joey Curtains laughed. ‘Probably lots of people been here before you pitched, my brother. Looking at them, some have been here all afternoon.’ He took another pull at his Blue Lagoon. ‘You know the dude?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Joey Curtains took another squint. Thought, yeah, now he looked closely he might’ve seen the guy lurking around back at the Aviary. ‘Could be I’ve seen him in the corridors. So what?’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ said Prosper Mtethu.

  Joey Curtains spluttered a laugh. ‘Saying nothing, Prosper. Saying nothing. You don’t like me. Only person you like is the colonel we supposed to switch off.’

  Prosper ignored him. Said, ‘That man is a problem. So is his girlfriend. She is a killer. We must finish and go.’

  ‘He’s having a drink, my brother, with his chick. What’s the problem? It’s nice here. He’s relaxing. Relax, man, we got to talk about our job. That’s what the major wants. That’s what he tells me, talk to Prosper. We got an order, bro.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Prosper. ‘Tomorrow afternoon at the hospital.’

  ‘We gotta do it tonight.’

  Joey Curtains getting no leeway on Prosper’s face. ‘Tomorrow. You tell them tomorrow.’

  ‘Alright. Alright. Tomorrow.’ Joey Curtains wondering how he’d run that one past the major. Have to come up with some serious story. But getting Prosper into this was the first score.

  Prosper telling him, ‘No cars this time. You go there by taxi. Understand?’

  ‘Sure.’ Joey Curtains amused at Prosper the Planner organising a hit, using public transport for the getaway. Like minibus taxis were a good option. Crap idea, he thought.

  Prosper frowning at him. ‘After the visiting hours: five o’clock, we meet.’ The man finished his drink. ‘You wait for me outside.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Now I am going.’ Prosper stood. ‘I have a granddaughter to cook for.’ Before he moved off, made a call, said, ‘I am leaving town now, Litha.’ A chuckle. ‘You do your homework. No more television.’ Joey Curtains hearing lightness in the man’s tone. Then serious Prosper Mtethu bent towards him to say, ‘You must finish your drink slowly. Watch our friends outside.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mart Velaze,’ said Prosper Mtethu heading off across the foyer for the steps.

  Joey Curtains thought, paranoid arsehole. Took ten minutes over his drink wondering what plan Prosper would have for the good colonel. With each sip the Blue Lagoon more cloying in his mouth. He finished it though. Joey Curtains finished things. Part of his upbringing: If you can’t do it, don’t start it, Joey. The words of his pa.

  When he got up there were Mart Velaze and his dolly bird passing through the foyer. Couldn’t see her as dangerous. Good-looking girlie. Young too. Another coloured throwing herself at the darkies. Joey Curtains waited but Mart Velaze didn’t glance his way.

  Thing about Prosper Mtethu, thought Joey Curtains, was he didn’t know what was the real world anymore. Sad shit. Time they gave him the ticket, game over.

  16

  Kaiser Vula, on his cellphone, told his wife he would be working late.

  ‘Again,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Again,’ he came back. Angry at the weariness in her voice. He was driving down Bree Street in the dusk, shuttling between the traffic lights. Pulled into a parking bay at Heritage Square, kept the engine running.

  Heard her saying, ‘Every night this week. Since Sunday. You have to be late every night.’

  ‘It is my job,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘We have a problem. These people we are dealing with do not stick to business hours.’

  ‘Ai, Kaiser, we have a problem. We have a problem between us.’

  ‘What problem? What’s this problem?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ She laughed. A harsh, forced laugh that Kaiser Vula hadn’t heard from her before. ‘You come home, we don’t speak. We don’t touch. We don’t make love. You are a stranger. In the morning
you do not even kiss me goodbye.’ She broke into her mother tongue, the language beating at him like hail.

  ‘What’re you saying? Talk English.’

  ‘You want me to talk English? I will talk English. You are a bastard. That is what I said. A bastard.’ Her voice rising. ‘A bastard. Like all men you are a bastard.’

  Now Kaiser Vula railed at her in his language. Swore at her and her family. He heard her gasp at the rawness of it. Went back to English. ‘We will talk about this later. You wait for me. Tonight we will talk about this. When I get home we will talk about this.’ He was shouting, the roar of blood and language loud in his head. Disconnected, threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

  Sat, gripping the steering wheel, staring down the street until his breathing calmed.

  At his side window a bergie grinned, tapped on the glass. Saying, ‘Mister Meneer, you got some money for a poor gentleman?’ The vagrant offering a cupped hand.

  Kaiser Vula waved him away.

  ‘Ag, please, Meneer, just a two rand.’

  Kaiser Vula opened the glovebox, drew out a pistol, pointed it at the bergie. The man stepped back, ran off on shamble legs. Kaiser Vula watched him disappear into the dusk. Dropped the gun back into the glovebox. Drove off, his mind seething. For a moment thought of confronting her. Going home to confront her. Now. Immediately. While the fight was in him. But he did not turn back. Continued towards the woman who pleased him. Drove into the parking below her apartment block, stopped beside her Audi coupé.

  Sat in his car thinking, what was her case, his wife? There’d been other women before. He suspected she’d known that. She’d said nothing. But those women hadn’t been Nandi. Those women had been different. Flings. Nothing serious. Wham-bams. That’d been good for them. Brought mojo to their bedroom. He’d screw a stranger, rush home to screw his wife.

  Except not with Nandi.

  She changed that. As if she’d cast a spell. Sprinkled muti on his parts. Nandi and her muti. This modern girl with her witchdoctor powders. Where’d she get that from? Going off somewhere in the townships to buy her packets of magic. To see a witchdoctor, some sangoma from some backlands village.