Of Cops & Robbers (2 page)

Vicki Kahn, Vicki with an ‘i’, stands next to her Alfa MiTo, scoping the ocean. The light’s bad, one figure out there much like another. Sees she’s being checked out by two young guys, zipping up their wetsuits. The one staring at her cleavage.

‘Hey,’ she calls to them. ‘You know Fish?’

The boob starer shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the inside bits into place, refocuses, says he does. ‘The tallish blond guy with the earring?’

‘Exactly. Tell him he’s needed, here, now.’

‘Sure, sure.’ The surfer sliding his board out the back of his bakkie.

‘Not in half an hour. Right away.’ Vicki keeping the please out of her request. With waterheads you have to stay direct, simple.

She orders a flat white at Knead.

The Nigerian waitress with the pixie smile who always serves her, them, says, ‘To go? We’re closing up. I’ll bring it to you.’

‘Lovely,’ says Vicki, pointing at her MiTo, the blazing red one. ‘I’ll be there.’

The waitress nods.

Vicki crosses to her car, hears her iPhone ping: couple or five emails waiting. One from the senior partner. The
smooth-talking
, American-twanged, highly connected Clifford Manuel. Not someone she trusts. Not someone you want as an enemy. Guy has family connections that go back into the bad old days of the struggle. Family connections now worth millions in fees, gratuities, introductions, heads-up at the trendy Bolshoi Bar.

She clicks open his email.

‘Hi Vicki.’

Hi Vicki. Approachable, despite he lives in a suit. Impeccable suits. Silk shirts. Ermenegildo Zegna ties. Doesn’t need to but
wears braces. Who wears braces? Something he picked up in the States. And brogues. Never anything but brogues.

‘Don’t forget the meeting. This is important.’

Authoritative. Straight to the point. Wouldn’t think that he could be lechie with the young associates. One even laid a
harassment
complaint. To no effect, except she left for other pastures.

He tried it on with Vicki at a cocktail party, not long after she’d joined the firm. Some time back now. The cocktail party to celebrate the firm’s eighty years of legal practice. Cabinet ministers, MPs, DGs, CEOs, CFOs, ambassadors, consuls, judges, the legal sharks, glitterati all in attendance. And Fish. She got out of Clifford Manuel’s smarm by introducing him to Fish.

Fish said, ‘Howzit, nice place.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose so,’ Clifford Manuel replied, not smiling, trying to withdraw his hand from Fish’s grip. Then massaging his fingers when he did.

‘Impressive,’ Fish said. ‘All this artwork.’

Clifford Manuel smiled, smoothed his tie with his clean hand. ‘Local artists. Kentridges, Goldblatts, Ractliffes. That statue’s an Alexander. It’s called
Serviceman.’

‘I know.’

‘You like art, Mr Ah …?’

‘Pescado,’ Vicki said. Repeated.

‘Mr Pescado.’

‘Bartolomeu Pescado, otherwise known as Fish, consults for us,’ she said.

Fish shrugged. ‘I’ve got pictures by most of them.’

‘Have you now?’ Clifford Manuel looking hard at him.

‘Ractliffe’s dead donkey. An Alexander print, a Goldblatt photo of some graveyard. They’re getting expensive. I’ve got to buy younger talent now.’

‘Interesting.’ Clifford Manuel backing away, holding out his right hand limply, like a rag. ‘You’re an interesting fish, Mr Pescado. Please. Have a drink. Enjoy yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fish. ‘I will.’ Turned to Vicki, said, ‘Mr Smooth.’

‘He is.’ Vicki grinning, loving it. ‘But he’s also my boss.’

And now Clifford Manuel so insistent on her being at a meeting. Nothing she’s been briefed for.

‘I just want you there. Want you to meet someone, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Will be a good contact for you. Actually he asked for you, he knew your aunt.’

‘My aunt?’

‘That’s what he said. He’s a client, Vicki. An important client.’

Clifford Manuel being mysterious. Clifford Manuel being Clifford Manuel, never letting out all the information.

‘Who?’ she said.

‘You’ll see.’

‘One flat white,’ says the waitress, smiling her pixie smile. She points at the beach. ‘He’s come in, your boyfriend?’

‘Yeah,’ says Vicki. ‘He knows what’s good for him.’

The two of them watching Fish slide his board onto his Isuzu single cab. ‘Great body in a wetsuit,’ says Vicki.

The waitress giggles.

‘Don’t say anything.’ Vicki waves at Fish and Daro, Fish giving her the thumbs up, Daro mouthing hello, heading off towards his car. ‘Real beach Adonis, you can pick them up any beach around the city. All that lovely blond hair. The blue eyes, the hard bod.’

Fish comes up, peeling the wetsuit off his arms, makes to hug her.

Vicki steps back. ‘Oh no you don’t.’

‘Doll,’ says Fish, ‘where’s the romance?’ He takes a swig of her coffee. ‘That’s weak. Needs two hits of espresso.’ Rubs a towel over his chest. ‘You’re nice ’n early.’

‘I’m not staying,’ says Vicki.

‘No?’ Fish giving a side glance.

‘I can’t. Clifford wants me at a meeting in town. To meet a client. Guess who.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I had to drag it out of him.’

‘Vicki?’

‘Jacob Mkezi.’

‘The big man himself?’

‘The disgraced man.’

‘He’s a scapegoat.’

‘You don’t think he’s corrupt?’

‘Of course he is. But still a scapegoat. Take down the top cop, looks like you mean business. Everyone else in government pulling a scam can breathe easy.’

‘That’s cynical.’

‘That’s a fact of modern life.’ He touches her face lightly. ‘So come afterwards.’

‘I don’t think so. Tomorrow, okay? For the weekend.’ She finishes the coffee. ‘Promise.’ Sees the suspicion in Fish’s eyes, like he thinks something else’s going on here. ‘I’ll call. Soon as I’m home I’ll call.’

Fish watches her drive off, the lovely Vicki Kahn. Not like other women he’s had in and out of his life. With Vicki he plays it loyal.

Daro’s bête noire, Seven, is pulling a number. He and his pellie, Jouma, in the mammal gallery of the South African Museum. Rows of cabinets, rows of stuffed wild animals: bucks, cats, hippos, elephants paused on their savannahs, silent in the dim light. The gallery hushed.

‘No, my bru, not this one. Nay, you’s mad,’ says Jouma.

‘This one, my bru. I got a buyer.’

‘Strues?’

‘Strues, maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Ja, definite maybe.’

The men stare at the rhinoceros in the glass cabinet.

‘We can’t, man, not in here.’

‘Why not? I got a plan, my bru. Everything’s sweet inna street.’

‘What plan?’

‘I tell you.’

The men shut up as tourists approach, the one edging the other to the far side of the cabinet. The tourists, a man and a woman in shorts and T-shirts, read that this specimen is a white rhinoceros, that it is one hundred and twenty years old, that it once roamed in the Cape. That it was donated to the museum by Cecil John Rhodes. The tourists smile at the two men through the glass cabinet, pass on. The two men smile back: the one has no front teeth.

Seven and Jouma are smartly dressed in jackets and clean jeans. Open-necked shirts, black takkies. They’ve been in the museum twenty minutes, paid their way in as good citizens do.

Jouma waits until the tourists have left the mammal gallery, says, ‘Nay, my bru, we’s not in this line.’

‘We’s branching out, my bru,’ says Seven. ‘Freelance onna
razor’s edge.’ He comes close to Jouma, whispers in his ear, ‘Twenny grand, ek sê. Now we’s talking bucks.’

Jouma stares at the rhino. ‘How we gonna carry it?’

‘No, my bru, what you thinking, my bru?’ Seven laughs, smacking his thigh. ‘Just the horns. No harm done. They make new ones that looks just like these, so when you’s standing here yous can’t tell the difference. Win-win situation. Who’s the loser?’ He wags his chin at Jouma. ‘No one.’

Jouma says, ‘Nooit, never, nay, my bru.’

Seven points at the rhino. ‘This thing. This is a worthless thing. What they call priceless. Not for sale.’ He comes up close to Jouma. ‘So if it not for sale it doesn’t matter if we take the horns. Like I say, they gonna make new ones.’

Jouma crouches to look more closely at the rhino. ‘Yous don’t know it’s real. Maybe it’s plastic.’

‘Ag, no, my bru. Why’s a museum gonna have a plastic rhino? This’s for real. Check.’ He squints at the legend. ‘Donated by Cecil John Rhodes. This thing walked the earth, my bru, that’s why it’s here.’ He jabs his finger at the legend. ‘It says, mos. Roamed in the Cape. It’s real, my bru. Real like you and me. This thing was alive. Now it’s inna exhibition. Stuffed by Cecil.’

Jouma nods, looks round at the rows of silent animals. ‘I suppose.’

‘Better than killing a live one. No animals hurt in the making of this fortune.’ Seven cackles, beckons Jouma out of the gallery.

They’re playing dominoes in the security guard’s office when the museum closes. Seven has won every time.

‘How long we gonna wait?’ says Jouma.

‘There’s still people working, moegoe,’ says Seven. ‘Yous a stupid or something?’ He wins another game. Says to the security guard, ‘Don’t you play dominoes in Malawi, Paul?’

‘Mozambique,’ says Paul. Paul’s a big man, tall, muscular, his shirtsleeves tight over his biceps.

‘Ja,’ says Seven. ‘There.’

‘We play dominoes.’

‘But you don’t win.’

‘Sometimes I win.’

‘Except, my bru, against an ace champion.’ Seven laughs, slides tiles to Jouma and Paul.

Nine o’clock, Paul the security guard gives the thumbs up, fetches a two-kg club hammer from his locker, a small handsaw, gives them to Seven. The three men go down to the mammal chamber, the security guard leading by torchlight.

‘Aaa, my bru, this is spooky,’ says Jouma, the animals looming and vanishing in the beam of the torch. To Paul says, ‘You like this job?’

‘Not so much. Your money is better.’

‘Fat bucks.’ Seven holds out the hammer to Jouma. ‘Take it. Come on Mr Demolisher.’

Jouma shrugs off his jacket, spits on his hand, lifts the hammer above his head. ‘Here goes, meneer.’ Whacks the hammer into the glass case. The glass cracks but doesn’t break. Jouma drops the hammer, rubs his arm. ‘Jusses.’

‘Security glass,’ says Paul. He hands the torch to Seven, takes the hammer from Jouma, brings a blow down on the wooden frame that shatters the glass.

‘There’s it,’ says Seven.

Paul clears away shards of glass, reaches in to break off the horn. A couple of pulls, it doesn’t budge.

‘That’s why we’s got a saw’, says Seven, taps it against Paul’s elbow.

Paul takes the handsaw, goes at the base of the big horn, Seven encouraging him. Halfway through he rips it off. Holds the horn in both hands. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Aitsha! How’s that?’ says Seven, taking the horn. ‘We got nine kilos here.’ He passes it on to Jouma, adjusts the torchlight for Paul.

Paul starts on the smaller horn with the handsaw.

‘Careful, my bru,’ says Seven. ‘Yous don’ wanna damage it.
Yous damage it, who’s gonna buy it then? Softly, my bru, slowly.’

Paul keeps on with the saw, cutting through the skin, through the model stuffing. When he’s almost done, grips the horn with both hands, pushing, yanking. His wrestling with the horn
topples
the rhino against what’s left of the glass cabinet.

‘Agge nee, my bru! Now look what you’s doing? You understand English, my bru, slow, hey, softly.’ Seven flagging him down with an outspread hand. ‘You must hold the horn, push back the head, saw some more. Ja, this makes sense?’

Paul grunts, does as Seven says, cuts off the small horn.

‘What I say, my bru? What I tell you?’ Seven takes the small horn from Paul, shines the torch on it. ‘Very nice.’ He weighs it in his hand. ‘How much you say, maybe three or four kilos?’ Seven whistles. ‘Jackpot in one night. Everyone smiling.’ He hands it to Jouma.

‘Where’s the money?’ says Paul, puts down the handsaw.

Seven shines the light in Paul’s face. ‘Like I told you, my bru. We’s got to get paid first. Doesn’t happen all in a rush.’

Paul stands over Seven, reaches for the torch. ‘You must not lie to me.’ He twists the torch out of Seven’s hand.

‘Nee, my bru, never,’ says Seven. ‘In a few days everything’s sweet.’

Paul puts the light on him. ‘I come with you. To your house.’

Seven nods. ‘Yes, my bru. Okay, okay.’ He holds up a hand to shield his eyes. ‘Time to go, hey.’

Paul leads them out of the gallery. Seven behind him, Jouma last, carrying the horns. Jouma complaining in Flats-speak about being the slave, about this Mozambican coming home with them. Not noticing Seven make his move, going round Paul. Jouma crashing into Paul as the big man stops, dropping the torch, his hands clutching at his chest.

In the darkness Seven dancing away, springing forward to put the flick knife in a third time. The Mozambican folding to his knees. Seven sticking him in the neck.

Jouma says, ‘Yusses, my bru. You’s fast.’

‘Part of the plan, no foreigners,’ says Seven, panting, picking up the torch. He turns it on Paul’s jerking body. They watch until the security guard lies still.

‘He should of been here twenny minutes ago,’ says Rictus Grin, moving into the room, flopping onto the couch. ‘We had an appointment.’

The Fisherman stands, shifts aside the curtain to take a peek out the window. Black outside. Streetlights dull in the darkness. ‘He’s a politician. Politicians get held up. People wanting to shake their hands.’

‘For how long?’

‘For how long, what?’ The man drops the curtain.

‘For how long’re we gonna wait?’

‘All night if we have to.’

‘Shit, this’s up to shit.’

‘Thanks to you.’

Rictus mumbling, ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘Chrissakes. Leave it, okay?’ He looks from one man to the next. ‘Gloves,’ he says. ‘You put them on. You wipe down the door handles. The tap.’ Pulling a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket. The others dragging out their issue. Except Blondie.

‘I left them in the car,’ he says. ‘In the boot.’

‘Go ’n fetch them. Bring the spray can, too. May as well get that done. And go carefully, okay. You see a car you keep out of sight.’

Blondie comes back with the spray can. ‘You do it,’ he’s told. ‘In the kitchen, I’ll show you.’ They go through to the kitchen, all four men. ‘Okay. Big letters right across the wall, across the fridge. Nice big red letters against the white. The first three
together
like it’s a word, then a gap, then the next three. Okay? RAU TEM.’

‘Rautem, what’s that mean?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Fokkin nonsense.’

‘RAU TEM, capital letters, only that. No poetry.’

Blondie shakes the can. ‘Like this?’ Makes the downstroke of the R. Stands back.

‘Keep going, man, don’t stop.’ The man talking, the Commander, jerks a thumb at Rictus. ‘Stay in the lounge. We don’t want him walking in surprising us.’

‘Yes, baas,’ says Rictus. ‘Whatever you say, baas.’

The Commander glares at him. ‘Enough. Okay? Enough.’

Rictus salutes with two fingers to his forehead.

Blondie completes the letter, does the A and the U across the kitchen cupboards. Glances at his superior. ‘You want it over the fridge, really?’

‘I do.’

‘Fokkin childish,’ says the Fisherman.

‘Not your problem. Not my problem either. Or any of us. It’s an order. Ours not to reason.’

Blondie lets loose on the fridge, the letters dropping lower. Runnels of paint dripping down from the overspray. He stands back. The letters are manic, mad, angry.