Of Cops & Robbers (3 page)

Night comes down on the city.

Fish Pescado, home alone, no work, dwindling bank balance, listens to Shawn Colvin’s sad take on life, hits up the regular doob buyers on the list he’s inherited: some lawyers, couple of ad executives, clutch of asset management types, two doctors. But everyone’s stocked. No big parties coming up for the weekend.

Next taps on some uni guys, no takers. Tries the doctor of classical something or other, always a buy when he calls. No answer. Leaves a message. These people all high-end, the sort who don’t want to handle the street. Fish’s their buffer. Fish’s their man.

Brings him round to Professor Summers, professor of political science. Professor of bullshit, Fish reckons, but likes the man. The prof’s got this fuck-you attitude. A short fellow, food stains on his ties, shirts, trousers. House stinks of cat piss and damp. And something mouldy, lingering, dead rats under the floorboards. But he buys without fail, weekly, since Fish took over the list.

Professor Summers opens with, ‘Ah, Mr Pescado. Good to hear from you. A reminder to purchase, no doubt?’

‘Part of the service.’

‘That jerk, your predecessor, Mullet Mendes, never thought so. Not surprising he got killed. What a jerk. But there we are. “He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.” Revelation, Mr Pescado. The only book in the Bible worth reading.’

‘I don’t know it.’

‘Not many do.’

‘So how many, Prof?’ says Fish.

‘Two baggies. That’s it. That’s what it’s going to be every week. With your predecessor, every week he’d ask me how many. Every week I’d tell him two baggies. For I don’t know how long
now. But that’s over now. Two baggies every week, Mr Pescado.’

‘Just checking. Case you’re going large. You know, for the weekend.’

He hears the professor laugh. ‘Brilliant, Mr Pescado, I must get with this street language. Going large, is it?’

‘Can I deliver tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Your predecessor always kept me waiting, that’s the kind of jerk he was. Since you took over it’s been a pleasure.’

He’s gone before Fish can reply. In the contact list he inherited from Mullet Mendes, Professor Summers is listed under Arsehole.

Fish takes a Castle milk stout from the cupboard, room temperature his preference, stands at the back door gazing into his yard at the boat, the
Maryjane
, another thing he inherited from Mullet. Along with the rusty Isuzu bakkie. Next to that’s his Cortina Perana V6: red with a black interior, black stripe over the bonnet, alloy wheels. A mean machine which gets the chicks hopping. Fish’s retro indulgence. These toys and the house, the sum total of his assets. Still. No bond on the house. No finance on the Perana.

And then there’s the inheritance. From a guy he hadn’t known more than a year. They’d partnered up on some investigative jobs. Talked about opening a joint operation. Mendes & Pescado. Joked that it sounded like a Porra fish ’n chip shop. Joked that maybe Mullet & Fish would’ve been good. This weird alliance in their names.

Then Mullet takes a bullet. Two bullets, actually. Pops his clogs in the ambulance.

His last words, ‘Titus Anders. Untouchables.’

Fish wants to tell him, yeah, we’ve met.

Next thing Fish knows he’s the heir to a list of dagga clients Mullet used to run, a very nice sideline thank you, and a boat, a bakkie, assorted firearms. Also has to clear out the rest of the guy’s life but that’s another story.

Now the poor fucker’s ashes are in a box under Fish’s kitchen sink. He’s been meaning to take out the boat, sprinkle Mullet on
the waters of False Bay. Problem is the surf. It’s been hot lately. And Fish would rather be surfing than blowing off ashes. The dead can wait. Mullet’d understand.

So Fish stares at the
Maryjane
, takes a gulp of stout. Thinks, Gumtree, the online sale site. He could advertise the boat there. The bucks would come in useful.

Takes another swallow from the bottle. Thinks, a shag would’ve been nice. Pity Vicki couldn’t stay. He can feel her skin under his hands. Imagine sliding between those thighs.

Cool. Very cool.

His phone rings: his mother. Estelle. As she wants him to call her.

Vicki’s at the Cullinan, hanging out where the bling set hang out, watching Jacob Mkezi approach.

He’s come purposefully up the steps from the underground parking into the hotel foyer. A man who looks like he has a
sadness
on his mind. He pauses two steps from the top, straightens the knot of his tie. The foyer tinkles with piano music, the
occasional
splutter of female laughter. She reckons this isn’t Jacob Mkezi’s venue of choice. But that’s Clifford Manuel for you. Clifford always on to the hip spots.

Jacob Mkezi steps onto the marble flooring, hears the crunch of grit beneath the soles of his shoes.

‘Jacob.’

There are three men sitting on the couches, and the woman, Vicki Kahn. All rise. Clifford Manuel’s first on his feet, beckoning him over. Next to him is Cake Mullins, which does not thrill Jacob Mkezi. Cake Mullins means the discussion’s not about a building tender, a golf estate development, a toll road scheme. Cake Mullins means the discussion’s about moving items.

The third man’s tall, thin. Dressed casually: his shirt loose in the current style, a light jacket, jeans, loafers, no socks.
Probably
in his late forties. Has a tanned face. Tanned hands. An outdoor man. Maybe a bush man? Jacob Mkezi thinks. A game ranger? Cake Mullins is a bush man, always sourcing product in remote places. Might be another reason why Cake Mullins is warming a chair.

He shakes hands with his lawyer. Says, ‘What’s happening, Clifford?’

Clifford introducing Vicki Kahn. Jacob Mkezi takes her hand, cool and smooth, firm, gripping his hand tighter than he holds
hers. ‘What a pleasure.’ Watches Vicki Kahn looking at him. Appraising is the word he thinks of. Wonders what it would take to get her away from Clifford Manuel, get her on board full-time to handle his legal business?

‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms Kahn. And not only from Clifford. From other corporate lawyers as well. You are
developing
a reputation in the legal world,’ he says, not letting go of her hand. ‘Sharp as your aunt, I’m told. I knew her, your aunt, Amina Kahn. When she was in Paris. She was my lifeline until they murdered her.’

Sees Vicki Kahn frowning. ‘Really. My aunt Amina? These days nobody wants to talk about her. Just the mention of her name brings death threats.’

‘I can imagine.’ Jacob Mkezi releases her hand. ‘Remind me to tell you about her one day. Her tragic story. We were in exile together, you know. Have you read Goethe, Ms Kahn? I learnt German during my time in that country. There is a line of Goethe’s:
Träume keine kleinen Träume
… dream no small dreams. Your aunt found out about men with big dreams, and she didn’t like it.’ He smiles at her. ‘I’m being deliberately mysterious. We need to talk.’

He turns to Cake Mullins, takes his hand next, strong, sweaty. Says, ‘This’s a surprise.’

‘Been a while.’ The men making quick eye contact, Jacob Mkezi glancing at Vicki Kahn, ‘You’ve been introduced?’

‘We know one another,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘Poker addicts. We sit at the same tables.’

‘Sat,’ says Vicki Kahn. ‘I’m off the cards now.’

Cake Mullins grins. ‘I’d forgotten. Gamblers remand. One day at a time.’

Jacob Mkezi catches the undertow, says to Cake Mullins, ‘Maybe you should try it, Gamblers Anonymous,’ looking away at the third man.

Clifford Manuel saying, ‘Let me introduce you, Dr Tol Visagie.’

‘Doctor?’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Medical?’

Tol Visagie laughs. He’s loose-limbed, gangly, his arms moving like there’s a puppet master pulling strings.

‘Not for humans.’

‘A vet.’

‘Ja,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Wild animals.’

Clifford Manuel signals a waiter, places Jacob Mkezi’s whisky order.

The group settle into the couches, Clifford Manuel doing icebreakers with the wonders of his new car, the Lexus RX. ‘Rides like you’re gliding.’

Cars one of Jacob Mkezi’s favourite topics. ‘You like cars, Vicki?’ he asks.

‘If a red Alfa MiTo turns you on,’ says Clifford Manuel.

‘That’s what you drive?’

‘The only car I want to drive.’

‘Nice,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘I’d have said you were a Cooper girl.’

‘Why?’ Vicki Kahn coming back at him, Jacob Mkezi unsure if she’s flirting.

‘Why?’ He laughs. ‘It’s what young women drive. Fast. Going places. Wanting to be chic.’ Likes the flash it brings to her smile.

‘Too obvious,’ she says.

‘How’s the Hummer?’ says Cake Mullins, swirling the ice in his drink.

When Jacob Mkezi was police commissioner his Hummer became national news.

‘As good as they said in the papers?’ Cake Mullins chuckles, gets a frown from Jacob Mkezi, a squirm out of Clifford Manuel.

Clifford Manuel coming in fast, ‘And you, Tol, what’s your car?’

Tol Visagie snorts. ‘A bakkie. Nissan double cab. Perfect for my work.’

Again Jacob Mkezi ignores the opening, leans forward, taps Cake Mullins on the knee. ‘A favour?’

‘Sure,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘Your word is my command.’

Jacob Mkezi doesn’t crack a smile, keeps tapping at Cake Mullins’ knee. ‘My boy needs a car. Something fast.’

‘I know a man’s got a lovely little boutique showroom. Daro Attilane. He can get amazing cars.’

‘Nothing amazing. Just something flashy for the kid.’

‘Daro’s the man.’ Cake Mullins takes a sip of his drink, brushes off Jacob Mkezi’s tapping finger.

‘You do that.’ Jacob Mkezi withdrawing his hand.

‘I know Daro Attilane,’ says Vicki.

‘You do?’

‘He’s reliable. He organised my Alfa.’

‘Really?’ Jacob Mkezi smiling at her. ‘Not only a
recommended
lawyer, a discerning taste in cars, but connections too.’

Clifford Manuel clears his throat, moving on to cricket, the wonders of the new team. Jacob Mkezi couldn’t give a flying fig for cricket but he’s sat through Clifford Manuel’s cricket spiel often enough to know the lawyer’s marking time.

Tol Visagie’s a cricket man, it gets him going, talking overs and balls. Cake Mullins adds his two cents about how they’re not going to shape against the Aussies. Probably be wiped.

Jacob Mkezi half-listens, watches through the tall windows the young and the beautiful around the pool drinking cocktails, whiskies, shooters. Soft winter night outside, imagines them getting among one another. Fantasises Vicki Kahn into that mix too.

His drink comes, they toast good health.

Clifford Manuel says, ‘Jacob, as I told you on the phone, it was Tol asked me to arrange this meeting. He’s got Cake on board already. What little I know of the project sounds exciting. Sounds very profitable. Any legal work you need me for, I’m a phone call away. So’s Vicki. We’re there whenever you need us, our professional opinion. So.’ He raises his glass. ‘To your venture. We’ll leave you guys to it.’

They clink glasses, take a quick swallow.

Vicki Kahn stands. ‘Don’t get up.’

The men do anyhow.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ says Jacob Mkezi, taking her hand again. ‘To tell you about your aunt.’

‘You want to feel the baize once more, you let me know,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘A table’s not the same without Vicki the poker chick.’

‘Thanks, Cake,’ she says, easing her hand out of Jacob Mkezi’s grasp. ‘But no thanks. This time I’m through.’

‘Of course,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘Why’m I doubting it?’

Jacob Mkezi takes in Vicki Kahn’s figure in the black suit. Good hips, good boobs. He nods at Clifford Manuel slipping away with a little bow, smiling like a Buddha, his hands in prayer.

Jacob Mkezi thinking, the lawyer ducking because there’s a stink on the wind. He sighs, turns to Tol Visagie wondering where this one’s going. ‘So, Tol. What’s your story?’

Tol leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Goes through the polite spiel, an honour to meet you, kind of you to see me, grateful for your time, know you’re a busy man, got a lot on your plate.

Jacob Mkezi holds up his hand, stop. ‘Hey, my friend, enough. What’s the juice?’

‘A proposal,’ says Cake Mullins.

Tol frowns at Cake Mullins. ‘Something I wanna show you.’

‘Now?’

Tol laughs, shaking his head. ‘No, no-no, not now. It’s a bloody long way away. I wanna offer you a break, out of the city.’ He shifts to the edge of the couch. ‘You’re a birdwatcher, hey, that’s what I read?’

‘When I get a chance.’

‘Here’s it: this weekend I take you to the Caprivi.’ Tol sitting back with a grin. ‘Wonderful birds there. The feathered kind too.’

Jacob Mkezi stares at him. ‘You know the sort of trouble that’s in my life right now?’

‘Ja.’ Tol Visagie brushing it aside with a wave of his hand. ‘The weekend, Mr Mkezi. That’s all it’s gonna take. We fly there Friday afternoon, fly back Sunday. It’ll give you a break. Take
you out of it in the bush.’

Jacob Mkezi keeps up the stare. ‘You’re a vet, you said? Wildlife?’

Tol Visagie nods. ‘I work in the bush.’

‘Then what’s the story, my friend?’

‘You have to see it. You have to come and see this.’

‘You do, Jacob,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘Believe me, you’ve got to see this.’

‘You’re not going to tell me what it is?’

‘No.’

Tol Visagie’s shaking his head like a noddy dog. ‘We can’t.’

‘It’s just a weekend, Jacob.’

‘All the luxuries,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Five-star lodge on the river. The best meals.’ He keeps the eye contact. ‘It’ll be worth your while, Mr Mkezi.’

‘But you won’t tell me what it is?’

‘No, sir.’ Tol, sucking on his lower lip. ‘It’s not the thing we should talk  about here.’

You’ve done that lip-suck twice, Jacob Mkezi thinks, still giving Tol Visagie the full eyeball. The first time when you mentioned the birdwatching. Not exactly a poker player are you, my friend?

‘Look, Jacob,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘It’ll take you out of this situation.’

‘You think I need that?’

‘I would.’

‘But I’m not you, Cake. I don’t run.’

Cake Mullins sets down his glass. ‘This’s not running.’

‘It’s a break. Just a weekend break,’ says Tol Visagie.

‘You heard the man,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘A weekend break. With a business proposal on the side. It’d be worth your while, as he said.’

‘Oh you know that? You know what’ll be worth my while?’

‘It’s a manner of speaking, Jacob. Hell, man, what’s your case?’

‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed my case. All over the newspapers.’

Cake Mullins throws up his hands. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

The men sit silent. Jacob Mkezi thinking, mightn’t be a bad idea. A change of scenery. Time to relax completely out of it. Maybe take Mellanie along.

‘This weekend?’ he says to Tol Visagie.

Tol Visagie coming back, ‘No strings. On the house.’

Jacob Mkezi turns to Cake Mullins. ‘This car man you know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s his place?’

‘Tokai. You want me to set something up?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Two thirty at your place. Court doesn’t sit Friday  afternoons.’

‘And the weekend, Jacob?’

Jacob Mkezi stands. ‘Bit bloody late notice.’

‘Ja,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Sorry.’

‘What time you want to fly?’

‘Five, would be good.’

‘Alright.’

‘Alone?’

‘Maybe. Depends on Mellanie. Depends on her attitude.’

‘No hassles either way,’ says Tol Visagie.

Jacob Mkezi raises his left hand, goodbye. Walks off across the marble flooring, no crunch of grit under the soles of his shoes.