Of Cops & Robbers (33 page)

They come down the street in a black Golf GTI, tinted windows, a faint rumble to the exhaust, keeping below the speed limit. Three men in the car. The driver wears a leather jacket, the
passenger
beside him a black suit, a white shirt with an open collar, a red AIDS ribbon pinned on the jacket lapel. The man on the back seat’s got both his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

‘Hey, man,’ he says, ‘this is a cold place.’

What’s left of the day’s clouding over, will be dark in half an hour. A wind’s cutting through the trees, shaking off dry leaves.

The men drive past domestics, gardeners, housekeepers
hurrying
along the street, making for bus stops.

Mart Velaze’s at the wheel. Vusi Bopape’s in the back seat with a handy Cougar in his pocket. He’s told Daro Attilane in the passenger seat, any nonsense he’ll shoot him. Daro’s hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s sitting awkwardly, leaning
forward
against the seatbelt.

‘You want to live in Bishopscourt?’ Vusi Bopape asks Mart Velaze. ‘All these high walls. Electric fences. CCTV security.’

‘Not my scene,’ says Mart Velaze.

‘There’s brothers I know this’s what they want,’ says Vusi Bopape. ‘This place, Constantia, all the larney suburbs in Joburg, Pretoria, Durban. Live like whiteys.’

‘That’s okay,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘They’ve got the bucks.’

‘Not okay when you have other brothers who fancy your car.’

‘They can do that in the townships. You drive a M5 down a township street, ten jackers roll you for the ride.’

‘No respect,’ says Vusi Bopape. Laughs as he says it. ‘Hey, my brother, we have become our fathers. Always complaining.’

Mart Velaze drives past Jacob Mkezi’s driveway, stops on the side of the road.

Vusi Bopape looks at the house, the mansion, rising behind the high wall. ‘Nice place. You sure no one’s home?’

‘Hundred per cent. Got a call from Mzoli. He’s there, at the restaurant, nursing scotches.’

They hustle Daro up the steps to the front door. Mart Velaze flips the car keys to Vusi Bopape. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says. Smiles at Daro. ‘If Daro doesn’t perform.’

‘Up to you, Daro,’ says Vusi Bopape. ‘I’m gonna see how Georgina and Steffie are doing.’

They watch Vusi Bopape drive off.

‘He better not,’ says Daro.

‘Or?’ Mart Velaze opens the front door, keys in the disarm code, realising Jacob Mkezi left without setting the alarm. He prods Daro into the sitting room, undoes the handcuffs. ‘Up to you now, Daro, my brother. Don’t try any heavies with me, you’ll wake up dead. Just be nice and civilised. You be good, your little women stay alive. Remember that. You act macho, they’re in the morgue tomorrow, simple as that.’

Vusi Bopape drives down the street, pulls to the side. From the boot takes a laptop. He checks his pistol, the fifteen-clip Beretta Cougar. A preference. Six times he’s used it for jobs, no misfires. Not that he’s gone through a full load. Squeezed off a single, a double sometimes. Once three in an extreme situation when the hit wouldn’t die.

On the range he’s put maybe fifteen thousand rounds through it. Good accuracy, soft recoil. But especially it’s compact, doesn’t bulk your jacket, has no snaggy edges to catch on the holster. It’s a quick gun, quick into your hand, quick to fire. Most of all a fifteen-clip 9-mil is reassuring.

Back in the car he powers up the laptop, checks out the tracker’s position. Not in the city anymore. Now down the
peninsula
on the coast, Muizenberg.

Visiting the boyfriend, says Vusi Bopape aloud. Okay, no problem.

He checks the clip. Fully loaded. Slips the Cougar into the little holster he wears on his belt. Rock ’n roll. Vusi Bopape fires the car, gets out of Bishopscourt, heading up Edinburgh Drive to the Blue Route motorway. Down Wynberg Hill puts the speed at ninety-five, the Muizenberg mountains ahead, rolls of cloud coming up behind them.
Probably
going to be a wild night. Probably, make that a certainty. Vusi Bopape grinning to himself.

He keys through a call on the handsfree. It rings and rings. Always the long wait, like the phone’s locked in a safe. Vusi Bopape counts fifteen rings, on the sixteenth it’s answered. ‘Chief,’ says the Voice, ‘talk to me. What’s happening? Tell me things.’ Going into Xhosa: ‘Good things. Ticks in all the boxes?’ Back to English: ‘Start with the vet.’

‘Dead,’ says Vusi Bopape.

‘Ja, well, this was unfortunate. He did good work with animals.’

‘You said …’

‘I said your call on that account. Chief, move on. Where are you?’

‘On the way to the woman, Vicki Kahn.’

‘You know where she is?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Good.’ Vusi Bopape’s never met the woman on the phone. The Voice. He’s only spoken to her twice before. The first time he was told by his boss to expect her phone call. To follow her orders. Don’t ask questions. He did as told. The reward was in cash, lots of it. He’s got only a hazy idea of what she looks like: imagines a well-dressed woman behind the quiet voice. A sophisticated woman. Someone at home in foreign cities. There is something in her voice, an accent on some words, that’s strange.

The Voice says, ‘And Velaze?’

‘Afterwards.’

‘Velaze is with Mkezi?’

‘He’s handling that part.’

‘Then he goes.’

‘I understand.’

‘This is critical. No mistakes. Velaze has other agendas. Other loyalties. It is time we got rid of him.’

‘I understand.’

‘Chief,’ says the Voice in Xhosa now, ‘you have done very well. We have the rhino horns. Nothing has gone wrong. We appreciate you, Bra Vusi. There are ways we can show you this. Afterwards. You understand when this is finished. There will be people who will be pleased. Appreciative. You understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘Chief,’ says the Voice, ‘go with the ancestors.’

Vusi Bopape disconnects, thinks the Cougar’s more reliable than the ancestors.

He comes off the motorway, takes Main Road to the level crossing, parks in a side street. Vusi Bopape’s preference on a job like this is to walk off. That way nobody gets a car make and colour, a number plate. All they can say is I saw a black man walking away. Black man in a black leather jacket. Every black man’s got a black leather jacket. Cops’ll just roll their eyes.

It’s almost dark, the wind hassling him. He crosses the vlei bridge, finds the house no trouble at all. There’s the red Alfa MiTo parked in the driveway. No lights on in the windows, but there’s a glow in the frosted panes of the front door.

Vusi Bopape touches the gun in its holster, rolls his shoulders, starts up the path to the door. How this plays out is best played out inside, is Vusi Bopape’s plan of action.

‘Mart Velaze,’ says Mellanie, wheeling a suitcase into the lounge. ‘Well, well. Who’s he, Mart?’

The two men turning, surprised. ‘Hey, Mellanie.’ Mart Velaze frowning. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Packing my things,’ she says. ‘We’re finished. Finished
professionally
, finished as his trophy cover-up. Jacob Mkezi is history.’ She glances at the handcuffs in Mart Velaze’s hand. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Old friend of the commissioner’s.’

Mellanie studying Daro Attilane, taking in the ill-fitting clothes.
‘He’s not here, the former commissioner’ – Mellanie putting some grit into the title.

‘Yeah, I know. You seen him today?’

‘He was leaving. I told him not to hang around.’

‘Okay, we’ll wait,’ says Mart Velaze.

‘I’m outta here,’ Mellanie moving around them towards the entrance hall. ‘Mkezi’s had it,’ she says. ‘The comrades’ll nail him, big-time. They already are with those rent boy pics. Make yourselves at home, gents, you could have a long wait. Adios.’

‘Where’s your car?’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Wasn’t outside.’

‘In the garage,’ says Mellanie. ‘To make my life easier.’ Right then noticing the gun in Mart Velaze’s hand, her face alarmed. ‘What’s with the gun, Mart? Point that thing away.’

Fish and Vicki eat in silence, Fish staring at the picture of the group of men on the beach. A group of men on a beach. Could just be fishing buddies. But he thinks not. He thinks it’s sinister.

‘You really think that?’ says Vicki. She finishes her meal, pushes the plate aside. ‘That Daro was part of a hit squad?’

‘I think it. I don’t know it. Big difference. But, yes, I think it.’

‘This isn’t a nice story.’

‘No.’ He lifts the lid on the smoervis. ‘Some more?’

Vicki shakes her head. ‘I’m good.’

Fish helps himself. ‘You just don’t know. About people. You just don’t know.’ He starts in on his second helping. ‘If you’d told me Daro’d been Security Branch, I’d have said impossible. Never. Never ever. The guy’s not like that. He’s a family man. He’s not a killer.’

There’s a knock on the front door.

‘Probably Holy Joes,’ says Fish. ‘Early evening, they’re active, gathering stray souls. Leave it. They’ll go away.’

Vicki doesn’t move. Says, ‘Everyone’s got a past, Fish.’

He glances at her. ‘What’re you saying?’

‘Just that.’

Now the knocking’s louder, insistent.

‘Shit,’ says Fish.

‘I’ll go,’ says Vicki. ‘Finish your dinner.’ She slips off the stool, pads out of the kitchen in his woollen socks. ‘You can fill my wine.’

Fish thinking, everyone’s got a past. Thinking this while Shawn Colvin’s singing on the sound system. Hears Vicki call out, ‘Okay, I’m coming, hang on.’ Hears the bolts drawn back, the door open. Hears a deep low voice, too deep to make out the words. Hears the front door close. Vicki saying, ‘How can I help you, Mr …?’

The man growls his response, Fish’s thinking, What the …? Pauses. He’s about to pour Vicki’s wine, he hears her scream.

Hears the shot.

Daro Attilane’s thinking déjà vu. Seeing the gun come up in Mart Velaze’s hand, the chest shot straight through the woman’s heart. Then the man is close-in, working a stiletto.

Takes a long moment for Daro to react. Then he’s shouting, ‘No, no, no,’ pulling Mart Velaze off the woman. Mart Velaze pushing him away, bending down to wipe the blade on the woman’s dress, folding the blade into the mother-of-pearl hilt.

‘Been here before, hey, Daro?’ he says, looking down at the dead woman. He shakes his head. ‘What’s to be done?’ Then says, ‘Come, my brother, one more thing. Then we can watch TV.’

He prods Daro out of the lounge down a passage into the kitchen. Opens a cupboard, takes out a spray can from among the cleaning fluids, holds it out.

‘That’s handy,’ says Daro. Realising, ‘You put that there. You’ve planned this.’

‘Of course.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Jesus’s not going to help. You know what to do.’

‘You’re full of crap.’

‘Do it. Same as before, RAU TEM, capital letters.’

Daro has the taste of metal on his tongue. A harshness that
was there from the moment Mart Velaze killed the woman.

‘Full circle,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Give us all a sense of closure.’

‘You didn’t have to kill her.’

‘I did. She saw us. Bad timing on her part. Now spray, buti, let’s see the artwork. Over the fridge and the cupboard.’

Daro sprays the letters: R on the fridge door the remaining spread across the cupboards.

‘Not bad,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Neater than last time, from the pictures I’ve seen.’ He wrenches the can out of Daro
Attilane
’s hand. ‘Why’d you guys do that? Tell me, why?’ Looking at Daro, expecting an answer. ‘What was it supposed to mean? Something. It must’ve meant something. You don’t just spray letters for nothing.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I heard it’s German for dreams:
Träume
.’

‘It’s nonsense. Meant to confuse.’

‘I don’t think so. What dreams, Daro?’

‘Dissolving dreams,’ says Daro. ‘The wreckage of lives.’

Mart Velaze drops the tin into a plastic bag. ‘Poetic. Very poetic. You’re talking shit, Daro. Talk sense.’

‘How’m I supposed to know? I was fucking young. A foot soldier.’

‘Foot soldier. That’s nice. For a hitman that’s nice. Gives you hero status: the last man standing. Except you’re the disappeared assassin.’ Mart Velaze, standing back, indicating the door. ‘Let’s go, down the passage. At the end’s the TV room. We can watch sport or something.’ Daro doing as he’s told. ‘You did good, Daro. Doing that. Wiping out your history, coming up as
somebody
new. Clever. Your mates should’ve done the same. What a bunch of sorry dogs. Alkies, wasters, rubbish. But that’s over. Truth and reconciliation. Up to you now: sort out the
commissioner
, and your slate’s clean.’

‘I should believe you?’

‘You should.’

‘I don’t.’

Mart Velaze laughs, pokes Daro in the back with the barrel of the gun. ‘Really, brother, you’ve got a mouth. Wait and see, okay. Wait and see.’

In the television room, two leather couches face a large flatscreen on the wall. Shelves of DVDs to the right. Mart Velaze punches up the sports channel, the sound coming at them through a home theatre system. ‘Sit, my brother, relax’ – pushing Daro towards a couch. ‘You want sport or some movie? A drink, maybe? Shot of single malt? The former commissioner’s got this collection, scotch you’ve never heard of.’ He opens a cabinet. ‘How about that?’ Probably twenty bottles on display. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Nothing,’ says Daro.

‘Your loss.’ Mart Velaze pours himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue. ‘The nectar of the revolution. Cheers.’ He sits on the other couch. There’s cricket on the screen: a man in green running up to bowl. ‘You watch this sort of thing?’ says Mart Velaze. ‘I don’t. Sport’s rubbish.’ He gets up, finds a movie on the DVD rack. ‘How about a bit of Jennifer? Jennifer and George.’ Slots in
Out of Sight
. ‘You like George Clooney?’

Daro says, ‘I want to phone my wife.’

Mart Velaze shakes his head. ‘Watch the movie, Daro. Your wife’s fine. What happens to her’s up to you. You do your job she’s not even gonna know Vusi had her in his sights.’ He sips his drink. ‘Couple of hours you go back to your life.’