Of Cops & Robbers (4 page)

‘Bartolomeu,’ says the voice on his cellphone, ‘have you got a moment.’

‘Hey, Ma,’ says Fish, uncapping another milk stout, ‘Yeah, I reckon.’ Fish still not able to call her Estelle.

His mother coming in fast before he can get into the how-are-you?-I’m-fine exchange. Saying, ‘I was talking about you to some clients just now.’

‘Uh huh?’ says Fish, imagining his mother and the clients in the small boardroom in the London office of Invest South Africa, High Holborn, somewhere like that. His mother out there on one of her overseas jaunts selling investment opportunities. ‘Someone’s got to get this country on its feet. Someone’s got to help black businesses.’ His mother spinning stories of wonder and wealth to her clients.

‘I was telling them, Barto, that you run a paralegal research firm.’

Fish laughed. ‘That’s fancy. I wouldn’t have thought of it that way, Mom.’

‘That’s how I’d like to think of it, if you’d only finish your degree.’

‘Don’t start.’ Fish taking a swallow of stout. This pet subject of his mother’s: when’re you going to complete your degree? You’re thirty-three, you should settle down: career, family, children. You only need to write your majors. Really, Bartolomeu, is that too much to ask of you? Get the LLB. You can raise your fees. Get some real money for the work you do. And stop doing the work you do. All those boys’-own investigations. For heaven’s sake, Bartolomeu, when’re you going to join the adult world? Become a professional.

‘I’m not starting, Barto, I’m reminding you of your obligations
towards me and your father, may he rest in peace.’

‘Mom …’

‘Estelle.’

‘Mom…’

‘Mom nothing. Now listen, this is business. Have you got a pen and paper?’

Fish rolls his eyes at the ceiling, brings the bottle to his lips but doesn’t drink. His mother’s saying, ‘Prospect Deep, it’s a gold mine, not in our portfolio, I need a full report on it. We’re commissioning you, Barto.’

Fish thinking, This’s close to home. Says, ‘Isn’t that a bit unprofessional? A bit like nepotism?’

He hears his mother sigh. Imagines her walking around the room. Smiles at the thought. His mother the businesswoman, in her lingo talking up blue-sky projects.

‘For heaven’s sake, Bartolomeu, it’s a simple job. Don’t get all coy on me. I can ask any researcher I like. You’ve done this sort of thing for me before. You can do it again. Besides, you need the money.’

True enough, thinks Fish. Says, ‘Okay. Who’re the clients?’

‘Two Chinese gentlemen.’

‘And?’

‘And they heard about Prospect Deep, read there is some black economic empowerment deal in the wind, and want in. Simple.’

‘Can’t you just google it?’

‘You don’t think I’ve done that?’

‘No.’

‘I have.’

‘So?’

‘It’s not enough. I need a bigger picture. Who owns what? What are the projections? Who precisely will be empowered in this deal? BEE’s not simple, Barto.’

Fish lets it go, not saying anything, waiting for his mother to keep at it. But she doesn’t.

She says, ‘You still there?’

Fish says, ‘Okay.’

Hears Estelle say, ‘Thanks. Thank you, Bartolomeu. I
appreciate
this. What’re your fees?’

‘Five hundred rand an hour with expenses.’

‘Make it three-fifty.’

‘Jesus, Mom.’

‘You said it, Bartolomeu. We don’t want any hint of nepotism.’

‘I thought …’ Fish is going to make a point about nepotism being like pregnancy but goes with: ‘… nothing.’ Hides behind a long mouthful of stout.

‘You’re drinking, Bartholomeu,’ says Estelle.

‘Yeah. Cheers, Mom.’ Fish takes another pull.

‘You sound like you’re alone, Bartholomeu. Men who drink alone are sad. Sad and lonely. You should get a girlfriend.’

‘I have a girlfriend.’

‘That Indian girl?’

‘She’s thirty-five.’

‘You know what I mean. You’re still seeing her?’

‘Uh huh.’ Fish stares into the gloom of his back yard; the boat catching the light from the kitchen window like an accusation.

‘It’s your life, Bartholomeu. Prospect Deep. Write it down please.’

Fish does. Which is where Estelle leaves it, leaves Fish holding a dead phone, looking down at the words he’s written: Prospect Deep.

Jacob Mkezi kerb-crawls his Hummer on Long Street direction the mountain, swings up Hout, back down Loop towards the harbour, goes left at Riebeek, takes a slow corner into Bree. Finds what he’s looking for over Strand beyond the Castle intersection: bunch of boys in a doorway. He stops. They’re huddled there under cardboard sheets, two lying down, three sitting, watching his black car with its black glass. He slides down the passenger window, holds up a pink fifty, waggles it. Knows the boys can see it. The boys don’t move. Sit staring at him. He waggles it some more. Nothing. The boys dull-eyed. He disappears the note into his fist, slides the window up. Pulls slowly away, his eyes on the group, knowing they won’t let it go.

Two boys jump up, run towards him. He stops the Hummer. Two would be interesting. They push their faces against the glass to see in: pretty boys both, despite their street life. The one with a swollen eye, a bruise on his cheek.

Again he slides down the window. Says to the one with the swollen eye, ‘Just you, okay. Net jy.’ Shoos the other one off with a dismissive hand.

The boy protests, says, ‘Blowjob. Blowjob.’

‘Away, away.’ Jacob Mkezi shouting at the boy. The boy backing off, giving him the finger. The rest of the group in the doorway, standing up, ready to flee.

Jacob Mkezi waves his fingers at the one with the battered face. ‘Net jy, with the sore eye. Open the door.’

The boy does, climbs onto the seat.

‘We go for a drive, okay?’ Jacob Mkezi speaking in Afrikaans.

The boy nods, staring out the windscreen at the quiet street, not looking at Jacob Mkezi.

‘You like to have a drive?’

‘Cheeseburger,’ says the boy.

‘You want a cheeseburger? Where’s a cheeseburger this time of night?’

‘McDonald’s,’ says the boy. ‘There near the stadium they’re building, my baas.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Double-thick shake. Chocolate ’n banana.’

Jacob Mkezi clucks his tongue. ‘You want to eat at the Mount Nelson?’

The boy doesn’t respond.

Getting to the McDonald’s is through a mess of bollards, slip roads, mud, the cranes over the stadium like marabou storks on a rubbish site. The burger joint an island in the chaos. At the teller’s window, Jacob Mkezi gives the order, gets a Coke for himself.

They sit in the parking lot in the dark. Jacob Mkezi watches the boy eat, the boy stuffing the food into his face. ‘Somebody hit you?’ he asks. Touches the skin beneath his own eye. The boy nods, his cheeks bulging.

Jacob Mkezi reaches over, caresses the boy’s face with his fingers, softly, a tender touch on the bruised cheek, the swelling around the eye. His cock stirs. He can see it, the fist. A man’s fist slamming into the boy’s face, once, twice. The boy knocked down, scrabbling away, crab-style. Where would this be? In a room? On a pavement? In a lane behind a club? The man flicking his fingers after the impact. Swearing at the boy. Walking off. Turning as if to continue the beating. The boy fleeing, running, into the dark, into the alleys.

‘Did it hurt? Does it still hurt?’

‘Yes, my baas. It’s very sore, my baas. Burning.’

‘You need some muti, medicine.’

When the boy’s eaten, Jacob Mkezi drives to a night
pharmacy
, leaves the boy in the Hummer. ‘Wait. Okay. I’ll get you medicine.’

He buys a tin of Zam-Buk salve, a tub of painkillers, a bottle
of water. Has the boy swallow two tablets. Gently rubs the ointment into the boy’s cheek, his fingertips tingling at the touch. The boy reeks of smoke, his hair exuding a mushroom odour. Jacob Mkezi breathes in the heady smell. He wants to feel the boy’s hair, knows it will be coarse with dirt. Wants to run his hands over the boy’s body, get the thrill of young skin, electric.

‘Okay. That feel better?’

‘Yes, my baas,’ says the boy. ‘That’s very nice, my baas.’

Jacob Mkezi can’t resist, he runs his fingers into the boy’s hair. It’s short, knotted, gritty. ‘Now we can go for a drive.’ He pats the boy’s head, leans over to breathe in the tang of the boy’s hair.

‘Yes, my baas. My baas’s got a larney car.’ The boy fastens his seatbelt. ‘Is there music?’

Jacob Mkezi presses buttons, brings up Brenda Fassie’s ‘Weekend Special’.

The boy says, ‘Ma Brenda.’

Jacob Mkezi laughs, slaps the steering wheel. ‘How’d you know that?’

‘I know Brenda.’

‘Ah, come on, you’re too young. Brenda’s from a long time ago.’

‘I know Brenda. We have a tape, this one, “Weekend Special”.’

‘A tape?’

‘And a blaster just no batteries, my baas. Sometimes we find batteries to play it. Sometimes. Brenda’s our mother.’

‘Brenda’s dead.’

‘I know, my baas.’ The boy fiddling with a hole in his jeans.

‘Here.’ Jacob Mkezi gives the medicines to the boy, the boy stuffing them into his jacket pockets.

‘Put more Zam-Buk on later.’

‘Yes, my baas. My baas is very good.’

Brenda sings of love gone, of being a weekend special.

‘We’ll drive now,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

He heads up Kloof Nek above the city, at the circle taking a
left along Table Mountain Road past cars with people making out, past the cable station. No one about. Where there’s a
clearing
, he fronts the Hummer onto the view. Below, the city, yellow, growling. Above, the mountain.

It’s warm in the car, he keeps the engine idling, the heater on. Motions the boy into the back. Says, ‘Undress.’

‘All my clothes, my baas? It’s cold.’

‘Bah. There’s a blanket.’

While the boy’s undressing, Jacob Mkezi gets out, unzips, pisses a hot stream into the sand. The night’s cold, his breath visible. He looks down on the city, the tower blocks of light, spits, the Coke gone stale in his mouth.

In the back of the Hummer he has the boy sit beside him, the boy clothed in the blanket like an initiate. Brenda Fassie sings ‘If I Hurt You Little Boy’. Jacob Mkezi gets his hands wandering: shoulders, stomach, thighs, into the crotch, the small genitals, the little stiffie.

The boy says, ‘What you want, my baas?’

‘Just sit,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He eases back, undoes his belt, shifts down his pants. ‘You know what?’

‘I can do it, my baas.’ The boy leaning forward, his tongue out, licking.

Jacob Mkezi sighs. Looks out at the city bowl, this city where he’s on trial, being held to account for doing his job. For fixing a broken country. Him, a comrade, a struggle fighter. In court before a prosecutor. Before a judge. Explaining himself.

He clenches his thighs, takes his eyes off the city, stares down at the head of the boy moving slowly.

Brenda sings.

He runs a hand along the boy’s back over the spine bumps to the cheeks of his bum. Fastens his grip there. Pulls the boy towards him. His breath quickening, rasping in his throat.

‘Suck,’ he says.

Long way down the peninsula, in the dark dark night lurk Seven and Jouma.

‘No, my bru, you’s got to be out of your head. Nay, you’s mad.’

Seven holding open the fence for Jouma to squeeze through, says, ‘You think I’m mad. You think so, hey? You think what will happen if the forum come knocking. Like theys do. Like two nights ago. Hey, you think about that?’

Jouma hauls the black bag with the rhino horns through the fence, the plastic snagging on the wire.

‘Yusses, man, watch it,’ says Seven. He’s got a torch in his hand, clicks it on. There’s a long tear in the bag, the tip of a horn showing through. ‘Grab it there,’ he says, putting the beam on the hole.

Jouma bunches up his grip, follows Seven up the path. ‘Where’s it we going?’

‘To hide them, moegoe,’ says Seven.

‘We can hide them in the ceiling. Safe and sound.’

‘I told you,’ says Seven. ‘No. The forum comes, they find these, we’s in big problems.’

‘You leave them out here, someone’ll find it.’ Jouma beginning to pant with the uphill climb.

‘Nay, my bru, no one’s here. I been watching this place. We can hide them good.’ He stops to catch his breath. Turns the torch on Jouma’s thin face, Jouma’s mouth open sucking in air, his chest heaving.

‘You’s battling, my bru? Yous need a workout with a active virgin.’

Jouma gasps, says, ‘How long? How long you’s going to leave them?’

‘Dunno. Till tomorrow. Tomorrow we can fix it.’

They sit in the lounge for the next hour, two hours, the four men, crushing out the butts on a plate, sliding the stompies and ash into a plastic bag. The Fisherman mostly glued to the box: the news in English, some stupid medical programme afterwards.

‘Mondays are crap,’ he says. ‘Waste of time’ – reaching over to kill his cigarette.

‘Don’t watch it.’

‘I don’t, at home. Except
The Villagers.’
He blows out smoke, gets up to switch off the set, stands there unsure.

‘You watch
Derrick? Bonanza? Charlie’s Angels? Rich Man, Poor Man?’

‘All of them.’

‘Why’re you complaining then?’

‘That’s four shows. Inna whole week.’

‘You want in?’

The Fisherman scratches his armpit. ‘Nee wat! Cards aren’t my thing.’ He sags back onto the couch. ‘A drink woulda been nice.’

‘No drinking,’ says the Commander.

‘A dop, one shot, man. Oke’s got to have some Klippies somewhere?’

‘No drinking.’

‘Fokkit. What’s the problem with a dop? A dop’s not gonna hurt. Steady our hands.’

‘No.’

‘Where’s this oke anyways?’ Blondie says. ‘Supposed to be here quarter past six. It’s what, bloody four hours later.’

‘He’s got a girlfriend.’

‘Ag kak,’ says Rictus Grin, looking at his cards, looking at the Commander. ‘True’s? That’s where he’s? Right now?’

‘I’m guessing.’

‘But you know he’s got a poppie?’

‘Yes. And I know sometimes he visits her on his way home.’

‘Sies! Does she know?’ – Rictus jerking his thumb at the dining room.

‘Chrissakes.’

‘Ja, okay, you know what I mean. Before.’

The Commander licks his fingertips. Discards a card. ‘No. We don’t think so.’

‘Naughty boykie. Full of secrets.’

The card players go through half a dozen hands, the matches piling up in front of their commander. The Fisherman snores on the couch.

Twenty to eleven they hear a car in the street, slowing down, turning into the driveway, the curtains blazing yellow in the glare of the headlights.

Rictus throws down his cards. ‘Full house.’

The Commander leans over, holds a finger against the rictus lips. ‘Sshh.’ Draws his pistol. Whispers, ‘No nonsense, okay.’

Rictus grins, bringing up his pistol.

The light at the curtains dies. They wait for the car door to open, the four men screwing silencers to their Brownings. Blondie with a fag in his face, suppressing the tremor in his fingers.

No sound from outside.

They’re standing there, the four men, the icing unit. Listening.

‘What’s he doing?’ Rictus tiptoes to the front door.

‘You let him come right inside,’ says the Commander. ‘He gets away …’

‘Not gonna happen.’

‘Damn right it isn’t.’ To Blondie he says, ‘Take his briefcase. Keep it, don’t open it, don’t give it to anyone. Even the prime minister. Take it home with you to Cape Town.’ They hear the car door open, slam shut. The man clear his throat. The strike and scrape of his shoes on the slasto path. His key scratching into the lock.