Of Cops & Robbers (6 page)

Fish takes a shower, gets into a hoody and jeans, a pair of ankle-boots made of vegetable-dyed kudu leather he only wears in winter. Wanders through to the kitchen, toasts slices of bread under the grill. Actually, blackens slices of bread under the grill because he’s thinking of his mother.

‘You’re thirty-three, Bartolomeu, you need to finish your degree. Get a proper job. In business. Play golf.’

‘I’m thinking of it,’ he’d said.

‘Really, of what part?’

‘Of finishing the degree.’

‘I’m supposed to believe that?’

Yeah, he was thinking about it. Thinking that some law knowledge would be an advantage.

Which distracts him, which causes the toast to burn. Fish has to scrape off the singe into the sink. He smears on marge and peanut butter, drizzles syrup over this. Gets a Bialetti coffee pot going on the stove. Sits down at the table to eat. Through the open door he can see the
Maryjane
on her trailer, his longboard leaning against the boat. Maybe if the waves are down this weekend, he and Vicki can power out, put Mullet to rest. If Vicki can spring for the fuel. Bucks being what they are: scarce.

Talking of which.

He crunches down on a couple of slices of toast, finishes his coffee, spends the morning working the phone. Vicki first.

‘You gonna feed me tonight?’ he says for openers.

‘I love you too,’ she says.

‘Brilliant,’ says Fish, ‘you promised. Yes?’

‘Sounds like you’re eating.’

‘Only toast.’

He bites into a crust, spraying crumbs. ‘So what time?’

‘Six thirty. Seven latest. I’ll get Giovannis.’

‘Lots of the fancy stuff, hey. Chilli prawns. Octopus in that vinaigrette. Artichokes. Taramasalata. Calf liver pâté.’

‘That’s what you want?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘That’s what you always have.’

‘That’s why I want it.’

He hears Vicki sigh, smiles to himself. ‘Take the afternoon off?’

‘Some of us have to work.’

Fish lets out a long ‘Aaah, you wouldn’t have anything coming up for me?’

After a beat, Vicki says, ‘Please, Fish …’

Fish going into the gap, ‘It’s cool. Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s only … You know.’

‘I know. Hang in, babes, it’ll come right. Everybody’s scratching.’

‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘Till later.’

‘Sure.’ Fish listening to the line go dead, thinking, talking to Vicki wasn’t supposed to make him feel lousy.

He stands in the kitchen looking at the boat in the back yard: if he had spare cash for fuel he could maybe go out on the ocean, catch some fish for supper. If he had money for petrol. Can’t be that difficult, fishing. Being on False Bay would be amazing. Alone, smoke some doob, pull in a couple of snoek. Talk to the seagulls. Toss Mullet’s ashes over the side.

But work is what he wants. Phones a couple of the small firms doing insurance and divorce jobs, missing persons, has to listen to the gripes of hard times.

Investigators working as bouncers.

Investigators moonlighting as waiters.

Investigators doing factory security.

One guy freelancing as a car guard.

Bugger that, thinks Fish, no ways he’d be out there pushing shopping trolleys for the SUV ladies. No ways this side of the ice caps melting.

He boils up another coffee, sits there thinking, maybe he’s gonna have to go back into paid employ. Join one of the security firms. Maybe that’s what it’s coming to. Have to swallow hard, have someone else telling you what to do. Not ideal.

Which is when he gets round to his mother’s request. Three hundred and fifty rand an hour! Extortion. But when there’s nothing else … Fish wondering if he could stretch to maybe a thousand bucks worth. Powers on his laptop, types Prospect Deep into the google bar.

He’s in the dock, the prosecutor on his case: ‘Mr Mkezi, would you call your friend, the man who bought you the shoes, a known criminal?’

The judge watches him, the journalists watch him, the public in the gallery wait. Clifford Manuel glances at Jacob Mkezi from the huddle of defence lawyers, nods.

Jacob Mkezi stands straight, his hands crossed at his waist. A man attentive, unhassled.

‘An associate.’

‘In what sense would that be?’

‘I’m sorry?’

The prosecutor smiles. ‘Are you business associates? Do you belong to the same gym, perhaps? The same golf club?’

‘I am a very bad golfer. Nobody wants to partner with me.’

There’s a titter from the public gallery. The judge glances at them, instilling silence.

Below him Jacob Mkezi sees Clifford Manuel wag his finger.

The prosecutor shuts his smile. ‘I think we all know your handicap, Mr Mkezi. It has been in the newspapers often enough. But that, as you know, wasn’t my question. I want to know the nature of your relationship with this associate?’

‘We had common interests.’

‘In what, for instance?’

‘Cattle.’

Another ripple through the back galleries. The judge ignores it.

Jacob Mkezi has his eyes on the judge, sees a twitch on the man’s lips that might be amusement.

‘We both kept Nguni cattle, on our farms.’

‘If he bought you a pair of crocodile-skin shoes, this seems to suggest a close friendship?’

‘He is a generous man.’

‘Very generous. I wish I had friends like that.’

‘Associates,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘You knew he was involved with organised crime?’

‘I did.’

‘Yet you still associated with him. Discussed cattle. Even sometimes enjoyed the odd luncheon together, didn’t you? I have the payment chits.’

Jacob Mkezi looks at his lawyers, Clifford Manuel responding by nudging the advocate. The man lumbers to his feet. ‘My Lord, this is going nowhere. We need to know who this mysterious man is?’

‘Is he to testify?’ says the judge to the prosecutor. ‘I assume this is where you are leading?’

‘Yes, M’Lord. I am.’

‘Then maybe it is time to let us hear what he has to say.’

Jacob Mkezi frowns. His advocate turns from the judge to face his client, rolls his eyes.

‘Certainly, M’Lord,’ says the prosecutor. He’s handed a piece of paper by a court orderly, reads it. Stammers, ‘I … Good God …’

‘What is it please?’ says the judge. ‘Can your share this?’

‘M’Lord.’ The prosecutor holds up the piece of paper, clears his throat. ‘My intention, M’Lord, was to call a state witness at this point, Mr Mkezi’s associate. We have sworn affidavits from him following a plea bargain. Affidavits which outline the nature of his relationship with the accused.’

‘Apart from the lunch chits and the shoes?’ says the judge.

Jacob Mkezi smiles. The judge deadpan.

‘Oh yes, M’Lord. This man paid for overseas holidays for Mr Mkezi. Advanced him cash. Purchased artworks. This man was very generous in his relationship with Mr Mkezi. As Mr Mkezi has said.’

‘This does happen between friends and associates.’

‘That was for my witness to tell us, M’Lord.’

‘Well, where is he?’

The prosecutor waves the piece of paper. ‘I have been told he’s passed, M’Lord.’

‘He’s died?’

‘Yes.’

‘When, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Last night.’

‘Good grief.’

‘He was shot, M’Lord.’

‘Shot?’

‘In a hijacking.’ The prosecutor staring at Jacob Mkezi.

Jacob Mkezi impassive. His hands still, loosely crossed as they have been all morning.

‘M’Lord,’ says the defence advocate, ‘if this witness has died we are unable to test his affidavits.’

‘I am well aware of that,’ says the judge. ‘Perhaps, counsel, you can both see me in chambers.’

Fish stares at the screen of his laptop, thinking Prospect Deep is probably not a deal his mother should be brokering. Prospect Deep has big names attached to it. Prospect Deep is best left alone. He knows Estelle won’t do that. Those names are going to fire her cylinders. For her those names couldn’t get any better.

He can hear her: ‘Mr Yan, Mr Lijun, this is one of the most promising investment opportunities we have in South Africa at the moment. You were right to come to us. This is a gold mine.’ Which she’d follow with her tittering laugh, the one she keeps for schmooze moments.

Problem is those names attached to Prospect Deep give Fish the frights. Like when you’re staring at a wave that’s filled the sky, a wave that’s curling. An Atlantic bonecrusher bred in the southern ocean. You’re going to be pulverised. You’re going down for a long time. Those kind of frights.

Thing is how to put Estelle off.

Fish’s thinking about this when he hears footsteps drag across the back stoep, the scrape of the bergie chair, someone letting out a long sigh of relief. Someone with a high BO rating.

Fish closes the laptop, takes a look. There’s an old bergie staring at him from the chair.

‘Meneer,’ says the bergie, ‘you have some toast I can smell?’

‘Maybe,’ says Fish. ‘Who’re you? How’d you know about me?’

The old man grins. ‘Nee, meneer, doesn’t take long to find out.’

Fish nods. ‘Okay. What’s your name?’

‘Colins.’

‘Colin.’

‘Colins. With a s.’

‘That’s your first name?’

‘My only name.’ Colins snorts back mucus, wipes his hand
under his nose. ‘I can tell you something, gentleman.’

‘That right. Like what?’

‘For a piece of toast, gentleman. A piece of toast and marmalade. A cup of coffee too. Half milk, three sugars. Please.’

‘You think I’m a cafe?’

‘Agge nee, gentleman. People told me Mr Fish’s the man. So here I am.’

Fish takes a swallow of his coffee, eyes Colins the bergie. Much like any other bergie, unkempt beard, his clothes grey, his backpack grey, his only other possession a huge manuscript of papers in a plastic bag.

‘What’s that?’ says Fish.

‘My life story.’

‘Yes?’

‘A bestseller, gentleman. For a rainy day when it’s finished.’ He looks at the coffee in Fish’s hand. Rubs his stomach. ‘Please, gentleman.’

Fish slides more bread under the grill, boils up an instant brew. He smears marge and marmalade onto the toast. Calls out to the bergie, ‘You want a hit of Klippies in the coffee?’

‘Jislaaik, gentleman, that’s manna from the heavens. Thank you, gentleman. Sommer a large one, dankie please.’

Fish brings out the toast and coffee, goes back for his own mug. Leans against the
Maryjane,
far enough upwind of Colins.

‘Where’re you from, Colins?’

‘No, gentleman, from here and there, just passing through.’

‘Okay.’ Fish stares at the man demolishing the toast.

‘Can I ask you for some more, gentleman?’

‘You haven’t finished that yet,’ says Fish.

Colins slurps at his coffee. Grins at Fish.

‘Finished and klaar in another bite.’

‘First what’s it you’re gonna tell me?’

Colins chews through a mouthful, washes it down with coffee, wipes his hand across his mouth. ‘Gentleman,’ he says, ‘gentleman, I got here yesterday onna train no fare payable. People outside
the bottle store tell me the mountain’s safe, especially there by the old fort. They show me where to go on the corner at the parking lot where the fishermens park. You know, they got a locked gate there but no problem you can shift the fence, sleep in a national monument under the stars. Lekker like a crecker. Gentleman, it’s a good place when there’s no rains. These people they tell me about you. They tell me if I need it, you can give me a slice of bread.’

‘That right?’ says Fish. ‘Which people are these?’

‘You know, those people, gentleman. Just bergies.’

Fish nods. ‘Ja, so?’

‘So I find a nice place up there to sleep against a stone wall. There’s a cardboard under the bushes, like they tell me, plenty for a man to make himself comfortable. You can lie there
listening
to the waves and you don’t worry. You feel safe inna fort.’ He laughs, spittle popping on his beard. ‘I goes to sleep like a baby. Then I wake inna night with men talking. I think maybe it’s anner people come to sleep there but I’m not worried cause I’m outta sight behind the wall. Only these men move some rocks, talking low low low, whispering. Nobody whispers up there, meneer, except skelms. Skelms up to bad things. Not my problem, hey, I’m not making a sound, absolutely tjoepstil. Next, they’s gone. I goes back to sleep. This morning I take a look. What they’s lefts in a plastic bag.’

He shuts up, finishes his coffee, holds the cup out to Fish. ‘Some more, ag please, gentleman, won’t you?’

Fish takes the mug. ‘What was in the plastic?’

‘You’s not going to believe it, gentleman.’

‘Try me.’

The old man slaps his thigh, laughs. ‘You guess?’

‘I dunno. Guns, diamonds, jewellery? Has to be something stolen.’

‘Nothing like what you said.’

‘Okay, what?’ Fish thinking, enough with the games.

Colins crinkles his eyes. ‘Horns from a rhinoceros.’

Fish gazes at the old man, the old man grinning.

‘I’m not gonna believe you,’ says Fish.

‘Serious,’ says Colins. ‘We can go there after coffee.’

‘Prost,’ says Mellanie, raising her flute of bubbly. Real French bubbly, Moët, that brought Jacob Mkezi down five hundred bucks at Azura’s, the Mandela Rhodes Place hot spot.

Mellanie sitting at the poolside table in a black military coat, her leggings tapering into leather boots, a scarf fluffed around her neck. She’s a short and spiky blonde. The sort of blonde gives men pause. No lipstick, no nail varnish either. Mellanie reckons with saucy lips, you don’t need colouring. Her lips have a natural juiciness.

‘You got it,’ says Clifford Manuel, clicking glasses with her.

Jacob Mkezi hesitates. ‘Uh uh,’ he says. ‘Sounds like we’re celebrating a hijacking. A man I knew died.’

‘He was going to diss you,’ says Mellanie, holding back her glass.

‘Maybe,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘Some friend he was.’ Mellanie getting into it.

‘We had good times.’

‘For associates.’

‘Leave it, Clifford.’

Mellanie setting down her glass on the table. ‘What I couldn’t understand, Jacob. Could never see, was why you were friends? What’d you see in the man. He was bad news.’

‘He’s dead, leave it.’

‘He did a deal to save his backside. He was going to hang you out, hang you out so far not even I could’ve done anything about it.’

‘Doesn’t matter now.’

‘Heaven’s sake, Jacob. What’re you saying?’ She shifts her eyes to Clifford: ‘Help me understand this.’

Clifford Manuel shrugs, takes a sip of the champagne.

‘He had family,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘A wife, kids who loved him.’

‘There’ll be insurance policies, Jacob. They’ll be heading into more money than when he was alive. He was a crook, Jacob. A degenerate.’

‘Everybody liked him. Even the president.’

‘What you mean is he got his fingers so far up the arses of the big boys he was massaging their prostates. Different kind of like.’

Clifford Manuel clears his throat, dusts his sleeves. ‘The essence here is the case has been dismissed. That’s what we’re celebrating.’

Jacob Mkezi is staring out over the rooftops, thinking seven floors up gives a great view of the city: what’s left of the art deco, the new tower blocks, the hip in-fills, some old Victorian still squeezed in between. He sat here with the man, one long December lunch, eighteen months back. Talking sport, money, investments, among other matters. Sat here amid the black diamonds, the bright young corporates popping over to give him the power shake. Jacob Mkezi thinking, at the time, thinking, who didn’t know this man?

‘Jacob!’ Mellanie waving her hand in front of his face. ‘Come back.’

Jacob Mkezi turned lazy eyes on her. ‘What?’

‘The end of the case.’ Mellanie holds up her flute.

This time Jacob Mkezi goes through the click ritual. Time to focus. He looks at Mellanie. ‘You made it.’

‘I said I would.’

‘You weren’t going to.’

Mellanie holds his eyes. ‘Jacob, enough. We’re not going there again.’

Jacob Mkezi doesn’t know why he takes this attitude from her, but he does. It’s what he likes about her.

‘You’re full of piss ’n steam,’ he says.

She smiles. ‘Always and everso.’ Takes a cellphone from her handbag. ‘We need to put out a press release. I’m going to say
you’re deeply saddened by this tragic murder …’

‘I am.’

‘… and regret that the truth will never be tested in court.’

‘It’s your scene.’

‘And would like to state once again that the allegations are entirely without foundation.’

Jacob Mkezi drinks. ‘You’re the boss.’

He catches the sharp cut of her gaze. Hard to see affection in it when she’s doing her job.

‘Just so we’re deejaying the same tracks, Jacob. Right?’

‘Right.’

Mellanie’s nails clicking at the BlackBerry keys.

Clifford Manuel reaches over, touches Jacob Mkezi on the sleeve. ‘What happened with Tol Visagie?’

Jacob Mkezi says, ‘We’re on safari.’

‘Good. Excellent.’ Clifford Manuel finishing his glass. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

‘Where’re you off to?’ says Mellanie.

‘Not me, we,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Both of us, you and me.’

Mellanie sitting back. ‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve got a business to run, Jacob. Disappearing for a weekend takes arranging.’

‘Fly-in. Five-star. On the Caprivi. What’s to arrange?’

‘No, Jacob. You think you can just snap your fingers.’

He snaps his fingers. ‘I can. Pick you up at four.’

‘In three hours’ time?’

‘Exciting, né?’

She stares at him. He holds her eyes until she smiles. ‘You’re something else.’

‘Fixed up.’ Jacob Mkezi signals for a waiter to fill their glasses. ‘All I’ve got to do now is buy a toy for my boy.’