Of Cops & Robbers (13 page)

Vicki follows Fish’s directions into Muizenberg ghetto at Killarney Road, first right into Church, stops the MiTo opposite a semi in want of paint and TLC. Some of the windowpanes boarded up.

‘Won’t be long,’ says Fish.

‘Uh uh, I’m not waiting here. I’ll come with you.’

‘Not a good idea.’

‘Not a good idea sitting here either.’

‘Gonna be two ticks. Just want to see if he’s there.’

Vicki sighs. ‘You’re not going in alone.’

‘I’m not going in. Place looks shut up anyhow.’

The semi’s got a small patch of dirt in the front that’s a cesspit of bottles, bloody tissues, condoms, tins, doll parts, syringes. Some weeds straggling through. The gate’s long off its hinges, the pathway’s cracked concrete, faded red. On the stoep two chairs, their seats burst open. Reminds Fish of old tomatoes, rotting.

The door’s the 1930s style: panes of dimpled glass, every one cracked, two replaced with wood. A security grille fronting it, unlocked. To the side, dangling through a hole in the ceiling’s a length of string with spark plugs weighting it. Fish pulls the string, hears pipes clanging in the house. No human stirrings. He jerks the string again. Keeps the pipes banging.

No movement.

He cups his hands over his eyes, squints through the glass. No flickering shadows inside.

Turns to Vicki in the car, shrugs. ‘Nothing doing.’

Nothing doing the next day either when Fish calls. Late afternoon Vicki’s headed back to her city pad, Fish’s at a loose end: wanders over the vlei bridge into the warren. Some people about, mostly the street’s empty, the houses shut.

Two girls are ahead of him clanging the pipes at Seven’s
crack house. They glance at Fish, ask, ‘You know where he is?’

Teenage girls. Fourteen, fifteen, both in sheepskin boots, tight jeans, cutaway tops with their bra straps showing. The white one thin, her shoulder blades etched beneath her skin. The black one dumpy, her stomach falling over her belt. Gives Fish the shivers just to look at them. Fish in a jacket zipped to his neck.

‘No idea,’ he says.

‘You got any stuff?’ says the thin girl.

‘Stuff?’

‘You know, doobie?’

The girls jiggling in front of him, naked arms pimpled with cold.

‘No,’ says Fish, ‘I’ve come like you.’ Leaving it there vague.

The fat girl, tugging at her friend’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

The thin girl whining, ‘He hasn’t been here all weekend.’

Fish watches them slope off towards the beach, follows at a distance. They score from a car guard, run giggling to smoke among the bathing boxes.

Easy as that, thinks Fish. Why’d they bother with Seven?

He’s standing there on the sea wall, eye on a small brown swell. An offshore wind’s holding it down. The ocean looks cold, depressed. Forecast is a front’ll pump up the waves overnight, put some life into this murky soup. Already the sky’s clouding over.

As Fish turns away, he stops, notices a family: mom, dad, teenage daughter playing frisbee on the low-tide beach. It’s Daro, Georgina, their Steffie. He can hear their laughter, enjoyment. Makes him smile.

His cellphone wakes him: one o’clock Monday morning. Mart Velaze lies there without looking at it, considering, should he answer it? This time of a Monday morning could be a range of people: Jacob Mkezi heading the list.

Except he spent much of the hour ten o’clock to eleven o’clock on the phone talking to Jacob Mkezi. Not talking, listening to Jacob Mkezi telling him some weird adventures of the lost rhinoceros horn fairytale. Like Jacob Mkezi had been in a parallel universe for the weekend. Walking with Indiana Jones.

Telling him, first thing in the morning arrange lorries to collect rhino horns from a cave. A cave in some hills. Some hills where? Mart Velaze had managed to get in.

‘I don’t know, Angola, somewhere,’ Jacob Mkezi snapped back. ‘And maybe fly the freight straight out. Get a cargo plane, an Airbus, a Beluga should do it or an Antonov, the small one, the turboprop. They’re good, they can use a smaller runway.’

Like Jacob Mkezi was on magic mushrooms.

‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ Jacob Mkezi said. ‘Make it nine. My place.’

Mart Velaze hummed, then bit down. ‘It’ll have to be later. I’m meeting your car dealer first thing. That guy Daro Attilane.’

He could hear Jacob Mkezi clicking his tongue, recalling the Daro Attilane request. ‘Oh, ja, him. Okay, that’s important. Meanwhile, get some people putting this thing together. No don’t. I’ll do it.’

Now Mart Velaze lies listening to his phone. Looks at the time on the bedside clock, looks at the pulsing screen. Lord Mkezi written there. First the dad then the son. Mart Velaze sighs, sighs deeply, connects.

‘Bra Mart,’ says Lord. Two words, they’re enough, for Mart
Velaze to know Lord’s freaking out.

‘Yes, Lord,’ he says. ‘What’s it?’ Knowing it has to be major crap this time of a Monday morning.

‘I hit someone.’

‘More detail, Lord.’

‘Just now.’

Mart Velaze taking a stab at it. ‘You were racing?’

A sob from Lord.

‘In the new car?’

The new car that wasn’t yet registered which if anybody had got the plate number would go straight back to Daro Attilane, the paper trail ending at the office of former police commissioner Jacob Mkezi. Nice one, Lord.

A sob from Lord.

‘The person you hit, what can you tell me?’

‘Nothing,’ says Lord.

‘You left the scene?’

A sob from Lord.

Mart Velaze thinking, thank the Lord for that. Says to Lord, ‘Keep the car garaged. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll sort it.’

Lord sobbing, ‘What about my father?’

‘I’ll sort it,’ says Mart Velaze.

He does. Finds out which hospital admitted the victim. Finds out the guy’s in a coma. Finds out his name’s Fortune Appollis.

He phones Clifford Manuel. It’s now three in the morning, he doesn’t give Manuel any advantage. Says, ‘Clifford, we’re dealing with some problem here.’ Outlines the situation, says, ‘Who’ve you got can work pro bono for the victim? Keep that side covered? I’d like it to be Vicki Kahn.’

‘Yes,’ says Clifford Manuel. ‘She could help you.’

‘Don’t tell her anything. Brief her like it’s a genuine one.’

Fish and Daro paddle their longboards through a rising sea to the backline, sit on the ocean watching the sun come up behind tattered clouds.

They let a set slide under them to get the feel of the swells.

‘It’s building,’ says Fish.

On the peak there’s a sense of the wall dropping away, a pull and suck in the water.

‘Not as big as Thursday.’ Daro’s facing the shore, watching the back of the waves feather then drop down in white water. The peak’s breaking right. You’re fast you can get a long ride ahead of the soup.

‘Getting there,’ says Fish. ‘Be even better this afternoon.’ He angles his board towards Daro. Says, ‘I was at Seven’s place. Twice. Saturday and yesterday. You must raid him again, Daro.’

‘I know,’ says Daro. ‘The weekend raid didn’t happen.’

‘There were kids there, teenagers, wanting to buy stuff. Like he’s running a takeaway.’

‘I know.’

‘You have to surprise him.’

Daro’s nodding his head, holding his hands up. ‘I know this,’ he says. ‘I know this.’

‘You don’t want Steffie rocking up at his door.’

‘You say anything to him about Steffie?’

‘I didn’t talk to him. He wasn’t there.’

‘So why …?’ Daro leaves it hanging.

‘Something else came up with Seven’s name on it. The
shithead’s
bad news. You’ve got to move him out. Lock him up.’

‘I know.’

‘So then? You’ve got the forum, pull some weight. Force the cops down there.’

‘Not that easy.’ Daro’s got an eye on the incoming, points over Fish’s shoulder.

Fish glances back. Sees the ridges on the sea, rising up. He flattens, starts stroking shorewards to catch the first swell. ‘You still want me to arrange a talk, I can do that,’ he shouts. Doesn’t hear Daro’s answer.

The wave’s under him, pulling him onto the wall. Fish feels the take, slides onto his knees, hesitant, gripping the board’s rails, bottoms out too far back, the wave closing on him. First wave, and a wipe-out. He surfaces, goes back for more.

Vicki Kahn has set up office at Knead. Outside on the pavement beneath a roaring gas heater. On a morning like this, a paradise morning, who wants to be inside? Even though it’s in the winter shadow, you want to be outside breathing ozone air.

She likes Knead, Knead’s the smart place, especially when the surf’s running. Half-naked boys traipsing through to get to the surf shop at the back, flat washboard stomachs. Firm young flesh. The sort of flesh you’d love to caress your hand over, just for the feel. Instead of her palms, she runs her eyes.

Sexy pastime. One Fish isn’t averse to either, checking out the girls, that is. Their wetsuits skin-tight over their thighs, dangling down from the waist; their skimpy bikini tops just doing the job. Fish giving them the sneaky eye.

‘You’re leching,’ she’d tell him.

He’d blush. This man blushing. So sweet. Then he’d retort, ‘So why’s it okay for you?’

And she’d grin at him, reach out, give his thigh a feel.

She plonks down her handbag, laptop, iPhone, car keys. Keeps on her coat with the fur collar. Real fur collar. None of this faux stuff for Vicki. Some animal might have worn it once, but now it’s her turn.

Vicki orders cappuccino from the Nigerian waitress with the pixie smile. Asks, ‘My boy out there, I assume?’

‘For about an hour.’

‘Time he came in.’

She powers up her laptop, plugs in a 3G flash drive. There’s an email from Clifford Manuel.

‘Further to the Fortune Appollis case, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the loop.’

I’d appreciate it – Clifford-speak for You will. In the loop –
Clifford rolling with the hip lingo.

How much in the loop did he want for a pro bono? Detail by detail? Briefing memos? What?

He phoned her at seven thirty, said, ‘Can you handle a pro bono?’ Implication: you will.

‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to get points for this? It’ll show up in my bonus?’

‘Of course.’

Clifford Manuel giving her the brief, saying, ‘See what you can do.’

Then sending the email. Keep me in the loop. Why? Fortune Appollis was nobody. A bystander. An ordinary youngster from an ordinary family. A kid out watching the thrills of urban racing. Why were the fortunes of Fortune Appollis of even the vaguest interest to Clifford Manuel? Vicki Kahn clicks her black fingernails on her laptop, stares up at the mountain, bright in the winter sun.

Sees a beautiful apparition in a wetsuit, barefoot, dripping, standing next to his board like it’s a shield, grinning at her.

‘Fish,’ she says, ‘get dressed’ – wishing she could say undressed. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’ Calls to the waitress, ‘Bring him the breakfast. The one with bacon and sausages. And a cappuccino.’

Paris is Blondie’s job. The Commander handles him. Rictus Grin is the point man. The Fisherman does surveillance.

The Fisherman takes a short stay in Gay Paree. After two weeks, he decides a bomb is best. He flies home, reports to the Commander. His scheme: the target’s car is parked outside her apartment. A Peugeot 505, still looking good. Mostly she uses it for joyriding out of the city. Connect something to fire on
ignition
would be the answer. Over to the explosives man, Blondie.

Blondie gets a manual of the 505, works out a plan. Compiles a shopping list. Five grams of P4 he reckons should do the trick. A military detonator from East Germany. Wiring sufficient to carry the charge. A plastic funnel, five-centimetre diameter. Same colour as the dashboard would be best.

Rictus flies to Berlin. Checks into a pension in Kreutzberg. Next morning makes a deposit in US dollars at a branch of Deutsche Bank AG, checks through Check Point Charlie for a day tripper excursion with a straggle of Americans.

Not the first time Rictus’s been through. He gets a kick out of the grey, decaying, bullet-smacked buildings of East Berlin. Likes to see people scurrying through the streets, eyes cast down. Frightened as the rabbits in no man’s land behind the Wall. Rictus sees this and grins. Convinces him he’s fighting the good fight. Communism’s a kak story.

He wanders through Mitte, feels like the day after World War Two ended. Takes a tram to Prenzlauer Berg. Climbs the hill to an apartment block drab as dripping washing. Up two floors to the arms dealer. Grim man never smiles. Rictus has dealt with him before, twice. Always the same protocol: the Kraut has the hardware on his kitchen table. Rictus inspects it, hands over the bank deposit slip. This detonator’s so small he slips it into his
pocket. Grins at the grim spectre.

‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

The man doesn’t respond.

The following day Rictus trains through to Paris. Long tedious trip via every small town and Frankfurt. Rictus hates trains. Hates sitting in the compartment with people who smell of sweat, eat garlic salami rye bread sandwiches. Swill it down with lager. At Frankfurt he changes trains, almost misses the connection looking for the platform.

In Paris, Rictus sources the PETN – pentaerythritol
tetranitrate
– from a black trader in Clichy-sous-Bois, other side of the ring road. Cocky Senegalese floppy offers him a bankie of heroin as a thank you for the business. Rictus grins. Tells him nicely, not his scene. The man raises his eyebrows, considers Rictus, holds up a finger. Says something in Frog Rictus doesn’t understand. Next thing he’s cracking open a wooden box with a claw hammer, whips out a Johnny Walker black. Rictus takes it gently in his hands. The two of them standing there, grinning at one another.

Heading for the subway, the whisky and the PETN in a plastic bag, Rictus reckons it’s a toss-up between Prenzlauer Berg and here. Clichy-sous-Bois being another reason to keep the Bantu bastards down. Give them a building they turn it into a location. Overnight.

In a small supermarket, Rictus locates a funnel. Colour: off-white.

Next day the Commander and Blondie fly in, check into separate hotels, two-star joints on the rue du Faubourg Montmartre. Blondie hasn’t been in Paris three hours, the Commander takes him to Les Deux Magots. It’s a Sunday. A sunny Sunday. Parisians out getting the last of the summer’s golden rays.

‘Sartre mean anything to you?’ the Commander asks, as they stroll up Boulevard St Germain. The Commander affecting the European style, his jacket coat-hangered on his shoulders, empty sleeves flopping about.

Blondie shakes his head. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of him.’

‘Fitzgerald? Hemingway?’

‘Of course. I’ve read Hemingway.
A Farewell to Arms.’

‘For Whom The Bell Tolls? The Old Man and the Sea?’
The Commander showing off. Long thin cigarillo between his fingers.

‘Uh uh, something about a gun.’ Blondie clicks his fingers.
‘Have Enough Gun.’

‘That’s Ruark. Robert Ruark.
Use Enough Gun.
Airport stuff. Ruark’s not Hemingway.’

‘About a guy called Harry Morgan.’

‘Harry Morgan?’

‘That was his name. The main man.’

‘Morgan’s in Hemingway.’

‘So, okay, he’s a Hemingway guy, he was the honcho.’

‘Hell, man. You’ve been surfing too long.’

‘To Have and Have Not.’

The Commander stops, squints at Blondie. ‘You’re taking the piss?’

Blondie shakes his head again. ‘No, man. I’m not, I’m serious.’ Giving the Commander the full eyeball, holding the twitch out of his lips.

The Commander keeps up the stare. ‘Sometimes I don’t know about you.’

They sit down, the Commander orders Pernods.

‘Great place, hey?’

‘Sure,’ says Blondie.

‘Same place where Hemingway sat.’

‘Really?’ says Blondie, eyeing the French birds. Almost like they were creatures of a higher order. Long legs, tits, attitude. Cigarettes and perfume. Sitting there in the sun. This bird two tables away in a linen jacket, nothing underneath. She leans forward he can see her boob. Perky shoo-shoo boob with a raisin nipple.

‘One thing you got to appreciate,’ the Commander says to Blondie, ‘you’ve got a loo to sit on. Used to be the Frenchies
were squatters.’

Blondie hauling himself back from his ogling.

‘What’s that?’

The Commander laughs. ‘Randy sod.’

Blondie grins, blushes.

‘Something else? The dolls.’

‘No kidding.’ Blondie’s eyes alive, glinting. ‘Far out.’

‘What I was saying,’ says the Commander, ‘about the loos …’

‘Yes,’ says Blondie.

‘… The first time I came here, the loos were a hole in the floor. These two places in the ceramic for your feet, you squat over a hole.’

‘Shit.’

‘You said it.’

The waiter sets down their aperitifs.

‘What’s this?’ says Blondie. ‘Gin? Vodka? I don’t do spirits.’

‘Taste of Paris,’ says the Commander.

The waiter holds a jug of water, the Commander nods at him.
‘S’il vous plaît.’
Sounding to Blondie like ‘Seeboplay.’

The waiter splashes water into the glasses.

‘It’s gone milky,’ says Blondie. ‘Look at that.’

The two men clink glasses, sip at their drinks. The
Commander
smacks his lips, Blondie pulls a face. Says, ‘Takes some getting used to.’

‘You’ll do that,’ says the Commander. ‘Get used to it.
Tomorrow
you’ll be wanting one first thing.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I do, boykie. I do.’

They do some catch-up talk, the Commander telling Blondie about his daughter, now thirteen years old. Deals some photographs of her out of his wallet. No photographs of his wife. Photographs of the daughter alone, no mom in any of them. Blondie thinks about it, the Commander’s never mentioned a wife. He’s this single parent raising a daughter by himself. Helluva thing.

The Commander says, ‘We’ve got the stuff for you. You’re
sure about the P4?’

‘It’s stable.’

‘Czech?’

‘Isn’t it always?’

‘My plan is tomorrow night, we, you, do the job. You reckon she’s not gonna see the funnel?’

Blondie shakes his head. ‘Think about it. You start your car, you know where the key hole is, you’re looking through the windscreen while the motor swings. You’ve got your head full of stuff: where you’re going, who you’re going to see. The last thing you’ll notice is something under the dash.’

The Commander nods. ‘Okay. I’ll go with that. How long, to do it, the job?’

‘Bout four, five minutes. All that’s got to be done is hook up the wires. Glue the funnel to the dash.’

‘Won’t drop off.’

‘Uh uh.’

‘Even after a week?’

‘Serious surfboard glue I’m using.’

The Commander smiles. ‘I shoulda known.’ He sees Rictus talking sign language to the waiter, pointing at them. He comes over, sidling through the tables. Sits.

‘Bloody Frogs, don’t understand simple English.’

‘It’s France,’ says the Commander.

Rictus grins. ‘No excuse.’

They all laugh, order another round of Pernods.

The Commander says, ‘Where’re the goodies?’

‘Don’t need them,’ says Rictus. ‘Job’s done.’

The Commander’s face goes rigid, he leans forward. ‘What’re you saying?’

‘Job’s done. Mission accomplished.’ Rictus grinning, cocky. Holding up a hand of flashy rings.

‘Job’s done? What d’you mean job’s done?’

‘Job’s done.’

‘How?’

‘I got an opportunity, I took it.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I’m clean. No trail.’

‘You’re sure.’

‘Ja. Of course. No problems.’

‘Bloody hell.’

The drinks arrive. They shut up while the waiter splashes in water. When he’s swirled away, the Commander says to Rictus, ‘Where? Where’d it happen?’

‘The Metro. Montparnasse. About forty minutes ago.’

The Commander shaking his head, ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody …’

‘No. Relax, man, relax. I’m clean.’

‘How?’

‘I was following her. She’s in front of me, big Sunday crowd, pushing ’n shoving to get on the train. I thought: do it. Do it now. Stiletto in, stiletto out. Walk on by. I got on the train, she didn’t. She’s standing there on the platform holding her side, sort of swaying.’

The Commander takes the rest of his drink in a swallow.

‘You sure she’s dead.’

‘Pretty much. Midline in deep. Fatal. Most cases it’s fatal.’

‘Most cases?’

‘Long as you don’t miss.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You gotta cut the aorta, the thoracic portion. You do that she bleeds out.’

‘Before medics get there.’

‘Long before.’

The Commander stands. ‘You better be right.’ He adjusts his jacket over his shoulders. ‘Where’s the bomb stuff?’

‘My room.’

‘Let’s get it. In case. Hell, man, we had a plan, you shoulda stuck to it. This could’ve cocked up everything.’

‘The coolie’s dead.’

‘She bloody better be.’