Of Cops & Robbers (16 page)

Back at the beach, Fish’s hyped. Cursing his bad luck. Cursing Colins for a stupid bastard. For trying to play the hero. Knows it for sure now: Colins is dead. Has to be. The horns fenced. Seven being a member of the Twenty-Six gang, into money big-time, he’d have moved them quickly. Could be on a plane to Vietnam, China, Yemen, wherever. Talk about a balls-up. Major. Worse, nothing he can do about it. Can’t tell the cops. What’s he going to tell them: some half-arsed story about super-sleuth Fish’s plan to catch the horn thieves? Yeah, that would really fly. Not.

Colins is a guilt. A notch in his conscience.

Then Seven’s blab about Daro on a hit list. An organised crime hit list? What was that? Some drug syndicate pumping their muscle? Gangster big talk. Probably bull ’n brag. Probably Seven upping his own reputation.

‘Nah,’ says Fish to the seagulls, ‘the prick’s cooked. Been using too much product.’

Fish gives the waves another hesitation: maybe. Except the tide’s drawing out, the swells flattening.

You got the best of it, he thinks. Balances on the low wall dividing beach from walkway, sighs for Colins, sighs because sometimes everything seems fucked up. The guilt tweaks.

He finds a band of bergies at the railway bridge, men, women, dogs, sitting in the sun, mashed faces watching his approach.

‘My larney,’ they greet him. Hustle for a cigarette, a two rand for bread, grin at him. Mr Fish the bergie’s friend they call him.

‘Where’s Colins?’ he asks them. ‘A new guy.’

Gets shaking heads, raised shoulders, hands flapping like pigeons.

‘No, Mr Fish,’ they say, ‘Colins is gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘To the Lord God in his heaven.’

‘He’s dead?’ says Fish.

‘As a snoek on the slab.’

Fish rocks on his heels, keeps his gaze on the band, no one meeting his eyes.

‘How’d he die?’

‘Nay, we’s only know he’s dead, Mr Fish. We’s found his book.’ One of the women pulls out a plastic bag of manuscript pages, a bag Fish recognises. She hands it to him.

Fish remembers: Colins’s life story. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘There by the fort.’

‘Really,’ he says to them. ‘You hear anything you let me know.’

‘Of course, Mr Fish. Of course, always.’

Fish turns away, stops, turns back to them. ‘The cops know he’s dead?’

‘The cops know nothing, my larney. The cops’re mos a closed chapter.’

Fish drops the Isuzu at home, takes the Perana. Listens to Jim down Prince George Drive, through Lavender Hill, the gangster flats draped with washing, passes Zeekoevlei, Princess Vlei onto the highway. Singing with Jim to keep down his sad thoughts of Colins: ‘Can I rely on the Western world …’ To the left, the mountain chain in sharp etch, to the right brown fug over the townships. Under his foot, raw power.

Singing with Jim: ‘Just being by my side you’ll be playing roulette …’

First stop on Fish’s schedule, the hospital. Check out how the client’s doing. What’s his condition? What’s his prognosis? You never know, guy might’ve popped out of the coma. Might be sitting there eating jelly, busting to tell him who the dicers were. You never know, you could get lucky.

Fish knows his way round the hospital. Spent almost a week there recuperating from a gut shot. Well, not so much a gut shot as a muscle wound at his waist. Hard-nosed bullet went clean
through his side.

During that time kept it from his Ma. It helped she was in London on one of her buy South Africa trips. To this day she doesn’t know he’s taken lead. Doesn’t even suspect his life can get so hairy. Like gunfight hairy. Was his dead partner Mullet got him to hospital after the poachers opened fire. Thank God for Mullet. Poor bugger.

The best part of that ordeal? Tripping on some drug, some painkiller for a while, after he’d smooched up to one of the nurses. In the pre-Vicki days, of course.

The worst part: the pain, the food. Taking a dump. You didn’t want to push down on your stomach muscles. Pure, pure agony. He blocked solid in no time. Hated the enemas. Even when the morphine nurse stuck them up. Those surgical gloves she wore, like he was meat.

Fish’s got a theory about hospitals, white coat plus a black attaché case and no one sees you. Especially not security. The stethoscope’s an added extra, non-essential. The black attaché case’s in the boot, the white coat he lifts from casualty. So much chaos there no one notices. Then he’s up the lifts, squeaking down the corridors on his Adidas Gazelles. Strides into ICU, nodding to security, nurses, anyone who needs nodding to.

Bends to a nurse. ‘Fortune Appollis?’

The nurse shakes her head, points to an empty bed.

‘What?’ says Fish. ‘The patient died?’

‘Gone to another hospital,’ says the nurse. ‘This morning.’

‘I see,’ says Fish. ‘Matron didn’t tell me.’ He brings up the briefcase, riffles through some papers. Glances at the sister. ‘You know which hospital?’

‘Constantiaberg,’ she says.

He holds up a piece of paper, one of Vicki’s letterheads. ‘Here it is.’ Flicks it twice, nods to the nurse.

Back at his car, still white-coated, he phones Vicki.

‘Constantiaberg,’ she says. ‘They can’t afford a private hospital. Ma and Pa Appollis don’t have that sort of money. They’re
never going to have that sort of money.’

‘Makes it a bit more difficult.’

‘What?’

‘Getting the info.’

‘Technicality, Fish. For a man like you.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says.

‘It’s why you’re on the case. Don’t waste time.’

She’s gone, Fish’s left staring across the parking lot, over the roofs, away to Hangklip ghosting at the end of False Bay. He digs up the index card Vicki gave him with the Appollis address: finds Samson and Daphne Appollis live in Beechcraft Street, Mitchells Plain. The map tells him right down at the coast, an area where every street’s named after an aeroplane: Junkers, Heinkel, Alouette, Halifax.

Fish sheds the white coat. Shrugs into his leather jacket. The one he likes to use for interviews. Gives him that serious
investigator
image he doesn’t mind using.

In the car Fish cranks up Neversink. He fires the Perana, just loves the gurgle of the pipes.

High up a city bowl tower block, Vicki Kahn looks south towards Hangklip, only she can’t see the hanging cliff of rock low on the horizon. Toys with her cellphone, wonders if she should call Fish back, ask him to pick her up. Maybe she needs to be with Fish for the Appollis interview. Tap tap of the cellphone in the palm of her hand, until she decides, no, better to let Fish have his head. Better to keep Clifford Manuel in the Appollis loop as he wanted, though she can’t get the nag out of her mind about his interest on this.

Why? she’s thinking, clipping up the stairs to Manuel’s office. What’s it about the family Appollis that stirs Clifford Manuel? Or maybe he’s checking on her? Not a thrilling thought. Maybe this is about performance, points, billing hours, equity in the firm. A chilling thought.

With not a heave to her breath after the stairs, Vicki Kahn mouths at Clifford Manuel’s PA, Is he in? – pointing at the half-open door. The PA’s on the phone, doesn’t stop her flow, nods, flutters her hand.

Vicki sticks her head round the door, says to Clifford Manuel, ‘Got a minute?’

Clifford Manuel, hands linked behind this head, staring at the harbour ten storeys below, swivels round in his huge leather chair. ‘Of course.’

‘Fortune Appollis’s been transferred,’ says Vicki, watching Manuel take this in. Not a twitch to his lip, no tell at his eyes, only his hands unclasp, drift down to the desk. ‘To the Constantiaberg.’

‘I see.’

‘You wanted to be kept informed.’

‘I did. Thank you.’ His fingers reknitting. ‘The parents tell you?’

Vicki taking two steps into the room, stopping behind a chair fronting Manuel’s desk, her hands resting lightly on the
chair back. Manuel not asking her to sit. ‘Our investigator, Fish Pescado. He phoned from the hospital.’

A nod from Manuel. ‘The Constantiaberg?’

‘Groote Schuur.’

‘So he hasn’t seen the patient?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But he’s going to?’

‘I’m sure. I don’t know what his moves are.’

Another nod from Manuel. ‘Good. Good. Maybe a rich relative has come to their assistance.’ Manuel looking at her, Vicki locking on his eyes one, two, three beats, glancing away. Back, away. Manuel fixed on her.

He smiles. ‘He any good, your friend Pescado? The art connoisseur. He’s the one wears an earring?’ Clifford Manuel touching his own earlobe.

She glances down at her hands, long fingers, the black varnish of her nails. ‘He finds people. He’s done what we’ve asked for, in the past.’

‘You think he’s up to this?’

Vicki meets his eyes. The challenge in them, a glint of predator. Notices his mouth, his slightly parted lips, the glisten on his teeth.

‘What? Finding out who’s paying the bill? Of course. He’s good. He’ll sort it. Before lunch, I’d imagine.’

‘Excellent.’ Manuel still with that smile. ‘Let me know how he gets on.’

Vicki wants to say, Why? Why’re you so interested? Is it the case or me? Thinking, Do I need this? Leaves with, ‘Naturally’ – turning away.

She’s almost at the door, Manuel says, ‘Oh, and Vicki …’

Vicki glances back, over her shoulder.

‘I like your hair. The short style suits you.’

‘Not a bad cut you’ve got either,’ she says. ‘Very now. Very executive.’

Hears him force a chuckle, she’s out of there before she says anything else. Like, dude, blow away.

Daro Attilane, dressed in grey chinos and a suede bunny jacket, stands in the office overlooking the forecourt watching the black Golf GTI pull up, tinted windows, throaty exhaust, the driver kicking some revs into the switch-off. Has to be the client. On the phone the client sounded like he fancied a statement car, but now needed something less obvious.

‘Perhaps a BMW,’ he said, the client.

‘I’ve got a full-house Audi A4, new shape,’ Daro said. ‘A very nice car. Clean. Agile. But I can get you a BMW if you’d prefer. Depends on you. That BM’s a statement car. The Audi’s more sporty. The car of the serious executive, but also says you’ve got spark. You know, that you’re on your game. Depends on you.’

‘Sharp,’ the client said, made the appointment.

Now the Golf, stopped in the visitors’ bay, stays shut, Daro can see the man’s on his cell. He gets out, he’s still on his cell, walks away from the car remote-locking it, very cool customer.

Daro picks the Audi’s electronic key off his desk, goes outside to meet the man he’s begun to think of as a player. Snappy dresser, suit and rollneck, lace-ups. A smiling man with a little kick in his walk, not a limp, more a sort of skip. Like the player’s stoked to be alive.

Daro waits at the door while the man finishes his conversation. The man in no hurry, no worries about Daro overhearing his conversation.

The man saying, ‘I don’t care what the story is, there’s an obligation. Legal, moral. It’s on paper. You’re locked in, my brother.’ Ending with a run of Zulu, probably, no clicks in it.

The man listening.

The man back in English saying, ‘You’re not hearing me, my brother. I am saying there is no other way. I don’t want to
hear about your troubles. I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear you tell me it is finished. Over. You hear what I am saying.’

The man holding the phone away from his ear, rolling his eyes at Daro.

The man back on his cell, saying, ‘No, no, no. My brother, you phone me when it is done. Before that I don’t want to hear from you. When it is done, then. Before that, we have nothing to talk about.’

The man disconnecting, sliding his cellphone closed. Saying to Daro, ‘Sometimes people don’t understand. Even when they’ve signed a piece of paper, they don’t understand. It’s a contract. It’s legal. You honour it, or you pay the consequences. Not so?’

Daro shrugs. ‘That’s the way I see it.’ Steps back into the office, the man following him.

‘Not this guy. No, this guy believes the situation can be changed. For this guy everything is negotiable, all the time. If that was the case, where’d we be? If nothing’s for sure. If
everything’s
flexible. One thing today, another thing tomorrow. This would be a mess.’

Daro holds out his hand, introduces himself, realises he doesn’t know the player’s name.

The client doesn’t give it, says, ‘Very boutique,’ – pointing at the two cars Daro’s got in the showroom.

‘It works for me,’ says Daro. ‘Personal service.’

‘You’ve got a reputation. Highly recommended.’

‘Pleased to hear that.’ Daro nodding, saying, ‘You called. You’re Mr …?’

‘Velaze. Mart Velaze.’

‘The man after the executive vehicle?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Excellent,’ says Daro. ‘You like a coffee? Tea? Coke?’

‘Water,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Sparkling.’

‘No problem.’ Daro bends down to a minibar fridge, lifts out a sparkling water, hands it over. ‘A glass.’

‘Nah, this’s fine.’ Mart Velaze twisting off the cap, taking a
mouthful. ‘So what’ve you got? Not much I can see.’ Mart Velaze pointing the bottle at the two cars Daro’s got on display. ‘Just the Benz here, that car outside, the Audi. What about a BM?’

‘I can get you that,’ says Daro. ‘I can get you any car you want.’

‘That’s no good, Daro,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘What I wanted was to see it now. Test-drive it.’

Daro holds up the Audi key. ‘The car I mentioned on the phone.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The A4.’

‘No, that in your hand?’

Daro gives it to him.

‘This’s a key?’

‘Electronic. You lose that it sets you back two thousand bucks for a replacement.’

Mart Velaze whistles.

‘That’s her out there,’ says Daro, pointing at the silver car under the awning. ‘Leather interior. Built-in GPS. Good sound system. As I said, comfortable. But look how she sits. She’s got presence. She’s taut. Ready.’

‘Game.’

They both laugh.

‘It’s what you said.’ Mart Velaze stepping towards the car, taking a swig of sparkling water. ‘She looks fast.’

‘She is. Want to get the feel?’

Mart Velaze running his hand over the bonnet. Daro smiling to himself, letting the guy get involved.

‘Showroom car,’ he says. ‘Six thousand on the clock.’

Mart Velaze opens the door, settles into the leather, slots home the key. Daro buckles up in the passenger seat.

They head for the Blue Route highway, Daro singing his sales pitch down the Tokai Road: spark ignition, direct fuel injection, turbocharge, power outputs, gearbox specs. Mart Velaze nodding along.

‘There’s turbocharge on the petrol?’

‘Sure.’ Daro glances at Mart Velaze, wondering if he’s saying this because he knows about engines or if he’s winging it. The man’s focussed on the road, his eyes hidden in wraparound shades.

They get onto the highway, Mart Velaze floors the pedal, the A4 powering through the gears at two hundred still accelerating up the rise.

‘In about a kilometre there’s a speed camera,’ says Daro.

‘Know it,’ says Mart Velaze, taking his foot off the juice. ‘Nice vooma.’

On the ride back Mart Velaze sings the car, Daro’s turn to nod along until there’s a break in the praise song, Daro coming in with, ‘What line of work’re you in?’

Mart Velaze turns in at Daro’s showroom, switches off. ‘Marketing consultant. Strategic planning. Company’s called Adler Solutions. We come in and sort you out. Pump your strengths, beef up your weaknesses. The company’s been around for, I don’t know, twenty years, twenty-five years. I joined ten years ago just after the guy who started it sold out, went to Australia. Guy called Ray Adler. Sorry story that one.’ Mart Velaze unbuckles, gets out of the car.

Daro does likewise. ‘Yeah, why’s that?’

Mart Velaze brushes it off. ‘Another time.’ Pats the car on the boot. Says, ‘This is mine. Give me a couple of hours, two, three this afternoon I’ll be back to sign the papers.’

‘I can hold it that long,’ says Daro.

‘Sharp,’ says Mart Velaze, heading towards his GTI. ‘Till later.’

Daro watches him pull away, thinks, This wasn’t about cars. Not about an A4 at all. This was about something else.
Something
he’s been dreading.