Of Cops & Robbers (18 page)

‘Can I disturb you a moment?’ Vicki Kahn looks up from her laptop, there’s Clifford Manuel standing in the doorway to her office.

‘Sure, no problem.’ She pushes back. ‘Come in.’

‘Quick one,’ says Manuel, not moving. ‘We’re off the Appollis case.’

‘What?’

Manuel shrugs. ‘They’re no longer retaining us.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea. Does it matter? Clients come and go. Not as if we’re losing fees on this one.’

‘I thought …’ Vicki frowning at the senior partner, Manuel taking a step in, half-closing the door.

‘I got a phone call, Vicki, a couple of minutes ago from them, from Mr Appollis.’

‘You did? It’s my case.’

‘I know, I know. Hear me out. I don’t know why he phoned me, he did, okay? I was the first person he talked to in the
beginning
, maybe that’s why.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Can I finish?’

Vicki waves her hand, go ahead.

‘He said, and I quote, “We’re okay now, Mr Clifford, we don’t need any lawyers.”’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘You didn’t argue?’

‘I suggested it was unwise.’

‘Oh, great. That would really have made him worry he was doing the wrong thing.’

‘His decision.’

‘Suddenly he’s got a rich cousin paying the hospital bills?’

‘I don’t know, Vicki, it doesn’t matter who they’ve got paying the bills. We’re no longer involved.’ Clifford Manuel giving her the stare-down, glances at his watch. ‘Lunch at parliament. Time I was off.’ At the door he pauses, looks back at her. ‘Tell that investigator fellow he can bill us for the time he’s done.’

And Clifford Manuel’s gone, except for his aftershave. Vicki fans the air in front of her nose. The man smells like a woman. Then again, these days with some of the colognes you can’t tell the difference. ‘Enjoy your lunch,’ Vicki says aloud.

She stares at the screensaver rabbit hopping about her screen. First the man wants to be kept in the loop, then he drops it like it wasn’t worth toffee in the first place. She sighs, keys through to Fish’s name in her cellphone. He answers third ring.

‘Where’re you?’ she says.

‘Cemetery,’ he says. ‘Staring at awesome surf.’

‘You’re not. Tell me you’re not.’ She can hear Jim Neversink singing about zooming out of life, drifting off the stage. The music tonking at a pace.

‘I’m not.’ A pause. ‘But I’m thinking about it.’

‘Well, be my guest,’ she says.

‘Can’t, I’m on a case.’

‘Not anymore.’

‘No?’

‘No. We’ve been dumped.’

‘That right?’ Neversink guitars and crashing surf filling the gap Fish leaves. A long gap.

‘Fish?’

‘Umm. When was this?’

‘Now. Five minutes ago.’

More drum thrum rattle and crashing surf. Gone, gone, gone, zooming out of life. Vicki thinking, the boy’s on the hook. ‘Fish?’ she says.

‘Okay, what can we do?’

‘Nothing. Just let me have the invoice.’

‘Someone’s got to be paying.’

‘I know.’

‘Probably the driver.’

‘I know.’

‘Probably someone important.’

‘I worked that out.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Give me one more hour.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Pretend we didn’t have this phone call.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Try, it’s not that hard.’

Vicki Kahn realising she’s been disconnected. Vicki Kahn smiling as she gets rid of the rabbit on her screen.

Her cellphone rings: Cake Mullins. She’s been waiting for this. Dreading it. Cake Mullins not one to let a coincidence pass.

It was a surprise bumping into him with Clifford Manuel. Last she heard from him had been four months back. She could thumb him off. That’d be wise. She doesn’t.

‘How’s the programme?’ he asks, not keeping the laugh out of his question.

‘Good,’ says Vicki. ‘What you want, Cake?’ Knowing exactly what he wants.

‘Grand seeing you the other evening, princess,’ he says.

‘Likewise, I’m not sure.’

‘No need to be nasty.’

‘I’m not, Cake.’

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I heard about your problem with the
collectors
. That was rough, that was the sort of hurt you shouldn’t have gone through.’

‘It’s over, Cake. I’ve finished. Not going there again.’

‘Sure, I know. I know. I’ve been there. But I’ve gotta ask you. Gotta see if you’ll say yes or no.’

‘I’ll say no.’

‘You don’t know what I’m gonna ask.’

‘You’re going to tell me you’ve got a game tonight.’

‘I have, you’re right. Small game. One thou gets you in.’

‘One!’

‘That’s all. I told you, a small game, no big deal.’

‘I’m not playing, Cake. Forget it.’

‘It’s a friendly, Vicki,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘What’s the pot going to go to? No more’n a couple of thousand.’

‘Not the money I’m scared of. I do this one, if I win I’ll be back.’

‘Always the lucky girl, you were, with the cards. What’s wrong with a small windfall?’

Vicki stares at the horizon thinking, one thousand’s
nothing
. Even if you go down that plus another grand, it’s nothing. You’re on the programme, you’re taking counselling, everyone falls off once or twice.

‘No,’ she tells Cake Mullins.

‘Can’t take no,’ he says. ‘I need a good player. I need you.’

‘Thanks but no thanks. I’m out of it. Signed up to GA. You know.’

‘You’re out of it when I say you’re out of it.’ Cake Mullins getting hard-arsed.

She’s back staring at the horizon, her hand trembling, that itch in her fingertips.

‘You owe me, Vicki. I’m calling it in.’

As she knew he would one day.

‘Be good to go a few hands with you.’

‘Hell, Cake.’

‘Hell nothing, princess. You get your butt here. Nine sharp.’

‘Then we’re square?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘No more comebacks?’

‘Nothing. My word on it.’

Vicki thinking, for what that’s worth. Thinking, what’d one
more game matter? Low stakes, nothing dangerous. If things went against her she’d quit. Say goodnight and walk out.

‘You know where I am? Same place as last time.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘You better. Not a minute late, okay.’

Vicki thumbs him off, thinks, this isn’t good. This has bad writ large. Fish’s not going to like this. Fish mustn’t know. Have to head him off with a story, which isn’t easy when Fish’s got his mind in a groove.

Mart Velaze phones Clifford Manuel.

‘You’ve pulled your colleague off the case, Mr Manuel?’ Mart Velaze in the sitting room of Samson and Daphne
Appollis
looking through the net curtains at the street. But the man in the Perana’s long gone.

‘As you requested,’ says Clifford Manuel.

‘Then why’s he been snooping around, troubling the boy’s parents?’

‘I’ve no idea who he is, Mr Velaze,’ he hears Clifford Manuel say. The background noise excessive. The man clearly out to lunch, saying to him,  ‘Now I have to go, I’m with guests.’

‘Your colleague, Vicki Kahn, has some guy playing the private investigator. Some guy called Mr Fish Pescado.’

‘I know nothing of that.’

‘You don’t believe me? You want to hear it from your former clients? I’m right here with them.’

‘I know nothing of this Mr Fish Pescado, this private investigator.’

‘Then you should. He’s causing upset to people who’re
worried
about their son. He’s causing upset to me. I told you the situation. The pro bono is not needed any more.’

‘Understood. Whoever he is, Mr Velaze, if he was assisting my colleague then he’s no longer on our time.’

‘Good. Then call your colleague and get her to stop this nonsense.’

Hears Clifford Manuel say, ‘I already have.’

‘Smart man.’ Mart Velaze getting rid of Clifford Manuel, turning to the Appollis couple, smiling. Likes the way they’re gaping at him, frightened rabbits. He holds up a finger. ‘One more call.’

Keys through to Cake Mullins. ‘That Vicki Kahn,’ he says.
You’ve contacted her?’ Hears Cake Mullins take a slurp of something. Says, ‘Cheers, Cake.’

Cake Mullins coming back, ‘Mart, don’t get above your
station
, brother.’

Mart Velaze looks at the Appollis couple, neither of them meeting his gaze. Says, ‘Just checking.’

‘You don’t have to. It’s not something I appreciate.’

‘So did you?’ Hears Cake Mullins suck up fluid again.
Imagines
it’s probably a cappuccino, Cake vacuuming the froth.

‘I did, yes. As it happens, O lord and master.’

Mart Velaze about to rise to the sarcasm, pauses, closes his eyes for a moment. Says, ‘Cake, Cake, I was obeying orders, alright. Jacob’s request.’

‘He might have phoned me.’

‘I’m sure he will. He’s got a lot on his plate.’

‘Good, I’m pleased to hear that. Pleased he enjoyed his safari.’

Mart Velaze is about to ring off, says, ‘That a cappuccino you’re drinking?’

Hears Cake Mullins snort. ‘Only a spook’d wanna know that.’

Mart Velaze puts his phone away, sits down opposite the Appollis couple. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Look at me.’ They do. Not rabbits now, more like pigeons perching close together on a gutter, the two of them sitting on the edge of the couch. ‘Now, what did Mr Fish want?’

Fish sighs, gives Cemetery a last scan: these neat sets stacking up, rolling in free of charge. Dozen dudes out there pulling
aerials
, cut-backs, slashes, lip-smacks, tearing up the surf like what else was there to do? Answer: nothing. Except. Except find out who’s paying Fortune Appollis’s medical bills. Except it doesn’t matter anymore. Except to Fish it does. Professional pride. More specifically, valuable information. As valuable as foreign currency. Also means he feels legit about neglecting his mother’s job.

His phone rings: Vicki. He thumbs her on, is about to get all mellow with her but she’s straight in: ‘Drop it, Fish. Please, just drop it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Clifford’s been on at me again to get you off. Not a pleasant Mr Clifford Manuel either.’

‘What’d Cliffie say?’

‘Precisely?’

‘Precisely’ll do.’

‘Get that lowlife to crawl back under his rock. Quote, unquote.’

‘Lowlife?’

‘His word.’

‘Very judgmental.’

‘Fish, look, please.’ Fish hearing something different in Vicki’s voice, worry, anxiety. ‘Just walk away. Not even the extra time we agreed on. You’ll do that for me?’

‘Okay, cool,’ says Fish. ‘It’s not a big deal. Just fascinating everybody’s getting so worked up.’

‘I know, I know. It raises lots of questions. But I’ve got a job, a career. So please.’

‘Done, Vics, done,’ says Fish, frowning, wondering what’s behind it, getting to Vicki.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.’

Fish thumbs her off, stares at his phone as if there’s an answer for Vicki’s weird call going to flash on the screen. He fires up the Perana, thinking, what the hell, the surf can wait.

Half an hour later he’s standing at the hospital’s reception desk with a bunch of flowers, mostly daisies.

‘For you,’ he says to the woman behind the desk. Heavily made-up young thing with purple lipstick.

She laughs. ‘For me?’

‘My friend’s in ICU,’ Fish says. ‘In a coma. He can’t
appreciate
them, but you can.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ says Fish. ‘He’d want me to do it.’

‘You could leave them up there. In the ward.’

‘They look better here.’

She smiles, white teeth biting brilliant against her lower lip. A blush darkening on her cheeks. Smooth olive cheeks.

Fish hesitates. Says, ‘Could you just check they haven’t moved him?’ Gives Fortune’s name, gets the floor and ward numbers in return.

‘Enjoy the flowers.’

The receptionist giggles.

Upstairs, Fish doesn’t skip a beat, heads straight down the corridor past the nurse’s station to the ward. No one inside but Fortune Appollis wired to monitors, tubed to bags. His leg’s in a plaster cast, thigh to ankle, his toes blue. His face’s not too pretty: bruises, swellings, white plaster strips everywhere. A turban of bandages round his head.

Attached to the foot of the bed’s a plastic holder, inside’s a file. Fish flips through the file to the admin sheet, lifts this out. The rest goes back in the holder. He folds the page into his jacket pocket.

At the nurse’s station, Fish stops to ask what time is visiting hour. He’s told only at four. The nurse glancing up from her paperwork, pointing at the notice across the corridor.

‘Didn’t see it,’ says Fish. ‘Sorry.’ Then: ‘How’s young Fortune?’

The nurse stops writing. ‘Are you from the family?’

‘One of his lecturers at the college.’

She taps her pen on the desk. ‘He is badly injured.’

‘He’s going to make it though?’

The nurse puts her hands together. ‘We are praying.’

Fish grimaces. ‘That’ll be a help.’

The nurse goes back to her paperwork, Fish heads down the corridor towards the staircase.

At the ground floor reception desk he pauses, says to the giggler, ‘Nice arrangement.’ The flowers now in a vase. ‘Much better they’re here. From what they tell me upstairs my young friend’s going to be pushing them up soon.’

The receptionist claps a hand over her mouth, can’t help an explosion of laughter.

Fish winks. ‘Got to laugh, haven’t we?’

In his car he unfolds the admin sheet: the box marked
private
patient is ticked. The billing address is Beechcraft Street, Mitchell’s Plain.

No joy. Nothing he doesn’t know already.

Fish folds the page, slips it back into his jacket pocket. He’s about to fire the ignition, he notices a black GTI with tinted windows in the row behind him, two cars down.

Nice coincidence.

He gets out, checks the number plates. Same car. Thinks, Daro can help here. Daro’s got access to the car licensing system.

Fish has that feeling he’s being watched, ignores it. Dude’s hardly going to be standing in plain view. On the way back to his car, he scopes the parking lot. Nonchalant, only taking in what he’d be looking at anyhow. Someone watching would be behind the hospital’s entrance doors with their reflective glass, you could stand there without being seen. Fish gets into the Perana, heads out with a low reverb in the tail pipes.