Of Cops & Robbers (28 page)

Jacob Mkezi has the same sort of envelope in his hands: brown manila except this has got the courier company’s tracking note stuck on it.

Jacob Mkezi is in a good mood. He’s enough Rattlesnake Sauvignon Blanc in his blood to make the world rosy.

He’s got confit duck in his stomach, also lemon meringue profiteroles.

He’s got rid of Mellanie all randy from the wine, coming on to him. Wanting to do a blowjob in the car outside the bistro.

On which he’d taken a rain check. Despite the Hummer being the ultimate sin bin.

Then said he’d call her later. When he’d finished the logistics, made sure the ducks stayed in a row.

She said, ‘For a man with crocodile shoes you need to lighten up a little.’

Now he’s slitting open the envelope, drawing out photographs. Black and white prints of his meeting with Clifford Manuel, Vicki Kahn, Cake Mullins, Tol Visagie. The view from the mezzanine, the moment they’ve got their glasses raised in a toast. Date and time on the print.

Beneath that’s a picture of the rent boy getting into his Hummer. The view from the back of the vehicle, the registration plate clear. Number three: the Hummer in the McDonald’s parking lot, five minutes later. Number four: Jacob Mkezi getting out of the Hummer, going into a pharmacy, fifteen minutes later. Number five: he’s getting back into the vehicle holding a paper bag. Number six: the Hummer parked on the mountain road with the view over the city bowl. Time difference is twelve minutes. Number seven he’s dropping off the boy in the city; number eight he’s arriving at home, waiting for his gate to roll back.

Jacob Mkezi rubs a hand over his face, stares into the garden. He knows where this is coming from: his old comrades. The ones he made rich. The ones in power. The ones worried that he might tell his story of what happened in the good old, bad old days.

He keys through to Tol Visagie, says, ‘Tomorrow, we keep the contact minimum. Just SMS.’

‘Why?’ Tol Visagie wants to know.

‘It’s best,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘This sort of operation we keep the comms down,’ trying out a line of spook-speak to give the vet a thrill.

The vet says, ‘Comms?’

‘You know, communication.’

‘Ja, okay,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Makes me nervous though.’

‘It’s okay, my friend, it’ll be no problem. Stay away, stay sharp.’ Jacob Mkezi thumbs him off, his eyes on the photographs, his thoughts shading to red at the betrayal by his comrades. Their fingers sticky with blood and money. His cellphone rings: Mellanie.

‘Fuck, Jacob,’ she says. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing? If I’ve got AIDS, you’re … you’re … fucked.’

‘What’re you talking about.’

‘The photographs. You’ve got the fucking photographs?’

‘Photoshopped,’ he says.

‘They better bloody be. I’m coming over.’

‘No,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Tomorrow morning. We can handle this tomorrow morning.’ Disconnects. He dials up Vicki Kahn.

‘Who’s this?’ she answers.

Jacob Mkezi clears his throat, says, pardon me, gives his name. ‘I enjoyed last night.’

‘I didn’t,’ says Vicki.

‘Forget it,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘I’m not holding you to anything.’

‘A debt is a debt until payback time.’

Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘I hear you.’ Says, ‘Then, here’s the
payback
: could I tempt you with a job offer?’ Listens to the silence.
Says, ‘You still there, Miss Kahn?’ Hears her hesitation. Says, ‘Don’t worry about Clifford, I’ll square it with him. Meet me, we can discuss this. I’m offering interesting legal work, a good salary, incentives, easy loan schemes, medical aid, pension.’

Hears, ‘This is a surprise. This isn’t what I was expecting.’

‘Think about it, Miss Kahn. I considered last night your job interview. Maybe we can meet tomorrow? I’ll be in touch.’

‘Say again,’ says Mart Velaze to Seven, frowning at him.

Seven shifts his weight from foot to foot, says, ‘Like I say, Mr Mart, we’s asking you for the horns back.’ Seven pointing at the horns on the table. Still in the plastic carrier bag.

Mart Velaze squints at the two men. ‘I’m having a problem here, my brothers. You want the horns back?’

‘It’s better, Mr Mart, we’s, me’n Jouma, don’t wanna bother you.’

‘How?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mart?’

‘How’re you bothering me?’

‘Asking you to sell them. Giving Mr Mart a big headache.’

‘I said I’d do it.’

‘Ja, Mr Mart. That’s right, that’s what you and me’n Jouma agreed’ – Seven pointing at Mart Velaze, then at himself and Jouma. Jouma nodding, grinning, his lips pulled tight over his empty gums. ‘But we’s thinking we shouldn’ta bothered Mr Mart. Like I say, we’s asking for the horns back to help Mr Mart.’

Seven not looking at Mart Velaze. His eyes’re on the yellow plastic bag with the rhino horns.

Mart Velaze’s thinking that Seven’s thinking of grabbing them, making a run for it. That’s why they’re here. Mart Velaze not too bothered by this, even hoping that Seven makes the play. Saying, ‘How’m I going to do that?’

‘What, Mr Mart?’ says Seven. ‘What’s Mr Mart gonna do?’

‘Not do, Seven. It’s what I can’t do. What I can’t do is give you the horns back. You sold them to me. I bought them. You took advance payment.’

‘Was only five hunnerd.’

Mart Velaze comes round the table that serves as his desk,
perches on a corner. Seven and Jouma edging back. They’re in the warehouse: still the tins of paint stacked against a wall, the broken motorbike, otherwise the place is empty.

‘Five hundred is money, Seven.’ Mart Velaze pushing the bag with the horns along the table. ‘You returning the money?’

‘It’s gone, Mr Mart. Sundries and petties. We’s owe yous.’

‘Doesn’t work like that.’

Seven doing hangdog, head bowed, his eyes on the rhino horns.

Mart Velaze follows his gaze, smiles. ‘What’d I tell you, Seven: be patient.’

‘We’s been patient, Mr Mart. Patient since last week. But Mr Mart hasn’t sold them.’

Mart Velaze looks from Seven to Jouma, back to Seven. ‘Rhino horn’s not Coca-Cola, buti. You got to find the right buyer. This takes time. Understand me?’

Seven and Jouma nod.

Mart Velaze sits square on the table, swings his legs. Lifts the tone. ‘I’m talking to people, you’ll get your money, this weekend, maybe early next week. Now. What about the other job? You want the other job? You can have an advance.’

‘What other job, Mr Mart?’

‘I told you last time it might come up. Twenty thousand. Ten before, ten after. You want it?’ Mart Velaze draws his finger across his throat. ‘Yes or no? Quick and easy job.’ He gets off the table, from one of its drawers takes out a 9-mil H&K pistol. Offers it butt-first to Seven.

‘Who’s it?’ says Seven.

‘This matters to you? Twenty grand is twenty grand.’ He stretches towards Seven, taps his chest with the pistol grip. ‘Easy money.’

From another drawer Mart Velaze pulls out a bag, empties it on the table, five bundles of notes. ‘Ten thousand.’ Again he holds the gun out to Seven.

‘Who’s it?’

‘Your friend from the forum, Daro Attilane.’

Seven bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning.

‘You want to do this favour. Twenty thou.’

‘Okay,’ says Seven.

As he reaches for the gun Mart Velaze says, ‘Let me check the load.’ Ejects the clip, holds it up for Seven. ‘Fully stocked.’ Palms it back into the grip. ‘You want to do it?’ The gun in his hand, butt towards Seven.

‘What’d I say, Mr Mart? We’s can do it.’

Seven takes the pistol, weighs it in his hand. ‘Nice rod, ek sê.’ Racks one into the chamber. Points it at Mart Velaze. ‘Ag sorry hey, Mr Mart.’ Pulls off two shots.

Fish and Vicki in the red Perana trawling slowly from street light to street light. No one about, the houses curtained.

‘There,’ says Vicki. ‘On the corner.’

Fish pulls to the kerb.

‘You’re late,’ says Willy Cotton, getting into the car. ‘You said ten thirty. I’ve been standing out here fifteen minutes.’

‘It’s not raining,’ says Fish. ‘Could have been worse. I told you, wait inside, I’ll knock.’

‘Like that’s going to happen. My dad opens the door to some white surfer dude, he’ll freak. Sees a car like this in the street, he’ll freak. Think I’m into organised crime. Thank you.’

‘You scared of the streets, Willy? Athlone’s okay.’

‘Athlone’s Athlone. You don’t stand in the street at night.’

‘What’d I tell you, Fish,’ says Vicki.

Fish shrugs. ‘Your suburb.’

‘Who’s she?’ says Willy Cotton.

‘Be polite,’ says Fish. ‘This’s Vicki, she’s a speed maniac. Drives an Alfa MiTo.’

Vicki turns round in the front seat to smile at Willy Cotton. She extends a hand. ‘Hello, Willy, what’s your ride?’

Before he can answer Fish says, ‘A very nice Corolla, last year’s model. Seems Willy’s doing okay.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ says Vicki, shaking Willy Cotton’s hand. ‘So where’re we going, Willy? To see something exciting?’

‘Epping,’ says Willy. ‘You know where that is?’

Fish laughs. ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

He’s got Jim Neversink on the sound system. Neversink
singing
of urban grit. Jim Neversink has the vibe for this sort of job.

Willy’s running his hand over the black interior, can’t help himself ask, ‘This’s a Perana?’

‘It is,’ says Fish.

‘V8?’

‘V6.’

‘Nice car.’

‘It is,’ says Fish.

Fish drives out of Athlone towards the cooling towers, across the highway onto the Pinelands circuit road. They pop over the railway line come down onto Viking Way, nice straight stretch of tarmac with reserves either side. Factories of Gunners Circle to the right, a sleeping suburb to the left.

‘This’s it,’ says Willy Cotton.

‘What?’ says Fish.

‘The drag. This’s the drag.’

‘They race here? It’s a two-way.’

‘They’re only on that side,’ says Willy Cotton.

Fish shakes his head. ‘Nice one.’

‘You seen any accidents, Willy?’ Vicki twists round in her seat.

‘A couple.’

‘Of racers or people watching?’

‘Both.’ Willy Cotton fidgets with the goatee on his chin. ‘One time this guy’s tyre burst, the car flipped. He died, so did a child sitting with her parents.’

‘What did you think of that?’

‘It was hectic.’

‘Like what happened to your mate, Fortune?’

Willy Cotton doesn’t respond.

Fish and Vicki let this hang, Fish slowing for a traffic light. Up ahead the road’s clear. There’s a car parked off on the
Gunners
Circle side.

‘This’s the end,’ says Willy Cotton, ‘the guys in that car call the race.’

‘What d’you mean, call the race?’

‘You know, who wins. For the punters.’

‘You can bet?’ says Vicki.

‘Of course.’

Fish glances at her. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Just don’t even think it.’

At the top end of Viking, the crowds are gathering. Fish parks well off in a side street.

‘Out,’ he says to Willy Cotton, ‘let’s take a hike.’ Willy
Cotton
’s shrugged into his hoodie, his hands buried in the pockets. He walks a pace behind Fish and Vicki.

The corner’s a carnival: cars lining the road, headlights on full bore, music pumping from their open doors. Fish’s offered a ‘sip, my bru’ from a flagon of Old Brown sherry doing the rounds. ‘Nay,’ he says, ‘zol’s my jol. I’m a smoker.’ Which gets the group laughing. Catches the eye of a big dude in a caftan standing like he’s Gaddafi, next to a sin bin. The sliding door of the van’s open, showing an inside of shaggy carpet, top, bottom, sides. There’re chicks lounging inside and out, drinking sparkling from flutes. Except, Fish sees, they’re not chicks, they’re
cross-dresser
Flats specials.

‘He’s a bookie,’ says Willy Cotton, ‘you don’t want to know about him.’ Willy Cotton edging Fish and Vicki away from the man, taking them across the intersection into the grumble and scream of engines, the gag of petrol fumes. People bump against them, people shout, signalling for the cars to line up.

‘That car,’ Willy Cotton yells in Fish’s ear, ‘the Subaru, the blue one in front with the foil. That’s his.’

The car’s low-slung on wide rims, rocking as the driver foots the revs. Looks like the one Fish saw at Daro’s. Has a half-finished spray job to the bodywork up front.

‘Where can I bet?’ Vicki shouts at Willy Cotton.

‘Hey, my sista, right here come with me,’ screeches a voice, a short man with a wispy moustache pulling at Vicki’s elbow.

‘I want to put it on him,’ Vicki says, pointing at the Subaru.

‘Fabulous, sista, fab-u-lous,’ says the short man, threading Vicki back through the traffic to the carpeted van.

Fish after them nudging Vicki, saying, ‘No, no, no, what’re
you doing? I told you no.’

Willy Cotton’s hanging back.

‘Gambling,’ says Vicki. ‘Having a flutter.’

The bookie in the caftan flicks his chin at Fish. ‘Ja, mlungu, my whitey,’ he says, ‘how much for you and the sista?’

‘No,’ Fish says to Vicki. ‘No.’

‘Just do it. Stop being so heavy. Get with the scene, Fish. Come on. Do it for both of us.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I’m not involved. Not breaking my vows. Come on.’

Fish relents, this being no place to argue. Pulls out a bunch of notes. ‘Two hundred.’

‘Don’t be mean,’ says Vicki. ‘Put it down, Fish. Live dangerously.’

Fish looks at her. The fire in her eyes. Her smile, her white teeth.

‘After this, no more,’ he says.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Agreed.’ Takes the money, counts two
thousand
into the man’s palm. ‘On the Subaru. What’re the odds?’

‘Same for you two as for everybody, two to one.’ The money disappears inside the van.

‘Who’s it we’re betting on?’ asks Fish.

‘Lord the Lord.’

‘Lord has a surname?’

The man laughs, hands Vicki a chit. ‘Lordy lord. The Lord on high.’

‘All you gotta do is ask for Lord, baby,’ says one of the boygirls, blowing kisses at Fish.

‘What’s that?’ says Fish to the bookie, pointing at the chit.

‘Your man wins, you’ll want a payout, né? You want a payout, you’d better show me a receipt.’

Fish gives him the thumbs-up, steps away. ‘We’ll be back.’

‘All sorted, my bru?’ says the short man with the wispy moustache.

‘Uh huh,’ says Fish. ‘Except who’s Lord?’

‘No, man, he’s just the Lord, my bru. The Lord is the Lord. Chief of the drivers. Come see, come see. You’s gotta watch
the race.’

Fish and Vicki follow the short man through the crowd. Willy Cotton’s nowhere to be seen. People are pushing and shoving to get to the front but the short man carves a path. The reason, he’s waving about an Okapi, pricking people with the blade’s point.

Fish says, ‘We’re never going to see that money again.’

Vicki’s grinning at him. ‘Course we are. Can’t you feel the luck?’

Fish gets close to her ear. ‘No. This’s gambling. You’re not supposed to be doing it.’

‘It’s research.’

‘Giving money to a black guy in caftan in a van like that?’

‘Guy in a suit in an office’s no better.’

Fish doesn’t argue.

They get to the kerb, there’re the two cars rocking in the road: Lord in his Subaru, an Audi beside him. Lord gives some juice and screams the engine. The Audi replies. The two dicers going rev for rev, the crowd loving it.

‘Here we go, my bru,’ yells the short man.

There’s a bumper-to-bumper crawl of normal traffic driving past. Freaked-out citizens heading home. Everybody hooting. A man in a white coat steps off the pavement, stands in front of the dragsters. He beckons them forward till they’re lined up either side of him, his hands on their bonnets. He looks at Lord, he looks at the Audi driver. He lifts his hands, takes three paces backwards. Looks from driver to driver again. Raises his arms above his head. Holds them there: one, two, three, four – the crowd calling the countdown. On ten he pauses, the crowd chanting go, go, go. Suddenly he drops his arms, bows to the drivers. The two cars fishtail past him on smoking rubber, the burn of hot oil.

Fifty metres out Lord comes in close on the Audi, sheers off the wing mirror, screeches metal against metal. The tail lights of the two cars holding until the Audi puts wheels on the gravel soft shoulder, clouds of dust filtering into the oncoming
headlight
glare.

Fish can’t tell who’s ahead. Vicki’s jumping up and down next to him.

‘Who’s in front?’ she says to the short man, the short man glued to his cellphone.

The tail lights have blurred to one.

‘You scored,’ yells the short man. ‘You scored, my bru, my sista. Two to one. Praise the Lord.’

The second race is lining up. Fish hears cop sirens. People are running now, scrambling for their cars. The short man’s tugging at his jacket.

‘Come get your money, quickly, my bru, quickly, my sista.’

Fish grabs Vicki’s arm, again they follow the short man through the laughing crowd.

At the van, Mr Caftan’s about to close the sliding door, make his getaway. He sees Fish.

‘Ah, mlungu. A mlungu never forgets about money.’ He throws out a packet. Fish catches it. ‘All there, mlungu.’ He’s grinning a deck of white teeth as he slams closed the door.

‘A small commission, my bru,’ says the short man. ‘A little per cent.’

Fish slides him a blue hundred. ‘You’s schweet, my bru, you’s schweet.’ The short man kisses the note, gives Fish a toothless grin. ‘Goodnight, my larney, goodnight my cherry. See yous in dreamland.’

Willy Cotton’s waiting for them at the car.

‘That was fun,’ says Vicki as Fish pulls off into the suburb to miss the cops. ‘And we scored.’

They’re laughing at one another. Fish says, ‘One and only time, okay. Never again.’

Vicki leans across kisses his ear.

‘Only thing is, Willy,’ says Fish, ‘I don’t believe you that you don’t know his surname.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Course you do, Willy. You could’ve saved us a lot of trouble.
Vicki and me could’ve spent a romantic night. But that’s okay. We’re good. Now you want to tell me what it is?’

‘I don’t know it. Strues.’

‘Think about it,’ says Fish. ‘We can drive around a bit until you remember.’

Vicki says, ‘Wow. How about three thousand nine hundred. Amazing. That was so good.’

‘It was gambling.’

‘Last time.’

Fish glances in the rear-view mirror at Willy Cotton. ‘How we doing there, Willy. Your memory dredged it up yet?’

Twenty minutes later Willy’s still closed up, tight as a zip. Fish’s cellphone rings. It’s Georgina, Daro’s wife.

‘Can you come over,’ she says. ‘It’s urgent.’