Of Cops & Robbers (29 page)

The boys stampede him when he stops the Hummer. Shoving and scrambling over one another to get out of their blankets, to be at the vehicle first. Their faces howling at him. He slides down the window, looks for the boy. Points at him, ‘Jy.’

The other boys protest. ‘Me, my baas, me, I do’s it better.’

Jacob Mkezi keeps his finger pointed at the boy. ‘You.’

The boy opens the door, gets in, the others squeezing forward. Jacob Mkezi buzzes down his side window, holds out a hundred rand note. The boys see it, rush round the car.

‘Close the door,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He lets go of the money, sees it fluttering into the street, the boys diving for it. ‘You like a cheeseburger?’

‘Ja, my baas, please, my baas,’ says the boy.

‘Same as last time.’

The boy grinning at him. ‘Ja, my baas.’

Again they sit in the McDonald’s parking lot in the dark, facing the rising stadium, the boy tearing at the burger, hardly chewing the chunks he bites off.

‘Slowly,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He touches the boy’s cheek. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

The boy nods, his cheeks bulging.

‘You used the Zam-Buk salve?’

The boy keeps nodding.

‘Good,’ says Jacob Mkezi, smiling at him, sitting back. He watches the boy eat, bite after bite.

When the boy’s swallowed he says, ‘Ma-Brenda.’

‘Brenda Fassie?’

‘Ja, my larney.’

Jacob Mkezi slots in ‘Weekend Special’, the boy giving a jive of his shoulders even as he jaws into the burger.

‘Another one?’

The boy nods his head fast, jams a straw in his mouth to suck up Coke.

‘Wait.’ Jacob Mkezi gets out, walks around the other cars to the order point. Mostly young couples in the cars this time of the evening. Their idea of a date, have a burger, head up Signal Hill for a screw on the back seat. None of them worried they’ll be attacked.

No singles in the cars, no one he can see with a camera. Since he left home he’s been careful, eye in the rear-view, took the long way through the suburb until the thought occurred they’d probably have a tracker on him. Be watching him ducking and diving, amused. He stops for too long, they can hone in. But there’re ways round that game too, underground parking garages for starters. So Jacob Mkezi wasn’t overly concerned. He came out on Rhodes Drive at that point, took it through to Union Avenue, quit arsing about on his way into the city.

If they’ve worked out where he’s stationary, no problem. Pictures at a parking lot aren’t what they want. What they want is the full routine. They can wait.

Jacob Mkezi buys the boy another cheeseburger and Coke. Walks slowly back to the car, his gaze on the stadium
construction
. Amazing the speed of it going up. A project that impresses him: its scale, the logistics. Getting all the ducks in a row. Makes arranging a couple of trucks and a cargo plane seem chickenfeed. Then again, the kickback on his operation more profitable than a civil engineer’s take-home pay. Still, have to admire the activity.

He gets back to the car, the boy’s slumped in the seat asleep. Brenda Fassie singing softly.

Jacob Mkezi reaches in, puts the burger on the floor, the drink in a holder. He shifts the boy to the back seat, lays him down, covers his body with a blanket.

He sits with the boy’s head on his lap, wondering about his comrades. The jealous ones. The ones who don’t understand the part he played. The money he took possession of. He strokes the
boy’s hair, feels grit on the palm of his hand. They got their cut, but a cut wasn’t enough. They didn’t want the dirt coming out.

He slides his hand under the boy’s clothes. Lays his palm on the boy’s chest, can feel the pump of his heart. Runs his fingers over ribs, slides them down to the boy’s waist, as far as he can reach. He caresses the boy, after long minutes gently withdraws his hand.

He sits with the boy’s head on his lap, his hands cradling the small face. Sits there for some moments before he smothers the boy. Suffocates him. The boy is drugged: his legs squirm briefly, his body jerks once. Then lies still.

Jacob Mkezi drives back into the city, in Bree Street leaves the boy’s body in a shop doorway, covered by the blanket.

On the way home he has Brenda Fassie up loud.

‘He went surfing with Steffie. He came back. He changed. He told her he’d be about an hour,’ Georgina Attilane tells Fish and Vicki. ‘That was at five thirty.’

Georgina’s hunched forward on the couch, a whisky in her hands, untouched. Her eyes sunk deep. Her skin zombie white. Over the time he’s known her he’s never seen Georgina other than made-up glam. She looks a wreck.

‘Something’s happened. He’s been hijacked. He’s been attacked. He’s lying somewhere injured. I know it. I know it, Fish.’

‘Maybe,’ says Fish. He gets no further.

‘Daro doesn’t do this sort of thing. He tells me. Or he phones me. He lets me know.’

Fish’s watching her, her hands rigid around the glass, sees her eyes come onto him, pleading. Gone the woman with the world at her beck and call. Fish’s never been sure of Georgina, always found her a bit stuck up, like she didn’t get the surfing-buddy thing he had with Daro. But this woman’s hurting.

‘He’s been gone seven hours.’ She puts the glass on the coffee table. Buries her face in her hands, pushes her hands into her hair, holds them there: gaunt, staring eyes. ‘He’s dead.’

Fish’s thinking, what does he know about Daro? The guy could be screwing his arse off somewhere.

‘Let’s try his cell again,’ says Vicki. Vicki not saying much for the hour they’ve been there, leaving it to Fish. Now asking Georgina for the number, ready to key the digits into her phone.

Georgina begins, ‘Oh-eight-three.’ Stops. ‘I’ve done that.
Hundreds
of times. It’s no use.’

‘Once more,’ says Vicki.

Georgina rattles off the number. Says to Fish, ‘Don’t you know someone, someone at the service provider? They can track
him through his phone.’

‘Not as easy as that,’ says Fish. ‘Especially not at this time of night.’

They watch Vicki, when the call goes to voicemail she clicks it off. Shrugs.

‘I told you. I told you. Don’t you think I’ve been on at it all evening?’

‘Is Steffie upstairs?’ says Fish.

‘I made her go to bed.’

‘What’d she say about her dad?’

Georgina stares at him from her skull eyes. ‘That he was fine. That he said he’d be an hour.’

‘Did he take anything with him?’

‘His briefcase.’

‘Maybe there’s a family emergency? With his folks? His brother? Maybe?’

‘His parents are dead, Fish. He’s got no brothers or sisters. We’re his family, Steffie and me.’ She’s looking at Fish, staring at him with those dark eyes.

‘Alright,’ says Fish, standing. ‘Let me check out his office, maybe there’s something there.’

‘I’ve been through it. There’s nothing. No appointment
written
in his diary. I even checked the rubbish bin. Daro’s like a boy scout, everything in its place.’

‘Sure.’ Fish points at some keys on the table. ‘Those get me in?’

‘You’re wasting time. We should tell the police.’

‘You could. They won’t do anything, but you could.’

‘It’s been seven hours.’

‘I know,’ says Fish, ‘seven hours is long.’ He glances at Vicki.

She reads him. Says, ‘I’ll wait.’

Fish’s already at the front door. Ten minutes later he buzzes himself into Daro Attilane’s office. The remote disarms the
security
system, brings up fluorescent lights.

Georgina’s right, Daro would’ve made a good boy scout. A man of order and neatness in an office of order and neatness.
One desk with two drawers. One grey four-door metal filing cabinet. Neither locked.

In the wastebin he finds a courier’s packaging, a card for Adler Solutions. He pockets the card.

Some pens, a notepad in the top desk drawer. Finance forms in the bottom drawer.

The filing cabinet’s also sparse: car brochures, car magazines, tarnished trophies for best sales figures from his days as a
floorman
, bank statements. In the bottom drawer a bulldog clip of receipts. Top receipt’s for a print and photostat shop in the Blue Route Mall. Shows that Daro did a lot of photostatting in the late morning. About fifty pages.

Fish’s locking Daro Attilane’s office when his cellphone rings: a number he doesn’t recognise. The voice he does. Willy Cotton.

Willy Cotton says, ‘The man you want is Lord Mkezi.’

Fish gets the keys out of the door, says, ‘Hold on, Willy, let me get a pen.’ On a bank statement jots down the name,
repeating
it aloud. ‘That’s good of you, Willy. I appreciate it, you’ve come through for your friend. You got an address?’

Willy Cotton tells him Durham Road, Salt River.

‘What’s that?’ says Fish. ‘A block of flats?’

‘Next to the mortuary,’ says Willy Cotton.

‘Handy. This Lord related to Jacob Mkezi?’

‘His son.’

Fish whistles. ‘Explains one or two things.’

Willy Cotton saying, ‘I didn’t tell you this. I didn’t tell you this. Just keep away from me.’

Fish’s about to tell him they’ve never met, but Willy Cotton’s hung up. ‘There’s a good guy,’ says Fish to the dead air.

Half an hour later he’s showing Georgina the two photostats Daro sent him. Georgina with a tremble in her fingers as she holds the papers.

‘You ever seen the original photographs?’ he says.

‘Daro’s got no photographs. Except of us. There are four albums of us.’

‘What about pictures of his folks?’

Georgina shakes her head. ‘He always said … says … he wished he had photographs of them. I don’t know what
happened
. He lost them, they got thrown away. When I met Daro, he could pack everything he owned in two suitcases.’ She gives the photostats to Fish. ‘Why’d he give you these?’

‘Search me.’ Fish taps the group picture on the beach. ‘This’s so fuzzy it’s almost useless. This one, okay, you can make out the face of the dude in the bed but who’s the other guy?’

Vicki takes the photostats from Fish, says, ‘He’s familiar, the man in the bed. I’ve seen pictures of him.’

‘Strikes a bell with me too,’ says Fish.

‘Not famous, not celeb famous. Maybe a politician, a
businessman
. I don’t know. But I’ve seen pictures of him.’

‘So what’s Daro on about giving me this stuff?’ says Fish.

‘Where’s Daro?’ says Georgina. Her voice small, breaking.

‘What did you think you were doing, Jacob? Risking my health! Exposing me to HIV! Are you mad?’

Mellanie in full vent, holding up the photographs one at a time like flash cards.

‘Heaven’s sakes, rent boys! They’re toxic. Diseased. Oh, Christ, what a number.’ Throwing the photographs on the coffee table.

She and Jacob Mkezi in his lounge. He’s standing at the
sliding
glass doors watching the early sun brighten his lawn, catch the dew on the cobwebs. Hears, but doesn’t listen to her.

‘Are you a pervert? A paedophile? A kiddie-fucker. This’s sick, Jacob. This is completely depraved. Way, way, way out of line. Way out of my territory. I don’t do this, Jacob. I don’t talk people out of this sort of crap. Young boys, for Chrissakes. Street kids. Je–sus. How’m I supposed to deal with this?
Emotionally
. That I’m here with the virus in my blood, killing me. Professionally, how’m I supposed to handle a scene like this? Huh? You tell me? I’ll tell you: I don’t.’

Mellanie walking across the room, back and forth. Mellanie dressed for war in a black trouser suit with pointy shoes.
Mellanie
the pissed-off lover. Mellanie the spin doctor with her errant client, clenching her fists, taking another tack.

‘God’s sake, Jacob. I liked you. I fell for you. Bloody fool, Mellanie. Dumb blonde, Mellanie. Thinking she’s got a thing going with Mr Crocodile Shoes, turns out he prefers little boys. He’s just keeping her on the ups as his dolly bird. Big ups, Mr Mkezi, thank you very much. Nothing nicer than being his bit on the side. His arm-candy so everybody can see that Jacob Mkezi pulls woman. Jacob Mkezi the kid-banger. Dishing HIV to his dumb blonde.’

She stands still, shoulders slumped.

‘Look at me. Look at me, Jacob.’ Points at the photographs. ‘Tell me these are photoshopped.’

He turns to face her. ‘They’re photoshopped.’

‘They’re not. You’re lying. This’s your car. There’s this kid getting into your car. This’s you getting out of your car, going into the chemist. Don’t lie to me, Jacob.’

‘I’m being set up.’

‘I can find this boy, Jacob. I can go there right now and find this boy. I can ask him.’

Jacob Mkezi shrugs. ‘You can. Maybe you’ll find him. Maybe you won’t. Those kids move around.’ He comes up to Mellanie, puts a hand on her arm. She shakes him off, backs away. Jacob Mkezi smiles. ‘Say you find him, say you show him a photograph of me, he’s going to tell you, yes, that’s the man driving the Hummer. That’s the man bought me a McDonald’s. That’s the man bought me muti. He’s going to tell you whatever you want to know. And why? Because he knows you’ll give him fifty bucks, a hundred bucks. He’ll tell you whatever he thinks you want.’

Jacob Mkezi hikes up his sleeves, gazes at Mellanie. Jacob Mkezi standing there relaxed in stone-washed jeans, leather
loafers
, the casual businessman. The man with the lowdown. ‘They want me out,’ he says. ‘I know too much.’

Mellanie coming back, ‘Who’s they? Who’s they, Jacob? Name names. Who’re they?’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Then how’m I supposed to believe you?’

‘You wouldn’t anyhow.’

‘Try me.’

‘Forget it.’

‘The party bosses. The president. Tell me who, Jacob? Who?’

‘I said forget it.’ Jacob Mkezi relaxing onto a sofa, hands clasped behind his head.

Mellanie staring at him: one arm across her chest, the other resting on it, her hand at her chin, a finger over her mouth. Staring at him. ‘You’re unreal. What was I thinking taking you
on? You’re a criminal. A bloody lowlife, Jacob Mkezi. You used me, big-time.’

Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘And you didn’t like it? Ah, tell me
another
one, get real. It’s what turns you on, sisi. Knowing you’re close to the deals. The bad men. The lowlife. Mellanie getting her thrills. Getting her jollies. Rubbing up against the hep guys with the power. What d’you say, Mellanie? Smell the money, sisi. It’s groovy, sisi. It’s sharp. Everybody’s chilled. Everybody’s getting their cut.’

Mellanie, hands raised, shaking her head. Saying, ‘No, no, no. Fuck you. Okay, Jacob. Just fuck you. Find yourself another PR. Find yourself some other woman to rub your dick. Your limp prick. Someone else you can give AIDS.’ Mellanie slamming out of the room.

Leaving Jacob Mkezi with the smile hard on his face. He hears the front door bang closed. Hears her car fire. He phones Mart Velaze. His call goes to voicemail. ‘Comrade,’ he says, ‘what’s happening? What have you got for me on Vusi Bopape?’