Of Cops & Robbers (34 page)

‘Except three people’re dead.’

‘This’s true. Not Georgina, though. Not Steffie.’

‘My friends: Fish and Vicki.’

‘A pity,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘But I don’t see a way round it. You should’ve thought of that one, Daro. Kept them out, hanging loose.’

Daro Attilane rubs his face. Only thing is to wait. Sometime there’ll be a moment he can use.

He gazes at the screen: the character Clooney’s playing, Jack Foley, robbing a bank.

‘He’s a dude,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘So unfazed. Check this,
where he tells the guy the teller’s cute. Hey, you credit that?’

Then Jack Foley’s outside in his car, except it won’t start. Next there’s a cop at his side window with a gun, telling him, Get outta the car.

Mart Velaze laughs. ‘See how he takes it. Like it’s destiny. Fate. That is so sharp.’

Daro’s thinking at some point Velaze has to give him a gun. A loaded gun. Might be only one round in it but one round’s enough to zap Mart through the frontal lobe. How he deals with Mkezi’s the unknown factor. Like surfing, you take the wave that comes. Daro watches the movie, feels adrenaline making him squirmy. It’s all he can do to keep sitting still.

On the flatscreen there’s Karen Sisco in her car outside Glades Correctional mouthing ‘what the fuck’ at the jailbreak. The guys popping out of the ground like rabbits. Here she’s racking the shotgun, that long slit up her dress peeling away to show her thigh.

‘Wena! Sexy mama,’ says Mart Velaze.

Cut to Karen and Jack in the boot talking movies:
Bonnie and Clyde, Three Days of the Condor.

Mart Velaze saying, ‘How amazing is that?’ He draws on his scotch. ‘You a Clooney man, Daro? You seen
Michael Clayton
? Probably the best movie he’s done. That scene on the hill with the horses. Haunting. Beautiful. Then his car blows up. Hey, how was that?’

Now Clooney’s in the bath with Jennifer Lopez leaning over him, when they hear a car pulling in. Mart Velaze looks out the window, the headlights of the Civic on the garage door opening. ‘Here’s our boy, Daro. Showdown time.’

They hear Jacob Mkezi coming through the house calling, ‘Mellanie. Mellanie. You changed your mind?’

Fish thinks, the Z88’s in the bakkie, there’s a Ruger in the
bedroom
. Both of them too far away. Footsteps coming fast down the passageway. He sees Vicki’s handbag, knows she carries,
pulls out her .32. Not the best gun for a situation like this but what’re the options? The barrel hardly extends over his fingers.

He calls Vicki’s name. The footsteps stop.

Fish edges back, crouches behind the table.

‘Vicki.’ Gives it two beats. ‘Vicki.’ Thinking, she’s dead. Thinking, fuck it. This’s not Seven’s gangbanger style. This’s professional. He says, ‘I was you I’d run, man. Run fast.’

Fish listens. All he can hear is Shawn Colvin singing how she’s gonna die in these four walls.

‘Now’s a good time, go.’

Hears the floorboards creak. Thing about an old house the floorboards always have their say. Knows the shooter is closing. Time to shut up. Play this on its nerves.

He watches the kitchen door slowly open, till it knocks against a cupboard, half-ajar. Gives the shooter the advantage, he can use it as a shield. Nice solid door like that the .32’s going to get stuck in the wood.

What’s he got, the hitman? 9-mil? .38? Bloody big noise it made, has to be one or the other. Cocky bastard not even
bothering
with a silencer. What’s that tell you? He doesn’t care. His intention is in, out, away before anybody’s thought perhaps those were gunshots they heard.

Another shifting of the floorboards. Fish thinks, put one into the door see what happens. One wasted leaves five. It’s a good bullet the .32 carries but it’ll need two for the job. Maybe three if there’s ducking and diving.

He pulls off the shot, middle panels of the door, the lead burying itself.

The shooter’s hand comes round, takes three measured
positions
. Left into the sink, the ricochet zinging round the room. Centre across the kitchen table smack into the wall. Right into the sound system, end of Shawn Colvin.

‘I’m still here,’ says Fish. ‘What’s your next play, bru?’

Doesn’t let him think about that. Fish’s out of the blocks like a sprinter, bam into the door. Hears the grunt as the shooter takes
the knock hard against his shoulder, staggers back. Fish ducks, goes low round the door, fires up at forty-five degrees,
reckoning
that’s where the guy will be. Hears the hollowpoint juice in. A round comes down, punches into the door above his head.

Fish lets go a wild third, the lead bouncing off the passage walls. Looks up at the man above him. This man with a hole in his chest, this man with his face pinched in pain. The man’s swaying but still standing, bringing up his gun hand.

Fish goes for a stomach shot, best available target. The shooter bends on impact, staggers back against a wall, slides down till he’s sitting, staring at Fish. The gun’s still in his hand, he’s still trying to raise it. Fish steps forward, kicks it away. Four more paces he’s down the passage, there’s Vicki lying in the lounge, blood splatter on the walls, blood pooling under her.

Daro Attilane hears Jacob Mkezi say, ‘Fuck,’ at the sight of
Mellanie
’s body in his lounge. Repeat it, ‘Fuck.’ Imagines the former commissioner seeing the chest shot, the stab wounds, bending down to feel for a pulse in her neck. Then the man shouting, ‘Comrade, what’s the story here?’ Knowing the person watching a DVD in the TV room has to be his man.

Daro sees Mart Velaze turn down the sound, grinning at him. ‘Let’s talk to the former commissioner.’ On screen Karen Sisco’s in hospital, mouthing to the FBI dude and her daddy. Mart Velaze waves Daro out of the TV room towards the lounge.

There’s Jacob Mkezi crouched beside the body of Mellanie Munnik. He stands, looks from Daro Attilane to Mart Velaze. Says, ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘There’s a reason.’

‘Explain, comrade, explain. There’re things I don’t understand.’

Mart Velaze smiles. ‘There’s a reason.’

‘You’ve said that. Why’re you here? Why’s he here?’ –
pointing
at Daro Attilane. ‘Explain, now.’

‘Okay,’ says Mart Velaze.

Daro watches Mart Velaze reach under his jacket come up
with the 9-mil he used on Mellanie in his right hand, thinks, this’s it. This’s where he gives me the weapon, tells me blow away the ex-commissioner. Thinking, I’ll take the gun, blow away Mart Velaze, see how things work out with Jacob Mkezi in the aftermath.

Sees Mart Velaze draw out a revolver with his left hand.

Jacob Mkezi frowning at the sight of the second gun, his eyes on Mart Velaze, watching this two-draw, waiting for an explanation.

‘Thing is, Mr Mkezi,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘I’ve got orders.’

‘Orders?’

‘Being a servant of the state.’

‘Mephistopheles to Faust. Had I not become the devil’s—’

Daro sees Mart Velaze raise the snubnose in his left hand, pop a load into Jacob Mkezi’s chest, another into his face. The one-time commissioner standing there like he’s become a statue, then dropping backwards. Swivels his eyes to see Mart Velaze raise the pistol in his right hand, aiming it at him, lining up the sights. The weapon he used on Mellanie. Daro aware of the play in that moment. Even sees the skin tighten on Mart Velaze’s trigger finger.

No sunrise flush yet on the mountain. Wraiths of mist upon the water in the grey dawn light. Coming out of the bay these tidy sets, not pushing much punch: half a metre, metre tops. A slight offshore holding them up. Still worth doing the dawn patrol.

Midweek, so it’s Fish and maybe a dozen others strung from Surfers’ Corner to the vlei outlet. Fish’s in the corner. The rocks hard to his left. The break’s going nicely right, for the moment he has the spot.

He’s taken two rides, no fancy footwork, just standing there: the board slicing along the wave, the thrum in his feet, the cold against his face. Ridden them until they were white water. Then kicked out, headed again for the backline.

His first surf since …

He’s on Daro’s board. The one Daro lent him. It’s not the best but it’s a board.

Fish still trying to figure out Daro. Reckons there’s the Daro he knew, and whoever he was before. There’s the manner of his death in a gunfight with Jacob Mkezi. There’s the picture of the group of men on the beach, Daro and Jacob Mkezi among them. This’s Daro’s guessed-at life.

There’s Mart Velaze.

Mart Velaze phoning him: ‘I heard about your invader, my friend.’

Fish saying, ‘You did? How’s that?’

‘I hear things. I’m sorry about Vicki Kahn getting hurt.’

‘Of course you are.’

‘She’s a spritzy woman. I like hot dames.’

‘How d’you know her?’

‘I don’t. By reputation only.’

Fish letting in a long pause before saying, ‘Why’re you
phoning
,
Velaze?’

‘To tell you something. To give you a message for her.’

‘A message? Like what?’

‘Tell Vicki she has people worry about her. About who she is. What she knows about her aunt’s death. We live in a dangerous country. A bad time. She doesn’t want to ask questions about her aunt’s death.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Tell her, my friend. Ms Vicki will know what I mean. Nice talking, Mr Fish Pescado.’

Fish saying, ‘Wait.’

‘You’ve got something to say?’

‘Daro Attilane?’

‘Daro Attilane: a sad story.’

‘I’ve got this photostat, Velaze, with Jacob Mkezi, Daro
Attilane
, some other men.’

‘Frame it.’

‘Who’re they, the others?’

‘Dead men, Mr Pescado, dead men. All of them.’

Fish waiting for more, the silence lengthening until Fish breaks it. ‘What’s going on, Velaze?’

Mart Velaze coming back, ‘Nothing any more. We’re done.’

‘You’re still out there.’

Hearing Mart Velaze snort a laugh. ‘I’m still out here. Yebo yes, I’m still out here. But I’m no hazard. No jeopardy to you or your loved-one. Not at the moment. Enjoy the rest of your life, Mr Pescado. Surfing, smoking doob, investigating. Making out with Vicki. Maybe finish that law degree like your mother wants.’

Fish frowning at this, wondering, how the hell does he know what Estelle wants? Saying, ‘Meet me.’

‘Not going to happen, my friend. You should be pleased about that. You wouldn’t want to meet me.’

‘Then one question: why? The gold? The money?’

‘There you are. The dreams in our hearts, né, Mr Pescado. The dreams in our hearts. Some or other German thing like
that Mkezi always used to quote. Dreams,
Träume
. RAU TEM. You’ve got the answer to your question.’

Fish saying again, ‘Meet me. Tell me about the Appollis boy.’

Mart Velaze saying, ‘Goodbye, Mr Pescado. My best to your lady friend. Tell her to take care.’

End of conversation. The trace Fish got a mate to put on the cellphone ended at a stolen SIM card.

My best to your lady friend. Vicki right there and then in ICU but stable, out of danger. If being in hospital is out of danger.

Thing was, not two hours after the call from Mart Velaze, Samson Appollis was on the line.

‘Mr Fish, we’s got the money. Thank yous, thank yous, thank yous.’ Fish hears him calling out. ‘Ma, Ma, I’ve got Mr Fish on the telephone.’

Daphne Appollis saying, ‘You’s very kind, Mr Pescado. May the Lord bless you.’

‘Samson,’ Fish said. ‘Samson, what’s going on?’

‘We got money, Mr Fish. I’m phoning to tell you, we’s got money. Out of the blue Lord the Father’s heaven. Fifteen
thousand
rands in cash. And flowers, such a beautiful vase of
flowers
. From Mr Velaze, Mr Fish. He brought them to us, here in our house. He said they was from his rich friend to comfort us in our grief.’

‘Fifteen thousand rand? That’s it?’

‘That’s a lot of money, Mr Fish.’

Fish thinking, it’s bloody peanuts. Lord Mkezi getting away with murder.

‘It’s something,’ said Fish. ‘I thought …’ then stopping himself.

Daphne Appollis in the background saying, ‘Pa, Pa, that’s enough now. Stop bothering Mr Pescado.’

‘I’ve gotta go, Mr Fish,’ said Samson Appollis. ‘Ma calling me, you know. But we’s just wanna say thank yous, Mr Fish, wes know this’s because of you.’

Fish hanging up, thinking he should go back to Lord, teach him something about making amends.

Fifteen thousand rand! Fifteen thousand rand is an insult. The sort of figure Mart Velaze would hit on. Too little to be useful, but for Ma and Pa Appollis something to be grateful for.

Fish shook his head. Bloody Mart Velaze.

Now Fish sits on the grey sea thinking of Vicki. Of
kneeling
beside her on the floor, holding her hand, the dark stain of blood leaking out of her. Talking at her: ‘Stay with me. Vics, Vics, Vics keep with me. Tell me your name. Tell me where you are.’ Holding up his hand. ‘Count my fingers.’ Vicki in and out of it. Fish thinking he’d lost her each time her eyes closed. Remembering his neighbour Flip Nel with a gun in his hand, saying the man was dead. Not to worry, she’d be alright, his girlfriend. The weirdness of the scene. Paramedics. Cops. Men in suits. Getting into the ambulance. Sitting in the hospital for hours till they’d operated.

Till they told him, ‘Go home, Mr Pescado.’

To his empty house, the bloodstains on the floor. A call from his mother.

Estelle triumphant.

‘I’ve done it, Barto. Took a couple of meetings but I’ve done it.’

Fish at the kitchen window staring at the boat. Was standing there for long minutes, not thinking, not feeling. Numb. Not with it. Not wanting to face cleaning up. ‘Done what?’

‘The mining deal. The Chinese investment. Prospect Deep. They’re coming out. Mr Yan and Mr Lijun. This is amazing. I’m coming with them.’

‘Mom,’ said Fish, the phone clamped to his left ear, holding up his right hand. ‘Mom, Vicki was shot.’

Silence.

‘Vicki? Your Indian girlie?’

‘Vicki, Mom. Here in my house.’ He lowered his arm.

‘Killed.’

‘She’s on life support.’

‘Oh, Barto. Bartolomeu, how dreadful. Why? How? You’re not hurt?’

‘Long story. No, I’m not hurt.’

‘You can tell me.’

‘Not now.’

‘I’m coming out. Next week. Oh, Barto, I am so sorry.’

‘Coming out?’ Fish frowned. ‘Why’re you coming out?’

‘With Mr Yan and Mr Lijun to see the mine. I told you.’

‘Mom,’ said Fish. ‘Didn’t I …’

‘I know. I know what you said about the empowerment people. Warning me off them. But they’re nice blacks, Bartolomeu. It’s the Indians you’ve got to watch out for. They’re the crooked ones.’

Fish closed his eyes. Wanted to sigh.

‘Get new locks, Bartolomeu. And a security gate. I hope she makes it, your friend.’

She was gone. Fish thumbed off the connection, stepped over the bloodstain, heading for the bedroom.

Since then there’s been Daro’s funeral, the grief of Georgina and Steffie. Georgina’s questions: ‘Who was he, Fish? Who was the man I married?’

There’d been a day in the
Maryjane
fishing with Flip Nel. The cop minding his own business. Fishing, catching Hottentots, a couple of snoek.

Until he’d said, just dropped it in while he was baiting up: ‘You ever heard of Dommiss Verburg?’

Fish’d turned towards him, said, ‘No.’ Thought: Where’s this going?

Flip Nel had cast his line with a casual throw, let the reel spool out to a fair depth. ‘Man I used to know in Port Elizabeth. Nice guy at a braai, always telling bad jokes. Awful jokes. He was security police. They did scary ops, those okes. The sort of doings you didn’t talk about. Anyhow, he’s supposed to have shot himself in the head. Thing is he had this bullet in his pocket: .22 cross-hatched. Thing is that’s what they found on Daro
Attilane
, clutched in his hand. A bullet like that: .22 cross-hatched.’

Fish had looked over the sea towards Cape Point, the bright and dancing sea, had said, ‘What’re you saying?’

‘I don’t know. I’m an ordinary cop. Was an ordinary cop those days, too. Murder and robbery. That’s what I’ve always been. All I’m saying is there’s the bullet.’

They’d gone backwards and forwards on that bullet until Fish’d said, ‘I’ve got a picture of some men. A photostat, actually. It’s poor quality but maybe you can check if your friend’s on it.’

And Flip Nel had. And had pointed out Dommiss Verburg.

None of this Fish told Georgina. What was the point? She was still on the question of why Daro’d shot Jacob Mkezi. What was he doing there? Why’d he gone missing for all those days?

Asking the questions over and over, till Fish fixed her a joint. That pushed the pain back. He left her two bankies, told her to go easy on the stuff.

Now he’s sitting on Daro Attilane’s board about to catch a wave in. Breakfast at Knead, double helping of French toast, slide it down with a cappuccino. Joke with the waitress to get flashed her pixie smile. Then Vicki. Sit beside her bed while she lies there looking at him with those still and mysterious eyes. Neither of them talking, holding hands. Grateful.

Fish thinking, forget all the questions, the connections. The warnings of Mart Velaze. Let it go. She’s alive.

Recalling that Flip Nel had said to him about the picture with Dommiss Verburg, ‘Doesn’t prove anything. Doesn’t say anything.’

‘Except they’re all together.’

‘So what?’

‘They’re an icing unit,’ Fish had said, putting the page into a file.

‘We don’t know for sure.’

‘Admittedly,’ Fish says out loud, paddling onto the swell, getting up as the wave takes him. The kick of that surge going through his veins. ‘We don’t know for sure.’