Of Cops & Robbers (8 page)

‘There’s a bergie,’ says Jouma.

‘So what, doesn’t matter. Bergie’s probably drunk. Old toppie like that can’t remember the last drink.’

Jouma parting the fence for Seven to climb through. Seven taking the lead up the mountain path.

Their car’s in the parking area next to a fisherman’s bakkie. The bergie’s lying eyes closed against the sun in the grass.

Jouma’s antsy. ‘You’s mad, my bru. Everyone can see us.’

‘Which everyone?’ Seven stopping halfway up the path, turning on Jouma. ‘You see anyone?’

Jouma spits into the bush, his breathing heavy. ‘Not now. When we go off.’

‘When we go off the horns gonna be in the car boot. Yusses, Jouma, what’s your case?’ He goes on slower to the stone wall, waits inside the fort for Jouma. Jouma’s out of breath, stands bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping. ‘You gonna get them?’ says Seven. ‘Or yous just gonna stand there. We’s not got all day.’

When his heart’s quietened, Jouma moves aside the rocks to get the plastic bag. ‘Someone’s been here,’ he says.

‘Ag nonsense, man,’ says Seven. ‘They’s still there. Someone’d found them they’d be gone.’

‘They were the other way,’ says Jouma.

‘You can remember that?’

‘I’m telling yous.’

‘No, man, my bru, you’s wrong. In the dark you’s not gonna know that.’

Jouma stands with the horns wrapped in the plastic bag. ‘What about the poison?’

‘Ja, what? All you gotta do is wash your hands. No
piepie-jolling
in the car.’ Seven making the jerk-off gesture with his fist, laughing loudly. ‘Come’n, we’s gotta go, the man is waiting.’

He turns, there’s the bergie from the car park taking pictures of them on a cellphone. Seven blinks, can’t believe this. This old bergie with the grey beard holding up a cellphone, the cellphone going bzzzt, click. Twice. He raises a hand in front of his face. Springs towards the bergie.

‘No, my bru, what you doing? What you doing? No, my bru. You’s in the poo, gimme that.’

The bergie’s not answering, the bergie’s making off down the path, Seven after him. The bergie going it for his age. Not the boozed-up old wreck he looks, ducking, twisting, jumping down the pathway.

But Seven’s younger, Seven’s stronger, Seven has him in ten paces, grabs him by the jacket, pulls him down. Shouting at him, ‘Gimme the phone.’ Trying to wrench it from the old man’s grasp. Leaning over, smacking blows into the man’s spongy face. The bergie kicks upwards, catches Seven in the balls. It’s not a striker’s kick, more a soft shoe shuffle, still makes Seven suck in air, grimace. The bergie scuttles backwards into the bush, getting onto hands and knees to crawl beneath the branches.

Seven dives after him, fastens hold of his ankle, yanks, the bergie falling on his face.

The bergie spitting out sand, howling, screaming for help.

Seven panting, coughing. ‘You’s dead, my bru. Stone dead, morsdood.’ He drags him back, straddles him, pinning the man’s arms beneath his knees. ‘Yous thinks you’s a clever, hey? Yous can take pictures with a cellphone. You’s a stupid, a moegoe, my bru.’ He reaches round for the knife in his back pocket, flicks out the long blade, lays it against the bergie’s cheek. ‘Let it go there inna sand.’ The bergie squirms. Seven pushes in the blade’s tip through the cheek skin, pulls it out. ‘Fok, bru, the phone.’

The bergie twists, throwing off Seven. He’s on his feet,
crashing
down the path. Seven’s up, after him. Stabs the bergie in the back, the bergie grunting, pitching forward with the thrust. Seven
pulling out the knife, the blade smeared. The bergie’s stumbled off the path, staggers a few paces, falls. The cellphone’s knocked from his hand. Seven stands over him, the bergie gazing up at him, blood flowing from his cheek.

‘Yusses, bru, what yous doing?’

Seven seeing the fear in the man’s eyes. Same fear he saw in prison when a man was to die. Fear like a small dog, tjanking yip, yip.

‘You’s a stupid, my bru. Yous should of stayed inna blue train.’

Seven with the knife in his fist, plunging it down, once, again, again, into the man’s neck, the blood spray arcing about.

When the man’s body stops twitching, Seven finds the
cellphone,
smashes it against a boulder. He glances up at Jouma, clutching the plastic bag, watching. ‘What yous looking at, hey?’

‘The bergie’s killed.’

‘Yous think there was another way?’

Daro Attilane’s quiet in the car driving back to the showroom. Fish’s on at him about cracking some frosties to celebrate, isn’t every day he makes a sale, cash on the nose just like that.

Doesn’t get much joy and laughter from Daro. All Daro says is, ‘About time I had a sale.’

Fish rolls his eyes, thinks what’s eating him?

The rest of the route they drive in silence. Ten minutes later Fish pulls up at the showroom. Switches off, looks across at Daro. ‘Hey, Daro, what’s the problem?’

‘Nah, nothing,’ says Daro. ‘Young Steffie’s on my mind, that’s all.’

Fish considers this. The two men still in the car, facing the two vehicles on the showroom floor: an Audi A4, a Benz Kompressor.

‘And?’

‘And this gangster Seven in the ghetto. He’s giving the police forum a hard time. I told you. Everybody knows he’s supplying the kids, there’re girls, teenage girls, going in and out of his place all hours, no troubles in the world.’ He sighs. ‘The cops are supposed to raid him this weekend. Fat lot of good it’ll do.’ Daro opens his door, gets out.

‘You gonna ask me in for that beer?’ says Fish.

‘Next time,’ says Daro. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

Daro Attilane watches Fish pull off. He takes a beer from the bar fridge, sits down at his desk. There’re two pictures on it in silver frames. One of Steffie. The other of his wife, Georgina. He arranges them both in front of him on his blotter. Takes a swig of beer, his eyes on the two women in his life. He’s looking at them but who’s on his mind is the man in the crocodile shoes: Jacob Mkezi.

The Commander, Rictus Grin, the Fisherman, Blondie. An MK soldier. A terrorist to the four men, caught in a Johannesburg township with a cache of AKs, grenades, Taurus 9-mils, enough ammunition to cause widespread grief. What they’ve been told to find out is where’s the rest of the terr’s unit?

He’s told them where he was trained, where he crossed the border, who he reports to. He’s talked about his parents, his brothers, his years growing up in Soweto. They’ve got him naked, sitting on a hard-backed chair in an outbuilding. Oil stains on the concrete floor. Some of the windows broken. Pile of old tyres in a corner. Bird shit streaking the walls.

By the third day he has cracked ribs, a broken humerus which the Commander has set in a makeshift splint. His left eye is
swollen
shut. His lips are split. There’s a gash on his forehead. The Fisherman’s extracted three teeth: two bottom right (molars), one top left (a lateral incisor). Across his back are tiny wounds where Rictus has inserted the point of his stiletto a few millimetres. He is confused because he hasn’t slept. He’s shivering with cold.

The Commander, Rictus and the Fisherman have been
playing
good cop, bad cop. The Fisherman and Rictus are the bad cops. The Commander does the nice stuff. Gives the terr Cokes, cigarettes, talks to him about his family. Tells him about his own daughter. Feeds him because the terr’s wrists are in handcuffs, the handcuffs chained to a ring in the floor. During his shift the Commander cleans the wounds the Fisherman and Rictus caused.

Blondie’s the silent observer. Doesn’t wince at the man’s pain, doesn’t smile at the banter. Stands there watching, thinking, why can’t the munt spit it out? Save everyone a helluva lot of strife. Blondie’s uneasy on the farm. After the first time. To pass the hours he sits in the farmhouse reading magazines. Stacks and
stacks of mags from the 1960s when the house was lived in:
Personality, Huisgenoot, Farmer’s Weekly, Scope.

Despite his unease Blondie walks in the veld. Climbs up to the vulture colony on the koppie. Can sit there for hours watching the birds riding the thermals, great wings brushing their shadows over him. On the krantz is a spot called a ‘vulture restaurant’, where local farmers dump carcases, offal, stillborns. The restaurant a litter of bones. Without the carrion, Blondie’s heard, there’d be no colony. Would be a pity to lose the birds.

Morning of the fourth day, the terr dies. Without blabbing on his unit. The Fisherman and Rictus drinking coffee at the open door, taking in the view at sunrise, hear him sigh. They glance at one another.

The Fisherman says, ‘Ag, nee, dammit, man.’

‘Bugger,’ says Rictus.

They turn round. The terr’s head’s slumped forward, he’s shat himself.

The Commander isn’t pleased. ‘Arseholes,’ he tells them. ‘What’d I tell you: keep him alive. At any cost.’ He does the finger search for the terr’s pulse. ‘Fuck.’ The three men standing looking at the naked corpse when Blondie comes in.

‘He’s dead?’

‘What’s it look like, hey? Bloody what’s it look like?’ says the Commander. ‘Bloody arseholes.’ Pointing at the Fisherman and Rictus. ‘You don’t have to tell the brass. You don’t have to stand there, tell them, sorry, General, the terrorist pegged. Before he could say anything.’ The Commander pacing about the room, hands flying. ‘We’re supposed to be good. Get the job done, get the goods. That’s what we’ve done, that’s what they expect. We get results.’ The Commander grabbing at Rictus’s jacket. ‘This one was important. He was important. We could’ve turned him. Made him an askari. Better, sent him out there, back to his unit. But no. No, you know better. Push him over the edge. Arseholes.’

He heads to the door. Swings round. ‘Get rid of him. Okay,
just get rid of him.’

‘Where? You want us to bury him? Burn him?’

‘Feed him to the bloody vultures,’ says the Commander.

Which is what Blondie’s delegated to do.

‘Why me?’ he says. ‘I’m outta here.’

‘Just do it,’ says the Commander. Wags a hooked finger at the other two. ‘Get the body into the bakkie.’

Rictus grumbles. Toys with his rings.

The Commander comes back. ‘What’s that? What’s that? Who caused this scene? Tell me. Huh? Huh? Who caused this scene? Crap, man! Just get it out of here. Hose the bloody place.’ He throws a bunch of keys at Blondie. ‘When you get back, lock up the house, leave the keys under the pot.’

Blondie drives up the track onto the krantz. The vultures are still on the cliff face on their nests, waiting for the thermals. At the restaurant it’s quiet. Almost silent. No insects. No birdsong. He looks about: scattered bones, white, clean. No carcases. Doesn’t seem the vultures have been fed in a while.

Blondie hauls the body off the bakkie, lowers it gently to the ground. Drags it among the bones. For a moment he stands, looking down at the terr. The man groans, a flicker at his good eyelid.

Blondie steps back, thinks, shit. Crouches. Says, ‘Hey, man. Can you hear me?’ He picks up the guy’s wrist, feels for a pulse. Maybe. Maybe not. He lets it flop back. Stands, with his shoe nudges the terr in the ribs. ‘Hey, hey.’ No response.

Blondie walks back to the bakkie. Fires the engine, remembers being told vultures could devour a sheep carcass in a couple of days. Make it disappear.

Fish decides on the Muizenberg station parking: short walk to where Colins is playing stake-out, shorter walk to the bottle store. The car guard’s at his window before he’s switched off.

‘I like this car.’ A beam of Congo teeth. ‘Red is very strong.’

Fish taps the accelerator, gives the engine a roar.

The car guard keeps up the smile. ‘I like the sound.’

‘It’s cool, yeah,’ says Fish, switching off, getting out.

The car guard running his hand over the bodywork. ‘I have not seen one like this.’

‘Perana V6.’

‘Perana? I don’t know, Perana.’

‘You know cars?’

‘In Kinshasa my car was a Mustang. I made it from photographs.’

‘You built a Mustang? In the Congo.’

‘It looked like it.’

‘My friend,’ says Fish, ‘you’re in the wrong job. You know Basil Green Motors?’

‘They can give me a job?’

‘They made this car. 1969.’

‘They can give me a job?’

‘They’re in Johannesburg.’

The car guard shrugs. Says something in French. ‘I will go there.’

‘Excellent,’ says Fish, moving off.

He gets to the gate up to the fort, no Colins. Phones Colins. His call goes to voicemail. He’s standing there wondering should he risk going up? Should he come back? His phone rings: his mother.

‘Bartolomeu, what’ve you got to tell me?’

‘About what?’ says Fish, playing forgetful.

‘Prospect Deep. You remember. The research you’re doing for me.’

‘Jesus, Ma. I can’t just drop everything.’ Not wanting to go there yet without more info.

‘You went surfing this morning.’

Fish thinking, she’s trying her luck.

‘Don’t even think of lying to me. You did, didn’t you?’

Fish can lie. He’s a pretty good liar. Has to be, comes with the territory. Actually, what got him started on lying was his mother. Every time he lied to her as a kid she bought it. He reckons there’s something in his voice that convinces her. Convinces most people. This time, though, he sees no point in lying.

‘I did. It’s my exercise. Like you go to the gym.’ Estelle a water aerobics addict. Most mornings, four times a week, Saturday too, she’s there at seven thirty for the early-bird class.

‘That’s different. It’s formal and organised. Only children surf, Bartolomeu. You’ve got to grow up.’

Fish has been through this many times. When he turned twenty-one she said, ‘You’re of age now. No more surfing. Time to be an adult. It’s what your father would’ve wanted.’ That’s when she came out with the gun. The heirloom: Astra Model 400 with wooden grips chambered for both 9mm largo and 9mm parabellum cartridges. Very nice. His father had shown it to him, let him hold it, given him the provenance: Grandfather Pescado had acquired it fighting for the internationals during the Spanish Civil War. When things went pear-shaped Avô scurried back to Portugal, shipped out for Luanda, Angola, hopped boats, ended up in Cape Town.

When his mother gave him the gun, a sort of coming-of-age present, Fish believed it hadn’t been fired in decades. First thing he did was take to the range at the Glencairn quarry. The pistol fired as if the targets were Spanish fascists. Nice heft. Not much jump when you were used to it.

Fish often wondered, if his father hadn’t gone terminal with the coronary, would Estelle have hassled him about his lifestyle?
He thought not.

But here she was again telling him grown men don’t surf, and … And. And only drunks, drug addicts and emotional retards end up playing Sherlock Holmes.

‘You just hired me to do some investigating for you?’ he says.

‘Research, Bartolomeu. There’s a world of difference. No one dies when you’re doing research. Brings me back to my question: when?’

‘When what?’

‘When’re you going to let me know about the gold mine? My clients are Chinese. They eat with chopsticks. They eat fast. They do everything fast. Please, Barto, I need the info. Tomorrow. Sunday latest.

‘Monday,’ says Fish.

‘First thing.’

‘Cool.’

‘And don’t say that, Bartolomeu. You’re too old for that word.’

As always she was gone without a goodbye.

Fish pockets his phone, finds he’s walked all the way back to his car. The car guard nodding at him.

Fish says, ‘You see a bergie earlier with a large plastic bag?’

‘Bergies all carry large plastic bags,’ says the car guard.

‘Older man. Had on a grey coat.’

‘Bergies all have grey coats,’ says the car guard.

‘Okay,’ says Fish, ‘any bergie of that description come past you since this morning?’

The car guard shakes his head. ‘No, sir, monsieur.’

‘You’d notice?’

‘Of course.’

Fish nods. Hoping Colins has taken a position up there under the bushes out of sight. Turned off his cellphone against unwanted calls. Clever thinking. Colins saw money. Desired it.

Fish’s about to get into his car, he remembers he needs booze. At the bottle store runs two bottles of Villiera bubbly, a six-pack of milk stouts, one 750 ml bottle of Smirnoff vodka and a six-pack
of tonics through his MasterCard.

‘Straight or budget?’ asks the teller.

‘Budget,’ says Fish. No reason why the bank shouldn’t pick up the tab. What his father had always said: ‘Pay the latest you can, son, you might drop dead in between.’ Fish reckoned in his line of work this was sound advice.