Of Cops & Robbers (20 page)

‘He always takes the gun, Ma,’ says her daughter. ‘Pa doesn’t go around without it.’

‘You don’t understand,’ says her mother. ‘He’s depressed. That’s what the doctor said. He’s supposed to take tablets.’

First light she and her daughter drive to the fishing spots. First down at Cape Recife, the Willows, then Skoenmakerskop, finally the dolosse. His car’s not there, there’s no one there. The wind’s come up. The last place anyone wants to be is on the
dolosse in a full-frontal forty-kilometre-an-hour wind.

They go home.

Round ten o’clock, the phone rings: it’s the police. They were told of this car on fire in New Brighton township. They sent a van. The car was burnt out, luckily they could still read the registration. They ran a check, seems the car belongs to a
Dommiss
Verburg. ‘You know this man? That your husband, lady?’

No, the cop woman tells them, no sign of Mr Verburg. She’ll put out the alert.

Hijacking is the word nobody uses.

Early in the afternoon, the cops come round. They’ve found her husband at the dolosse. He’s passed. Seems he shot himself in the head.

Two months later, the autopsy hearing into the death of
Dommiss
Verburg by a gunshot wound to the right temple, hands down a verdict of suicide. This consequent upon the party
holding
a recently fired .38 in his right hand, said gun owned by said party. Couple of days drag by then Dom’s friend Flip Nel calls on Dom’s wife to pay his respects.

‘Sorry for your loss, Mrs V,’ he says to her.

‘Come in, Flip,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long time, my word.’

She makes two instant coffees, finds a box of Romany Creams in the cupboard. They sit down in the lounge, Flip plopping into Dom’s favourite chair.

Flip comes straight out with it because that’s Flip’s way.

‘The autopsy report,’ he says, ‘it’s kak.’

Mrs V frowns. Surprised. ‘I didn’t see it,’ she says. ‘Didn’t want to. Why d’you say that?’

‘Cos I don’t think Dom would kill himself.’

‘Dom wasn’t my Dom, hey, Flip. For a long time Dom wasn’t my Dom.’

They crunch into Romany Creams.

‘The thing is,’ says Flip, ‘I haven’t the faintest what was Dom’s problem after he left the force but he stopped seeing the
okes. Turned his back on all of us. I don’t know why. Maybe he was scared.’

‘Dom wasn’t scared of nobody. You know, Dom.’

‘Not in the old days. But with the change, there’s a lotta okes poeping themselves. Worried about what’s gonna happen. Some of them are hiding like Dom was.’

‘Dom wasn’t hiding.’

‘He stayed away from us.’

‘I know, Flip, I used to tell him, phone your friends, go’n have a drink like before. But no, he just goes fishing. The only time he sees other people is at the paint shop.’

‘That’s what I mean, Dom wasn’t like that before.’

‘Never.’ She gets teary-eyed, sniffs. ‘The day he died, we went to the doctor. I said to him, Dom, you’ve got to see the doctor. He wasn’t going out. Was phoning in sick at the shop. For about two weeks every day he just sat there, in that chair’ – pointing at Flip – ‘watching TV.’

Flip takes a swallow of coffee. ‘He phoned me, you know.’

‘He phoned you?’

‘Ja, about a week before he died. Wanted the number of one of the okes he worked with, Ray Adler. I gave him the number but that’s the last I heard.’

‘He didn’t say anything to me.’

Flip looks at her. ‘He sounded worried.’

‘He didn’t say anything.’ She raises her eyes to meet his. ‘What’re you saying, Flip?’

Flip shakes his head.

She sighs. ‘You can tell me, Flip. Nothing can make it worse.’

He says, ‘Ray was into some heavy stuff in the old days.’

‘Like what?’

‘Security branch ops.’

She nods. ‘Ja. Ja.’ Puts down her mug on a coffee table piled with magazines. ‘So what’re you telling me, Flip? It wasn’t
suicide
? It was murder? Yusses, man, you think I haven’t thought about that? Over and over. Someone shot him. Dumped his car
in the township.’

‘Report says Dom was shot in the right temple,’ says Flip.

She looks at him. ‘What’re you saying?’

‘Dom was left-handed.’

The shudders start in her shoulders, her face distorting. ‘I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about it.’

The driveway gate is open. Fish never leaves the gate open. It’s a hassle getting out to open it when you’re busting for a pee after a long night’s stake-out, or close it when you’re in a hurry to catch the surf but Fish does, without fail, shut it. Now the gate’s unlatched.

The reason Fish keeps the gate closed is dogs. Dogs get in, they foul up the place wherever there’s any grass. In the front there’re these scratchy patches of buffalo grass holding down the sand. Not what you’d call anywhere near a lawn, but it’s got that at-the-beach feel which Fish likes.

What he hates is coming out in the morning, finding piles of gut-processed special canine formula, light brown and mucousy, on his grass. You slide a spade underneath those mounds, they stick. Then you’ve got to hose down the spade. Only way to really pick up this crap is wrap a plastic bag over your hand, do it manually. Then you’re dealing with turd feel, which makes Fish gag.

An option is to wait until they dry out. Only problem then is the sausages break into black pellets, scatter every which way. Cleaning up’s a major mission because there’re always some you miss.

Also, once a dog’s found a spot it’s back every day. Only option then, Fish’s heard, is spraying Jeyes drain cleaner about the place until it smells like a municipal boghouse. Better not to get to that position.

So Fish keeps the gates closed, no matter the hassle factor.

When they’re open it means bergies, strollers, Muizenberg flotsam have come visiting. Gets Fish’s ire big-time. But what’s to be done about it? You can reason till you’re bloody blue in the face, the dude comes back, ‘Mr Gentleman, don’t be so fierce.
Yous’ll strike a coronary.’ Not a heart attack, a coronary for heaven’s sake.

But Fish’s got this soft spot for bergies and strollers. They want a place to spend the day, they can sit on his back stoep. One or two of them, that’s all, that’s the rule. Come night there’s the shelter at Kalk Bay, he doesn’t want them hanging out on his stoep. Another rule. Charity goes so far then it gets messy.

Fish parps the hooter, expecting some itinerant to come down, open the gates properly. No one shambles round.

Hoots again.

Still no one.

He gets out, slots the gates back, drives up to the garage. His inherited Isuzu’s in the yard, invisible from the street. Only when he’s stopped, he notices the bakkie’s standing lopsided, both tyres on the near side flat.

Then the chunks of surfboard scattered about. And glass. The Isuzu’s windscreen shattered, the rear window smashed, same with the wing mirrors.

But it’s not the glass that gets him, or the slashed tyres, it’s the destroyed surfboard. Broken in four. Hurled about the place. His beloved Vudu Hybrid. That board wasn’t just a board, it was a way of life. Worse, his other board, the Beach Break with the Vudu shapers, is in for repairs.

Fucking Seven.

The bastard.

The last thing Fish thought he’d do.

He looks over at the boat, the
Maryjane
: it seems okay. No holes. They’d holed that he’d’ve been pissed off. Fish thinking to sell the boat.

Unlocks the Isuzu, reaches under the seat for the Z88. Doesn’t seem the house has been broken into, but you can’t tell. The buggers could be inside. He walks slowly to the back door easing up when there’s no sign they got in.

Turns then to stare at the devastation, imagining Seven and his toothless sidekick going at the bakkie with hammers.
Stomping
on his surfboard till it snapped. Plunging an Okapi knife into the Isuzu’s tyres.

What fun!

A rage coming up in Fish that the lowlife scumbag shitheads could do this. Waltz over here like it was part of a fairground, take a whammo at a couple of target stalls. The lowlife scumbag shitheads not giving a fuck for what they were starting.

Fish thinking, you ratcheted this up, you were talking grievous bodily harm. Which he wasn’t averse to. A shithead like Seven.

‘Hey, boet,’ says a voice. There’s a large guy peering over the back wall, got a .45 in his hand. A huge thing. All Fish can see of him is his head and shoulders, an arm like a ham ending in the revolver. ‘It was two coloureds. Gangster types. Hard thin okes with sucked-in faces. That’s all the ID I got. ’Cept they were wearing black tracksuits, takkies. The fancy Nike ones.  They saw my Dirty Harry here they were gone.’

The man wobbles, adjusts his balance.

‘I heard them when they smashed the glass. They were
planning
on taking a hammer to your boat.’

‘I owe you,’ says Fish.

‘No sweat.’ The man unsteady, gripping the wall with his free hand. Stares at Fish. ‘You a cop?’

‘No,’ says Fish.

‘That’s a cop gun.’

‘Once was,’ says Fish. ‘An inheritance. From an ex-cop. You a cop?’

‘Organised crime.’ The man changing the gun into his left hand, extending his right, the wall clasped under his armpits. ‘Flip Nel. Moved in a month ago about. Seems like an
interesting
place.’

They shake.

Fish says, ‘It is. Appreciate you trying you to stop them.’

‘They ran fast.’ Flip Nel laughing. ‘Especially when I pulled off one shot. When Harry talks, he talks big.’ He waves the Smith & Wesson. ‘You want any help, sorting it? Police ID can
be useful.’

Fish shakes his head. ‘Nah. The main man’s a dealer called Seven in the ghetto.’ The two men nodding at one another. ‘Dude needs another talking to.’

‘You security?’

‘Investigations.’

‘Tough job.’

‘Not that bad. Gives me time to surf.’

Flip Nel nods, frowning. ‘You feel another presence would help persuade him, let me know.’ He hands Fish a card. ‘My cell’s best. You ring the other numbers, no one’s gonna answer. Cop life, hey?’ He’s about to step down, he says, ‘Ag, ja, one more thing, I’m a fisherman. Any time you’re going out, I wouldn’t mind. Share the petrol, you know.’

‘I don’t fish,’ says Fish. ‘The boat’s another inheritance.’

‘Seems a waste not to use it.’

‘Maybe you can show me?’

Flip Nel grins. ‘A pleasure anytime’ – disappears behind the wall.

Fish slips the pistol into his belt. First things first. Seven is first.

He walks down the road towards the vlei. Pissed off that on a day like this, full-on sun and surf, there’s an arsehole scumbag shithead in it called Seven. He’s carrying a piece of his board, the piece with the skeg, he’s planning to smash it into Seven’s face.

On the bridge he stops, gazes down at the water the colour of weak tea. Crabs in the shallows, lying black against the sand.

He gets into a thing with Seven it’s going to ride and ride. Problem is he can’t let it go.

Fish walks into the ghetto to Seven’s crack house, through the gate up to the front door. The security grille’s locked now.

He knocks. Bangs with his fist.

Toothless answers so fast he must’ve been crouching behind the door waiting. The house breathes out its foulness: dagga and boiling soup bones.

‘Get Seven,’ says Fish.

Toothless looks seriously whacked. Pupils filling his eyes, his right leg jigging like it wants to dance on its own. A smirk on his face.

‘Not here.’

‘Get him,’ says Fish.

Toothless doesn’t move, except his leg. Fish can smell him, he’s ripe, the stench sharp as rotting guavas.

‘Just get him.’

Toothless makes to shut the door. Fish pushes through the grille, slams it back. Toothless going down in a heap.

Fish shouts: ‘Seven. Seven, d’you hear me? Get out here.’

Nothing. Not a floorboard creak, not a mattress sigh.

Fish grips the grille. ‘Seven.’ Silence. ‘Seven, get out here. Seven.’ He hurls the piece of surfboard down the passageway, it clatters against the walls, slides into a corner. ‘Seven.’ Nothing. All he can hear is Toothless’s wheeze. Either Seven’s wetting himself or he’s really not there.

Fish watches Toothless raising himself. ‘You guys had a lot of fun? Smashing my stuff. Very funny. So now we’re going to see, my friend. See how fucking funny it was. Where’s Seven? Where’s he gone?’

‘Fok off,’ says Toothless, standing there just inside the grille.

‘You stink,’ says Fish, reaches in, bunches his fist into the crackman’s jersey. One yank he has Toothless tight against the grille. Toothless wriggles. Fish gives him slack then jerks him back, holds him hard on the rusty bars. ‘Listen. You listening?’

Toothless says what could be ‘Yaaah’. Could be pain, ‘Aaaah’.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jouma,’ says Toothless.

‘So, Jouma,’ says Fish, ‘you tell Seven this’s over. Okay. Right now it’s over. All that crap he’s caused, he’s going to pay for. New tyres. New windscreen. New mirrors.’

Jouma’s got his jaw free, says ‘Fok off’ out the side of his mouth.

‘Listen,’ says Fish. ‘Just listen’ – jerking the guy back and
forth, slamming his head against the grille. Jouma spitting,
whining
, calling for help. Fish pulls out his gun, pushes the barrel into Jouma’s cheek. This quietens him.

‘Shut up. Just shut up.’

Jouma whimpers.

Fish’s closer to Jouma than he wants to be. Not only the sweat stench, the gangbanger’s got rancid breath.

‘You tell Seven before all the other stuff, he owes me a
surfboard
. I don’t get that surfboard tomorrow morning then I’m back here. You don’t want me to come back here. Seven doesn’t want me to come back here. I have to come back here, I don’t even want to think about it. About what could happen. That too complicated for you?’

Jouma doing his ‘yaaah-yaaah’ sound.

Fish pushes him back. ‘You could take a bath, do us all a big favour.’

By mid-afternoon Jacob Mkezi has his ducks in a row. He likes that expression, ducks in a row. He can see the ducks on a vlei, Cape teals, swimming one behind the other. He’s in the blind with a twelve-bore over-and-under shotgun, take them out bam, bam, bam.

His ducks this afternoon are trucks, an Antonov, and a
destination
. Two calls settled the logistics, a contact in Yemen sorted the deal. All from the comfort of his sitting room. The one looking over the lawn towards Skeleton Gorge. The mountain in shadow, a high white cloud ridging in.

The lawn’s substantial, the size of two tennis courts side by side. Neat spongy buffalo-grass lawn. Some hadeda ibises
stabbing
their long bills into the turf, picking out grubs and worms. Not the sort of birds Jacob Mkezi wants to shoot. He likes hadeda ibises, likes their harsh cry in the morning. The dawn birds he calls them.

He goes outside onto his lawn, the hadedas moving slowly away. Not bothered; alert, but not bothered.

Jacob Mkezi admires them, the gunmetal sheen on their wings, flashing in the sun.

He phones Tol Visagie, says, ‘Thursday.’ Hears Tol Visagie whistle.

‘So soon?’

‘I don’t mess around.’ Jacob Mkezi bends down to feel the grass, the cool softness beneath his palm.

‘I know,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘I know.’

Jacob Mkezi gives him details, contact names, time schedule, where to meet the trucks. Travel distance to the airstrip. ‘There’s a team to do the transfer: cave to truck, truck to plane. Treat them well. Food, cold drinks, beer when the plane’s gone.’

‘That’s it?’ says Tol Visagie.

‘What else you want?’ says Jacob Mkezi, straightening. ‘A military band?’

Tol Visagie laughs. ‘I was out there this morning. Just to check.’

‘Check on what? There’s something I should know?’ Jacob Mkezi frowns, slaps his palm against his pants. With the back of his hand flicks grass blades from the material. ‘I’m a long way away, Tol. You’ve got to tell me what’s happening.’

‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘But …’

‘No buts. Everything’s fine.’

‘Except.’

A pause. Jacob Mkezi about to say, Talk to me, Tol. Talk to me.

Tol Visagie says, ‘That man we met, he’s back.’

Jacob Mkezi taking this in. Standing on his lawn, looking up at Skeleton Gorge, taking this in. ‘Vusi Bopape?’

‘Ja, him.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘No, I’ve found out he’s back at the lodge till Thursday.’

‘When?’

‘Thursday.’

Jacob Mkezi thinks when the ducks get into line too easily, there’s always a problem.

‘Don’t go back to the cave. Okay. Not till Thursday. Stay away from it.’

Again the silence. Jacob Mkezi says. ‘You’ll do that?’

‘Ja,’ says Tol Visagie, ‘ja, of course.’ Then: ‘Who is he? Who is this Vusi Bopape?’

‘Good question,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

Next he phones Mart Velaze, says, ‘Comrade, fill me in.’

‘On what?’ says Mart Velaze.

‘Everything, comrade. All the shit happening in my life.’

‘It’s sorted,’ says Mart Velaze. Gives him a status rundown
on Lord, the boy in a coma, Daro Attilane. ‘That’s it. All sorted.’

‘What about Vusi Bopape? Who’s he?’ Jacob Mkezi wants to know.

‘I don’t know,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘No one knows. Maybe he’s freelance.’

‘
Ein solcher Diener bringt Gefahr ins Haus
. Find out,
comrade
,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Find out a-s-a-p. A servant of his kind is full of present danger. Faust to Mephistopheles, comrade. Faust to Mephistopheles.’

Jacob Mkezi swears. Loudly. The hadedas take off: kwaak, kwaak.