Of Cops & Robbers (23 page)

That evening after he’s eaten, Foreman’s lying in bed, smoking, drinking from a half-jack. Bed’s the only place he can be warm. There’s a knock on the door. Foreman shouts out ‘Ja’, thinking it’s the man from the main house. The handle turns, the door opens. He’s never before seen the man standing there.

The man says, ‘Haita, Foreman.’

Foreman’s at a disadvantage: he’s under the bedclothes, the only weapon he’s got is the half-jack.

‘Who’re you?’ he says, propping himself forward. He’s
right-handed.
His position’s awkward. He’s got no leverage to throw the bottle. The blankets have him pinned down like he’s wearing a strait jacket. If he can get out of the bed, the blade’s in his coat pocket. His coat’s hanging behind the door. The man’s in the way. It’s a shit scene.

‘Gave me a bit of grief,’ says the man. ‘Tracking you.’

Foreman’s thinking fast, fast as the brandy will allow. ‘I’ll talk,’ he says. ‘To the TRC. Ask for amnesty.’ He bunches up his legs, pushes down the blankets. Fiddles with his rings.

‘Don’t get up,’ says the man.

‘I know stuff.’

‘Of course.’

‘Where bodies are. Who gave us orders.’

The man nods. Comes forward, pushes Foreman’s legs down. ‘Relax.’

Foreman whacks him on the side of the head with the bottle. A half-swing that’s not got much power in it. The man staggers back, clutching his ear. It’s the gap Foreman wants. He rips away the blankets, swings his legs out.

The man kicks Foreman hard in the jaw. Hard because he’s wearing chunky lace-up Docs that open a gash in Foreman’s cheek, puts a tooth through his tongue. Foreman jerks back, groaning.

‘Why’d you do that?’ says the man, looming over him. ‘We were talking.’ The man touches his throbbing ear, brings his hand away, there’s blood on his fingertips. ‘I’m bleeding. Ah no, my friend.’

‘If he’s not going to fetch his breakfast, I’ll eat it,’ says the man to his wife.

They’re sitting at their kitchen table, the door into the yard open. They can see the outbuilding where their lodger sleeps.

‘Wait,’ says the woman. ‘He’ll come.’

Half an hour later the baked beans are congealed.

‘I’ll eat them,’ says the man. ‘You can’t waste food.’ He stretches across the table for the plate.

‘No,’ says his wife. ‘He paid for them.’

She picks up the plate, crosses the yard to the outbuilding, knocks. ‘Meneer. Meneer.’ The chickens flock at her feet,
expecting
food.

‘Maybe he’s gone,’ shouts the man.

She turns. ‘He’s paid.’

‘Open the door.’

The woman knocks again. ‘Meneer. Meneer.’

‘Ag, man, bring the food here.’

‘Maybe he’s sick.’

‘Maybe he’s babbelas, hungover. You see how much he drinks.’

She gives her husband the cold plate.

After he’s finished the food the man says, ‘Leave him, hey. Let him sleep it off.’ He shrugs into a coat, goes outside to unchain his bicycle from the fence. ‘The man’s a dronklap, bloody drunk.’

‘Ja, ja,’ says the woman, busying herself in the kitchen
washing
the pots and plates.

Two hours later she’s knocking on the door again, holding a mug of tea. ‘Mister. Mister.’ This time she’s insistent, stands there solidly. The chickens pick around her feet. She raps with her knuckles until they hurt. Then tries the handle. The door’s unlocked, opens. After the brightness of the yard, she can’t see anything in the dark room until her eyes refocus. She says she’s got tea for him, takes a step inside. She can see now his body shape beneath the blankets. He’s sleeping. Doesn’t even stir at her voice.

The woman backs out. Waits another hour. Sitting on a straight-backed chair in the kitchen doorway, the sun warming her, she’s willing the door of her outhouse to open: her lodger to stand there, lighting a cigarette. But he doesn’t. Minute on minute he doesn’t. Until she can’t take it, this anticipation. Muttering, mumbling she goes down the stairs, across the yard, knocks twice, before she enters.

He’s in the same position. Hasn’t moved. She puts a hand on his shoulder. Asks in Afrikaans if he’s sick. Can she get him some soup, perhaps. He doesn’t answer. She shakes him, rocks his body – ‘Meneer, meneer, meneer.’ He flops on his back. He’s got a cartridge between his teeth like he’s biting on it. There’s blood on his shirt, not much but enough to make her scream.

‘Mr Fish,’ says the voice on the cellphone.

Fish grunts, still surfacing from deep in a doob sleep. Might’ve answered his cellphone but that doesn’t mean he’s instantly bright and sharp.

‘Mr Fish.’

‘I hear you,’ he says.

‘He’s dead,’ says the voice.

Fish gets the dead bit, starts paying attention. ‘Who?’ Takes the phone from his ear, squints at the screen, not quite able to make out the name. The room’s dark, no herald of the dawn edging the curtain. He rises onto an elbow, trying to clear dreams from his head. Dreams of running. Fleeing. Being chased.
Standard
nightmare number one.

‘Fortune.’ The name a whisper.

‘Shit.’ says Fish.

‘They killed him,’ says the voice. ‘I know that is what they did. They killed my boy in the hospital.’

‘Ah, hell,’ says Fish. ‘I’m sorry.’ Not the best reply but the best he can do under the circumstances.

‘Ma … Mrs Appollis … doesn’t know I’m phoning you.’

The taste in Fish’s mouth’s sour, stale, furry, thick. He sucks saliva from his cheeks, swallows the glob. It doesn’t help. His mouth’s still a rat’s nest.

‘What time’s it?’

‘Seven o’clock. A little bit afterwards.’

Fish pinches the bridge of his nose. Too much grass, not enough chocolate munchies. The whole mess of yesterday smacking home: his board, his bakkie, Vicki.

Vicki.

No voicemails. No SMSes.

‘Where’re you?’ he says.

‘At the hospital, Mr Fish, standing outside the entrance. Ma’s still with him in the ward. She can’t let him go.’

‘What time’d you get there?’ Fish operating on auto, asking questions, suppressing thoughts of a creeping anxiety about Vicki.

‘In the night the sister she phoned to tell us Fortune wasn’t good. They thought we should come.’

‘What time last night?’

‘About one o’clock.’

‘And? When you got there, how was he?’

‘Still in the coma, Mr Fish, but restless. Groaning, his leg jerking, for hours and hours. It was terrible to look at, our boy making those noises like that. Ma couldn’t take it, she was crying all the time.’ Fish hears the man sob, clear the grief from his voice. ‘The nurses did their best, Mr Fish. They did their best.’ Again the sobs.

Fish waits.

The man blows his nose. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘What d’you want me to do?’ says Fish.

‘Find the people who killed him, Mr Fish. Please.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ says Fish. ‘There’s …’

‘We can pay you,’ says Samson Appollis. ‘We can sell our car to pay you. Please, Mr Fish. People can’t just kill other people.’

This’s all I need, Fish’s thinking. A charity case, on top of the mess with Seven, and Vicki hiding something. All I need.

‘Okay, okay,’ he says. ‘Listen, Mr Appollis, I’ll be in touch. You go back to Mrs Appollis. You look after her. You don’t have to tell her you’ve spoken to me. I’ll come and see you, we can work something out, alright. I’ll call you.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Fish, I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘No,’ says Fish. ‘Don’t say that. I’ll call you.’

The first person he calls is Vicki.

Before that takes a piss, pulls on tracksuit bottoms, shrugs into a sloppy jersey. It needs washing, has that sharp hint of salt
in its weave. The wool crusty in places. But Fish’s not into caring much about ocean smells. He puts the call through.

Vicki answers first ring. ‘Before you shout,’ she says. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’

He can hear tears in her voice. Not a Vicki he’s often
encountered
in their time together. In the early days, yes, but not recently. ‘Where’re you?’

‘Outside,’ she says, ‘just parking.’

Which is where Fish finds her, stepping out of the bright red Alfa.

They clinch.

‘This’s early,’ he says.

‘You smell of seaweed,’ she says. Notices the slashed tyres on the bakkie. The broken glass. ‘What happened?’

‘Chaos.’

‘Godfathers, Fish.’ Vicki pulls out of his arms. ‘Who?’

‘Inside,’ says Fish. ‘Out of this chill.’

What Vicki confesses is that she played poker. She’s sitting there in her business suit, very desirable in Fish’s eyes. Both of them clutching coffee mugs, close up against the gas heater in the kitchen.

‘You played cards?’ he says.

‘I had to. I owed Cake Mullins. I had no choice, Fish. He called it in. But he lied to me. He set me up for Jacob Mkezi.’

Fish rises, stares out the kitchen window. Over by the
rubbish
bin are the bits of surfboard he piled there. ‘Mkezi’s serious trouble. Big-time trouble. Organised crime. Government
corruption
. Wherever there’s a bad scene, Mkezi’s got a link.’

‘I know.’

‘So you go from meeting him to playing cards with him in a couple of days. That’s not coincidence.’

‘I lost to him,’ she says. ‘Forty grand.’

‘Pay the guy,’ he says. ‘Just pay the guy ’n get out of it.’

‘He converted it. To a favour.’

‘You know what that means?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘He calls it in, you don’t know what shit’s gonna come with it. All you know is it’ll be dirty.’

‘I know. Alright!’

‘So pay him. Give him the money, and you’re out of owing him anything. Hear me, Vicki, you don’t want to owe someone like that a favour.’

‘I can’t.’

‘What d’you mean can’t?’

‘I can’t pay it. Where’m I going to get forty thousand?’

‘I don’t know. Extend your bond. Get a loan from the bank. Get a loan from your firm. Anything, Vics, just get out of this.’

‘I can’t.’

‘No such thing. You haven’t asked.’

‘You know how much the interest is on forty grand?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Being hooked’s worse.’ He turns round. ‘So what was it all about?’

‘Mkezi said he wanted to play me. He’d heard of my reputation.’

‘And you went?’

‘I had to.’

‘Because you owed Cake Mullins. What d’you gamblers do? Play for favours.’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘No. Try me.’

She tells him the story about the old man’s suicide. Fish sits down to hear it.

‘Where’s the connection?’

‘It was an implication.’

‘To what? Tweak your conscience?’

‘Yes.’

‘Big bloody deal.’

Fish’s up again, walking about the kitchen. He stops in front of her. ‘What d’you want?’

‘I don’t know. I want to go to work, see what I can do about the money.’

He crouches down, his hands on her thighs. ‘No more cards. Promise me, no more cards.’

She smiles. The wan slight smile that’s not in her eyes, her eyes are sad. ‘I promise.’

Fish doesn’t believe her. Nods okay, pretending that he does.

She runs fingers through his hair. ‘I promise.’ Adds with a laugh, ‘Cross my heart.’

‘It’s not funny, Vics. You had me going last night.’

‘I can see, by what’s left in the ashtray. A little dagga den all of your own.’

‘I had a bad day.’ He stands, takes the abalone ashtray with its roaches and pips and sticks to the dirtbin. Tells her his war stories. Tells her about Fortune Appollis. Vicki reaching across the table to stroke his hand.

‘And now? You’re not thinking of anything stupid?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like pursuing the Appollis thing.’

‘No.’

‘And Seven. You can’t leave it.’

‘Too right I can’t leave it.’

His cellphone rings: Daro Attilane.

‘There’s a nice wave,’ says Daro. ‘Thought you’d be here.’

‘Have to give it a miss,’ says Fish. ‘Couple of things come up.’

Daro laughs. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that.’

‘What size?’ says Fish.

‘Not yesterday’s, but good enough.’

Fish’s about to bum a board, he remembers the black Golf. ‘Hey, Daro, you get a name on that reg plate?’

There’s a pause before Daro says, ‘Ummm, actually, ja I did. Man called Mart Velaze. Lives in Milnerton.’

‘You got a street address?’

‘At the office. I’ll SMS.’

Fish disconnects, looks at Vicki. Vicki’s got her eyes on him. ‘What’s it?’

‘Got a name for the guy who followed me. The zooty car with
tinted windows, the black Golf, I told you about. That tailed me from the Appollis’s to the hospital …’ Fish stops, shakes his head. ‘Something else left dangling.’

The second call Fish makes is to Clifford Manuel.

He gives him a bullshit story that he can’t get hold of Vicki Kahn, her cellphone’s off. Tells him Fortune Appollis has died. That Mr Appollis suspects foul play. How about taking it on pro bono with investigation expenses upfront?

Clifford Manuel’s going, ‘Wait, wait, wait. Who’re you again?’

‘Fish Pescado,’ says Fish. ‘Your investigator guy.’

‘I’m in the traffic, Mr Pescado. Can you phone me later?’

‘No,’ says Fish, ‘this’s urgent, the boy died, we’re talking murder now.’

‘Manslaughter.’

‘Murder, manslaughter, they’re words. The kid’s dead.’

Fish hears traffic grind, radio news about a child rape.

Clifford Manuel speaks over it. ‘I’m sorry to hear about this case, but we do not handle that sort of work, Mr Pescado. Some firms do pro bono, ours does from time to time. As you’re well aware, we were taken off this case. We’re hardly going to run back to them. If you’re in contact with the Appollis family I suggest you refer them to the Legal Resources Centre. They are geared for this sort of matter. But it’s very unlikely there’s anything to be done. It’s very unlikely there has been any malpractice at the hospital. We’re talking about one of our best private facilities. He would’ve been getting expert care.’

‘He’s dead,’ says Fish. ‘Doesn’t that say something?’

‘Mr Pescado, I’m not going to argue about it. Especially not in the traffic. You have my answer.’

With a have-a-good-day, Clifford Manuel’s gone before Fish can so much as open his mouth.

‘And a nice day to you to,’ he says, keying off the phone.

‘What’d you do that for?’ says Vicki.

‘Just to stir it.’

‘I asked you please not to. I told you how he bitched on me.’

‘Maybe that’s why I did it. Right now he’s phoning whoever put him onto the case in the first place. Five minutes time your phone’ll ring. No problem in getting things jumping.’

‘This is my job you’re playing with.’

‘You’re a lawyer, Vics. Lawyers’ve always got work. You can walk out of one firm straight into the next one.’

They’re inside pouring cornflakes into bowls when Vicki’s phone goes: Clifford Manuel. She holds the screen up for Fish to see.

‘Told you.’

Vicki catches a strand of hair behind her ear, starts into the conversation, says, ‘ummm’ twice, one ‘but Clifford’, a ‘yes, okay, about an hour’ – end of conversation.

She puts the phone down. Stares at the cornflakes. ‘Soon as I get in he wants to see me.’

‘There you go. What’d I say?’ Fish laying out the way she should handle it.

‘I just don’t know if I want more of his hannnah-
hannnah-hannnah
complaining.’ She sighs. ‘Oh well, we’ll see.’ Sprinkles sugar over the cornflakes. ‘How’m I going to get you onto muesli? Cornflakes are so 1970s.’

Fish crunches through a mouthful, says, ‘There’s milk if you want.’

‘What? To make a soggy goo? Thanks. Dry is fine.’

‘So what else did he say?’

‘He told me to tell you to back off.’

‘I imagine. Any reason?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’

Fish spoons fast through his cornflakes. ‘How long d’you think before Mart Velaze wants a word?’

After Vicki’s left, the third person he calls is Cake Mullins on the number he lifted from Vicki’s phone log while she was taking a pee.

His call goes to voicemail.

‘Cake,’ he says, ‘you don’t know me, I’m a friend of Vicki Kahn’s. A good friend. Don’t contact her again.’

His last call before he leaves is to Samson Appollis. He’s back at home. Fish says he’ll be there in an hour.