Of Cops & Robbers (25 page)

‘It’s not policy,’ says Clifford Manuel to Vicki Kahn. His eyes catch hers, then slide away. ‘The partners made a deliberate decision that there’d be no borrowings.’

Vicki in Clifford Manuel’s office. The two of them
standing
either side of Clifford Manuel’s desk. Vicki’s staring at him but his eyes are skittish, his focus mostly past her head at the certificates he’s got framed on the wall.

‘I don’t know why you want this money and I don’t wish to know. Your financial affairs are your own business.’ A quick flick of his eyes.

Vicki takes this as an opening, lays it on. ‘I’m in trouble, Clifford. I need the loan. I really need it.’ Steps closer to his desk, lays it on more than she intended. Feeling why not, to hell with it. ‘Serious trouble.’

‘What sort …’ Clifford Manuel stops himself, holds up his hands. ‘I don’t want to know, it’s your business.’

‘Please,’ says Vicki. Thinking, listen to you, girl. Beg it out of him. ‘I’ve got a big problem.’

Clifford Manuel groans. ‘The firm’s policy is clear. It keeps things professional. You need to speak to your bank manager, Vicki, not me.’

‘I have,’ says Vicki.

‘And?’

‘And no dice. The firm’s my last option.’

Vicki bows her head. Gazes down at the harbour ten floors below: container ships being loaded, an oil rig in for maintenance. Six ships waiting in the roadstead. The tourist ferry heading for Robben Island. Says, ‘I’m desperate.’ Keeps her eyes downcast, sensing Clifford Manuel’s embarrassment. He knows about her gambling. Knows she’s doing something about it. She hears him
suck breath.

‘You played cards?’

‘I was forced into it.’

‘No one’s forced into it.’

She laughs. A harsh explosion. ‘I was Clifford. I had no choice.’

‘I thought …’

‘What, Clifford? Thought what? That I’m on the programme, it’ll all be alright. I’m on the programme but it’s not alright. That’s why I’m asking you. I need to get out of this debt.’

Clifford Manuel sits down, stares at the papers on his desk pad. ‘I can’t,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I absolutely can’t. The other partners …’

‘Forget the other partners,’ says Vicki. ‘Six months, that’s all I need. End of that you can have it all back, with interest.’

‘We don’t want interest. We’re not moneylenders, Vicki, we’re a law firm.’

‘I’m asking you, Clifford. You, personally.’

He frowns, glances at her startled.

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘No, no, no, no.’ Shaking his head. ‘I don’t lend money, Vicki. Not to anyone, family or friends. It ends in tears. It always ends in tears. Absolutely not. No.’ He stands. Adjusts his tie: his blue tie with little red anchors on it. Set against a blue-striped shirt with a white collar. ‘I’m sorry, Vicki. I wish you well but this problem is of your own making. You will have to sort it out some other way.’

‘Do you know what they’ll do, Clifford?’

Clifford Manuel won’t meet her eyes, waves his hands.

‘They’ll hurt me. Beat me up.’

‘There’re laws …’

‘There’re no laws for these people,’ says Vicki. No intention of going anywhere near Jacob Mkezi’s name. Wanting to keep that part secret. Or Clifford would freak. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t her fault, that Mkezi had set it up. He would throw his
toys. She’s glued to Clifford Manuel’s face. His hands flat on the desk. His reply on cue: ‘Then why do you mix with them? Why do you do this to yourself?’

‘Because I couldn’t do otherwise. I told you. I had to.’

Vicki thinking, if only you knew, then upping the ante by bringing tears to her eyes.

Which gets Clifford Manuel moving round his desk to lay a hand on her arm, gently turning her towards the door. ‘I can’t deal with this, Vicki. I can’t get involved in your personal life. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re upset but I can’t help you.’ Opening the door for her, a hand softly pressing on her back.

In her office, Vicki thinks, that was smooth, the way he ushered her out. But then Clifford Manuel is smooth.

Maybe the way to sort this is another game? She recalls the silkiness of the cards against her fingers. The anticipation of the hand as Cake Mullins dealt. The slow build with each round: the cards flipped, the money down. The intensity of the moment. Her focus zoned on the cards, the table, the faces of the
players
. Her own face relaxed. The cards fanned in her hand. The sudden calm.

One night and it’s all back. She wants another game.

No.

Vicki closes her eyes. No.

Her heart rate’s up, that anticipation beating in her chest.

No.

To stop the thoughts she opens her laptop, clicks through to her email. Right at the top, one there from Clifford Manuel, couple of minutes old: ‘Again, Vicki, I’m sorry I can’t help you. It’s a matter of principle, and I hope you understand. Another thing, I had a call from that private investigator, Pescado. Please advise him again we have not been retained on the Appollis case.’

Not no. Maybe.

Samson Appollis phoned Fish to tell him, ‘Don’t come to my house. You know the swimming pool by the beach in Mitchells Plain? It’s better we meet there in the car park. For Ma’s sake.’

Took Fish another phone call to Samson Appollis to find the place. Off Baden Powell, down through the dunes and rooikrans bush to a deserted stretch of beach. Deserted swimming pool. All very quiet: the day bright, strong smell of salt off the sea, kelp gulls lined up on the changing room roof. Isolated place in Fish’s reckoning. You don’t want to be here alone, you don’t want to come here for an hour on your ace, daydreaming.
Deserted
down here doesn’t mean peace and quiet, deserted means something waiting to happen.

Coming in, Fish scopes the car park: a couple of cars in the front, probably belong to fishermen hoping to catch galjoen
feeding
inshore. Two dudes in a low-slung Honda playing loud rap.

Fish senses they’re watching him behind their shades. He draws level, wags a two-finger horn sign, safe-my-mate, as he passes, the boys nodding back at him. Rumbles on to the farthest car park, there’s Samson Appollis in his 1980s Mazda 323, parked facing the entrance. Fish thinks, if he sells that he’s gonna get two grand for it on a good day. That’s what he’s offering as payment: two grand. What’s two grand? A day’s work. Two days if he’s feeling charitable.

Fish stops beside the Mazda, nose onto the sea.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says, settling into the Mazda’s passenger seat. The Appollis car smells of fabric softener. The inside neat: no sand in the foot wells, no discarded takeaway packets. No sweet papers, cooldrink cans, chocolate wrappings. Tidy people.

Fish turns sideways, looks at the ocean, the view clear to Seal
Island. The way the car’s facing is empty tarmac fringed with scrub dunes, the sightline open to the resort’s entry point. Some of the empty cars visible but not the boykies in their Honda.

‘What’s worrying you?’ says Fish.

Samson Appollis has his fingers tightly threaded together. ‘I didn’t want Ma to know. Not even that I talked to you.’

‘Why not?’ Fish thinking, yeah, and what’s the other reason?

‘Ma believes it was the Lord’s wishes.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No, Mr Fish.’ Samson Appollis releases his fingers, balls his fists.

‘So the thing is then, why not? The thing is, what’s got you jumpy?’

For a long time Samson Appollis stares at the empty car park. ‘We haven’t got the policy,’ he says.

‘You said …’ Fish stops.

Samson Appollis glances at him, shifts in his seat, restless, uneasy. ‘That was a lie, Mr Fish. Sorry, man. That was a lie we told you.’

‘There’s no insurance?’

‘No.’ Samson Appollis with his eyes on the distance.

Fish lets the silence drag. Then: ‘So why’d you say there was?’

‘He told us. Because this is what they wanted. First they wanted Ma and me to think they were sorry and that they will pay Forty’s hospital, then they throw us away.’

Fish rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Hang on, Mr Appollis, slowly, listen, what’re you talking about?’

‘He told us, don’t worry, Mr Appollis, your boy will get better. Don’t worry, Mr Appollis, we will move him to a good hospital, somewhere with the best doctors, the best care. He tells us and it happens. Don’t worry, Mr Appollis. We will pay. It’s like you’ve got an insurance. That’s what he said. Ma and me we are so grateful. We can’t pay hospitals, Mr Fish. We are not rich people.’

‘Okay, bit by bit. I’m not with you, okay. Tell me, who’s
he? This man who’s told you these things?’

‘Mr Mart.’

‘That right?’ says Fish, ‘Mart, hey. Mart Velaze.’

‘Ja. You know him, Mr Fish?’

‘Sort of.’ Fish tapping Samson Appollis on the shoulder to continue. Fish sitting sideways in the seat, with Samson
Appollis
in profile. ‘Let’s go back here, Mr Appollis, tell me from the beginning when Mart Velaze first talked to you.’

‘In the hospital, Mr Fish.’

‘The first hospital.’

‘That’s right. We’s standing there at Forty’s bed, Ma and me, and I’m thinking, dear God, my boy’s going to die. Ma’s crying. We’s alone there with him and Forty’s bandaged, in a coma. I hear this man say my name, he asks if he can speak to me. He says he knows about the accident, that he can help.’

‘This Mart Velaze?’

‘A very quiet man. He speaks softly to me like a priest.’

‘Uh huh, then?’

‘Then he says to me, that he is going to have Forty moved to a private hospital. I say, no, we can’t pay a private hospital. Don’t worry, Mr Appollis, he says, all the money’s going to be paid for you. Like an insurance. I look at him, I ask him why. Straight out, why? He says he can’t tell me. “The man I am working for is doing this.” Those are his words, Mr Fish. “The man I am working for is doing this.” Trust me, Mr Appollis, he says. We will look after your son until he is better. I look at Forty lying there in that hospital bed and I think this is not a good place, he is going to die here. In the private hospital maybe he has a chance to live. Mr Fish, a father must do everything for his boy. So I say to Mr Mart, alright. Alright, if you promise me on God’s name. “I promise you, Mr Appollis,” he says. That’s what he said to me, Mr Fish: “I promise you, Mr Appollis.” Now look where his promise is. Broken.’

‘Do you have to pay the hospital?’

‘No, there’s no fees, thank the Lord.’

Fish sighs, says, ‘That’s all he told you, that he worked for a man who wanted to help you.’

Samson Appollis nods.

‘You didn’t ask him again afterwards who this man was? Why he was doing this?’

‘Of course I did, yes, man, what d’you think? I’m not a sponger. Oooh la la, Mr Mart he gets cross. I can see it in his face. He doesn’t want me to keep asking this. Still he’s smiling at me but his face is hard. Be grateful, Mr Appollis, he says. Your son’s very lucky.’ Samson Appollis picks at a thread on the steering wheel cover. ‘When you were there with us yesterday, he saw you. Soon’s you’re gone, he’s there. Who was that man? What’s he want? What d’you tell him? I told him, Mr Mart, we told you nothing. I tell him you’re investigating what happened. He gets cross, says, what about his boss? Did we say anything? Nay, Mr Mart, I say, we told you we got insurance. We’s covered for a private hospital. We told you like he told us. No, Mr Appollis, he says, this is a problem. He says the man he works for is a very private gentleman. He likes to help people but he doesn’t want anybody to know. No publicity. For Forty’s sake we must never say anything. We swear for him on the Bible we will not say anything. Even if Forty dies, we must accept it is God’s will.’

Fish’s watching Samson Appollis, the man not blinking. His teeth grinding.

‘You don’t accept it?’

It takes a long time for Samson Appollis to respond. Fish shifts his gaze, watches a swell rise up and break, too quick and small to bring anybody much joy, before he hears the faint word, ‘No.’

‘What’s changed, Mr Appollis? Why’re you thinking this now?’

‘Mr Mart said we must trust him, and what can we do? We must trust him. Our boy …’ He breaks off, swallows. ‘Our boy, we had to save our boy.’

He stops there and Fish lets it hang. Samson Appollis still lost in the thousand-yard stare, the grinding teeth.

‘But I never heard of this before. Of a person doing this
before, paying for someone that’s not family. The first thing I think is Mr Mart knows this person that hit my son. I’m not stupid, Mr Fish. Mr Mart knows. Also I would say this person he knows is rich.’

‘Could be a main man, absolutely. Someone connected.’

‘Could be, ja. That’s what I think. A politician. Or a
businessman
. Maybe a gangster. One of the Untouchables, the mafia poaching abalone. You see Mr Fish there’s rich people here on the Plain buy fast cars for their sons. They don’t care about the racing. They sommer just spoil their children for peace and quiet.’

Fish chews on this, thinks, we’re getting there, Samson my man, says, ‘Why d’you think he was killed?’

Samson Appollis comes back fast. ‘They’s not worried
anymore
. Theys don’t need him to be alive anymore.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Of course. They’ve paid their people. When you’ve got money, Mr Fish, you can do anything. Cheaper to pay your people than keep a boy alive. You don’t know if the boy comes out of the coma maybe he says something.’

Which is Fish’s take. ‘You really reckon this?’

Samson Appollis turns quickly to Fish. ‘I’m scared, Mr Fish, for Ma and me.’

‘Mart threatened you?’

‘Not in words.’

‘The way he says things? His attitude?’

Samson Appollis nods. ‘He comes close, Mr Fish, when he’s talking. Close right next to you, breathing in your face. Talking quietly. You understand, Mr Appollis. You hear me, Mr
Appollis
. That’s what he says all the time, over and over.’

‘If you’re scared why’re you talking to me? Why’d you phone me?’

‘Forty’s dead, Mr Fish. Maybe you can do something?’

Fish let that go, admiring the man’s nerve. Samson Appollis sobbing quietly. After a while Fish says, ‘What you want me to do about it?’

‘I want to know, Mr Fish. I want to know who killed my son. Just the name.’

‘Just the name? Then what?’

‘I dunno. Just the name.’

They sit there, not talking, while Samson Appollis snorts and snuffles into his handkerchief.

Fish says, ‘Two things, Mr Appollis. First thing, soon’s I start poking around you’ll have Mart Velaze breathing in your face, wanting to know what you told me. Menacing you. Second thing: how’re you going to pay me? I can’t work for nothing.’

Samson Appollis blows his nose. ‘I know I must pay, Mr Fish. I know that. I have money. Also I can sell the car.’

‘Fine. You sell your car. That’ll pay me for a day. This sort of work takes days and days. And there’s still Mart Velaze. Best thing is you forget about this, Mr Appollis.’

Samson Appollis droops his head. ‘I can’t, Mr Fish,’ he says, ‘I can’t.’ He fidgets in his jacket pocket, brings out a piece of paper. A name written on it: Willy Cotton. ‘This’s Forty’s friend he went to college with. He’s a nice boy. How much if you just talk to him?’

‘This’s it? All you’ve got’s his name?’

‘Please, Mr Fish. How much?’

Fish thinks, do it for free. Help the man out. Says, ‘Three hundred rand.’

Samson Appollis digs out a fold of notes, could be a couple of grand, Fish reckons. Skims three hundreds off the top, holds them out.

Fish takes the money, opens the door. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘No, no, Mr Fish,’ says Samson Appollis. ‘Tonight I’ll phone you.’

Fish shakes his head. ‘Too soon. Tomorrow rather.’ He’s about to close the car door, he says, ‘Did you see Mart Velaze last night?’

Samson Appollis nods. ‘He was there at the hospital.’

‘You talk to him?’

‘A little bit. He says he is very sorry for us. He also says it is God’s will that Forty’s gone.’

Fish twigs on the money, almost snorts a laugh. ‘He gave you the money?’

‘To help us out with things. That’s what he says, “To help us out with things”.’

Samson Appollis starts the Mazda, the engine cranking before it fires.

‘Why’d you take the money if you think …’

A sad smile deepens the lines around Samson Appollis’s mouth. ‘To pay you, Mr Fish,’ he says. ‘To pay you.’

When he’s gone Fish phones Vicki. Leans against his car taking in the ozone, the lingering fumes of Samson Appollis’s car
sneaking
into the mix.

Vicki comes on: ‘Before you ask, I didn’t get the loan.’

‘It was worth a try.’

‘I did get an email from him afterwards telling me to tell you we’ve got nothing to do with the Appollis case.’

‘I expected that.’ Fish hears the Honda kick into life, the exhaust roar, pivots to face the entrance to the parking lot.

‘Where’re you? On the beach?

‘Mitchells Plain. Funny little place with a swimming pool.’ The Honda’s crawling towards him. ‘Got some company it seems.’

‘You alright?’

‘No probs.’

The Honda stops fifty metres off, the dudes inside invisible behind the tinted windscreen. Low doof-doof reverb Fish can feel in his feet.

‘Quick favour,’ he says to Vicki, ‘can you check out on
Facebook
if a guy Willy Cotton’s got a page.’

‘Fish, I’m not …’

‘Might’ve put up contact info. Kids’re stupid that way. I would–’

‘Fish, that’s why you’ve got a laptop. So you can use it.’

‘It’s at home.’

The Honda rolls forward twenty metres.

‘Got to go,’ says Fish, disconnects. Stands there wondering if this is a gun situation.

The Honda stops, the driver leans out, says, ‘Hoezit, my bru …’

Fish squints at him: one sharp-faced individual, deep eye sockets, pointy cheekbones and chin. Gives him the howzit nod.

‘My bru, ek sê, you come to the market?’

Fish shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

They do the eyeball until the driver laughs. ‘You’s a
roker-man
, I can see. A smoker, I can tell.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I can see, my bru, I can see you’s chilled.’ The driver keeps the car grumbling, slides forward a couple more metres. ‘We’s selling, my bru. Come check.’

The passenger door opens, short skinny type hops out. ‘My bru,’ he says, ‘come check.’ He hitches his jeans, waddles off a few paces to spit. ‘Come check.’ Waves Fish over.

Fish pockets his phone, walks towards them. On the back seat are two binliner bags. The brothers grin at him. ‘Another in the boot,’ says the skinny one. ‘What you call grade A1, herbs from Durbs, ek sê.’ He opens a bag. ‘You don’t believe me, see for yourself.’ Fish leans in, breaks off a head. It’s good stuff, rooibaard variety with the sticky red hairs on the head.

‘See what I tell you, my bru. Our grass is mos top class.’

‘You wanna score, we’s got plenty more,’ the driver adding his pitch.

‘Alright,’ says Fish. ‘How much?’

‘Five hundred a bag, my bru. Special price for you.’

Fish takes three hundred-rand notes from his pocket. ‘Here’s what I’ve got.’ Holds them up, fanned.