Of Cops & Robbers (31 page)

Fish, in the Perana, drives at his own pace down the Blue Route, going home. Ignores the guys in Polos zipping past, giving him the challenge glance: wanna see if you can cut it? Has Laurie Levine singing but ignores her too. Is not looking at the mountains, the patchy sky. Is looking inward. Thinking thoughts about the meaning of life.

Like why are rich guys so often such pricks? Take Lord. What a wanker. But then having a daddy like his hardly helps.

Like why do ordinary people have to suffer? They don’t do anything. Don’t hurt others. Take the Appollis folks. Whammo, all the joy gone out of their lives.

Then the big one: can we know other people? Take Daro.

Causes Fish to sigh.

His cellphone rings: his mother. Fish keys her on, presses loudspeaker.

‘What’s that noise?’ Estelle says. ‘You’re driving, Bartolomeu, aren’t you? You’re on a handsfree, I take it.’

‘Loudspeaker,’ he says.

‘You should get a handsfree, they’re cheap enough.’

‘This works fine.’

A pause. Then:

‘Bartolomeu,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to do this but I can’t wait for you any longer. I’ve given you plenty of time. I’m
engaging
another researcher.’

‘Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve got anyhow?’ says Fish.

Silence. Fish grins. Pleased his broker contact came through with the goods. Imagines his mother walking round her office, feeling the leaves of pot plants for dust, straightening piles of papers, a Bluetooth receiver tucked round her ear. Not
expecting
him to come up with the info. A bit taken aback. At least
that’s what he hopes.

She responds: ‘You’ve got something for me? I’m impressed. What’s it?’

‘Some stuff you need to know.’

‘Of course I need to know. That’s why I asked you to go digging.’

‘I’ll email it.’

‘Thank you, Barto. Thank you.’

‘You don’t know what it is?’

‘I do. It’s background. Any background’s more than I’ve got. It’ll be excellent. Excellent. Exciting, Barto. Really exciting. I’m meeting them tomorrow. They’re very keen. This will be a major investment. This’ll make news.’

‘Mom,’ says Fish. ‘What I’ve heard is not good. You should reconsider.’

A hesitation. ‘What could be bad news about it, Barto?’

‘The people involved.’

‘The people involved? Who?’

‘There’s a front company doing a BEE deal. Empowerment deals are dicey. You know that. They’re high-risk. High failure rates.’

‘I know this. Doesn’t mean this one’s like that.’

‘There’s not a good track record with these people.’

‘Which people?’

‘The families involved.’

‘And who’re they?’

‘The president’s nephew, for one.’

‘But that’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. A connection like that is brilliant.’

‘It’s not.’

‘It is, Barto. This is just wonderful news.’

‘There’s another big family in it. Major strugglistas.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Far from excellent, Mom. You don’t want to mix with these people.’

‘Of course I do. Of course I do. My clients will be thrilled. Honoured. This is the best news.’

‘They’ll eat you alive.’

He hears his mother laugh. Knows she’s impressed. Flattered that this could involve the high and mighty. Hears her say, ‘Don’t exaggerate. You can be such a drama queen, Barto. Relax. Go have a surf.’

She’s gone.

Fish sighs. The way he did before her call. Maybe he is being over-anxious. What’s his mother do anyway? Introduce people. Pour their drinks. Take a commission off the deal. But the big families are bad news. Especially the presidential connection. You got into that mix, you got into serious shit.

But what can he do? He’s thousands of kilometres away with another kind of serious shit.

In two days Fish has got nowhere. Not a trace of Daro Attilane to be found. So much for his rep for finding people.

Nix about Daro’s car.

Nix about his cellphone. It’s been switched off since the time he disappeared. Getting the records will take a while.

Nix from Vicki. ‘Give me a break. I’m working on it. I’ve got a job too, you know.’

Fish goes back to working it over and over, coming up stumped. Thinking, I haven’t got anything to work with. Each hour thinking Daro’s had it.

He’s not the only one with this line of thought: Georgina is on tranks. Steffie too.

Fish keeps at what he knows. Dials the numbers he has. The one he’s got for Mart Velaze going to voicemail.

Adler Solutions is no solution.

The woman on the desk at the courier company says, ‘No, man, we do hundreds of parcels a day. How’m I supposed to remember everyone? Huh? How’m I?’

The photostat shop guy says, ‘Ja, there was a man statting a lot of pictures, newspaper clippings, stuff like that. I asked him if he wanted help, he said no worries. But it like took him a long time, for sure.’

Fish’s gone over everything in Daro’s office. Twice. Gone over everything Daro owns. Gone over Daro’s life according to Georgina. Which wasn’t much.

Born on the peninsula. Family moved around because his dad was a vacuum cleaner salesman. Went to half a dozen schools. Moved back to Cape Town after matric. Sold motor cars all his life. Lived in communal pads in Gardens, bachelor flats in Wynberg. A beach bum when he wasn’t working. Daro’s life
until they met under the milkwoods at Scarborough.

Fish going over and over old ground. ‘What about his folks?’

‘I don’t know, for Chrissakes. I don’t know. He told me they died upcountry, in Kimberley I think. Somewhere in some
old-age
home, years and years ago. Daro didn’t like talking about them. He’d go all vague when I asked, and say he couldn’t really remember stuff from that time. No happy family moments. I guess they’d gone out of his life long before we met. Or he’d pushed them out of his life, more like. I always felt maybe he hadn’t had a happy childhood. You know, that he wanted to forget it, about them, his parents. I think they had him late. The only thing he said was that they were old. To him they were always old.’ She stares at Fish. ‘What more can I tell you? I don’t know any more. Why do you keep asking about them?’

Fish doesn’t answer this. Says, ‘Did he talk to Steffie about them?’

Georgina sighs. ‘Not that I ever heard.’

‘Steffie ever want to know about them?’

‘Of course, she’s asked me. I told her I never met them. That they died ages ago. I told her to ask her dad. So it’s best you talk to her.’ Georgina’s riding close to breakdown, drawn, skull-eyed, her skin the colour of old newspaper. ‘Why’re you asking me these things? Why aren’t you out there looking for him?’

Some of the time Fish is out there looking for him. Staking out the car lot, sitting at Knead, flashing a photograph of Daro at surfers everywhere: Crayfish Factory, Outer Kom, Boneyards, Dangers, Cemetery. No one has seen the guy.

He asks Flip Nel to jolly the local detectives. Flip comes back that there’s zilch. No sightings of Daro’s car, no activity on his phone, no credit card withdrawals.

Fish wants to say tell me something new, but holds his tongue.

Flip Nel says, ‘There’s yellowtail running. This weekend, hey? Put us back on a equal footing.’

Fish thinks, Hey, bru, I’ve got this missing friend. Says, ‘Always a possibility.’

One thing comes through for Fish. He’s had Georgina give him printouts of Daro’s bank statements, there’s payment for a car a week back: an EFT from the personal account of Jacob Mkezi. Takes him no more than a few calls to get Jacob Mkezi’s address. A couple of Googles to find a biog of the one-time police commissioner: widower, one child, a son called Lord.

But he already knew that.

Problem is Jacob Mkezi’s not at home when Fish rocks around. The place’s closed up like a bottle store on Sunday. CCTV cameras aimed at the gates, outdoor alarm passives on the walls. No matter how many times he ding-dongs the buzz box, there’s not even a flutter at the curtains. Doesn’t the guy have servants? Buti like Mkezi is going to have them in every cupboard. But no dice. Only other place he can go is say hi to Cake Mullins.

At the intercom outside the imposing gates of the Mullins residence, Fish gets to speak to a domestic. ‘Mr Mullins has gone away,’ he is told.

‘When’d he leave?’ says Fish.

‘Earlier,’ he’s told. ‘Mr Mullins will return in three months’ time.’

Fish frowns at the gate. ‘Shoo. A long holiday. Where’s he gone?’

‘Over the seas. To his other home, sir.’

‘That was sudden.’

‘Mr Mullins is on the business. Goodbye, sir.’

Which is all Fish gets.

He tries the Appollis household on his cell, Samson answers, his voice a whisper. Fish goes straight to it: ‘Your son was hit by a man called Lord Mkezi,’ he says. ‘Son of the former
commissioner
of police. He’s coming to see you, Lord that is. If he doesn’t, I think you should sue. I’ve got the paperwork, I can take this further.’

He hears Samson Appollis drawing in short gasps. Saying, ‘No, Mr Fish, no, we are ordinary people.’

‘It’s not going to cost you anything,’ says Fish. ‘I told you, contingency. You don’t have to sell your house.’ He hears Daphne Appollis calling, ‘Pa, what’s it, Pa? Who’s on the phone?’

Samson shouting back, ‘I’m coming, Ma, I’m coming.’ Says to Fish, ‘We can’t do that, Mr Fish. Not to important people.’

Fish closes his eyes, imagines Samson Appollis standing in the tiny lounge cluttered with furniture, a winter sun on the lace curtains, a silence in the house. ‘You can. You must,’ he says. ‘I thought that’s want you wanted to do? That’s what you told me?’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Pa,’ he hears. ‘Pa, who’s on the phone?’

‘It’s Mart Velaze, isn’t it?’ says Fish. ‘What’s he said to you?’

‘No nothing, Mr Fish, please. Okay. We mustn’t speak to you. Goodbye, Mr Fish,’ says Samson Appollis. ‘Sorry for the trouble.’

The line goes dead, Fish disconnects. Bloody Mart Velaze.

Next he connects to Professor Summers.

‘What can I do you for, Mr Fish Pescado?’ says the professor. ‘This is out of the ordinary.’

‘Your expertise,’ says Fish.

‘Oh, my, my. The private investigator’s in need of academic assistance. What is the world coming to? How can I help?’

‘You’re into politics, aren’t you?’

‘Political science.’

‘You’d recognise some of the old guys from apartheid times? On a photograph.’

‘I most certainly would.’

‘Can I come over? Are you at home?’ says Fish.

‘Well, now, let me see. Yes, this looks like my lounge, my furniture. So I’d say as it happens, yes, I’m at home. Only joking, Mr Fish Pescado.’

‘I’ll be there in ten.’

‘Such speed, Mr Pescado. A man of urgency.’

Fifteen minutes later Fish’s showing the professor the
photostats
. Standing on the doorstep, not wanting to go any further
into the foul den. Not that the professor’s asked him in. The professor running a magnifying glass over the faces of the white man and the black man in the hospital ward.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know who that is.’ Pointing at the man in the bed. ‘He was the minister of finance. Then ambassador to Switzerland. Dr Gold he was known as in the newspapers. Shall I tell you why?’

He does. Fish thinking, So the little guy’s clued up.

‘What’s going on here, Mr Pescado?’ says Summers at the end of his mini-lesson. ‘Something juicy? Who’s the black man?’ He takes a closer look. ‘Well, well. I recognise him too. A lot younger but you can still tell he’s our former commissioner of police. Interesting picture. Very interesting. You wouldn’t let me have a copy?’

‘Not now,’ says Fish. ‘It’s confidential.’

The professor back at the photostat with his magnifying glass. ‘You know the thing about him, Mr Pescado, a lot of powerful people don’t trust him. Didn’t then, don’t nowadays either. But then what I heard from the people in the know is Jacob Mkezi had a lot of dirt on a lot of people. He knew who’d been
colluding
with the enemy, so to speak.’

Fish’s phone rings: Vicki. He takes the photostat from the professor, says to Vicki, ‘Hang on.’ To Summers, ‘Thanks, Prof. Much obliged.’

‘Pleased to be of assistance,’ says Summers. ‘You can repay the favour in grass. And a copy of that.’ Fish waves, heads out the gate.

‘Babes,’ Vicki’s saying in his ear, ‘I’ve found out some stuff about Jacob Mkezi.’

‘How about my place?’ he says.

‘I’m on my way.’

‘What’re you bringing to eat?’

‘Godfathers, Fish,’ says Vicki, ‘don’t you think of anything else?’

All the drive home Fish’s thinking of something else: he’s
thinking of Daro. Of who Daro really is. Thinking how can a man vanish? Drive away and disappear. Completely. Gone. No traces. Like aliens have zapped him. Walk out on his family. Fish saying out loud, ‘I’ve got nothing to work on. This’s killing me.’ Except for the photostats. He gazes up at Muizenberg mountain at the end of the highway, at the fire in the sky, the dying day. Thing is, he likes Daro. Daro is okay. That’s the problem.
Because
he’s got a sense that Daro was into heavy shit.

Through the morning Jacob Mkezi watched porn on his laptop: men in togas lounging with boys. Young boys with shiny skins and stiff little pricks over puckered balls, reminded him of chicken flesh on a drumstick.

Sat at his desk in his study in the quiet house, not completely distracted, troubled. Troubled by the rent boy photographs, troubled by silence.

The silence of Mart Velaze, most of all.

He’d left two voicemails. One at 7.30: ‘Comrade, what’s happening? Call me.’ The second at 9.50: ‘I am worried about you, comrade. You need to talk to me.’ An hour later he put a missed call on Mart Velaze’s log.

This was strange, this was not Mart. Mart was his man.

Then there was Tol Visagie. At 5.30 he’d been woken by an SMS: ‘The trucks are here.’ Half an hour later he’d phoned the vet, his call going to voicemail.

He’d phoned his point man, been told they’d met the contact, were proceeding.

At 10.30 there’d been another message from Visagie: ‘Loading the aircraft.’ He’d phoned back immediately: voicemail. ‘Tol, phone me,’ he’d said.

No response.

Again he’d got his point man’s confirmation. Then had
messaged
Tol Visagie, ‘It’s okay to talk.’

After that took to watching the porn, watching his phone out the corner of his eye.

Emails pinged on his phone, totted up in his inbox. He scanned them: the daily traffic at his company: invoices,
statements
, newsletters, notices of sales, investment opportunities. Nothing that wasn’t being dealt with by his staff. He wondered
to whom else the photographs had gone? He needed Mellanie doing R&R: research and restitution. Damage control.

Each email he hoped was hers. None of them were.

He wondered about phoning her, but didn’t.

Instead went through to the kitchen, made coffee. Drank it standing at the sink, looking into the back yard. The empty washing lines, the wheelie bins for recycling. Mellanie’s insistence that the recycling would make a photo-story: police commissioner goes green. The enviro-friendly commissioner. And then when he was suspended: Time to recycle the commissioner. And then when he offered to resign: Former top cop dumped.

He’d told his household staff to go. No dusting, no
vacuum-cleaning
, no washing windows, cleaning silver, polishing brass handles. No raking leaves, no shining the cars. Take the day off. They’d looked at him as if someone had sent them the pictures too.

When the house was his, he’d spoken with Cake Mullins, an agitated Cake Mullins.

He’d suggested lunch.

‘I’m outta here,’ Cake Mullins had said. ‘Off to the Caymans. I’m packing as we speak.’

‘What’s happened?’ Jacob Mkezi had asked.

To which Cake Mullins had come back brittle, ‘What d’you mean, what’s happened?’

‘This’s sudden.’

‘It’s been on the cards.’

Jacob Mkezi about to tell him the rhino horns were in the air had bitten down on his words, had said instead, ‘Pleasant flight.’

‘Yeah, all twenty hours of it. Connecting in Miami, yeah it’ll be pleasant.’

Causing Jacob Mkezi to wonder if Cake Mullins hadn’t got the photographs as well, was getting away ahead of any fallout. Had been about to ask him straight but Cake Mullins had rung off.

Then comes another SMS from Tol Visagie: ‘Mission accomplished.’

Mission accomplished. Jacob Mkezi laughs out loud at Tol
getting with the Bush-speak. Puts through a call. Voicemail.
Redials
. Same thing. Goes again. Voicemail. Swears, ‘Wena! Visagie, stop being an arsehole. I didn’t mean don’t speak to me at all.’ Keys the number once more. No dice.

He does what he did earlier: phones his point man. Is told, ‘All good, chief. All sharp.’

Eases the troubled mind of Jacob Mkezi. Five, six hours the plane’s in Sana’a, he’ll be a rich man, a richer man. Stuff the old comrades. Fuck them all and their ancestors’ cattle.

Jacob Mkezi sits down to his porn. He’s getting back into it, the toga men playing chase with the boys in a garden, when the gate buzzer rings. He clicks through to his security links, brings up on the screen this picture of a white guy in a car at his driveway gate: a mlungu with surfer’s hair, deep-set eyes, squinting up at the camera, his finger working the bell button ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong like he’s not seen this
technology
before. Like he’s a kid with a new toy. Jacob Mkezi wants to yell at him to voetsak, fuck off, wants to fire off a couple of shots, put a spike in the man’s pulse rate.

He doesn’t. He sits it out till the man stops his foolishness. Watches him reverse into the street, drive away. Muscle, Jacob Mkezi reckons. Someone’s muscle. Something in his attitude, the way he leaned out his window, stared into the camera, kept his finger on the buzzer. A mlungu with attitude. Could even be the photographer.

Time to go, he decides. Hang loose in a couple of places he knows, Mzoli’s place in Gugulethu not a bad idea. Until he’s got the confirm from Sana’a.

Jacob Mkezi shrugs into a leather jacket, picks up his
sunglasses
, decides against taking the Hummer. Times like these he needs to fly under the radar. Times like these he uses his other car, a white Honda Civic. He walks through to the garage, remote-triggers the door which slides up on silent runners. There, turning into his driveway, is Mellanie.