Of Cops & Robbers (9 page)

Jacob Mkezi next to Mellanie in the back of his Hummer says to Mart Velaze driving, ‘There’s a car I bought standing over at Cake Mullins’ place. A Subaru. Gangster-looking job but
someone
has to drive them. It’s for the boy. I’m hoping you could arrange for him to collect it tomorrow. Maybe take him over there yourself, I’d appreciate it.’

‘No problem,’ says Mart Velaze, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror, making contact with the dark shades.

‘Get someone to sort out the licensing too next week?’

Mart Velaze’s shaved head nodding in the front.

Mellanie turns to Jacob Mkezi. ‘D’you know where it is, this lodge, where we’re staying? Will there be coverage?’

Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘Hey, sugar, this’s a holiday. Relax.’

‘Some of us need contact, Jacob sweetie.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘No idea. Probably not. It’s in the bush.’

‘Most of Africa’s in the bush but there’s cellphone coverage.’

‘Less than you think.’

Mellanie says into her phone, ‘Take that as a no. I’ll be in touch from the lodge phone when we get there. They must have a landline.’ She disconnects. ‘I don’t even know why I’m doing this.’

‘For me.’

‘Jacob, do you know, have you even the slightest idea, of the sort of issues I’m dealing with?’

He smiles at her. She’s back at her BlackBerry keying in numbers.

Mart Velaze says, ‘Does he know about the car? Lord, I mean?’

‘Uh uh. It’s a surprise, for his birthday.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Jacob Mkezi stares at the traffic. Bumper to bumper but it’s moving: Cape Town tailbacks. He looks at his watch, sits forward. They should’ve been at the airport already. ‘Are we going to make this?’

‘I’ve spoken to them at the plane. It’s okay, they can wait.’

Jacob Mkezi relaxes. ‘Two other things, Mart. Next week, Monday, Tuesday, early next week, go and see a guy, Daro Attilane, who runs this car dealership, Exclusive Motors. I got the Subaru from him. He’s a nice guy, very professional. I want you to take a look at him, that’s all, for a confirmation. See if you match him up to a photograph I’ve got. And then phone Cake Mullins, say I’m out of cellphone range, ask him to set up a card game with Vicki Kahn.’

‘Sure,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘I can do that.’

Three hours later in the dark the Beechjet’s approaching the landing strip that once upon a time saw Mirages, Hawker Hunters, Hercules cargo planes, Daks touching down on it. Once upon a time in a secret war. Mellanie leans across, shakes Jacob Mkezi awake.

He opens hooded eyes, yawns.

‘We’re here. Buckle up.’ She snaps closed her laptop, slips it into a bag at her feet.

Tol Visagie crouches in the aisle between them. ‘There’s an hour’s drive still when we’re down. In a Land Rover, it’ll be comfortable.’

Mellanie sighs. ‘It’ll be pitch black.’

‘Ja, sorry,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Can’t be helped, hey?’

‘As long as there’s whisky,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘There’ll be that when we get there.’ Tol Visagie grins, touches Jacob Mkezi lightly on the knee. ‘The best.’

Half an hour later they’re driving through the night in silence. Some crackle on the radio receiver, some mumble between Tol Visagie and the driver that’s fed back to Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie
as wildlife hype. Two hyenas spotted on the road when the driver came through earlier. Also a big herd of elephants, twenty, thirty with young in the river reeds. Lions killed a giraffe two nights ago outside the lodge.

‘Exciting,’ says Mellanie.

Jacob Mkezi smiles at her sarcasm, says nothing.

Tol Visagie glances at her but she’s invisible in the dark, her head back against the rest, her gaze into the night.

Occasionally there are spots of firelight in the distance, villages, now and again the red glare of eyes caught in the headlights.

‘Impala,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘There’re hundreds of them.’

‘Wouldn’t have guessed,’ says Mellanie. Only Jacob Mkezi hears her, stretches out a hand to squeeze her knee.

‘Don’t,’ she says, prizing loose his fingers.

‘Sisi,’ says Jacob Mkezi, ‘relax.’

The lodge is luxurious. Stone, wood, thatch, leather, polished slate floors. Skulls of tuskers flanking the entrance doors. The lighting from paraffin and gas lamps. Attendant reception staff in khaki, welcoming them with schooners of sherry.

‘Your room’s a stand-alone unit, river-facing,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘You want to freshen up first?’

‘I do,’ says Mellanie, as a man picks up her luggage, says to please follow him. Mellanie casting a glance at Jacob Mkezi. ‘You coming?’

Jacob Mkezi drains off the sherry. ‘No. I want a whisky.’

‘You could at least wash your hands, Jacob.’ Mellanie not waiting for a response.

Jacob Mkezi laughs at the surprise on Tol Visagie’s face. ‘Women. That woman, particularly. You have to love them.’

‘Ja, man, it’s why I’ve never married,’ says Tol Visagie showing him towards a bar counter on a wide stoep, only others at the bar a couple murmuring to one another at the far end. ‘That whisky?’ He signals the barman.

‘Why not?’ Jacob Mkezi looking round.

‘Johnny Walker black?’

‘Sounds good?’

Tol Visagie orders two whiskies.

‘Where are all the guests?’

‘This time of the evening, in the lapa eating.’ Tol Visagie arcing his arm to indicate the other side of the building. ‘Meals are served in a reed enclosure, round a fire. I like it. A high dark sky with stars and a fire. Very African.’

They clink glasses, walk to the edge of the stoep.

‘Out there,’ says Tol Visagie, ‘is a river bed. When the river’s flowing it reaches the Kunene. Right now it’s pooled. Wait till you see it tomorrow.’ Tol Visagie going on about the wonders of the place, the abundance of birdlife.

When he’s finished Jacob Mkezi says, ‘Why’re we here, Tol?’

Tol Visagie sips his drink, gazes off into the night. ‘Let’s leave it until tomorrow, rather, if you don’t mind? I’d rather not talk about it now. I just want to take you there and show you something, then we can talk.’

‘Very mysterious. I don’t like very mysterious.’

‘Only seems so but it’s not. In a way it’s quite ordinary. But …’ He doesn’t finish.

‘But?’

‘Nothing. Tomorrow you’ll see.’

‘This’s not how I do things.’

‘You’re here, Mr Mkezi. You came without knowing anything. A couple more hours isn’t going to matter. Really.’

‘I hope not.’

They turn back to the bar. The couple has gone, there’s a man lounging against the bar counter, watching them.

‘Former Commissioner Jacob Mkezi,’ the man says. ‘When you see Mr Jacob Mkezi then you must watch out. Then you know something is going on.’

Jacob Mkezi squints at the man. ‘Do I know you? Have we met?’

‘A long time ago. Lusaka, in the old days. I was a junior then. My name is Vusi Bopape.’ Vusi Bopape drinking from his
bottle of beer, not straightening up, lounging there without offering a handshake. ‘I heard your news today, the news about your court case. About your associate’s death.’

Jacob Mkezi keeping up the hard stare. ‘Nice to meet you again, Vusi. You having a holiday here?’

‘Honeymoon,’ says Vusi Bopape, tapping the bottle lip against his teeth. ‘We arrived earlier.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘My wife’s gone to bed.’ Vusi Bopape draining off the last of his beer. ‘Time for me to follow. Perhaps we can have a drink tomorrow, Mr Mkezi. To remember old times.’

As he leaves Jacob Mkezi says, ‘Why’d you say that, Vusi, about me? That something is going on?’

Vusi Bopape grins. ‘You’re a mover and shaker. Everybody knows that. I was just making a joke.’

Jacob Mkezi and Tol Visagie watch the man saunter off, handing his empty beer bottle to a waiter.

‘It seems like Bopape wasn’t surprised to see me,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘You’re the ones did it?’ Mart Velaze laughs. ‘I heard about it on the radio. Cape Talk. Really! You guys!’

‘Ja, Mr Mart,’ says Seven, grinning. ‘It’s good, hey?’ Jouma beside him showing the gap in his teeth, his head bobbing like a toy dog.

Mart Velaze looks at the horns lying on the table, pulls on a pair of rubber gloves.

‘You don’t need gloves,’ says Seven. ‘They’s clean.’

‘They’re poisoned, I read about it. You better wash your hands.’ Mart Velaze examines where the horns were sawn off. ‘Hell, man, this’s a rough cut. You’ve damaged them.’

‘No, they’s fine.’

‘Why?’ Mart Velaze glances at the gangster. ‘Why’d you do this?’

‘Because there’s money in horns.’

Mart Velaze shakes his head. ‘These were in a museum, Seven. You know what museums are for? Cultural heritage. Keeping our cultural heritage safe.’

‘No problem,’ says Seven, gives Mart Velaze his theory about an artificial horn.

‘Ah, that’s crap.’

‘No, it’s true’s. They can do that.’

‘Not the point,’ says Mart Velaze.

Seven shuts his mouth, stares at his feet. ‘They’s worth a hunnerd thousand.’

‘You killed a guard.’

‘Ja, we had to. He tuned us grief. But he’s a Mozambique, a alien.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Happens in the townships all the time. ’N we didn’t burn him.’

‘He was dead quickly, Mr Mart,’ says Jouma.

Mart Velaze stands back, crosses his arms. ‘Why’d you bring them to me? What’m I supposed to do with them?’

‘You can help us. You said you could help us with things.’

Mart Velaze has met them at a warehouse. Nothing in the building except the table, a broken motorbike, some tins of paint. Place belonged to a yacht builder, put together his dream boat here, sailed it out of Cape Town harbour with a keel of solid gold. Never looked back. Nobody knew, except Jacob Mkezi. And by association Mart Velaze. Jacob Mkezi collecting a
commission
in the Caymans.

Mart took over the warehouse for occasions like these. Quiet industrial park off a motorway. Excellent knock-and-drop location.

He looks at the horns, looks at the two men. Seven and Jouma squirming.

‘You’ve given me a big headache,’ he says.

‘Ag no, Mr Mart,’ says Seven. ’S not like that.’

‘It is like that, my brother. Just like that. A big headache.’

‘We can take them away …’ Seven begins, Mart Velaze holding up his hand, ‘Stop, stop, stop. I’ll sort it, you hear me?’

The two men nod.

‘You leave them with me, I’ll sort it. But I don’t want any flak. No phone calls, no hassle, not a peep.’

‘Okay, Mr Mart. No problems, Mr Mart.’ Seven touches Mart Velaze on the sleeve. ‘Hows about an advance?’

Mart Velaze puts the horns back into the plastic bag. ‘I’m not a bank.’

‘Just something. Ten thousand.’

‘You think I’ve got that, here?’

‘Five thousand.’

Mart Velaze digs in his pocket, takes out a clip of notes, peels off five. ‘This’ll have to cover it.’

‘That’s min, such a little,’ says Seven. ‘We’s leaving you a hunnerd thousand, you give us five hundred.’

Mart Velaze folds the rest of the notes, fastens the clip. ‘Take
it or leave it.’

‘Highway robbery.’

‘You want it or not?’

Jouma nudges Seven. ‘No, we take it,’ says Seven. ‘What can we do?’

‘You can wait,’ says Mart Velaze. ‘Patience is a virtue, né?’

He ushers the men out of the warehouse, locks it. ‘Maybe I’ve got a job for you next week. Twenty thousand rand. You could be rich manne soon. Somebody from your hood. Maybe somebody called Daro. You know him?’

‘On the forum?’

‘That could be him. Sells cars. I’ll be in touch.’

Seven and Jouma don’t crack a smile, get into their car. Mart Velaze watches them pull off. Wonders what he should do? Slip the horns back to the museum. Bring Jacob Mkezi in on the deal? He pulls off the gloves, drops them in a bin.

Fish’s done a number, cleared all the debris off the table: CDs, herb sticks and pips in the pearly-abalone ashtray, speeding fines, unopened accounts, books, laptop, car keys. Swept the floor, washed up.

More: whisked out two candles from the bottom of a drawer, snapped each one in half. Melted wax onto saucers, plugged the candle stumps into the wax. Laid the table for two, with the Boardmans cutlery and crockery he bought when Vicki came on the scene. Placemats too. Wine glasses. Put a candle dead centre of the table. Puts the others on the window ledge, a cupboard, the sink.

Selects some CDs. Jim Neversink, his new discovery, Laurie Levine, his all time standby, Dixie Chicks. Something for Vicki: Alison Krauss and Robert Plant,
Raising Sand.

Vicki comes in on a waft of perfume that gets Fish
deep-breathing
. It’s the smell of her he reckons he could track down in a crowd. Raises a heat on his palms. Stirs other places too. He’s rooted, stands there gazing in wonder.

She’s toting the Giovanni takeaways, white wine, her laptop in a sling bag over her shoulder, a briefcase.

‘It’s fine, Fish,’ she says, ‘I can manage’ – bending to slide the food and booze onto the table, noticing the candles. She’s well impressed. ‘What’s this? Candles. Babes. I like it.’

Fish snaps a grin, takes the wine from her.

‘I’ll have a glass of that,’ she says, ‘in the bath.’

‘Hey! This’s a sleepover?’ Fish can’t believe his luck.

‘I thought so. It’s the weekend.’

‘May as well join you,’ he says, ‘in the bath.’

Vicki holds up a hand. ‘Uh uh, dude. My time. A candle and wine’s what I want. You’re dessert. Meanwhile, keep the food
warm in the oven.’

‘How about this?’ says Fish, taking the champers from the fridge.

‘You bought that?’

Fish grins.

‘It’s methode cap classique.’

‘Says so.’

‘That’s expensive.’

Fish shrugs. ‘What’re credit cards for?’ He breaks the foil, loosens the wire cap.

Vicki staring at him, amused, lips open, her eyes dancing. ‘We’re celebrating something?’

‘Yeah,’ says Fish. ‘Us.’

Vicki laughs. Her gentle laugh that shows the pinkness of her tongue. ‘My ever-romantic Fish.’

‘That’s me.’ He puts his thumb to the cork. ‘You gonna say no?’

‘Bring it to me, in a flute. I’ll call.’

When she does she’s lying there covered in bubbles, steam rising. A brown knee raised. Her hair up, her shoulders wet, shiny. She reads his mind. ‘You’re not coming in.’ Clicks her fingers. ‘I’ll have that.’ Pointing at the glass in his hand. As she reaches up, her left breast lifting from the foam, the nipple dark as a roasted hazelnut.

Fish swallows. He could stand there staring at it all night.

‘The bubbly.’

He hands her the glass.

‘Hey,’ she says, ‘eye contact would be good.’

He looks at her. Thinks, bugger dessert.

‘Babes.’ Drinks. ‘Cheers.’ The wine glistening on her lips. ‘Now let me have some me-time.’

Fish sits it out with glass of MCC and Laurie on the snazzy Sony sound system, thoughts of being dessert uppermost in his mind, thinking how he’d start with her boobs, work his way down. Roll under her, let her ride the pace. She liked that. Probably
my favourite position, Fish decided: women on top. You could just lie back, lust on their boobs, watch their faces go all mushy.

Vicki slops into the kitchen, hair’s still up, wearing one of Fish’s jerseys, a pair of his tracksuit pants. He knows there’ll be nothing on underneath. He can see her nipples pushing at the cable knit. What he wants is to run his hands into the elastic top of the pants, feel her bum. Has a sip of wine to stop himself.

Vicki saying, ‘Let’s eat. Get the food, babes. I’m starving.’

They eat. Vicki chatting through the mouthfuls. What about this meeting Jacob Mkezi? The next day he walks? Polite man, had said something about knowing her aunt. Then this hijack killing of the state witness. Clifford completely schtum on that score. What a coincidence! Like, it was really a hijacking! Who d’they think they were kidding? Just that Jacob Mkezi didn’t seem that sort of man. Probably it was all happening while they were having drinks at the Cullinan. And then this guy from her past, Cake Mullins, on her case about a poker game. No matter how much she tells him she’s off the cards, Cake’s nagging about a game. About some person really wanted to play her.

Fish listening to her, coming in on the mention of Cake
Mullins
. ‘The second time his name’s come up today. I did a pick-up for Daro at this Cake Mullins’ place.’

‘In Constantia somewhere?’

‘Very nice house.’

‘That’s Cake.’

Fish coming back to the cards story. ‘You won’t? You’ll stay out of that?’

‘Of course. I’m in the programme, Fish, you know.’ Vicki peeling a prawn, finishing the bubbly. She pops the prawn, chews. ‘Tempted though.’ Watches Fish looking at her unsure if she’s having him on.

She leans over the table, holds his hand. ‘Only joking, babes. No need to get all narrow-eyed.’ Lets go of Fish’s hand to select another prawn. ‘How’s your life?’

‘Interesting,’ says Fish. Tells her about bergie Colins and the
rhino horns and the arrangement they’ve got.

‘Godfathers, Fish! You left them there? You didn’t let the police know?’ Vicki sitting back, frowning.

‘No. Can’t trust them.’ Fish opens the wine Vicki brought, fills their glasses. ‘They could screw up something like this. Or they lose the horn. You know what I mean, someone walks off with them.’ He takes down a swallow. ‘It happens all the time these days.’

‘Like it didn’t happen before.’

Fish shrugs. ‘I suppose.’

‘Lots of times. How’d your dead friend end up selling dope otherwise?’

‘Perk of the job.’

‘Exactly. So what happens if bergie Colins walks off with them?’

‘He’s not going to. He could’ve already.’

‘Or the bad guys kill him. They killed a guard in the museum.’

‘There’re not going to. He’s a bergie. They won’t even see him.’

‘This’s true.’ Vicki reaches across, takes his hand.

Fish looks at Vicki looking at him. There’s that spark in her eyes. A twitch to her lips. Does that thing with her tongue against her teeth. Touches his earring. Says, ‘Come, I’ve got another idea.’

Fish grins. ‘Cool.’