Of Cops & Robbers (7 page)

They arrive on the farm separately, the Fisherman from Port
Elizabeth
in his bakkie, Blondie from Cape Town in his VW Kombi, a sin bin complete with bed, camping fridge, a gas two-burner.

About an hour before sunset, the Commander and Rictus Grin get there in a police bakkie, unmarked. Haul three men from the back. The men shackled together in ankle chains, handcuffed. They lock them in an outbuilding.

With sunset the men in the outbuilding start singing. They sing through the night.

In the still cold night their voices are everywhere, as if the ancestors have arisen to join them.

In the morning they take the men into the veld. At an old antbear burrow they hand them spades, make them dig.

‘A cigarette,’ says one of the prisoners.

Rictus jams a cigarette between the lips of each prisoner, brings up a match. Says to the Commander, Blondie, the
Fisherman
, ‘Any of yous want one?’

They do. The seven men stand smoking, staring across the grasslands.

When they’re done, the one who asked for the cigarette says, ‘Hey, mlungu, whitey.’

Blondie raises his eyes, says, ‘You talking to me?’ The man staring at him. Blondie staring back.

‘Mlungu.’ The man grinning, squaring himself.

Blondie hears Rictus shout, ‘Hey, hey, watch it, watch it.’

Blondie catching the glint in the man’s eyes. Sensing movement behind  him. Sensing the one behind swinging his spade, the strike smacking Blondie across the back.

He staggers, goes on his knees, takes another blow. He sprawls. Sees through the dust the chained feet circling him. The men
slamming down with their spades. He’s got his head covered. He’s curled against the beating.

He hears the shots, feels the men collapsing over him. Blood everywhere. Gushing. He crawls out, away, lies panting on the hard ground.

The Commander’s bending over him, saying, ‘You alright? Say something. Christ, man, say something.’ The Commander’s hands examining him. ‘Talk. Say something, Christ, man. We need to hear you.’

Blondie sitting up against the pain. Drenched in blood.
Hurting
over his back, his shoulders, his arms, his side. Kidneys, he thinks, closing his eyes, like daggers in his kidneys.

The Commander saying, ‘It’s not your blood, boykie. You’re not cut. No open wounds.’

Blondie sees the three prisoners on the ground, Rictus and the Fisherman standing over them, guns in their hands. One of the men not moving, three of them bleeding rivers.

‘Still alive,’ says Rictus. ‘You want us to finish it?’

‘Wait,’ says the Commander. ‘Let him straighten up. His pleasure, don’t you think?’ – pointing at Blondie.

Fifteen minutes it takes Blondie to stand, leaning on the Commander.

‘Take it easy, okay. Go slow.’

One of the prisoners is sitting up, wild-eyed. The other two lie groaning.

Blondie walks towards them, takes the 9-mil Rictus gives him.

He shoots the two groaners first, head shots. Shifts the gun to the one sitting, the one watching him, the one who called him mlungu. Slots him in the face.

Fish follows Colins up the path on the lower slopes of the mountain to the old fort, branches whipping in his face. It’s a short climb to low stone walls overlooking the bay.

‘I’ve never been up here,’ says Fish. ‘Not much of a fort.’

‘It’s from the Muizenberg battle.’ Colins crouched, shifting rocks aside.

‘I read the info board too,’ says Fish, watching the bergie haul out a plastic bag. Colins opens it, holds the bag for Fish to peer in. ‘So you weren’t lying.’

‘Why was I supposed to lie to you, gentleman?’ says Colins.

Fish takes out the bigger horn, runs his hand over the end that should be meaty. No flesh, no blood.

‘Weird,’ he says.

Colins steps away. ‘You mustn’t touch it because of the poison.’

‘Huh?’ says Fish, puts the horn down on the wall. ‘What’re you talking about? What’s this poison?’

‘Says so in the newspaper, gentleman.’ Colins pulls a
quartered
page of newsprint from his jacket pocket. ‘I read it this morning. Strues.’

Fish takes the page, flicks it open, reads the headline: ‘Poison rhino horns poached’. Beneath that the story:

‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘I did.’

‘When it was too late. Shot, bru.’ Fish puts down the clipping, scrapes his hands over the stones, wipes them on his jeans. ‘This’s DDT we’re talking about. Sort of stuff kills everything.’

‘Unforeseen consequences.’ Colins saying it straight-faced.

‘Unforeseen consequences.’ Fish checks him out. ‘You’re fulla crap.’ He squints down at the newspaper, reading:

Fish saying it again: ‘Unforeseen consequences!’ Reads:

Fish uses the plastic bag as a glove to pick up the horn, drop it back in with its shorter twin. He hands the bag to Colins. Points at the hole in the wall.

‘You want me to put it back?’

‘I reckon, my friend, what d’you think?’

Colins not saying anything.

‘You think I should take it to the cops?’

‘You’s a private investigator. Probably there’s a reward.’

‘Probably,’ says Fish.

The two men facing the sea, staring where once British
gunships
swung at anchor, firing cannonballs at the mountainside.

Colins clicks his fingers. ‘You’s wants to catch them?’

‘Could be useful. A bigger reward.’

Colins laughs, settling the bag back in its hiding place,
repositioning
the rocks. ‘Colins, private investigator.’

Fish says, ‘Here’s the deal.’

‘What deal?’

‘Listen, okay?’

Colins strokes his beard.

‘I’m thinking those men you heard aren’t gonna come back in daylight. They’re gonna wait for tonight.’

Colins glances into the bush. ‘Ja?’

‘My problem is I’m helping a friend this afternoon. No ways I can sit here waiting. Understand? But you sit down near the gate to the path, you can watch for them. They’re probably gonna be in a car. Rhino horn’s not the sort of thing you want to carry through the streets. I’m gonna fetch you a cellphone. If they come, you call me. No hero stuff. You just phone me. Understand.’

Colins shakes his head.

‘What? It’s not alright?’

‘Half,’ says Colins.

‘Half what?’

‘Half the money.’

Fish thinks about it. ‘Sixty-forty.’

‘Half.’

‘Look,’ says Fish, ‘it’s sixty-forty, okay. I’m the person going to be in the firing line. Without me you’ve got nothing: sixty-forty.’

‘You’s a hard man, gentleman,’ says Colins.

‘I gave you toast and coffee. Served you, even.’

Colins waving this aside. ‘They see me I’m in trouble.’

‘They’re not gonna see you. Like you said, you’re a bergie. You’re lying there at the bottom of the path, drunk, resting, sleeping, it doesn’t matter to them. They come and fetch their package, if a bergie sees them it doesn’t matter. Like you said, a bergie’s not gonna tell the cops. Bergies don’t even know about the burglary.’

‘I do.’

‘Yeah. Well, you got lucky.’

They head down the mountain, Colins grumbling about being short-changed.

Gets up Fish’s nose. He rounds on Colins. ‘Bro, we haven’t been paid anything yet, so give it a break.’

Seven gets rid of the white chickee in his room, tells her he’s hungry, tells her to make some food, spaghetti and mince.

The chickee says there’s no mince.

‘Poppie,’ says Seven, putting a hundred note into her hand, ‘Go to Checkers ’n buy some.’

The chickee pads barefoot out of his room, wearing her school dress, a chunky jersey.

‘And, poppie, close the door.’

She does, banging it.

Seven sighs. Shouts, ‘Yusses, what’s your case?’

The chickee screaming back, ‘I’m not your bloody cook, Seven. You want a black bitch, get one.’

Seven about to wind up a reply, lights a cigarette instead. Puts a call through to Mart Velaze.

Mart Velaze coming on short and sharp, ‘Yes?’

Seven rolls his eyes. ‘Howzit, Mr Mart, remember me, Seven. We’s done business before. I got you good-time pilletjies for partying. You remember?’

‘What’s it, Seven?’ says Mart Velaze. ‘You don’t call me, I call you. If this’s a shit story, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘No, Mr Mart, everything’s hanging, everything’s fine,’ says Seven. ‘I got a little thing I’m selling, that’s all.’

‘I don’t need anything.’

‘You need this, Mr Mart. This’s a big-time score. You need this like God needs a sinner for sure.’

‘Of course.’

‘You read the papers, Mr Mart? A man like you reads the newspapers.’

‘Seven, no funny stuff.’

‘Front page, Mr Mart. Onna front page.’ Seven listens to the
quiet. ‘You there, Mr Mart?’

‘I’m here. We need to end this call, Seven. Why don’t we meet, same place as last time. Seven o’clock. Same time as your name so you won’t forget.’

‘Alright, Mr Mart. I’m there. Must I bring them?’ But Seven’s talking to dead air. He keys off his phone, sighs, ‘Ja, Mr Mart, always the main man.’ Shouts out, ‘Jouma, we gotta go fetch the horns.’

‘Nice car,’ says Jacob Mkezi to Daro Attilane. ‘You have the service history?’

‘Yes,’ says Daro. ‘No problems there.’ Daro in sunglasses thinking, he’d known it would be Jacob Mkezi he’d have made other arrangements.

He and Jacob Mkezi and Cake Mullins standing around this blue Subaru, complete with spoiler, parked on the driveway of Cake Mullins’ Constantia home.

Jacob Mkezi’s kicked the tyres. Walked round the car,
running
his hand over the wheel moulding.

‘Nice condition. No scratches.’

‘No bumps either,’ says Daro. ‘One owner. Older guy, a university lecturer. He looked after it.’ Daro thinking, only way to play this is Mr Nonchalant.

‘Strange car for a professor. Professor of what?’

Daro shrugs. ‘Organisational management. Something like that, at the business school.’

‘What’d he buy instead? A Merc? An old man’s car?’

‘Another one.’

‘Another Subaru? Is that so?’

‘Absolutely. Just without the spoiler.’

‘Without the foil it’d be nothing. It’d look like any car. A Cortina. Some sort of Honda.’

‘That’s the thing. The looks don’t count. It’s under the hood that makes the difference. You put foot in this car, you feel
acceleration
, the exhilaration.’

Jacob Mkezi looks at him. ‘What’s that, advertising copy? Marketing spiel?’

‘Happens to have some truth to it.’

Jacob Mkezi opens the driver’s door, sits. ‘What model?’

‘2005.’

‘Four years old. The prof didn’t have it long. Why’d he sell it? What’s the downside?’

‘No downside. Seller fancied a newer model.’

‘This professor?’

‘Told me when he sold it that once you drive a Subaru, you can’t drive anything else.’

Jacob Mkezi smiles. ‘A very with-it professor.’

‘Sometimes you get them.’

Jacob Mkezi swings the engine. It fires, the tailpipes guttural, throbbing. ‘Sounds hot.’

‘You want to take it for a spin?’

‘Nah, I don’t need to do that.’ He points at the Hummer. ‘Not my sort of car, you see. This’s for my son.’

‘He’d like it,’ says Cake Mullins. Cake Mullins in slacks and a green shirt, a jersey draped over his shoulders. Macho Cake not letting the winter chill get to him.

Jacob Mkezi switches off the engine, pops the hood. He slides out, takes a look at the serious stuff. ‘I don’t know about these things,’ he says to Daro. ‘Engines’ve never been an interest of mine but when they’re clean you know somebody’s paying
attention
.’ He nods. ‘This is good.’ Stands back dusting his hands to let Daro close the lid.

The men stand round the car gazing at it, saying nothing. Daro with his arms folded, alert. Cake Mullins blank-eyed, somewhere else. Jacob Mkezi hand to chin dragging out the minutes. Daro thinking, the games you play to make a sale. Damned if he’s going to speak first.

‘Alright,’ says Jacob Mkezi looking over at Daro, ‘I’ll take it. How you want to do this? Cheque? EFT?’ He takes a Samsung from an inside pocket.

‘EFT’s perfect,’ says Daro. ‘You don’t want me to register it for you? Deliver it to you? All part of the service.’

‘I got people who handle that,’ says Jacob Mkezi, thumbing his way through to his bank site. ‘It can stay right here for them
to collect. That okay with you, Cake?’

‘No problem,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘A pleasure.’

Jacob Mkezi smiles at Daro. ‘Sorted. You got beneficiary details for me?’

Daro tells him. Jacob Mkezi inputs while Daro and Cake Mullins make phone calls. Daro going through to Fish. Fish telling him, ‘I’m right outside.’

Cake Mullins finishes his call, says to Daro, ‘How’ll you get home?’

‘Lift’s waiting in the street,’ says Daro.

Jacob Mkezi laughs. ‘Right from the beginning, you reckoned you had a sale?’

‘Like to cover all bases,’ says Daro, grinning.

Jacob Mkezi holds up his phone screen, ‘You’re a richer man, Mr Attilane.’

Daro’s phone gives an SMS tone: a deposit notification.

‘Wonders of technology,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘Anyone for a drink?’

Daro declines. Jacob Mkezi says, yes, a quick beer would go down. Shakes hands with Daro, he and Cake Mullins watching the car salesman walk up the drive, waiting while the entrance gates swing open.

Jacob Mkezi says, ‘You’ve got CCTV up there, you record visitors coming in and out?’

‘What’d you think?’ says Cake Mullins.

‘It’s recorded.’

‘For twenty-four hours. You want to see something?’

‘Sure, Mr Attilane driving in.’

‘No problem,’ says Cake Mullins.

They go in through the garage with the Porsche Boxster, the Lexus coupé, to a small office with a bank of five screens.

Jacob Mkezi whistles. ‘Serious paranoia, Cake.’

‘Caution,’ says Cake Mullins. ‘It pays off.’ He taps at a keyboard, brings up some images from half an hour earlier, shows the Subaru turning in to stop at the intercom post. The
front window slides down, Daro Attilane leans out, takes off his sunglasses, speaks into the buzz box. Cake Mullins’s voice comes on welcoming him. Daro Attilane looks up at the camera, resets his sunglasses.

‘A recording of that would be handy,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

Cake Mullins takes beers from a bar fridge, pops the beer caps, hands a bottle to Jacob Mkezi. ‘Can be done. Any chance you’re going to tell me why?’

‘Not really, no,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Guy looks familiar, that’s all. One thing I will tell you, I want that girl, Manuel’s girl, working for me.’

‘Vicki Kahn?’

‘Yeah, Vicki Kahn.’

‘She’s smart, Manuel says. He’s willing to give her up.’ Jacob Mkezi sips from the bottle. ‘But what’s her story, Cake? What’s her story with this gambling thing?’

Cake Mullins tells him she’s a serious card player. Very good. Compulsive. Addictive personality. Can’t stop when she’s in the zone. Got herself into a major problem, then quit. Went for counselling, joined Gamblers Anonymous.

‘Interesting,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘I need to get her onboard. Organise a game.’

‘She won’t play.’

‘Persuade her, Cake, persuade her.’