Of Cops & Robbers Read Online Free PDF Page B

sake, Bartolomeu, when’re you going to join the adult world? Become a professional.
    ‘I’m not starting, Barto, I’m reminding you of your obligationstowards me and your father, may he rest in peace.’
    ‘Mom …’
    ‘Estelle.’
    ‘Mom…’
    ‘Mom nothing. Now listen, this is business. Have you got a pen and paper?’
    Fish rolls his eyes at the ceiling, brings the bottle to his lips but doesn’t drink. His mother’s saying, ‘Prospect Deep, it’s a gold mine, not in our portfolio, I need a full report on it. We’re commissioning you, Barto.’
    Fish thinking, This’s close to home. Says, ‘Isn’t that a bit unprofessional? A bit like nepotism?’
    He hears his mother sigh. Imagines her walking around the room. Smiles at the thought. His mother the businesswoman, in her lingo talking up blue-sky projects.
    ‘For heaven’s sake, Bartolomeu, it’s a simple job. Don’t get all coy on me. I can ask any researcher I like. You’ve done this sort of thing for me before. You can do it again. Besides, you need the money.’
    True enough, thinks Fish. Says, ‘Okay. Who’re the clients?’
    ‘Two Chinese gentlemen.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And they heard about Prospect Deep, read there is some black economic empowerment deal in the wind, and want in. Simple.’
    ‘Can’t you just google it?’
    ‘You don’t think I’ve done that?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I have.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘It’s not enough. I need a bigger picture. Who owns what? What are the projections? Who precisely will be empowered in this deal? BEE’s not simple, Barto.’
    Fish lets it go, not saying anything, waiting for his mother to keep at it. But she doesn’t.
    She says, ‘You still there?’
    Fish says, ‘Okay.’
    Hears Estelle say, ‘Thanks. Thank you, Bartolomeu. I appreciate this. What’re your fees?’
    ‘Five hundred rand an hour with expenses.’
    ‘Make it three-fifty.’
    ‘Jesus, Mom.’
    ‘You said it, Bartolomeu. We don’t want any hint of nepotism.’
    ‘I thought …’ Fish is going to make a point about nepotism being like pregnancy but goes with: ‘… nothing.’ Hides behind a long mouthful of stout.
    ‘You’re drinking, Bartholomeu,’ says Estelle.
    ‘Yeah. Cheers, Mom.’ Fish takes another pull.
    ‘You sound like you’re alone, Bartholomeu. Men who drink alone are sad. Sad and lonely. You should get a girlfriend.’
    ‘I have a girlfriend.’
    ‘That Indian girl?’
    ‘She’s thirty-five.’
    ‘You know what I mean. You’re still seeing her?’
    ‘Uh huh.’ Fish stares into the gloom of his back yard; the boat catching the light from the kitchen window like an accusation.
    ‘It’s your life, Bartholomeu. Prospect Deep. Write it down please.’
    Fish does. Which is where Estelle leaves it, leaves Fish holding a dead phone, looking down at the words he’s written: Prospect Deep.

7
    Jacob Mkezi kerb-crawls his Hummer on Long Street direction the mountain, swings up Hout, back down Loop towards the harbour, goes left at Riebeek, takes a slow corner into Bree. Finds what he’s looking for over Strand beyond the Castle intersection: bunch of boys in a doorway. He stops. They’re huddled there under cardboard sheets, two lying down, three sitting, watching his black car with its black glass. He slides down the passenger window, holds up a pink fifty, waggles it. Knows the boys can see it. The boys don’t move. Sit staring at him. He waggles it some more. Nothing. The boys dull-eyed. He disappears the note into his fist, slides the window up. Pulls slowly away, his eyes on the group, knowing they won’t let it go.
    Two boys jump up, run towards him. He stops the Hummer. Two would be interesting. They push their faces against the glass to see in: pretty boys both, despite their street life. The one with a swollen eye, a bruise on his cheek.
    Again he slides down the window. Says to the one with the swollen eye, ‘Just you, okay. Net jy.’ Shoos the other one off with a dismissive hand.
    The boy