the grill. Actually, blackens slices of bread under the grill because he’s thinking of his mother.
‘You’re thirty-three, Bartolomeu, you need to finish your degree. Get a proper job. In business. Play golf.’
‘I’m thinking of it,’ he’d said.
‘Really, of what part?’
‘Of finishing the degree.’
‘I’m supposed to believe that?’
Yeah, he was thinking about it. Thinking that some law knowledge would be an advantage.
Which distracts him, which causes the toast to burn. Fish has to scrape off the singe into the sink. He smears on marge and peanut butter, drizzles syrup over this. Gets a Bialetti coffee pot going on the stove. Sits down at the table to eat. Through the open door he can see the
Maryjane
on her trailer, his longboard leaning against the boat. Maybe if the waves are down this weekend, he and Vicki can power out, put Mullet to rest. If Vicki can spring for the fuel. Bucks being what they are: scarce.
Talking of which.
He crunches down on a couple of slices of toast, finishes his coffee, spends the morning working the phone. Vicki first.
‘You gonna feed me tonight?’ he says for openers.
‘I love you too,’ she says.
‘Brilliant,’ says Fish, ‘you promised. Yes?’
‘Sounds like you’re eating.’
‘Only toast.’
He bites into a crust, spraying crumbs. ‘So what time?’
‘Six thirty. Seven latest. I’ll get Giovannis.’
‘Lots of the fancy stuff, hey. Chilli prawns. Octopus in that vinaigrette. Artichokes. Taramasalata. Calf liver pâté.’
‘That’s what you want?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘That’s what you always have.’
‘That’s why I want it.’
He hears Vicki sigh, smiles to himself. ‘Take the afternoon off?’
‘Some of us have to work.’
Fish lets out a long ‘Aaah, you wouldn’t have anything coming up for me?’
After a beat, Vicki says, ‘Please, Fish …’
Fish going into the gap, ‘It’s cool. Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s only … You know.’
‘I know. Hang in, babes, it’ll come right. Everybody’s scratching.’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘Till later.’
‘Sure.’ Fish listening to the line go dead, thinking, talking to Vicki wasn’t supposed to make him feel lousy.
He stands in the kitchen looking at the boat in the back yard: if he had spare cash for fuel he could maybe go out on the ocean, catch some fish for supper. If he had money for petrol. Can’t be that difficult, fishing. Being on False Bay would be amazing. Alone, smoke some doob, pull in a couple of snoek. Talk to the seagulls. Toss Mullet’s ashes over the side.
But work is what he wants. Phones a couple of the small firms doing insurance and divorce jobs, missing persons, has to listen to the gripes of hard times.
Investigators working as bouncers.
Investigators moonlighting as waiters.
Investigators doing factory security.
One guy freelancing as a car guard.
Bugger that, thinks Fish, no ways he’d be out there pushing shopping trolleys for the SUV ladies. No ways this side of the ice caps melting.
He boils up another coffee, sits there thinking, maybe he’s gonna have to go back into paid employ. Join one of the security firms. Maybe that’s what it’s coming to. Have to swallow hard, have someone else telling you what to do. Not ideal.
Which is when he gets round to his mother’s request. Three hundred and fifty rand an hour! Extortion. But when there’s nothing else … Fish wondering if he could stretch to maybe a thousand bucks worth. Powers on his laptop, types Prospect Deep into the google bar.
13
He’s in the dock, the prosecutor on his case: ‘Mr Mkezi, would you call your friend, the man who bought you the shoes, a known criminal?’
The judge watches him, the journalists watch him, the public in the gallery wait. Clifford Manuel glances at Jacob Mkezi from the huddle of defence lawyers, nods.
Jacob Mkezi stands straight, his hands crossed at his waist. A man attentive, unhassled.
‘An
‘You’re thirty-three, Bartolomeu, you need to finish your degree. Get a proper job. In business. Play golf.’
‘I’m thinking of it,’ he’d said.
‘Really, of what part?’
‘Of finishing the degree.’
‘I’m supposed to believe that?’
Yeah, he was thinking about it. Thinking that some law knowledge would be an advantage.
Which distracts him, which causes the toast to burn. Fish has to scrape off the singe into the sink. He smears on marge and peanut butter, drizzles syrup over this. Gets a Bialetti coffee pot going on the stove. Sits down at the table to eat. Through the open door he can see the
Maryjane
on her trailer, his longboard leaning against the boat. Maybe if the waves are down this weekend, he and Vicki can power out, put Mullet to rest. If Vicki can spring for the fuel. Bucks being what they are: scarce.
Talking of which.
He crunches down on a couple of slices of toast, finishes his coffee, spends the morning working the phone. Vicki first.
‘You gonna feed me tonight?’ he says for openers.
‘I love you too,’ she says.
‘Brilliant,’ says Fish, ‘you promised. Yes?’
‘Sounds like you’re eating.’
‘Only toast.’
He bites into a crust, spraying crumbs. ‘So what time?’
‘Six thirty. Seven latest. I’ll get Giovannis.’
‘Lots of the fancy stuff, hey. Chilli prawns. Octopus in that vinaigrette. Artichokes. Taramasalata. Calf liver pâté.’
‘That’s what you want?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘That’s what you always have.’
‘That’s why I want it.’
He hears Vicki sigh, smiles to himself. ‘Take the afternoon off?’
‘Some of us have to work.’
Fish lets out a long ‘Aaah, you wouldn’t have anything coming up for me?’
After a beat, Vicki says, ‘Please, Fish …’
Fish going into the gap, ‘It’s cool. Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s only … You know.’
‘I know. Hang in, babes, it’ll come right. Everybody’s scratching.’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘Till later.’
‘Sure.’ Fish listening to the line go dead, thinking, talking to Vicki wasn’t supposed to make him feel lousy.
He stands in the kitchen looking at the boat in the back yard: if he had spare cash for fuel he could maybe go out on the ocean, catch some fish for supper. If he had money for petrol. Can’t be that difficult, fishing. Being on False Bay would be amazing. Alone, smoke some doob, pull in a couple of snoek. Talk to the seagulls. Toss Mullet’s ashes over the side.
But work is what he wants. Phones a couple of the small firms doing insurance and divorce jobs, missing persons, has to listen to the gripes of hard times.
Investigators working as bouncers.
Investigators moonlighting as waiters.
Investigators doing factory security.
One guy freelancing as a car guard.
Bugger that, thinks Fish, no ways he’d be out there pushing shopping trolleys for the SUV ladies. No ways this side of the ice caps melting.
He boils up another coffee, sits there thinking, maybe he’s gonna have to go back into paid employ. Join one of the security firms. Maybe that’s what it’s coming to. Have to swallow hard, have someone else telling you what to do. Not ideal.
Which is when he gets round to his mother’s request. Three hundred and fifty rand an hour! Extortion. But when there’s nothing else … Fish wondering if he could stretch to maybe a thousand bucks worth. Powers on his laptop, types Prospect Deep into the google bar.
13
He’s in the dock, the prosecutor on his case: ‘Mr Mkezi, would you call your friend, the man who bought you the shoes, a known criminal?’
The judge watches him, the journalists watch him, the public in the gallery wait. Clifford Manuel glances at Jacob Mkezi from the huddle of defence lawyers, nods.
Jacob Mkezi stands straight, his hands crossed at his waist. A man attentive, unhassled.
‘An
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