Information about the book
Fish Pescado and Vicki Kahn are back!
Money. Money. Money. Tons of it. In US dollars. And it’s all being funnelled into a government tender snagged by family-owned Amalfi Civils. Which would be great for business if CEO Angela wasn’t fighting with her CFO brother Rej. Where Angela sees corruption, Rej sees cabinet ministers, politicians, officials eager to lend a hand. For a fee. It’s a big pot so he’s happy to oblige. And if needs be he’ll take out his sister to keep the lucre.
There are other players in this game. The CIA for one. The State Security Agency for another. And a black op using lawyer and spy Vicki Kahn as a honeytrap to ensnare Rej’s middleman – the very same middleman that her lover, PI Fish Pescado, is investigating. With these stakes, it’s only time before the killing starts.
EXTRACT
Saturday, 27 August 2016. Here’s this guy in Cape Town at a craft beer fest. Making a long weekend of it. Down from Joburg to talk real ales. Pale ales, ambers, milds, bitters, old ale. Amazing styles, amazing tastes. A meeting of the cognoscenti. In his lingo, he’s having a ball. A complete timeout from a hectic schedule.
Second day. This Saturday, a full and glorious dawning. He’s up early for a walk on the beach.
Only a zephyr off the sea bringing a salt tang to the air. Mist banks in the bay. The light on Muizenberg mountain a golden amber. Colour of an IPA.
Parks his car outside Tiger’s Milk, leaves his shoes in the boot. Sets off barefoot along the cool sand. The song in his heart’s a pure cliché. Soundtrack from his childhood. Then again, it’s that sort of Cat Stevens morning.
Couple of early surfers on the backline. The waves gentle, the tide low. About him seagull squabble. Sandpipers running zigzags. Oystercatchers crying off.
He ambles along the wet sand, away from the mountain. Ahead, the beach goes on and on into haze. Occasionally a glimpse of two walkers a long way off.
Sort of morning makes you realise Cape Town’s paradise. You wonder why you’re still in Joburg’s suburbia. Nice as Saxonwold is. You could be here, doing this, every weekend.
He crosses the vlei outlet. A steady stream into the sea. Minnows quick in the shallows. Along the beach the mist thickens, disperses. Has these pockets of light inside its whiteness. Feels like this is the first morning. In the distance the couple sometimes closer, sometimes further off. Their footprints in the sand.
Oh man, this is a blast. Puts everything in perspective. Brings a clarity to your problems.
He phones his wife, wakes her.
‘It’s half past six, Rick,’ she says, her yawn audible.
Imagines her in their dark bedroom. ‘Just quickly, Ange. Just want to say, you should’ve come with me. This place is true magic. We should get a place down here. Return you to your roots. This would be so good for us.’
‘Being awake this early?’
‘Walking on the beach. It gives you time to think.’
‘You’re supposed to be off the grid.’
‘Sure, sure. I am.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. If you’re saying these things, you’ve been thinking about Rej.’
‘I have. It’s not working, Ange. You know it. I know it. He knows it. He’s disruptive. We’re losing clients. Losing projects.’
‘When you’re home. We’ll talk then, okay. Not now. I’m half asleep. You’re somewhere on a beach. Not now. It can wait.’
‘I’m serious. The guy’s a threat.’
‘The guy’s my brother.’
‘Doesn’t change things. We’re haemorrhaging. He could take us down.’ Notices then figures coming out of the dunes. About two hundred metres ahead.
‘I hear you but I can’t handle this conversation now. We’ll speak later. Sunday, when you’re home.’
Two men running. Not runners. Not joggers. Closing on the couple. Knocking them both flat.
‘Hey! What the hell!’
‘Sorry, you’re saying?’
‘Got to go.’
Disconnects. Pockets his phone. Starts running hard. Sprinting. He’s fit. There’s a gym at the office fully equipped: exercise bikes, treadmills, power cages, rowing machines, weight benches. He puts in an hour a day. Every day.
Peripheral vision, picks up another man to his left, coming on slowly. Focuses on the attack. Registers knives.
The men yelling: ‘Give, give, give. Djy, djy. Jou ma se poes. Djy naais.’
The woman crying.
The man saying. ‘Please. Please. You can have everything we’ve got.’
Their foreign English-English.
He’s closing now. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. Shouts: ‘Leave them, you bastards. Fuck off.’ Runs at the smaller man.
But Rick’s no street fighter. No fighter at all. Doesn’t know the speed of a knifeman. The jive. The inside dart, stab, twist, pull. Doesn’t even feel the knife go in. The small one dancing back, up on his toes.
‘And djy? Who’s djy?’
Stops. The knife a thrust away from his stomach.
‘Leave them. Just leave them, for God’s sake.’ He’s panting from the run¬ning, his adrenaline slowing down the scene. There’s the woman, her clothes ripped. Her husband on his stomach. Face sideways in the sand. The small man in front of him in a half crouch, knife extended. The other one with his foot pressing down the man’s back. This one laughing at him. Pointing at him. The third man approaching from top right. A blur.
Feels then the pain in his stomach. Looks down, a blood patch spreading on his T-shirt. In that distracted moment the knifeman’s at him again. He flails in defence to ward off the strike, the blade slicing into his hand, his arm.
Now he’s standing there immobile. Blood at his stomach. Blood dripping from his fingers.
He can hear the woman wailing for them to stop. To take the phones, the money. He can see the knifeman jigging before him. The laughing one agitated. His gaze at someone approaching.
A voice shouting, ordering off the muggers.
And the muggers backing away. Fleeing.
Hears the woman saying, ‘You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.’
Doesn’t hear the shot.
RIP Richard Khabone Thulo. Aka Rick.
Eighteen months later the murder is unsolved.
The file’s on the floor of an office at Caledon Square police station. One of a pile hip-high stacked in a corner. Fishmoths are going through the paperwork.
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by Mike Nicol
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