Dead Before Dying

“You’re a funny one, Wachlaff.”

“My father was Polish, okay?”

“Is your mother Afrikaans?”

Silence.

“Will you speak? For the sake of the tape recording.”

“Yes, she was. What has that to do with anything?”

“Profession?”

“Housewife.”

“No, yours.”

“Makeup artist. Freelance.”

“Not very successful?”

“Not my fault. Blame the SABC. The more they dub, the more we die of hunger.”

“So you decided to rob a few banks.”

“Only Premier. The other one was to send him the message.”

“For the record, the accused is referring to Captain Mat Joubert. Why Premier, Wachlaff?”

“They owe me.”

“They owe you?”

“I wouldn't have taken more than forty-five thousand rand. That’s what they owe me.”

“Why?”

“My house.”

“Your house?”

“They approved the loan. No problem, Mr. Milos. We’re happy to assist, Mr. Milos. Just sign here, Mr. Milos, we’ll let you have it at a quarter percent less.”

“And?”

“Then they withdrew the loan. Because their assessor hadn't seen the structural defect until I told them about it.”

“Structural defect?”

“The entire back of the house is fucking slowly sinking into the sand but the contract says the seller is not responsible and I had already signed. ‘We’re sorry, Mr. Milos, but there’s not enough security for the loan. No, it would be overcapitalizing to have the defect repaired, Mr. Milos. We’re transferring the loan to overdraft facilities. Do look at paragraph so-and-so, subparagraph this-and-that, the interest is just slightly higher.’ And then the SAB fucking C downsized and what could I do? Phone Murder and Robbery?”

“Then you began to rob banks?”

“I looked for work.”

“With no success.”

“No, sir, I was snowed under by offers. Twentieth Century Fox, MGM, Warner. They stood in line. But I really don’t want to be a millionaire at thirty-two.”

“You are funny and sarcastic, Wachlaff.”

“You try looking for work with your white skin, pal. ‘What experience do you have, sir? Makeup? We’ll phone you, sir. We’re actually busy with affirmative action right now.’ ”

“Then you started robbing banks.”

“Then I went and took back what they owed me.”

“It’s known as armed robbery, Wachlaff.”

“My name is Janek. It wasn'’t a weapon. It was a toy.”

“Do you admit that you robbed branches of Premier Bank of January 2 and 7 of seven thousand rand and fifteen thousand rand respectively? And that on January 11 you attempted to rob the bank’s branch in Milnerton? And that on January 16 you robbed a BANKSA branch in Somerset West of three thousand rand? Each time by threatening the employees with a firearm?”

“You saw the fucking gun. It’s a toy.”

“Can you prove that the toy pistol is the same one you used during the armed robberies?”

“No. But hell . . .”

“Yes?”

“I didn't want to hurt anyone. I was polite and civilized, up to the moment you started fucking around with the Mauser thing.”

“What Mauser thing, Wachlaff?”

“My fucking name is Janek. You know very well which Mauser thing I’m talking about. The guy who’s wiping out the whole Peninsula.”

“What do you know about the Mauser thing?”

“What I and the rest of South Africa read in the newspapers.”

“Where do you keep your Mauser?”

“Listen, I’m prepared to cooperate but I’m not prepared to listen to shit.”

“You started the Mauser thing when you mentioned it in Milnerton. I quote from the statement of Miss Rosa Wassermann. ‘And then he said: Seems like I should’ve brought my Mauser.’ ”

“The fat bitch wouldn't cooperate. I wanted to give her a fright.”

“There are twelve detectives busy searching your house at this moment. If they find the Mauser . . .”

“They won’t find anything.”

“Why, Wachlaff? Have you hidden it somewhere else?”

“I don’t have a fucking Mauser. How many times must I repeat it? I wouldn't even know how to get hold of one. I bought a toy gun that looks like the real thing and I never took it out of my pocket because I was afraid people would see that it was a toy. Okay, okay, I admit I stole the money. But it wasn'’t robbery. And it wasn'’t theft. It was my money that I took back. I would’ve returned BANKSA’s money but I had to get it from Premier first. Okay? You can’t force me to admit something I didn't do.”

“Where’s the money, Wachlaff?”

“Janek.”

“Where’s the money, Janek?”

“It’s my money.”

“Where is it?”

“Fuck you all. I’m going to jail in any case and when I get out Premier is still going to screw me for the money. Plus fucking interest. So what’s the use?”

“The judge will regard it in a very positive light if you return the money, Janek.”

“It’s my money.”

“Where is your money, Janek?”

(Silence)

“Janek?”

“In the ceiling. Under the hot water tank.”

* * *

They had a conference in de Wit’s office, the commanding officer now a member of the team, a frail camaraderie created by the Brigadier’s tirade.

Joubert’s mouth was dry and tasted of old cigarettes. In the interrogation room he had discarded his resolution of three a day— simply to get rid of the intense hunger and the headache that throbbed behind his temples. He had kept up with Griessel, one cigarette after the other, and he wanted another one now but de Wit’s sign stopped him. I PREFER NOT TO SMOKE.

They went through the dossiers line by line, bit by bit, studied the shapes of the puzzle, the holes bigger than the small pieces that fitted. They started from the beginning, built theories that others demolished with one question, shuffled again, built, broke down, until they realized the core simply wasn'’t there, the angles and corners still made no sense.

At eleven-fifteen they decided to wait for Basie Louw to return after he had traced Ingrid Johanna Coetzee.

Perhaps the new day would bring a new perspective.

Joubert drove home, tired in body and soul, hungry, thirsty. The events of the day ran through his head.

A car was parked at his gate.

He stopped in front of the garage, got out, and walked to the car. A BMW, he saw by the light of the streetlamp.

A movement on his veranda.

His hand reached for his service pistol, instinct took over. The Z88 was in his hand, adrenaline pumped, the tiredness was gone, the mind clear.