by Paul Slatter
******
Rann Singh sat on the deck with his feet up and watched as the lawyer and estate agent and the South African stood by his two-seater plane and argued about commission, the bodyguard already on board waiting with his feet hanging out the small door, and Rann Singh sitting there proud, knowing he’d fulfilled his dreams and bought the ranch back—he’d done it, the ranch, the furniture, the village and all the land that came with it that ran for miles, stopping only at the road where the forest rested at the foot of the mountains.
Rann Singh’s Sikh god Guru Nanak was looking out for him.
Malcolm Blou had been a prick. He’d tried to rip him off as he was now doing with the other guys, but he’d appreciated cash, the $200,001 Canadian in cash hidden away wrapped in the folds of a turban Rann Singh no longer needed to wear.
He had his grandfather’s home now and the sawed-off shotgun the South African had given to him as a parting gift. Placing it by the door and mumbling to Joseph said, “Here give this to the Choot, tell him he’d better keep it close—he’s going to need it.”
Rann could see the relief in the man’s eyes as he headed towards his plane, making his exit as quickly as possible with the other two following. The guy was getting the hell out. He looked at Joseph standing there now wearing an off-white coat.
“What’s he running from?”
“The men come from the forest in the night-time, Bwana, and come to his room and tell him they kill him, Bwana, if he does not give money—it is nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes, Bwana.”
“Like the Mau Mau?”
“No Bwana, before when the Mau Mau come here they kill—not talk about kill. They kill the family before your grandfather came, this is why he buy the ranch cheap.”
Rann Singh let out a deep breath, the discovery of an unexpected truth making him laugh a little inside. His grandfather never mentioning the blood of the previous owners soaked in and staining the wooden flooring forever. But that was history, long before he was born, and every building holds a secret. He said, “Tell me more about these men.”
“These men come in the night and wake him, stand round his bed with the pangar and tell him give them money. He give them money and next month they come back and ask him again. He’d say no and they slash him across his chest.”
“Really?”
“Yes Bwana, they live in the forest, like the Mau Mau—but not the Mau Mau.”
Then Rann Singh said, “Well you can tell these men who live in the forest that my doors are open and if they step inside, they’ll be paying me not to kill them. And I ain’t fucking kidding.”
Then he said, “And what did he say to you just before, I got the bit about the gun but missed the other.
“He called you a Choot, Bwana, I hear this—same as women’s vagina, Bwana.”
Rann knew what a Choot was, didn’t need the explanation. He was a Punjabi Indian after all. Standing there, he looked to the man climbing into the cab of the airplane and watched the other two walk away towards their cars all red in the face from arguing as the single engine aircraft started and began to immediately taxi along the garden, speed up, and lift off in a flash, disappearing into the sky. Without the faintest bit of a goodbye, it was gone.
Turning to Joseph as he sat back down, Rann said, “Well he’s lucky he had that plane to escape in after calling me a cunt.”
Seconds later, the agent and the lawyer were back on the deck, the noise of the Cessna faint in the distance, each holding their briefcases full of their cut tight to their thighs. With the smile of a man who’d just had a decent payout, the agent said, “Well he’s always been a tricky one has Mr. Blou, but that’s sorted now though then, isn’t it. The place, my good man, is all yours.”
Rann stood and smiled, it was, it was all his. He said, “I thought the ranch came with a zebra?”
Joseph standing there proud in place answered for them.
“Zebra died sir.”
“You promised a zebra.” And still smiling, the lawyer held out his hand in the sense that the deal was done regardless of the lack of any black and white animals. And as he shook Rann’s hand he winked, and with a grin said again, “Zebra died, sir.”
Turning, he walked to the car followed by the estate agent and opening the door called out, swatting a fly from his face as he spoke, “It’s what happens here, things get eaten old chap!”
And with that, they were gone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was just after two thirty in the afternoon when Archall Diamond dropped the Mercedes off at the wreckers and asked the owner, who’s name wasn’t Joe, standing there with his unshaven face and greasy white muscle shirt, if he’d be able to lock the wheels to the ground and suck out the dent in the roof with the industrial electromagnet he had on his crane without damaging the paint.
The guy, who hadn’t made it out of high school but was still rich, said, “Yeah no problem we can try—one hundred cash.”
Archall, putting his hand in his pocket, gave him two for good measure. The man waved to his brother in the crane to swing the magnet above the Mercedes. Archall watched it come, asking if he should take his computer out of the trunk in case the magnet destroyed the hard drive and wondering how they were going to hold the wheels to the ground, and then watching as the magnet came down, landing hard on top of the car, carried it off through the air, and dropped it in the crusher in one smooth motion. The guy in his shirt waved his arms, running and shouting as Archall stood there with his mouth open in disbelief, listening as the crusher got to work.
That’s when he got the call from Dennis that his front tooth was ready and there was no hurry, but he could fit him in this afternoon if he was free. Archall Diamond was happy and upset at the same time—he was going to see his girl, but he’d have to use the truck he used to deliver dope to the boonies—and to drop rivals-in-love in the river so they could be carried on the riptide out into the ocean to drown. Trying to sound cool, he said, “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with the car at the moment, but I think I can make it.”
The problem being that all the money he had left in the world, some quarter of a million dollars after Rann Singh had fleeced him, was sitting in the back of his Mercedes, which had just dropped out the back of the crusher in the shape of a four-foot cube.
******
“Which bit do you think is the back?” Archall Diamond asked the guy in the greasy muscle shirt and a black eye as he lowered the now cubed Mercedes off the jib of his tow truck into Archall’s two car garage. Archall stared at his ride, thinking he could make out the shape of his low profiles as he watched it land, and heard the guy say, “Why you got something in it you need?”
Thinking the guy was a moron, Archall said, “Yeah I got my sandwiches in the trunk and I’m hungry.”
Then he told the guy to fuck off and got to work with the industrial metal grinder the man had given him, sending sparks across the ground everywhere, cutting out six inch chunks, working out in fine detail for the better part of an hour how he was going to float the stupid fuck in the crane who destroyed his ride until he found the bag.
Three hours later, he was there standing outside Dennis’s basement suite all cleaned up with his hair combed back and covered in coconut oil. As the door opened he said, “I left the Mercedes up the road, you know, cause I know your neighbors got feelings.”
“You got it fixed then?” Dennis asked as he let him in.
“Kind of,” Archall said as he looked around the place for his new love, smiling as he saw her sitting there barefoot on the sofa with a blanket over her lap and the bottom of her long skinny legs showing—looking at him like they had a connection. Dennis was saying that his tooth was looking fantastic and, not hearing, Archall just said, “Yeah.”
He lay on the recliner chair, the light in his face, Alla’s feet visible in the corner of his eye through the crack in the door. I could float the fucker, he thought, as he felt the small p
ipe sucking away the spit and blood, smelling the latex gloves Dennis was wearing as he rooted around in Archall’s mouth, trying to make him look cool again whilst he fucked around with his shiny tools.
He’d do it, he thought, let him finish, make sure he was looking good with his diamond back in, pick his moment, and float the fucker. Then he’d come back sparkling to get his wisdom teeth done all innocent like and let his girl cry on his shoulder about how the dentist with the bad breath hadn’t come home. Then he’d say, ‘Come with me, I’ll look after you—live at my palace in Surrey and we can work on how we gonna find you the best back surgeon in the world, so as we can get you fixed up again and go to the hockey game.’
Two hours later, he was done, sitting there in the recliner smiling with his eyes at the man he was planning to drown and at the same time staring at his diamond studded front tooth planted firm and secure in his gum.
Fuck, he thought, it looked perfect—better than before. He said, “It looks like a million dollars.”
Dennis smiled, knowing he’d done good work, looking at the man’s gum line, seeing it had only slightly receded despite the trauma. He said, “Like I said, it’s not the glossy surgery that works on your teeth. It’s the guy holding the tools.”
Yeah whatever, Archall thought, you’ll be feeling fishes’ teeth soon enough, as he held out his hand and shook Dennis’ then turned, moving to get a better look at Alla’s legs through the door. He said, lying, “I’m feeling a little faint. Do you mind if I sit in the living room for a moment whilst I come round? Then I’ll sort out your fee.”
He sat down opposite Alla on a small wicker chair and stared at her eyes, my God she was beautiful—her long wavy hair, her shoulders, her beautiful thick and full lips. She’d look good in his car—if he had one, he thought. Then she spoke to him, saying, “Your tooth looks good. I like that diamond—it looks expensive.”
It should, it was. It had cost him what he’d earned for two trips to Alberta in his pickup loaded with dope, the same as his Mercedes that was now sitting shaped like a cube in his garage. He said, “Yeah it cost a bit. But you got to look good, haven’t you.”
Alla smiled, pulling up her blanket to show off her legs which she wished she could move. This guy sitting there now, this wannabe gangster who couldn’t take his eyes off her and was about to come on to her. She said, her voice almost in a whisper, “It suits you, you are very handsome.” Archall Diamond heard her words and got a woody—even though he’d forgotten to take a pill like he’d wanted to. Then she said, “Maybe when I’m better, we can go out, like you said?”
Fuck me, Archall thought, his heart racing now. He wasn’t wrong, he’d felt it, felt the connection between them, knew it right from the start when he’d flirted with her and told her about this trick he could do with the cocoa pops. She wanted to see him do it, just as much as he wanted to show her how he could also catch two. Then before he could speak, he heard her say in the softest of whispers, her eyes looking to the floor, “Once I have my operation that is.”
Archall nodded. He got it, she was saying she was his once she was better. Then, looking back up at him, she said, “You’ll come back to get your wisdom teeth done won’t you, like you said?”
Maybe I’ll bash the dentist over the head and float the fucker now, Archall thought, be done with it and save the toothache. It was a full moon right now and there was a high tide going out every seven hours.
He said, “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll do that. It’s important we see each other, right?”
And it was important, important at least to him.
******
Sebastian sat down on the large deck of his penthouse suite with a nice piece of cake and a cup of tea, reading the latest version of the movie Patrick had somehow convinced him to fund.
What on earth the man thought he was doing he didn’t know and chances are he hadn’t even read it himself, the whole thing being so absurd. A lesbian hippy finds a time machine and goes off into the future in search of an advanced sex change so good that she could father a child?
It could work, he thought—stranger things had happened. There was a long way to go still and if he was lucky, it would fizzle out as these things did sometimes. Patrick was good, though, he thought. Getting himself written in as the good guy for purposes of self-promotion so as he could hit the talk shows and everyone in Hollywood would know what he looked like. He was clever, he’d give him that.
Mazzi, though, was another issue, meeting this guy like he had—this clone. Coming into work late all black under the eyes, and his work suffering in the process.
He plopped the script down on the table and took a sip of his tea from a cup with the most delicate of handles from a set he’d found and picked up at a small market in Beijing.
He had an idea though for Adalia Seychan and it had only come to him after he’d taken his first bite of cake a few minutes prior. She was still gorgeous, after all; she still had that classic style that was almost gone and forgotten, as were so many antiquities these days. Not that she was old, because she wasn’t, not by any means. But she had classic style and that’s what he would use and tap into to sell business class seats on any airline who cared to listen and wanted to be stylish again. Just like in the old days when the world of travel was still a mystery, when propeller planes roared off into the sunset landing in a far-off land where the air was hot when the doors opened and you smelled the burned aviation fuel in your nostrils before the aromas of spice and flora floated in on the night air.
He’d send her around the world with Mazzi photographing her using sepia filters at sunset and dawn; traveling, as they once had with small umbrellas and white flowing gowns to keep out the heat, he would make her look glamourous and exotic. He would use her timeless beauty and capture her essence, and let the spirit of the far-off lands captivate her audience. The two of them would make it exotic to fly again—not like it had become these days in that bargain basement way; rather, it would be like how it was when journey was more luxurious than the trip itself, with incredible food served to you on fine china plates while you relaxed in chairs that were so soft you’d not want to get up. And Adalia Seychan would be the flagship lady, leading the way as she crossed mysterious lands in comfort and style.
He’d talk to her once Patrick had talked her into coming for some test shoots with Dan—have her looking and feeling sexy with a young man, he thought, pitch it to her then out of the blue in a way that she knew she couldn’t refuse should someone else get the gig and steal the thunder that could have been hers. Then he’d draw up a promo on spec and let the airlines and ad agencies come running. And they would, for what he’d offer would be ‘Timeless’.
******
Mazzi Hegan opened his second bottle of tequila of the night, stood on his coffee table, and, using the small little funnel he’d squeezed into the top, poured it all over his chest so as the guy that Einer had picked up at the bar—one inch taller than the classification of a midget and wearing leather chaps and a waist coat—could lick it off.
All three of them there in Mazzi’s penthouse suite making a mess and getting hard and happy popping the pills Einer had scored for free from the East Indian guy he met at the beach on the night of the fireworks.
There was no doubt about it, Mazzi was a wreck and loving every minute of it. He called out, “Spank that midget’s ass, spank his ass cowboy.” And whooped and hollered as he watched Einer do just that.
And that’s when the police came politely knocking at the door asking them to keep it down as it was ten in the evening and there were people who wanted to go to sleep. And Mazzi told them what he thought, standing up on the coffee table, “Well - tell - them - to - go - get - a - fucking - life!” And jumping down, he moved his hand across the front of his Bang and Olufsen stereo and turned the music up. At midnight, they called again, and then again at three a.m. Right in the middle of making love to Dan’s mother, Charles Chuck Chendrill got a call to meet Samuel G
adot, Sebastian’s lawyer, who was at the police station so he could bail Mazzi Hegan out. And when he got there, the first thing Gadot said to him was, “We need to tread carefully. Hegan’s told one of the cops who booked him to suck his cock.”
“Told him or asked him?” Chendrill replied. There was a difference.
“Good point,” Samuel Gadot said, as they saw Mazzi coming through the door, looking worse for wear in just a pair of skin tight trousers and no shoes. Chendrill asked, “What about the other guy? And the midget Sebastian was telling me about?”
Gadot said, “Only Mazzi was arrested.”
And he heard Mazzi Hegan say, “Yeah, I’m the only one there who was hot for a cop.”
They drove back in silence, rain on the windshield. Hegan in the back like a pop star who’s gone and embarrassed himself again. Chendrill thinking about how Sebastian had asked him ever so nicely if he could let Mazzi know his antics weren’t reflecting well on the firm. It was above his pay scale, he’d said— he wasn’t in human resources. And that’s when he heard what he thought was a quiver in Sebastian’s voice as he said, “But maybe he’ll listen to you Chuck, he’s not listening to me,” and he could tell Sebastian was really getting worried.
So he said, “Mazzi, you know this doesn’t look good on Sebastian or the firm.”
Without even looking up, Mazzi snapped back, “Yeah and I’m part of the ‘firm’ and you’re hired to drive, so fuck off.”
And that’s when Chendrill pulled up at the side of the road, got out of the car, opened the door, and, with his hands clasped firmly under Mazzi’s sweaty armpits, dragged him out onto the pavement and left him lying there.
Chendrill drove back through the city and wondered if this time the incident would cost him more than a trip to the department store to get a new plate. He looked around as he stopped at a light, wondering what Hegan had done with himself. Then he pulled away. If the guy was big enough to tell him to fuck off, he was big enough to deal with what came after, even if it was raining; and if it cost him the contract, so be it. At least he could look himself in the mirror. The guy was being an idiot, getting himself arrested, getting everyone out of bed, and then telling the guy who was taking him back home—to fall asleep long before Chendrill himself would—to fuck off. Yeah, he wasn’t wrong, not at all.
