The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  Pinchas swivelled his chair to face the desk again, put his cell phone on speaker and dialled.

  ◆◆◆

  After ending the call to Lam, which Pinchas thought had gone reasonably smoothly, and, he had to confess, somewhat perversely enjoyably, he dialled down for Joel.

  Joel Zapruder was one of two bodyguards / personal assistants that Pinchas employed and that lived on the property, the other Gil Friedberger. They pretty much took care of a lot of the grunt work of Pinchas’s business, as well as supervising any kind of maintenance around the house that his wife didn’t take care of—which was most of it. The rest the house staff consisted of three maids and a gardener / handyman—all live in. This all allowed Pinchas to keep to himself and stay inside and out of sight as much as possible.

  Joel entered and approached the Pinchas’s desk. His number one bodyguard was not the type anyone would have really picked out as a tough guy by looking at him. Average size, average height (well, not in the UK or USA, but internationally, Pinchas had investigated this a while back, hoping he might make some grade at least by global standards—Pygmies and all—but his five-foot—and one half inch—had still fallen woefully short), and ordinary looking.

  He was dressed in light beige suit. Pinchas couldn’t remember seeing him in anything other than one of his “smart-casual” suits, even when Pinchas had called on him late in evening, or early mornings, like it was some kind of armour.

  Instead of the fictional spy look, he looked more like a sales rep or Miami Vice reject, Pinchas thought. But although looking harmless, the man had in fact done five years in the French Legion and was, as Pinchas had discovered, pretty much a general all-round bad-ass.

  Joel had started off working security years back at a couple of Pinchas’s events. He’d been a low level bouncer, door guy initially. Despite the man’s martial prowess, which was considerable, Pinchas had soon found him also to be intelligent and cool-headed—good at diffusing tense situations. He’d quickly promoted the Joel to a supervisory position, and soon after to personal bodyguard and driver.

  He stood now before Pinchas, in his usual posture, semi-slouched and hands clasped in front of him, awaiting instructions. (On the odd occasion Pinchas would offer his staff a seat, but rarely—he didn’t like to get to close to his employees, didn’t want to start them in any way thinking they were his buddy.) “You remember Thornapple… Tjaart’s address?” Pinchas asked. Joel had of course taken him to and pick him up from ceremonies.

  Joel nodded.

  “Couple of things. There’s a body there that needs to be taken care of.”

  Joel nodded.

  Pinchas looked down at some notes. “Also there’s a vehicle that needs to be disassembled and removed. Don’t worry about that though. I’ll make the calls on that. More importantly, there’s a kid who’s going to be dropping off some money. Money he stole from Thornapple last night. He’s one of Lam’s guys. I told the fat man I wanted it there between ten and ten past ten. You know? Tea-time? If he’s a minute early or late pick him up and bring him here. He may come armed, he may not come alone, I don’t know, I don’t care whoever shows up, if they late, pick them up and bring ‘em here.”

  Joel nodded.

  “Any questions?”

  “Uh, why morning tea-time?”

  Pinchas glared up at Joel for a moment. “It gives you guys a chance to set up. Now stop asking stupid fucking questions and get over there!”

  Joel nodded.

  “And bring the cash,” Pinchas added. “I’m gonna put it in a safe for that maniac.”

  Joel nodded and turned to leave. He paused on his way out. “Uh, is it okay if I pick up Sunnyboy? I wanna try get him trained up.”

  “Fine, fine,” Pinchas said, distractedly waving a hand.

  Joel nodded again and exited the office.

  Pinchas pulled his chair closer to his desk and flipped open his laptop. Now what else needed his attention today?

  Chapter 30

  “Don!” Lesley roared, after Don had identified himself. “What the fuck are you doing there? Why the fuck’s no-one been answering? Wheunggh…?” The rage seemed to be restricting his ability to make words. “Where fuck is that shitbag?”

  “Uh…”

  “Why haven’t either of you fucks been answering your fucking phones?”

  “They took mine from me,” Don said.

  “What?”

  “Uh… at the…”

  “I doesn’t matter!” Lesley continued. “What the fuck are you doing there?”

  Don rubbed his head. Hadn’t Beppe told Lesley last night? Or had that also been faked? He was really having trouble trying to concentrate. No doubt a result of the pills and lack of sleep. He just needed time to think.

  He noticed now, looking over at the coffee table in front of the couch, a layer of white sludge at the bottom of the glass he’d been drinking from.

  “Don?” Lesley yelled, bringing Don back to the moment.

  “Uh, I got the money! I brought it over last night,” Don said.

  “Yes, yes,” Lesley said. “I knew you’d come through, Dino. You did a great job! I knew you could do it! I knew I was right to put my trust in you. So that’s all good, so we nearly square, there’s just one more thing I need you to do. I need you to take it back.”

  “Uh… Huh?”

  “It’s not your fault, Dino. You fucking did what I asked you. It just turns out… I don’t have time to get into it, you just need to that fucking money back before ten past ten.”

  Don’s mind was spinning, he was trying to process information, the sleeping tabs though making it just about impossible.

  “I just got a call from Tabachnik,” Lesley was continuing. “There are few people I fear in this world, Dino, but… I’m not saying I fear him, but… we have a business arrangement and one needs to honour one’s fucking contracts! Do you know what I’m saying? Somehow he traced this back to me. You didn’t give them your real name or some fucking dumb shit no like that?”

  “Er, no,” Don said, knowing exactly how they had traced him, just thinking now what was the easiest and most expeditious way to leave the city.

  “No,” Lesley said, calming. “I didn’t think so, he’s got resources. It’s my fucking fault. I misread the situation. I thought it was just a bunch of fucking flakes. It doesn’t matter, just get the fucking cash back and then we okay. There is just one condition though—and this is important Dino! It’s got to be dropped off between ten and ten past ten. That’s important! That’s important! That fuck is tryna make me sweat, you know? He’s anal. It doesn’t fucking matter! Just get it there by morning tea-time!”

  “Uh…”

  “Don’t fuck around!” Lesley roared. “Just get it there between ten and ten past!”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “You got it? You sound like you fucking drunk?”

  “No, I uh…”

  “Have you got a watch?”

  “Um…”

  “There’s one in my bedside table,” Lesley said. “Take the Swatch, not the fucking Rolly! Make sure that shit’s set right, then get there early, wait until just after ten then ring the bell. Okay?”

  “Uh…”

  “You listening? Don’t fuck up, Don! This isn’t over yet. Where the fuck is that ballbag Beppe? I’ve been trying his phone and just getting voicemail. You guys are fucking me, Don!”

  “No, uh, he went to get, uh, Rizlas” Don said, vigorously pinching and rubbing the skin at the bridge of his nose.

  “That fuck,” Lesley said. “Okay if you fucking see him tell him to fucking call me. Forget that! Forget about that, just get back up there and get that fucking money back! Between ten and ten past ten! Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t fuck it up! Your safety is guaranteed, so don’t worry about that. It’s armistice as long as you get the cash back and meet those conditions—or next time we meet it’ll be in a warehouse somewhere and if you
not dead by the time Pinchas’s done, I’ll fucking gladly fucking finish the job!”

  “Okay. No problem. No problem.”

  “You did a good job, Dino. I have faith in you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me when it’s done!” Lesley yelled and hung up.

  Don pressed the end call button, sat the handset back in its cradle and then stood for about a minute staring blankly at the phone.

  Chapter 31

  Clovis “Clove” Macdhui had been busy pummelling the hell out of his heavy bag when the call had come through.

  An ex-EFC fighter, mid-twenties, he stood six foot two and decidedly muscular. His bag looked like it had seen better days, the belly of it buckled in and duct-taped in the several place.

  The bag was the last half of Clovis’s morning routine, the same one he did three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. Up at 5 a.m., Clovis would set out for a run and then get back, warmed up, after a brief bodyweight session, ready to work out his seemingly endless aggression on the heavy bag—bare knuckles.

  Clovis had heard the whole bit about how working the heavy bag with unprotected hands caused hairline fractures and all number of long-term injuries, but he’d also heard, from more first-hand sources, how often those who trained with wraps mashed their fucking knuckles when making contact with the bones of the face.

  He’d worry about arthritis or whatever later. Anyway he was sure by the time he was that age they’d have sorted all that out—he could probably just put on a fucking bionic arm. If not, well, he wasn’t much into writing and had less interest in learning to play the guitar.

  On the rare occasion that Clovis was sick, which was hardly ever, he wouldn’t skip a session. ”There lies the thin end of the wedge,” as his trainer used to say. Maybe. Just dial down the intensity. Maybe. And if something called him to be away from the heavy bag, he’d improvise—preferably on some living, breathing alternative.

  As far as Clovis knew, working out, and particularly working out on a heavy bag, was supposed to help relieve feelings of frustration or anger. He had never found that to be the case. Battering up a live human—or animal, in a pinch—seemed to be the only effective method of relieving frustration that he’d established so far. And that was still usually only short-lived.

  He was sure the juice wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t prepared to cut that out. (Despite it being the reason he’d got kicked out of professional fighting. Everyone did it, but he’d got caught. A stupid fucking mistake.) He’d cut back, but he hadn’t cut it out. Testing one’s mettle on the street was far more satisfactory anyway.

  Clovis could on occasion get lost in the bag workout for hours. After a few minutes, he’d find a rhythm, his mind would seem to clear and reach a kind of trance state, not dissimilar to the one he sometimes experienced on E, he thought. Always feeling good, invigorated—though no less aggro—after the workout.

  Today though his flow was interrupted by the phone, pumping a sweet piano house track he’d been getting into.

  Clovis stopped punching.

  He’d only had one call around this time before. His upstairs neighbour. He lived in a block of flats in the part geriatric, part up-and-coming suburb of Killarney.

  The man had somehow got his number, body corporate or whatever, and half way into Clovis’s morning bag routine had called him up to raise hell.

  Clovis had suggested they talk in person. The man on the other side, raging, defiant, had agreed, and had given Clovis his flat number, telling him to come on up, bring it.

  Clovis had stomped up, banged on the door. The complaining neighbour who opened had been in his 40’s or so, of fair size, but out of shape, maybe used to getting his way in restaurants but when faced with Clovis’s blank stare had within short time, withered.

  “Please tell me you have a problem,” Clovis had said.

  “I’m closing the door now,” the man said and that was the last Clovis had heard from him. And that had also been the last noise complaint that Clovis had gotten.

  Those with some ability at reading people, Clovis thought, could just take one look at him and see the reality of the threat in his eyes, his rearing to tear them a new asshole, and decide prudence was the better part of valour.

  Clovis picked up the phone and checked the screen. Lesley.

  Well, he supposed that was okay. Still, it was a bit fucking early.

  He pressed the little green phone icon and answered. “Lez!”

  “No time for fucking pleasantries,” the fat man barked. “I’ve got a job if you interested? Usual rate, but I’ll bump it up a bit ‘cos it’s rush!”

  “Yeh, I suppose,” Clove said.

  “I need you to get on to this now. I need someone I can trust on this. I’m down in City Bowl so need you as my eyes and ears up there.”

  “No worries. I’m pumped.”

  “There’s an employee of mine, works at the bookshop. Dino… Don. Uh, weird little head—”

  “Okay, ja, ja I know who you mean.” Clovis was heading through to his bedroom, pulling out some clean clothes from the cupboard, shorts, T-shirt. Maybe he’d have to get a shower later.

  “I don’t have time to get into all the fucking details. Basically, right now Dino is at my pozzy, and has in his possession about a cool mil in cash. In a white fucking mealie meal sack.”

  “Uh.”

  “Now that needs to get to an address in Brixton between ten and ten-past-ten! That’s important! You got it?”

  Clovis said that he did.

  “Dino said he’s gonna get it there, and maybe he is, and maybe he is… but… I don’t know there’s something fucking fishy going on and I just need some eyes and ears on it. There’s also this fucking eye-tai, Beppe, that’s been looking after shit for me. You know him?”

  “Uh…”

  “I was trying to call him all fucking morning and can’t get hold of him. He’s not answering his phone. I called my house and after it rang for like a fucking hour, fucking Dino picks up. I informed him of the situation and he said all’s good and he’s gonna drop it off… but I don’t know, something’s not fucking sitting … I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling on you. I need you to make sure that scratch gets to where I fucking want it to go!”

  Clovis was busy dressing, shorts and vest, while listening, his Xiaomi held between shoulder and ear.

  “I’ll SMS you the addy,” Lesley continued. “Get to my place first. I spoke to Dino a couple minutes ago. He’s there now. Fuck, I shouldn’t even have told him anything. Called you first. I don’t even fucking know how he’s gonna get back there, the kid rides a fucking bicycle. Just get the fuck over there then give me a call!”

  Clovis listened silently, taking it all in, now padding through to his kitchen to start a shake. “No problem,” Clovis said, gathering ingredients. “Let me get across there, check out the situation.” After a moment’s thought he asked, “How, uh, intact do I need to leave them?”

  “Leave Beppe. The other guy, do what you want, just as long as the money gets delivered.”

  Satisfied, Clovis ended the call. He checked the time on the phone, it was now just past seven-fifteen. Lesley’s place was nearby. It shouldn’t take him long.

  He finished making his morning protein shake just as his phone beeped with the drop off address as promised.

  On the way out Clovis picked up his little holstered .25 Beretta Bobcat off the bedside table, as well as his carry blade, a nasty Ka Bar TDI, both of which he slipped in his shorts pockets.

  The gun was a backup, just in case his fists weren’t enough, although he rarely ever had cause to pull it. Bare hands just being that much more fun to use.

  Downstairs in the parking lot Clovis climbed into his vehicle—a custom lime green Subaru WRX STI. He fired up the 16 valve DOHC, turbocharged, flat four, rumbled out of the covered parking, and set off for Lesley’s.

  Unfortunately, although he was ready in a reasonably quick time, and slipping into a decently
performanced vehicle, there was nothing he could do as he hit rush hour, and after two blocks, he struggled to merge with the considerable morning traffic.

  Chapter 32

  Sitting on the couch, head foggy as all hell, Don did his best to collect his thoughts.

  Okay. So maybe he should’ve just told Lesley the truth. Told him that Beppe had drugged him with his sleeping pill. Made off with the money. But Don had already had it in his head that he was going to go try and find Beppe, and that was what had come out.

  He could, he thought now, just phone Lesley back, although, of course not having his phone, he didn’t have Lesley’s number—or any numbers for that matter.

  Mulling things over though, Don now thought it might be for the best that he hadn’t said anything. Lesley might hold him responsible for messing up. And the way he saw it he still had a good three or so hours to at least try and track the kid down. If he couldn’t, well then he could decide whether or not to tell the fat man—or just get a bus out of the city.

  But the kid couldn’t have been gone long. He had most likely bargained on Don being asleep for longer. If the phone hadn’t woken him Don would no doubt surely still be fast asleep.

  Don checked the Let’s Get Baked clock. Nine minutes past seven. He had maybe fallen asleep some time after six. Beppe was probably just back at his place, recently arrived, now trying to wash the blood off the notes. It was worth a try. Three hours. Just about.

  If he could just get ahold of Beppe’s address, he’d get over there, chat civilly to the guy, get the money back, get it back to House of the Vegetable and the fat bastard need never be the wiser. He’d go back to his old job and work hard and never take drugs again.

  Not entirely sure if this plan was as coherent as he imagined, or if the zopiclone was just rounding off the sharp edges, it was nevertheless the best he could manage.

  Lesley’s circle of reprobates was not that big, Don thought. Surely someone at the shop, or one of Lesley’s dealers would know Beppe, or at least know someone who knew him. He just needed to start making some calls except, of course, no phone—and the shop wouldn’t open for another three hours.