The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  Don rubbed his face, attempting to clear his head.

  He turned the problem over. His best bet was Ricky.

  Ricky de la Roche, the trans-species hermit that somehow seemed to be friends with everyone, despite only y ever seeming to leave his house to buy drugs. He was the most likely chance for getting hold of Beppe and, luckily, also one of the two people in Lesley’s circle of reprobates that Don had the home address of (Lesley being the other one).

  Another plus was that there was a good chance that Ricky was at home now (Don briefly recalled how he had been certain that Lesley was going to be in but pushed away the memory)—probably just getting ready for bed.

  A bit of a problem though was that Ricky lived far. Too far to walk and maybe a good half hour by car. It had been good at the time when Ricky moved, helping Don in a way to cut ties with bad seed, but not now helping his situation.

  He tried to recall Ricky’s number, attempting to visualise his cell phone screen, mentally scrolling through his list of contacts. Don wasn’t sure he would have been normally able to recall it and foggy head and all, it was hopeless.

  Don’s awareness fixed on a mental image of the, no doubt, collectible vehicle in the garage. Normally the idea would be unthinkable. But desperate times…

  He stood and walked over to the entrance hall. There was a dresser by the front door whose drawer Don now rifled through searching for keys. There were several bunches of car keys, but none looking like a vintage Aston Martin key. Don closed the drawer and headed back upstairs.

  In the master bedroom he tried the most used looking bedside table, opened the top of its two drawers and was heartened after scrabbling through a bunch of junk, to find a metal keyring cast into the shape of the distinctive Aston Martin winged logo.

  No remote though. He checked the second drawer. Perhaps in the car.

  Looking at the two watches in the drawer, Don remembered Lesley’s instruction, took out the chunky Swatch and slipped it on to his wrist.

  Don then stood and again had to steady himself as his head swam.

  He still felt horrendous and maybe getting worse. He stuffed the key in his pocket and stumbled through to the master en-suite.

  He was still awake, but for how long? He needed to stay sharp and focused. It would not do to get into a bumper bashing on the way there.

  Don knelt and opened the cabinet under the basin. Had L Lam ever been prescribed Ritalin or generic? Even a bottle of Bioplus might help. Don didn’t think coffee was going to cut it and he didn’t want to waste the time making it.

  In the cabinet were a several clear plastic boxes each holding various potions and remedies which Don started rifling through. He located numerous downers, Xanor, codeine, more sleeping tablets. Lesley appeared to be more in need of downers than stimulation. In the last container he searched, Don found a heat-sealed packet of thirty speckled brownish tablets. He examined the pills. Each had a relief of the letter “B” stamped into them. Don hadn’t had much experience with the stuff but was fairly sure what he had in his grubby mitt was a bag of ecstasy. It wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, in his half asleep and anxious state, who knew what the stuff would do? But he thought he’d hang on to them nevertheless, as a last resort. If he didn’t need them, he would simply return the bag untampered with when all this was over and sorted out. Don stuffed the pills into his pocket.

  Returning downstairs Don decided anyway with the coffee thing, but forewent the boiling of water, instead just hastily spooning a large quantity of coffee grounds into his mouth and washing it down with lukewarm tap water.

  He decided it had probably not been the best idea when about half a minute later it all came back up again in a watery brown stream that he channelled into the sink.

  Heading back down the corridor, passing the guest bedroom door, Don stopped, turned and went back into Beppe’s room. He walked over to the where the Street Sweeper was leant against the corner and after a moment debating, picked up the gun and headed out toward the garage (briefly stopping to check the Swatch against the Let’s Get Baked clock—it was close enough).

  In the garage, Don tried a key in the Aston boot. It turned, opened. He tossed in the shotgun, then went over to the driver door, unlocked it, climbed in and began searching for a remote.

  He checked the cubby and the various storage compartments, but without luck. If there were only two remotes, Don thought, maybe Lesley had one, Beppe had the other?

  Damn it. Don felt himself getting frustrated, just when he needed to get stuff going, every minute potentially counting against him and suddenly it was like he’d been wading through sludge. He sat back in the driver seat and took a deep breath. He needed to take a minute, think.

  There was common manual override on all garage doors. He could at least use that to get the garage open.

  Don got out of the car, went over and pulled the little rope to disengage the motor and then slid the door up.

  Now the gate. There should also be some manual switch the motor housing, he thought, but already from where he was he could see access to that was sealed with a little padlock. Common sense of course, as otherwise a pilfering hand could just reach in, disengage the motor and open the gate.

  He could go back into the house and start fumbling through the bunches of keys in the hallway, but each second counted.

  In the garage he quickly located a large toolbox, rummaged through and in short time found a sturdy hammer. Taking this down to the padlock on the gate motor, with one thoroughly committed whack it split in two. Don disengaged the gate motor and opened the gate.

  He then jogged back up to the Aston and climbed in. The engine made a few nervous tries but finally, with addition of the choke, fired up.

  It purred happily as Don popped the machine into gear and reversed down out the gate.

  Leaving the car running, Don ran up, rolled down the garage and closed the gate, it only took a moment and with burglaries as common as they were, he thought it would not be good if all went well only for him to get back and find the fat guy’s place denuded.

  Jumping back into the Aston, Don threw it into first and took off down the street.

  Initially he took it slowly, but after only a couple of blocks, he got a feel of the vehicle and put his foot down to burn rubber.

  This welcome feeling of finally making good progress was short lived. Only a couple kilometres from where he’d set off, trying to merge with the main road that would take him most of the way to Ricky’s, the traffic ground to a crunching halt.

  Don had, of course (just like Clovis), hit the rush hour and in front, as far as he could see, rows of cars, bumper to bumper, snaked off into the distance ahead.

  Chapter 33

  Joel Zapruder, leaving Pinchas’s office, headed over to rouse Friedberger.

  He found the man in his flatlet above the garage still fast asleep in bed. Signs of heavy drinking and drug use were scattered around the apartment.

  Joel shook the bed with his boot. “Isn’t there some work you supposed to be doing?”

  “I’m off today,” Friedberger said, stirring from sleep.

  “Not anymore,” Joel said. “Get dressed, we got something to take care of.

  “Yeah, nah.” Friedberger rolled over on his other side.

  “Should be done by noon, then you can get back to your snooze. Now wake the fuck up!” Joel screamed the last in the man’s ear.

  “Shit,” Friedberger said, but made no further protest. Grudgingly he pushed to his feet and moved through to his bathroom.

  Friedberger had moved in recently and Joel still wasn’t keen on the appointment. He knew Friedberger was Pinchas’s relative, a second nephew once removed, or something. Pinchas presumably felt some familial obligation, but Joel was still puzzled by the choice in giving the guy such a top job. He’d known Pinchas to be usually very smart at reading people, so why hadn’t he been able to pick up that this guy was a loser?

  “Let’s go!” Joel c
alled through to the bedroom, checking his Tag Heuer, trying to hurry Friedberger along. They had time, but he wanted to get the address early to feel out the situation and get set up.

  Friedberger came back through into the living area dressed in jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt with a map of Africa on it that barely covered his appendix holstered weapon. It was a Vektor CP1, which Joel considered to be the worst kind of crap. It looked cool, but even so the goddamn thing had been recalled for a fucking drop safety issue! Joel had brought the issue up, but Friedberger had simply shrugged and said he wasn’t gonna drop it.

  The gun was also cheap—Joel reckoned his own carry weapon, a Wilson Combat EDC X-9, although granted on the top end of the market, was still surely over twenty times the price. Joel did not believe in skimping when it came to a sidearm. The X-9 was just hands down one of the best carry pistols money could buy. A 1911 hybrid, it had all the features that had made the 1911 such a classic, and then was also double-stacked and chambered in 9mm which was what Joel had been trained the most on.

  Friedberger was a good few inches taller than Joel but pretty skinny and pigeon-toed. He didn’t carry himself like a warrior, Joel thought. He lacked poise and if it came to it, Joel didn’t think he’d have too much trouble taking him down. Sure, maybe he was tougher than the average Joe on the street but in the realm of professionals, Joel thought the dude wouldn’t cut it. All that said, in Joel’s experience he still found it prudent never to underestimate an opponent—or ally.

  As they headed down to the garage, Joel tried to fill Friedberger in on the plan. Friedberger nodded in all the right places, but Joel still got the feeling the guy wasn’t listening.

  Pinchas’s garage was home to four vehicles—Pinchas’s wife’s BMW, a vintage MG, Pinchas’s adapted Volvo and the car Joel and Friedberger shared (although Joel still felt more of a sense of proprietorship over it, him having been using it a lot longer), a purple Jeep Grand Cherokee. It had come with the job, an older model, but Joel found it still served his needs fine.

  They climbed in and Joel fired the SUV up. He backed out the garage, turned the vehicle around in the wide driveway and headed down out through the big motorised gate.

  A couple of blocks down Joel said, “We need to pick up Sunnyboy.”

  “Aw man.”

  Joel wasn’t that crazy about Sunnyboy these days either, but he felt he owed the guy. They’d both served the Legion together in the late nineties. both making it through the brutal training and selection process together and then both being deployed in the shitstorm that was the Ivory Coast in the early 2000’s.

  No matter what, the intensity of that time had created a bond that seemed to transcend the return to South Africa and the subsequent grind and bullshit of everyday life—even if he didn’t much like the guy.

  When Joel arrived at SB’s place—he was crashing at a rundown place in Linden—the man was ready, sitting on the pavement, dressed in camo cargo pants and a wrinkled khaki T-shirt, a huge kitbag on the pavement next to him.

  He was a big guy, but his once muscular physique now turning to fat. His face was covered in a week’s raggedy growth and his wispy, thinning hair looked both in need of a wash and cut.

  Joel sighed as he pulled the Jeep up to the pavement. Sunnyboy hadn’t really seemed to handle the switch to back to everyday life, he thought (although it was possible he’d never been that socially adept to begin with).

  Joel had done his five years and got out. He felt he’d got what he was looking for and then was done, returning home to continue with various types of security work, which was now for him, by comparison, a walk in the park.

  Sunnyboy had stayed on for about another five years and then, from what Joel had been able to ascertain, had bummed around France for a while, mostly living off benefits.

  Joel had bumped into the guy about five months back on 7th. The two had a drink to catch up. It had seemed to Joel like SB was suffering from PTSD. An unprofessional diagnosis, of course, but the guy was clearly down and out, and Joel had felt there was no question over trying to help him out.

  Sunnyboy didn’t need any kind of weapons or combat training but Joel was hoping to get the guy savvier in using his abilities in an urban (or suburban) environment.

  He needed to learn to keeping actions subtle, low key, use diplomacy, stay under the radar and deal with situations with finesse. He wasn’t sure if this could be achieved with the man, but he was going to at least try.

  Sunnyboy threw his kitbag on to the back seat, the contents clunking heavily, and climbed in.

  Joel took off again and the three travelled in silence for a few minutes before Friedberger turned back to Sunnyboy and asked, “So what’s in the bag?”

  “Gats,” Sunnyboy said.

  “Of course,” Friedberger said, returning his gaze to the road ahead.

  The Jeep pushed on.

  It was just after eight when they pulled up outside the House of the Vegetable.

  Joel climbed out, buzzed the intercom, announced himself and the old gate clattered open.

  Chapter 34

  In the sea of cars, the Aston Martin inched forward. Although it was slow, Don was at least glad to be moving.

  He was busy trying, with his still zopimed-addled head, to calculate less congested alternative routes. Perhaps some years ago, he thought, he might have been able to work out a quicker back way, but recently, at least to Don, it seemed as if suburbs were just becoming increasingly “gated,” and now just diverging from any of the major thoroughfares one would in no time run up against a green palisade.

  For the short time Don had had the bike, he’d had at least been able to zip through traffic and jump robots. Not entirely legal, but on a bicycle one was seemingly given a little more leeway for that sort of thing.

  He’d only been to Ricky’s new place once on the bike. It was just a bit too far to cycle.

  Now back on four wheels, there was nothing to do but wait.

  Staring out at the mass of cars ahead, Don sank back against the leather seat. One can only do as much as one can do, he thought. Trying to keep himself awake, there being no radio in the car, he began futzing with some of the knobs and dials on the dashboard, which caused him now for the first time take in the petrol gauge.

  The little white needle was hovering well below the E.

  Ah, Of course! Of course! Don thought, hammering the steering wheel (although not too hard) with the meat of his fist.

  Keep it together. Keep moving and adapt.

  Maybe the Aston drove forever on empty and Lesley didn’t worry about it? How accurate was the display? Was it even working? He didn’t know the car. Don had to confess he was never the best himself at keeping the tank filled and had run out of gas more than a couple of times in his Citi Golf. He used to joke (without any laughs unfortunately) that petrol increases never affected him because he only ever put in a fifty Rand.

  Don tried to think where the next petrol station was, remembered there should be one coming up not too far on the opposite side of the road. Okay, that was fine, that was good—but then of course he had no money.

  Still inching forward in the traffic, Don started searching the various compartments. He opened up the cubby, but found little more than a car manual, a lighter and two corroded copper coins.

  What did he have of value? The Sweeper? Lesley’s watch? Or…? He thought he’d have to make it work.

  The cars inched forward and slowly at last on the right, the blue and white Engen sign crept into view.

  Don willed the traffic forward. Surely this bumper to bumper stuff was just burning up his gas at a greater rate. He could picture the last dregs of rust-silted fuel now bleeding out into the carburettor. He really did not need to get stuck.

  Across the road, Don now saw an empty yellow-lined, emergency lane starting up and debated whether to just cut across and take it—just endure the wrath of the other motorists—when he saw a couple of minibus taxis beat him to the punch.
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br />   Desperate times Don thought again and pushing across in front of the oncoming traffic, followed the taxis on into the empty lane.

  Horns blared indignantly from the jammed-up traffic as the taxis and vintage Aston sped by. Don stared straight out the front window, doing his best to avoid the brunt of any angry mouthed words or hand gestures. Checking his review though, he saw a whole bunch of other cars had also decided ‘screw it’ and had dropped in to follow.

  Reaching the petrol station in good time, he turned in and pulled up to one of the pumps.

  A wizened petrol attendant approached. “Where’d you get this,” the man said patting the roof of the Aston.

  “Uh, no,” Don said. He shook his head and pointed over to a young pump attendant with a bunch of peroxide blonde at his fringe, slouched on a bench next to the cashier booth. “I want to talk to him,” he told the older man.

  The old attendant looked at Don suspiciously for a moment, before heading off to call the young attendant.

  After a lengthy exchange between the two, all the while the young attendant was looking over at Don and shaking his head, but finally gave in and headed over to the Aston. The old guy loped off to attend to another car.

  The peroxided attendant approached the driver window. Skinny, lean, unsmiling. “Ola,” he said.

  Don leaned on the window jamb with his elbow, hanging slightly out the car. Trying awkwardly to get as close he could in an attempt to create an air of confidentiality. “I got a… bit of a problem. Maybe you can help?”

  The peroxided attendant looked nervous. Scratched his chin.

  “I’ve run out of petrol,” Don said.

  “You’ve run out?” the attendant said.

  “I’m nearly out,” Don said. “I’ll run out down the road, but now I left my wallet and phone at home. I can’t call anyone. I need to make a plan. I think you can help.”