by Frank Lamour
The young attendant looked at him dubiously.
“Maybe we can make an exchange?” Don asked. He opened his hand just enough to reveal the baggy of ecstasy tablets, trying to keep them low enough though so no one else at the garage could see.
The young attendant agitatedly glanced around, Don thought he looked angry for a second but then seemed to soften up and leaned forward, listening.
“I’ll give you these if you put in, I don’t know… four hundred?” Don said. “Pay out of your own money. Take these, sell them whatever.”
“What is it?” the young attendant asked.
“E, uh, ecstasy,” Don said. “You can get like two hundred for each one.”
The attendant cast his eyes about the forecourt nervously. He seemed to be considering the proposition. “I’ll give you one hundred. That’s all I got,” he said.
Don was sure there was a couple thousand street value in the bag but was not going to quibble. One hundred would be enough to get him around. Maybe Ricky could loan him some more.
“Okay.” Don handed the baggy to the attendant who swiftly pocketed it and then taking the keys, went over to plug the fuel in. The amount of time it took to put in the one-hundred bucks seemed woefully short. He hoped the 10 litre, or whatever, engine wasn’t going to just drink it down in minutes.
The young attendant slapped the roof of the car when he was done, and Don fired up the engine again. Don wondered now if he should have tried instead to find somewhere else to sell the pills. What if Ricky wasn’t in? Well, at least he was still on the road and still in the game.
He checked Lesley’s Swatch. He’d been driving now for almost an hour. He’d really have to get move on.
As he was about to pull off the young attendant slapped the car again and called to him. “Hey. Bring me some more!”
Don smiled and nodded as he pulled off. He exited the petrol station slowly and merged again with the traffic.
Chapter 35
Clovis turned the STI into Lesley’s driveway and stopped at the gate. Along the way Lesley had messaged him Don’s and Beppe’s cell numbers. Clovis had tried both numbers and both had gone straight to voicemail. He’d left a polite message on both, but still trying to stress the urgency, saying he worked for Lesley and needed to get in contact immediately.
Clovis pulled up the handbrake, leaned out of the window and pressed the intercom buzzer a couple of times and then waited. He tried again but no answer.
Clovis killed the engine, got out the car and walked over to the gate.
Peering down, through the wrought iron bars, Clovis saw the body of a busted padlock lying just off from the gate motor. He pushed the gate and it slid open on its rails.
Clovis entered the property on foot. Heading up the drive, his eye caught on an object out of place in the flowerbed. He walked over and knelt to inspect the weapon. He picked up the gun, checked the mag, engaged the safety and stuffed it into the waistband of his shorts, then rose and pushed on up to the house.
The front entrance was locked but after testing the garage door, Clovis was able to gain access through there.
He passed through the empty garage, entering the house, moving through the rooms, noting the bedding on the couch, the guest room in disarray, the first aid kit open in the bathroom and the bloody gauzes scattered next to the sink. Upstairs in Lesley’s room, cupboards and drawers hung open; down in the kitchen a foul-smelling brown mess clogged the sink.
Clovis stood in the lounge, scratching his head, trying to piece it all together. Lesley hadn’t given him much detail. Someone had slept on the couch. Don probably. Okay, then house-sitter in the guest room? Why had the padlock been broken off the gate? He couldn’t make sense of it.
Clovis took out his phone and dialled.
“Clover,” Lesley answered. “Give me some good fucking news!”
“I’m at your place now,” Clovis said. “No-one’s here. No cars. No sign of anyone. Someone broke off the lock on the gate motor. I found some bloody bandages in the bathroom and there was a nine mil in your garden.”
“Whaddya mean no cars?” Lesley said.
“Empty?”
“Yeah, just the Mark III?”
“Huh? Uh, nothing. Garage is empty.”
“Son of a bitch,” Lesley said. “I’m gonna send you their addresses now. Hopefully one of those sons of bitches is still dumb enough to be still hanging round. Now find that fucking money and whoever has my fucking car you have my permission to make them think deep and fucking profoundly about their poor fucking life choices!”
Chapter 36
“You guys wait here a minute,” Joel said, pulling up to the front of the house and killing the engine. “Let me suss out the situation first.” He opened his door, stepped down out the Jeep and took a scan around.
The place was mostly as he’d remembered although with the addition of vegetable patches on the front lawn. Two girls were sitting on the grass up near the house. Both were dressed in similar light coloured, patterned dresses. Both were casting nervous looks his way.
He was met by a girl coming down out of the main house. She was wearing nothing. (He thought he remembered seeing her when he used to drive Pinchas to the House but in those days she’d been wearing something. Even if not much.
“Joel?” she said, shaking hands with Joel. “It’s been an awful night. I’m Nutmeg, I’m so glad you could come.”
Joel, normally cool headed. had to confess he found himself a little flustered by the nudity but did his best not to show it. “Hi, uh, we’ll do what we can. Those are my two guys, Friedberger and Sunnyboy in the back.”
Nutmeg gave a cursory nod.
“So, first things first,” Joel said. “There’s an, uh, body?”
Nutmeg nodded sadly. “He’s upstairs. He, uh, we had to shut him off in a room. I’ll show you what I mean.”
Joel followed Nutmeg to the outbuilding, through a little security gate held open with a rock, and then up a set of concrete stairs.
On the second story landing, Joel could already detect an odour. The body had only recently been shot as far as he understood. There were two doorways, the one on the left covered with a leaning wooden door, the one on the right a black fabric curtain.
“He’s in there,” Nutmeg said, indicating the door on the left. “If you don’t mind. I’m going to wait in there.”
Joel nodded, waiting for her to leave before shifting the loose door to the side.
The space was small, maybe intended as a storeroom but it was hard to know as it was unfinished—the walls were unplastered brick and various construction bits and pieces stood stacked against the walls. In the middle of the floor was the body, blood pooled black on the bare concrete under it. The smell was overpowering. Not decay though, gut shot. Joel noted the two wounds, one to the belly, one to the chest.
Joel moved the door back into place again and went through to the adjoining room. Pushing back the black curtain he found a little lounge and kitchen area.
Sitting variously on beanbags on the floor were Nutmeg, Tjaart, all in green, and two others. One was a man, a muscular black dude with a burn scar, the other, a wiry, mean-looking character with wild eyes, (in a dungarees variation of the outfit) with an old 1895, a chipped and pitted-to-hell old Boer War Mauser, across her lap.
No introductions were offered.
“He’s been shot in the, uh, intestine,” Joel said, addressing the group. “So that’s what’s causing the… uh, it’s not decay. We’ll wrap him up. Hopefully that’ll help. We still, me and the guys, have got to wait here till ten, if we all on the same page? Then we’ll take care of the, uh, body.”
“You’ll be respectful?” Nutmeg said.
“Uh, sure.” Joel said and headed back down to the Jeep to fetch his two companions. The three headed up the stairs to the little room and started on the task of wrapping up the corpse.
◆◆◆
A little while later Joel and Friedberger were
standing at the kitchen sink thoroughly scrubbing their hands with Sunlight dishwashing liquid.
Joel, Friedberger and Sunnyboy had finished wrapping the body after much gagging from all except SB. The body was still in its same spot but was now at least sealed up tight for transport.
Joel wasn’t crazy about putting it in his car. He’d have wrapped a few more layers if they’d had them, but one plastic drop cloth was all he’d brought. He wondered idly if perhaps they had some black bags at the house, or maybe some newspapers to give an extra layer between body and the upholstery.
Sunnyboy hadn’t seemed too bothered with scrubbing up, having just taken a seat on one of the little round leather cushions at the low kitchen table and was now tucking heartily into a hefty bunny chow.
Two girls had been washing dishes in the kitchen when the three men came in and had offered them something to eat. Joel and Friedberger had politely declined. Joel was just keen to get to washing his hands and even after some thorough scrubbing it still seemed to him like he couldn’t get all the stench out. Sunnyboy hadn’t seemed too bothered though and had happily taken up the offer. Friedberger stared at the man disbelievingly for some time but let it drop.
After the two girls had finished fixing Sunnyboy’s meal they’d left, leaving Joel, Friedberger and Sunnyboy with Thornapple, Nutmeg, Acacia and Mandrake (Joel having finally gotten their names).
Mandrake, he saw, was still hanging on to her rifle. Joel wasn’t crazy about this, but also didn’t want to be the one to pry the steel from her grip.
After Friedberger finished washing his hands, Joel took another pass with the Sunlight and then went to join the others who were now all now sitting on the hard leather seats around the low kitchen table.
He checked his watch. About a quarter-to-nine. They still had time to kill. Joel began to run down the plan as he saw it.
Just as he started, Nutmeg asked Mandrake to close the kitchen door. “I just don’t want the rest of the house getting too caught up in this, you know?” she said. “This whole thing has been stressful. This is not what they came here for.”
Joel nodded, continued. “So our orders are to get your money back and pick up whoever shows up to drop it off.”
“You really think he’s going to show up?” Nutmeg asked.
Joel shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
“He seemed like a nice guy, you know? It just makes a person lose their faith in the goodness of people. Just a bit, you know?” Nutmeg said.
Joel nodded. “He sounds like a real scumbag.”
“What are you going to do with him when you catch him?” Nutmeg asked.
“That’s up to the boss,” Joel said. “But it probably won’t be good.”
He waited for Nutmeg to maybe object to this, but she was silent.
“Me and Sunnyboy are gonna be stationed inside the wall on either side of the gate. Friedberger will be outside in the Jeep, ducked down and will move in behind him, blocking his exit. I’ll wait for the sound of the Jeep. I’ll need the gate remote.”
“Uh, we lost that,” Nutmeg said.
“Huh?”
“We just open it from inside the house.”
“Okay. No problem. No problem. It doesn’t matter,” Joel said. “If someone can stay in here and open up for me.”
“I’m gonna stay upstairs with Thornapple, he’s not well,” Nutmeg said. “Acacia and Mandrake will help.”
“Okay. Okay,” Joel said, now directing his instruction to Acacia. “As soon as I hear the car pull up, I’ll give a thumbs up. Then you open up?”
Acacia nodded.
“Otherwise everyone stay inside,” Joel said. “We don’t know if he’s going to show up with back up or what.” He turned to Nutmeg. “What kind of car does he drive?”
“He came on a bicycle, but that’s still in our storeroom,” Nutmeg said
Joel didn’t think this guy sounded particularly like a heavyweight. He checked his watch again. He looked to see if Sunnyboy had finished his sandwich. “Okay, might as well get into position.”
Chapter 37
After over an hour on the road, trying to take a short cut, getting lost, getting back into more traffic, Don finally, and with great relief, pulled the Aston up to gate outside Ricky’s driveway.
He hadn’t been that happy to see the petrol gauge needle not moving a millimetre after he’d put in the hundred. Most likely busted. It made sense. Lesley probably wouldn’t leave a vehicle without petrol in the garage. At least he knew he had some fuel now, although he didn’t know how much.
Ricky de la Roche lived in one of three little ‘Wendy’ houses squashed on to the property of a broken down and rambling double storey. The Wendys, as well as the the bedrooms in the main house, were all rented out to a variety of seemingly hard-living types—Ricky arguably one of them.
Don checked the Swatch. It was 8:28am. His hopes of catching up with Beppe were increasingly less likely but if the plant mess had shown him anything—other than where the maize bag was—it was not to give up.
Still plenty of time, he mentally tried to reassure himself.
A small problem though, Don now realised. He usually gave Ricky a missed call so that he could let him in—the place was not class enough to have any buzzers to any of the units. Don gave a light toot of the car horn, not wanting to antagonise anyone living there. He really didn’t want to monkey around wasting time with this but supposed this was his life, unglamorous and fiddly.
He pressed the Aston’s horn again, putting more commitment into it.
No response.
Don climbed out the Aston and walked around the corner to the pavement at the back of the property. There was a little gap between the high wooden picket fence and the next house through which Don could see the back of Ricky’s Wendy. The sliding door to the little veranda was open. Don stuck his face through the gap and called.
“Ricky!”
He called again. He had a quiet voice but did his best to amplify.
After a bit, Ricky emerged, looking extremely paranoid, like he was finally hearing the voices or something, but after seeing Don’s face poking through the fence, eased up. He was barefoot, dressed in stripy pants and a psychedelic, Shiva T-shirt.
Don, head still wedged through the hole in the fence, said, “Uh. I need your help. Can you open the gate?”
Ricky waved acknowledgement and went back into the Wendy. Don returned to the Aston, switched it on again, after a few tries, and drove in through the now open gate. He pulled the car in and parked under the tree outside Ricky’s pad.
“Where d’you scale this?” Ricky asked emerging from the tiny house, then as Don stepped out of the car, “Fuck.”
Don recalled the blood down the one side of his shirt. “Shall we go inside?” Don said not really wanting to get into details of the previous night within possible earshot of prying neighbours
“Battleship.” Ricky said, now checking out the car.
“Huh?”
“This colour. Battleship grey,” Ricky said, tapping the roof of the car. “This isn’t the DB5 though.”
Don stared at Ricky a moment wondering what he was on about. “Uh, it’s Lam’s,” Don said, still trying to usher Ricky into the cabin.
“Do you know the year?” Ricky asked.
“Huh? Uh, no.”
“What’s it got on the clock?” Ricky asked
“Uh, I don’t know. Shall we go inside?”
Ricky shortly lost interest in the vehicle and they headed back into his little cabin.
The unit was about five by five metres, the small space cluttered with a bed, desk, TV, empty snake box, cupboard and kitchenette and a tiny walled-off toilet and shower. No doubt it grew scorching in the summer and freezing in the winter but was probably a cheaper option amidst the city’s rapidly rising property prices. At the back a sliding door opened on to a tiny concrete verandah that looked out on to a small patch of high, uncut grass and the back fence.
<
br /> Don went over to an old ottoman, the only piece of furniture that one could sit on other than the bed, and collapsed down. One of the struts of the ottoman broke and Don slid on to the floor.
“What the fuck?” Ricky said.
“I’m sorry. I’ll fucking buy you a new one,” Don said, now sitting up on the floor. “I just got slipped a whole bunch of fucking sleeping pills. It’s made me heavier, I think. That’s not important. I got into a… situation. I need your help”
“Okay. What’s happening?” Ricky asked
“You know a guy Beppe?”
“Young looking guy, sort of… uh, bowl-cut?”
Don felt a surge of hope; it felt almost physically revitalising. “Do you know where he stays?”
“No,” Ricky said, then after a moment’s thought, “But I might know a buddy of his. I can give him a call?”
“It’s urgent. Please. Life or death.” Don felt a weight lifting off his shoulders—or at the very least reshifting itself.
“Okay, shit, let’s see what we can do.” Ricky went over to a desk layered with stuff and dug out a Motorola. He spent a few moments thumbing through contacts.
“What are you gonna say is the reason for wanting his address?” Don asked.
Ricky waved off the question, putting the phone to his ear. Don listened as Ricky chatted to the guy, trading quips with him like he’d known him forever. He had offered a reason for needing the address as simply, “It’s for Lesley.”
After couple minutes on the phone, Ricky hung up. “He’s gonna send it to me now,” Ricky said, setting the Motorola back down on the cluttered desk and taking a seat on the bed.
Don was still uneasy. “You sure he’s going to send it?”
Ricky waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Tell me what’s going on while we wait. You want a line?”
“No. No,” Don whined. “This is why, I mean this is why I’m in this fucking fix!”
