The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  “Okay,” Ricky said, looking a touch hurt. “I’m not forcing you. I just thought maybe you needed something to wake you up. If I’m not mistaken, you need it now more than ever in your life? Think of it as medicinal.”

  Don thought for a while and then sighed. “Okay.”

  Ricky seemed to perk up and headed over to his cupboard. “Just while we waiting for the address,” he said as he searched in a coat pocket. He came out with a tiny baggy of white powder. Seeming now happy as a sandboy, he headed over to the book shelf and picked up what Don now saw was the framed portrait of Lesley’s mother.

  “You stole it?” Don said.

  “No-one was using it?”

  “Why?”

  Ricky shrugged. “I don’t know. Her face gives me comfort,” he said. He returned to the bed with the picture, put the baggy down on it, “Pass me that wallet,” he said, pointing to an old Velcro thing amongst the junk on the desk. Don handed it to him.

  Ricky opened the Velcro wallet and removed a blue Pick ‘n Pay ‘Smart Shopper’ card. He emptied the meagre contents of the tiny plastic baggy on to the plate and began grinding up the powder with the edge of the card.

  Don thought the ritual seemed to give the guy peace. Grinding up the drugs, Ricky seemed content, with purpose. Don wondered if some chefs might get a similar look on their face when deep in the preparation of some favourite dish.

  While Ricky was busy at his task, Don tried to bring him up to date with the events of the last week and last night in as short a time as possible.

  “But why’d you need to take the money back?” Ricky asked, when Don had finished.

  “I don’t know. Like I said Lesley just called this morning. He talked about some guy… Pinchas?”

  Ricky nodded somewhat ominously.

  Don yawned, rubbed his eyes, his attention returning to the phone, wanting desperately to ask Ricky again if he really thought that the guy was going to send the address. It had only been minutes though. Don’t jinx the situation by getting impatient. Be cool. Be cool.

  Just then Ricky’s phone chimed, and Don started slightly. Don stared at the Motorola for a moment then picked it up, holding it out for Ricky to take.

  “Just put it on the bed. I’ll get it now,” Ricky said, still grinding up the, by now, already pretty fine crystals.

  “What’s your unlock pin?” Don asked.

  “Relax,” Ricky said. “More haste less speed. You’ve got to get your head in optimum functioning condition first. If this Beppe’s gone, he’s gone and there’s nothing you can do about it. A minute here or there is not going to make a difference. He’s probably just at his fucking place rolling around on his bed in the money.”

  Don pulled a face at the image. He didn’t entirely agree but felt too tired to argue. He dropped the phone down on to the filthy duvet.

  Ricky finally finished constructing neat uniform lines on the plate. “You got your note?” (Don had learnt that Ricky had a phobia about sharing either snorting implements or crockery or cutlery.)

  After Don had told Ricky he didn’t have anything on him other than the Swatch, the Aston keys and the leather sap in his underpants, Ricky searched and found an old straw, which he cut down to size.

  Chapter 38

  This morning, the Boeing 737 seemed to be hitting a fair amount of turbulence, but despite the bumpy ride, Lesley’s thoughts were still on Brunhilda.

  He’d been sure he’d been finally making progress with her and now the goddamn call.

  ◆◆◆

  Lesley had first met Brunhilda when she’d been working her job at the Mugg & Bean. He had been down in the Mother City attempting to develop contacts. Lesley had had a view to maybe relocating permanently, but he wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to run into similar troubles to those he’d encountered in Jo’burg.

  On his way to a meeting, walking along Kloof, passing the restaurant window he had caught her eye.

  Brunhilda smiled at him and to Lesley it was like a bolt had shot through him, their two souls had left their bodies and merged for a moment. That’s how Lesley thought of it anyway.

  Brunhilda was the cold, Nordic type that he’d been obsessed with as far back as he could remember. Maybe the bad experience at his mother’s club had something to do with it—but that was over thirty years ago, and he’d told himself numerous times he wasn’t going to think about that anymore.

  Lesley had there and then decided to ditch the meeting and had turned and headed into the M & B.

  He’d unfortunately though been waited on by someone else. He’d wanted to approach the girl, try talk to her, but just couldn’t.

  It was not because he was afraid, he was, and maybe that was part of it, but the real reason was far more embarrassing.

  It was since the day that Pinchas and his goons had paid him a visit at his new house he’d picked up a new and infernal affliction. A nervous stomach.

  As some people shook when under stress, or sweated, or stuttered, Lesley now, when under pressure he would just about soil himself.

  But Lesley had never been nothing if not determined, and had the next day returned.

  Although now he had done some of his Bolivian marching powder in the hopes that it would give him some Dutch, or at least, Bolivian courage. It had helped a bit mentally but unfortunately not physically; when looking at the blonde waitron, his bowels felt soupier than ever.

  His desire for her though had pushed him forward. And so, sealing up his sphincter tight enough so that only a little gas could escape in short—and he was hoping, discreet amounts— he’d gone ahead and insisted on being sat in her section (The other waitress had not been too bothered—this perhaps being a not uncommon request.)

  The girl’s initial contact with him was brutal, icy. She did not appear to have recognised him at all from the day before. Perhaps he been mistaken about the whole soul hug thing? Maybe there’d been someone walking behind him and his soul had just somehow got in the way?

  Nevertheless, squirming about, trying to ease the agony in his gut, probably sweating as well by now, he’d stuck to his plan.

  There was a party at the weekend in Camps Bay that he’d been invited to and Lesley thought this might be the best chance. Maybe if she saw that he had a bit of money, power, influential friends, it might just win her over.

  He’d told her about the event, doing his best to convey how epic it was going to be. But it was only after he’d let slip that there might be lots of free drugs on offer, that she’d seemed to perk up and show interest.

  “That’s my thing,” Lesley said. “You know so… I’ll hook you up.”

  She’d in the end seemed to agree to go, but would meet him there, and could she bring some friends?

  It wasn’t the best start, he reasoned, but it was a start, and Lesley, after rushing off to the M & B restroom had been in a wonderful mood for the rest of the week.

  It had been several months, parties, and many thousands of rands worth of drugs later before he’d finally, last night, shared a bed with her.

  Not intercourse exactly, or at all, or anything other than just actually sharing the same bed with her, but for Lesley, at least, it was progress.

  Possibly lured by the offer of drugs and booze (Lesley wasn’t above using whatever tools were at his disposal) she had come over to visit him at his new rented pad up in Dasa Park.

  Late into the early hours of the morning, both starting to fade—even after consuming a not insignificant amount of cat (that Lesley had said was cocaine) he told her it was late, and he didn’t feel like driving her home. “You can stay over. I’ll take you in the morning.”

  Without him even really bringing it up Brunhilda had said something like, “Just as long as you know I can only offer you friendship.”

  Lesley’d nodded, yeah, yeah, I know, I mean you can sleep on the bed, I’ll stay on the couch. He felt lame after saying it, putting her on this huge pedestal—wasn’t what they called it? He should’ve said, it
’s late, you’ve done all my gak, drunk all my booze, now you can sleep on the couch, I’m going to bed. Act cool.

  “We can both sleep on the bed,” Brunhilda had said. “But just that. Sleep.”

  Okay so he hadn’t got any of the conventional action, but no one needed to know. It was just a matter of time. He would just wear her down. And soon she wouldn’t be able to live without him.

  But now. Like a spanner in the works, now the fucking call.

  He should’ve taken it in the other room, but he’d been half asleep, he hadn’t had a chance to get pumped up. And Pinchas’s voice…

  If Lesley was honest, the man had scared him those years back. If there was one thing that Lesley had always (or at least going back to the incident at his mother’s club) had, it was a phobia about butt stuff. The brutal looking device that had been shown to him, and the accompanying video had been enough to give him nightmares. It had messed with his head. And since then, Lesley thought, it seemed like he’d just been degenerating into a fucking shadow of his former self.

  And now, on the phone, Brunhilda had probably heard him sounding like the biggest fucking fawning wimp. The alpha image he’d been cultivating totally undercut.

  He recalled details of the conversation. Pinchas smug as fuck, as usual, explaining to him that this House of Vegetables was under his protection. He’d fucked up, but all could be forgiven if he could get just the money back.”

  “What do you say? As a sign of good faith you get it back by Elevenses?”

  What the fuck was that? The 11th? What was the date today? “Uhhhh…” Lesley had said, still half asleep, still trying work out what the fuck the gimp fuck was talking about.

  “Morning tea time. Eleven o’clock,” Pinchas had said.

  “Only problem is I’m in Cape Town at the present.”

  “What kind of problem is that? Just tell your man who took it, to get it back.”

  “Uhh…”

  “Thornapple’s a busy man,” Pinchas had continued. “You’ve already taken up enough of his time so I want your man to drop it off when he’s having a break. At morning teatime. Elevenses.”

  “Isn’t morning tea-time at ten o’clock.”

  “Even better…”

  Fuck.

  “Who was that?” Brunhilda asked after he’d hung up. He could swear he was now picking up something in her tone, like she was disappointed in him or something.

  “It’s business,” he’d said and headed into the other room to make the call to Don. Ten minutes later she’d come out of the bedroom and seen him pacing up and down, still trying to get through to either Don or his fucking house-sitter.

  “What’s all the fuss about?”, she’d asked, padding over to the fridge, and Lesley was slightly taken aback to see her pouring a tequila.

  Lesley had then tried to fill her in on the situation. She knew what he did, that maybe being why she did not find him totally repulsive, he suspected. But perhaps, he thought after he’d finished, he’d now confided too much.

  “Why don’t you just shoot him?”

  He’d smiled disbelieving at her. “This isn’t the movies. You don’t just go around shooting people.”

  “This isn’t the movies, but this is South Africa. People get shot all the time. He would shoot you. Is what it sounds like anyway?”

  Lesley sighed. “He’s got more money than me. Money equals guns, lawyers… and lots of bribes.”

  Brunhilda didn’t respond, appearing to have already lost interest.

  “Anyway he doesn’t leave the house,” Lesley continued.

  “Okay,” she’d said, picking up the TV remote. “So you going to give me a lift back?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get back.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I’ve got to sort this out. I’ll give you green for a cab.”

  “I’ve got money,” she’d said, now settling into something on TV.

  Lesley had gotten dressed and packed in short time. He’d been hoping between Don and Clove the two fools might sort shit out but knew he’d be an idiot not to be up there in person overseeing things, being there to smooth things over if that was going to be required.

  “I’ll give you a call,” he’d said to her as he headed out. “I’ll try get down again in a couple of weeks.”

  Lesley had stood there for some moments waiting for an answer, but none had been forthcoming, Brunhilda was now apparently deeply engrossed on what was happening on the tube.

  “Or maybe sooner,” he said as he headed out.

  He had wanted to slam the door but hadn’t.

  ◆◆◆

  Now as the plane hit another pocket of turbulence and the woman across the aisle started crying, Lesley SMSed Clove for the third time without response. The bad feeling he’d had begun to increase and he was certain he might have pay at least one more trip to the dreaded plane facility before the flight was over.

  Chapter 39

  Thanks to the cat Don was wide now awake.

  All symptoms of the Zopimed were a distant memory. Unfortunately though, rather than making him feel more in control, the stimulant had simply cranked up whatever anxiety he’d had up to eleven. Before in the drowsy state, the danger had seemed remote, now it just felt all too real.

  “Give it time,” Ricky said, after Don had tried relating some of this.

  “No, I feel sick,” Don said. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

  Ricky finally, maybe trying to change the topic, picked up his cell and checked the message.

  “Did you get it?” Don asked.

  “Sure. No problem. No problem,” Ricky said. He then stood, went over to his bookshelf and lifted off one of the shelves a couple of black plastic knuckledusters. He slipped both over his fingers, making fists with both hands—testing them out.

  “You coming with?” Don asked.

  “Yeah. I wanna drive,” Ricky said

  “Okay, okay,” Don said. “Maybe on the way back. I’m feeling better.” He’d actually started to feel quite good.

  Ricky seemed satisfied enough with this and went to put on a pair of slip-on shoes. He then went to pick up the baggie with the rest of the cat as well as the framed portrait of Lesley’s mother. Don decided not to comment.

  Outside they climbed into the Aston. Don again had to crank the engine a few times for the car to start, Ricky fiddling with the dials and knobs on the dashboard. Don turned the car around in the tight driveway and then headed out the gate which Ricky opened with the remote.

  Beppe’s address was a street in the Westdene / Triomf area. Don thought he knew roughly where it was. Another damn hour drive though, if the traffic was still the same.

  He was about to turn back the way he’d come when Ricky indicated the other direction. “Turn down,” he said, “Short cut.”

  Don complied, and they took off.

  As they moved through suburbs unfamiliar to Don, the way seemed less congested.

  “Is he dik?” Ricky asked, as they were motoring along.

  “Huh?”

  “Dik?”

  “No. He’s tiny,” Don said.

  “That’s even worse,” Ricky said. “What if he’s packing?” Ricky made the symbol of a gun.

  “I don’t think he is,” Don said. “The gun he had last night’s in the boot.” (Don only now recalled the gun he left in Lesley’s flowerbed. He would have to remember to pick that up later and get rid of it.) “He did seem to know a lot about guns though…,” Don added, almost to himself. “I’m just going to talk to him, make him see reason. I don’t think he’s a fighter. He’s a talker. I think he’ll back down once he’s been caught.”

  Don wasn’t sure of this but willed to it be true. At any rate he was glad of the support as he pushed the Jag on toward the bowl-cut kid’s house.

  Chapter 40

  With Ricky’s directions for a short cut they were able to avoid a good amount of the traffic—the morning rush was now also thinning a bit�
��and made reasonably good time. Don checked the Swatch as they turned into Beppe’s street. 9:04am. No worries, he still had an hour and six minutes.

  The road was quiet, suburban, a bit run down. Not as affluent a neighbourhood as say for example Lesley’s, but not too bad. Noticeably different in that some of the properties had high walls but not all, and only a couple had electric fences. There were a few cars parked along the street, but other than that it was quiet.

  Don crawled the Aston forward, both him and Ricky counting down house numbers until they got to Beppe’s. He pulled the car up to the pavement outside the house, parked and then sat for a moment taking in the place.

  There was a high peach-coloured wall with double automatic garage doors and a pedestrian entrance to the right of the gate. The wall was solid, formidable in height, but had no electric fence or spikes on.

  “So what’s the plan?” Ricky asked. Don thought the guy was starting to look a little nervous.

  Don had been turning options over in his head on the way over, but not been able to finalise a course of action until he saw the location. He now sat considering the course of action. “I want to try sneak up on him, before he can run or get a weapon,” Don said. “Boost me up to have a look over the wall. I’ll just see if there are any dogs or whatever. If it’s okay, I’ll get over, unlock the pedestrian gate from the inside. Then you come in and back me up?”

  “You wanna get that gat from the boot?” Ricky asked.

  Don thought a moment, sighed. “Okay, take the keys. Boost me first. Then after I’m over, go get the gun. Just make sure no one’s watching when you take it out.”

  Ricky nodded, seeming happy with this plan.

  They both climbed out of the Jag, scanning the street as they walked over to the wall. All still quiet enough.

  Ricky, then leaning against front wall, still casting nervously about, made a little cradle with his hands, urging Don to move quickly. Don stepped in the little cradle and Ricky boosted him up a bit.