The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  Hanging his arms over top of the wall, Don surveyed the property.

  The house, a single story, sat a couple metres back from the front wall. A concrete path, edged by some barren looking flowerbeds, ran between wall and house, continuing along the around to the right of the house. The double garage was off to the left.

  Don heard Ricky say something about a car and then shortly felt his foot being pushed up.

  “Wait, wait,” Don said, but the momentum was already sending him up and forward till he had little choice but to topple over the wall. He crashed down on the other side on a spindly dry bush, cracking thin branches as he landed.

  Fortunately not too injured. Don quickly scrabbled forward, pressing himself against the face of the house, under a window, doing his best to get out of view in the event someone had heard the noise and had come over to investigate.

  Don sat, ears cocked for any sounds from inside the house. From his position, looking into the covered but otherwise open garage area he could see one car, an old, faded red, Daihatsu Charade.

  He hadn’t seen any dogs and surely they would have heard him crashing down into the bush. So hopefully he was okay on that front, but he would still need to proceed with caution.

  After satisfying himself all was quiet enough, Don slowly rose to peer in through the window above.

  It was dining room done in what he would guess would be called a Victorian style, basically the type of decor he remembered his grandmother being into. A fair amount of ceramic sculptures, lace, doilies and floral patterns in evidence, but so far still no signs of life.

  Don turned his attention to the pedestrian entrance. There was a wooden door, swollen and buckled by the rain. In addition to a Yale type lock and lever lock, it was also bolted and padlocked. This method of egress / ingress was obviously not much in use.

  This meant now though that he would not be able to let his backup in. He could try switch the garage door to manual, like he’d done at Lesley’s, but lifting it would make a hang of a noise. He thought of trying to call out to Ricky, but did not want risk it in such close proximity to the house.

  Don decided to check out the rest of the property first. If things got hairy, he thought, he would just run back and try the garage.

  He got up and stalked off down the narrow alley, away from the garage, along the face of the house, stopping to carefully check each window before carrying on.

  The rest of the house from what he could see was done in much a similar way to the living room, seeming to indicate older residents, but there was still no sign of anyone home.

  Finally though, around the corner, down the narrow alley that ran alongside the house, peering into what looked like a tiny little TV room, Don located an occupant.

  A little old lady was asleep on a La-Z-Boy, veined legs up. What sounded like the soft poc-poc of a tennis match was playing on the tube.

  Not perceiving any threat from the old woman, Don pressed on.

  Reaching the back corner of the house, Don’s knees cracked and popped as he dropped to a crouch and took in the large back yard.

  The grass was high and uncut, the garden surrounded on three sides by wild hedge. A huge, heavy, avocado tree, (made identifiable to Don by the dozens of small and hard looking fruits it had dropped to the ground) threw a lot of the property into shade. On the other side of the garden was a rectangular flat roofed outbuilding or cottage. The large sliding door at its front was open. Don couldn’t see into the place as all the curtains, including over the sliding door, were drawn.

  If Beppe was here, that was surely the best bet. Maybe it was his grandparent’s place, or he rented here—whatever, if the address they’d been given was correct, that was probably where the dude was hanging out. Sliding door open surely meant he was in.

  Don felt his pulse kick up a notch. The guy had struck him as a trouble maker, but not violent. He felt sure the kid would give up the cash when confronted. He hoped.

  If the kid wasn’t alone, if he was armed, if things got out of hand—like he’d decided before, he’d run back, open the garage door and hopefully Ricky would be there with Street Sweeper or plastic knuckles, ready to back him up.

  Don crossed the lawn, running hunched over a bit, not sure why though, as he was clearly visible if anyone happened to look out a window.

  Reaching the open sliding door he paused again, listening.

  A light breeze billowed the curtain inward. All seemed weirdly silent. Maybe Beppe was taking a nap, also drifted off in front of the tennis? Or quietly counting the cash?

  Pushing back the large curtain Don peered in. A small sitting room, old CRT TV, ratty couch, open plan with a kitchenette leading through to presumably bed and bath rooms. Although it was old stuff, it all looked very neat and ordered.

  Still no sign of anyone. Don debated calling out, but decided against it in case it gave Beppe a chance to make a break for it through a back door with the bag, or pick up a weapon.

  A loud bang sounded, causing Don to jump with fright. After a moment, taking a few beats to calm, he realised it had simply been one of the avocados dropping off the tree on to the flat tin roof. It must happen all the time, he thought. This was confirmed as a few seconds later a second one dropped, causing Don to flinch again.

  Gathering himself, Don pushed into the small cottage and headed through the kitchen area, down the short corridor towards the bedroom, all the time listening for any sign of… anything.

  He passed what looked like the door to a tiny bathroom. Closed. He’d check the bedroom first.

  The door to the bedroom was open and through it Don could see the edge of the bed. As he approached the threshold, Don suddenly got the image in his mind of Beppe pressed up against the wall, just on the other side, with a hatchet, or sword-like weapon in his hand, just waiting for Don to step on through.

  Don had been hoping to just talk, keep things unescalated, but the continued eerie silence pushed him to dig into his underpants and remove the sap.

  Slowly raising the weapon he braced and stepped though into room, poised to strike.

  No-one.

  The room was empty. The bed was made, although it did have some indentations on it, but otherwise looked reasonably orderly. What was going on? The only place he still hadn’t checked was the bathroom.

  Don turned and walked back to the closed bathroom door.

  Not really wanting to burst in unannounced on the kid, say, perching on the bowl, Don tapped politely on the door with the weighted end of the sap. If Beppe was in there he wouldn’t be able to make a run for it or grab any weapon much other than scat or a soap-on-a-rope anyway.

  “Beppe?” Don said finally, his voice sounding awkward in the quiet corridor. “I’m just here for the bag. It needs to go back.” No answer. “I’m opening the door.”

  Don turned the handle and pushed the door open slowly.

  The little bathroom was dark, without windows and no light on. Despite the lack of illumination, Don was able to make out Beppe sitting on the toilet seat, in a nice collar shirt and smartish shorts, both his hands and feet bound with silver tape, tape also over his mouth.

  Beppe sat quietly, his eyes wide, staring out at Don. Then with a very small movement, shook his head.

  “What…?” Don was violently cut short, as what felt like a massive steel cable wrapped around his neck, lifting him up and off his feet. It took Don a moment to realise that what had seized him was not machine but indeed man.

  Don lifted both hands reflexively to try free himself from the grip as he was yanked back. The force seemed immense, superhuman. The cable-arm was now tightening.

  Back in high school, when MMA, or mixed martial arts, was becoming a thing—at least in SA, or at least at his school, Don remembered there were a few kids in his year who’d joined a Jiu-Jitsu class.

  Maybe not getting enough done in the class, or whatever the reason, they’d decided to get some extra practice in during school hours—Don unfortunately bein
g one of those chosen to practice on.

  He’d picked up a few things though. One being the technique called the “rear naked choke”. One arm in, under the chin and around the throat. The other arm looping in front of the other, held by a hand, then both elbows squeezed in and shoulders pulled back just locking the whole thing together until opponent, or victim, either tapped out or, as in Don’s case, crumpled face first to the grass of the Standard 6 assembly quad.

  The Jiu-jitsu kids at school had taken maybe ten, twenty seconds for him to start to black out. Now it felt almost instant.

  Maybe it had taken him half a second to register what was happening, and maybe another to remember his little school anecdote, a third to remember the MMA book they’d had at the shop and wonder whether he should have thumbed through it, and then a fourth to realise he was already passing out, his thoughts rapidly spiralling down into the hypnogogic, nonsensical realm.

  He had to focus. Not give up. What was he forgetting?

  In front of him was Beppe, still on the toilet seat, staring wide-eyed. He now noticed the kid had two black eyes.

  Stay with it. Another second and he was gone. All these thoughts flitted through Don’s mind in an instant.

  Don felt the leather under his palm, between his hand and the assailant’s arm. He’d almost forgotten he’d had it. It was just about to slip from his grip.

  Don clutched the sap tight, mustering every ounce of strength he could—the scene in front of him already greying out, more of a green actually—he arced the bludgeon back toward him, bringing the lead weight hard down on the bony elbow bone that was jutted out just under his chin.

  Don heard an awful cry of pain and then felt sweet relief as the pressure eased and the room slowly filled with colour again.

  Chapter 41

  Clovis didn’t know what the hell had struck him, but the pain was insane. It was an awful electric, funny-bone kind of agony that had spiked up his arm and flowered out through the rest of his frame.

  The blow had also been accompanied by what both felt and sounded like a mass of delicate and important bone shattering, and then if that weren’t enough, a second later, another blow on the exact same Goddamn spot!

  Clovis cried out, tears filling his eyes, his left arm now useless.

  Conditioned though by his training, he refused to give up, still hanging on with his right, but too late, by now the hold now was broken and Clovis felt the little guy wriggle and turn. And then, in his periphery, he saw a bony fist gripping a tiny leather baton. He tried to react sending out his right arm to block the incoming blow, but it was the wrong side and the pain was now clouding his judgement and slowing him, as the little club hit him solidly above the eye.

  Clovis saw something like the bright blue image of a fractal, and at the same time was sure he’d heard and felt another bone giving up the ghost. The room swam, and he staggered back, back-pedalling a couple of steps till he hit wall and then slid down to the floor.

  ◆◆◆

  After leaving Lam’s, Clovis had made his next stop Don’s.

  Only a short drive away, he had been able to make it there without having to deal with too much traffic. He’d parked outside on the street, first just checking out the joint for a bit.

  Clovis had recently been considering a move to the suburbs and had now begun noticing more and more places. A nice enough facade, he thought. A solid front wall, but leavened in part by a floral mural which merged nicely with a lush, what looked like, ficus pimula.

  According to Lesley’s message, this guy, Don, rented a place at the back. There was no sign of the Jag or any other cars outside, but perhaps in the garage?

  Clovis had moved round the nearest corner to park (just in case someone did end up dead, him not wanting his distinctive car being parked right outside the house at the time), exited his STI, headed back to the little alcoved pedestrian security gate and pressed the intercom bell.

  An older-sounding woman answered.

  “Hello, I’m looking for Don,” Clovis had said as politely as he could and was buzzed straight in.

  Clovis had found out that the owner of the house, a kindly old lady, was not sure where Don was, as he usually kept to himself, but even so they hadn’t seen him in a while. But he could check himself—the woman being very accommodating, even offering him something to drink—which Clovis actually took her up on after he’d been down and found no one in the dingy little cottage.

  He’d had to secretly break a window to allow him to pull back one of the curtains, just to be sure no one was hiding out down there. It was a single tiny room, with a bed, fridge, microwave—and not smelling great. Clovis thought he almost felt a bit bad for the guy. Bathroom and toilet were separate from it, with external doors, both unlocked, both empty.

  After a polite goodbye, Clovis had gotten back into the STI and headed on to Beppe’s.

  This was a greater distance, and with getting into a couple knots of traffic the journey had taken longer, but he’d sat back exercising his pubococcygeal muscle—to try and minimise his post-void dribbling condition—while listening to some phat beats.

  After seeing Don’s digs, Clovis had perhaps understood the guy’s motivation to take the money. But then why had he gone to Lesley’s first? Were he and the house-sitter in it together? Had they fought? The bloody gauze. The pistol? The house-sitter heading off and then Don following in the Aston?

  Arriving finally at the cat-sitter’s pad, Clovis, after briefly appraising the spot, once again took his car round the nearest corner. Perhaps he was wanting things to kick off. Obviously a dead body was a pain, but these things did happen. These things did happen.

  Approaching the pedestrian gate he saw the intercom had two marked buttons, one for the house, one for the “Granny Flat”. He’d tried the main house first—just as at Don’s—but had now gotten no answer. Then the granny flat. A voice he guessed to be Beppe’s—this backed up by the fact the guy sounded nervous as hell—had answered.

  Clovis had done his best imitation of a broom seller and had gotten some physically improbable suggestions of what to do with his wares in response.

  He’d heard no barking when he rang the bell, which meant a good chance there was not a dog. If there was he’d just have to end it. Its size would determine whether he used pistol, blade or just bare hands.

  Checking the street was empty and quiet, Clovis had, with a few steps back and a running leap, managed to scrabble efficiently over the high wall. Rounding the main house, moving down the narrow walkway that ran alongside it, he had been surprised to see an old woman (looking well into her nineties, he was sure) asleep on a recliner armchair. Most likely too out of it to hear the bell, he thought.

  Taking cover at the side of the main house, Clovis had seen, over in the back yard, what was no doubt the granny flat. Through one of its windows, Beppe hurriedly moving back and forth. Packing?

  Clovis waited until the guy had slipped out of his line of sight, and then had sprinted forward, as fast and silently as he could.

  Reaching the outbuilding, he’d pressed up against the wall next to the large sliding door. Testing it he’d found it unlocked. He’d slid the door slowly open and listened.

  Inside he had heard the house-sitter, (or ex-house-sitter surely?) back in the bedroom, opening drawers and fumbling about.

  Sliding the glass door back further he stepped quietly into the flat.

  Moving silently through the house Clovis made it to bedroom doorway without being spotted. From here he could see Beppe, in shorts, smart shirt and boat shoes, back to him, facing his bed.

  On the bed had been laid out a big filthy white cloth bag (no doubt the money) as well as clothes, electronics, a mass of cables and a large black backpack.

  The house-sitter had been busy, leisurely, and rather meticulously, folding a t-shirt and after placing the shirt neatly onto a pile of already folded shirts in the backpack he had turned, presumably to get another item out of the cupboard. He
had stopped dead as soon as he’d seen the formidable figure of Clovis standing in his doorway.

  The ex-cage fighter had been a good few metres distance from him, but had been able to close the gap in milliseconds before the house-sitter had a chance to react.

  Clovis brought his fist down hard down on Beppe’s nose, crushing it, sending the house-sitter’s head whipping back, and dropping him smartly to the floor.

  It was only then he remembered he’d forgotten Lesley’s instruction not to hurt the guy—and this wasn’t the kid who’d taken the Aston. Surely Lesley had just meant not kill him. At any rate what was done was done—and it wasn’t much more than a bit of a bashed-up nose.

  Clovis had then searched the house for something to tie Beppe up with. He had found some silver duct tape in a drawer in the kitchen, and had begun taping up the guy’s limp hands and feet, using his trusty Ka Bar to cut the tape.

  He had still been in the process of trussing up the house-sitter when he’d heard what had sounded like mass of twigs snapping.

  Clovis paused, listening for any further noise. Maybe it had just been a cat? A bird? But the money here, one player still missing, what was the chance this was him?

  Clovis had quickly cut off a length of the silver tape, slapped it over Beppe’s mouth and then hoisted the kid over his shoulder and carried him to the toilet, dumping him down on to the seat.

  Beppe had been now rousing, coming round and Clovis had slapped him a few times to wake him up. “Make a sound you gonna have a very bad day,” he’d said staring hard at the cat-sitter.

  Beppe nodded.

  Clovis had then exited the bathroom, shutting the door and had quickly gone about closing the curtains that looked out towards the main house. Then rushing to the bedroom, he’d picked up Beppe’s clothes and backpack, and the money bag and had stuffed them in a cupboard.

  Trap set to his satisfaction, he’d then gone over to the bedroom window, pushed the curtain aside just a fraction, enough to get a view out of the garden, but without being seen.