by Frank Lamour
“Do you think he’s dead?” Don asked, nodding down at the wreck.
Ricky nodded. He began wiping his face with the front of his t-shirt. Finally, seeming more interested in the shirt which he was now looking down at he asked, “Do you know how to get blood out of fabric?”
A fat man, barefoot in short shorts and vest, emerged from a house down at the bottom of hill. No doubt come out to investigate the demolition derby taking place out on his street.
“Maybe best to get out of here?” Ricky said.
Don nodded. It’d be a hit and run if he left now, but he really didn’t think it would be such a great thing for them to be taken in by the cops now. He needed more time to put the pieces all together in his head—what they could or could not tie to him. Better just get the heck out of there.
Was the Jag in any condition to drive though? Only one way to find out Don thought as he turned the ignition key and lightly pumped the gas.
The car sprung to life. Well that was some luck anyway. So far so good. Don shifted into first and slowly eased down on the gas. His foot though was jittering all over the place, hard to keep still on the pedal, and the car stalled.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Ricky said.
Don tried again.
He got the vehicle moving but now the Aston emitted a loud grinding noise as it began inching shakily forward. Down the hill others were emerging to investigate. Some were now pointing up at them.
Don did an awkward three-point turn, the car still making the awful grinding noise. Then, as he got it moving, a little way up the road he realised the vehicle had lost power. Five miles per hour about the most the old Aston could push out now.
Well Lesley’s car was well and truly finished now, Don thought. Ironically, he guessed, it probably cost at least as much as was in the stupid maize bag. As long as it could now just get them back to safety, back to Beppe’s. Then he’d just have to take things from there.
Heading downhill, the Aston picked up a little more speed, although this caused both the grinding and the thumping from the back tyre to grow louder and the pedestrians they passed, for the most part, stopping to gape at the noisy, battleship wreck.
Certainly as far from inconspicuous as he would have wanted. Would police put out a call for witnesses to the accident? What if the muscly guy had been killed? He remembered Thornapple’s tarot reading. Death seemed all around him. He pushed it out of his head, he couldn’t worry about all that now.
Don turned up ahead into a quieter street, trying as best as he could to stick to where there might be fewer eyes and fewer witnesses. He checked the Swatch. 9:46am.
Was it enough time? Could they still make it back to Beppe’s and get the money? Maybe he still had a chance. I mean would the people at the House of the Vegetable really worry anyway if the cash was returned a couple of minutes late? Surely the main issue was that it was being returned? Lesley was probably just being a drama queen. Just trying to light a fire under him.
The car roared on. Don trying to casually cover his face with a hand as they passed people on the street. Ricky not seeming too concerned, now with the picture of Lesley’s mother and his Smart Shopper card out, again grinding up a mound of drugs.
“What happened?” Ricky asked. Pausing his in his ritual. “Back at the house? I thought you were going to let me in?”
“I couldn’t get the door open,” Don said and briefly filled Ricky in on what had gone on in the cottage.
“Clovis.” Ricky said, after Don had asked him if he knew who the guy in the hatchback was.
“Huh?”
“Clovis. That’s his name. He used to be like a cage fighter. Now he breaks people’s legs and stuff.”
Don thought he’d definitely have to send Hamza a fruit basket or something. Checking his crotch Don realised he no longer had the sap. He must have dropped it somewhere between the flat and the car. He just hoped his luck would hold out as well without it.
Don checked the Swatch again as the Jag finally made a slow turn back into Beppe’s street. It was 9:54am.
Chapter 45
Don steered the wreck into the garage and pulled to a stop alongside the red Daihatsu.
Don had been worried that the noise of the muscly guy Clovis’s pistol might have brought down some kind of law enforcement. He’d been prepared to keep on driving if he saw any sign of official looking vehicles, but the street was quiet. The gun hadn’t been that loud.
Another thing Don was grateful for was the fact that Beppe’s garage door was still open and the Daihatsu still there—obviously indicating the kid hadn’t made an escape in their absence.
Don killed the engine of the now totalled Aston and took a breath. He pried his hands off the wheel, only now realised how tightly he’d been gripping it. Fearful all the way of being stopped by cops, that they’d find the Sweeper, or link them to the wreck at the bottom of the hill. A hit and run, and with an almost certainly dead mesomorph, and Lesley’s Aston surely spotted, and now destroyed. He would just have to try sort all that out later, right now he still had a maize bag to deliver—and was not willing to give up on that just yet.
He checked the Swatch. It was 9:54am.
“We’ve still got time,” Don said, turning to Ricky. On the way back he’d decided if Beppe’s car was still there they’d trade it for the Aston and use it to get across to the HoV.
“Keys and the money,” Don said. “You still feeling alright?” He was a little bit worried that Ricky might have more serious internal injuries or concussion.
Ricky waved the thought away, and they exited the crumpled Aston and headed round the side of the house to Beppe’s cottage—Don saw Ricky choosing to bring along the Sweeper.
Entering through the open sliding door, Don thought all looked much as he had left it. Quickly through to the bathroom, he found the kid still tied up but now collapsed on to the floor and squashed into a corner, most likely fallen in attempt to try free himself.
Ricky headed straight through to the bedroom and Don heard him rifling through cupboards. After a moment the snake-man returned holding the bloody maize bag. “This it?”
Don nodded, feeling the knots in his chest loosen a fraction, but in amongst all the additional knots it was not that significant a sensation.
“What about him?” Ricky asked nodding to the pet-sitter on the floor.
Don didn’t want to leave the guy here to either die of dehydration (the old lady in the house would surely be of no help), or get free and report his car stolen.
“We take him with,” Don shrugged. “Can you look for the keys? I’ll cut his feet loose. Hear that Beppe?”
Beppe just lifted his head to give him a dirty look, his two black eyes, seeming darker than before, adding to the effect.
Ricky went through to the living room and started rummaging around. In the kitchen Don found a steak knife and returned to the little bathroom to cut the tape around Beppe’s ankles off.
“Found them, I think,” Ricky called from the living room, dangling a set of keys from his finger.
“Great. Okay, let’s get him up and get the heck out of here.” Ricky helped Don and got the kid to his feet. He seemed compliant enough.
Don checked his watch again. 9:59am.
Don picked up the maize bag and they headed out, Ricky and Don frog-marching Beppe toward the garage.
Seeing Ricky still toting the Sweeper, and recalling the low-level ringing in his head, Don gently and quickly relieved the man of the weapon and chucked it into the unlocked Daihatsu boot.
Now Beppe. The car was only a two door, and so he had to lift the front seat forward so he could push the kid through into the back. He dropped the seat back down, tossed the bag of money to Ricky who had climbed into the passenger seat then swung into the little car and fired it up. So far so good.
Don reversed out, scratching the passenger side door on the wall of the garage.
Beppe articulated something through the tape.
&nb
sp; There was a little black remote attached to the keyring which Don pressed to close the garage. At least that would keep the Aston out of sight for now.
He pulled the car out into the street and then took off as fast as the little vehicle would manage.
After they’d made it a couple of blocks, Don (not wanting to attract unnecessary attention) asked Ricky to take the tape off Beppe’s mouth.
Ricky leaned into the back seat and with what seemed like a degree of glee ripped the tape off with one hard pull, making Beppe’s beady little eyes water, his lips and surrounding area red and slightly inflamed.
Don checked the watch on the dash of the Daihatsu. The time according to it read 6:36am
He checked the Swatch. 10:04am.
“How much time have we got?” Ricky asked.
“I think we can make it,” Don said as he put foot. He now felt very anxious picking up speed. He kept on thinking the car felt like it was going to spin, but still did his best to get all he could out of the 900cc or so engine as he picked his way back to the House of the Vegetable.
Chapter 46
As Don pushed the Daihatsu on, along with the fear of drifting, he definitely started to feel as though around tight bends and corners the little car wanted to topple, and Don couldn’t help but keep picturing the scenario of having wrecked two cars he couldn’t pay for as well as no way of getting back the money back in time. He just needed to stay cool, get enough speed where he could.
About halfway, Beppe piped from the back seat. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry for taking the money. What can I say? I don’t always think things through.” Then, seemingly done apologising, “Can you untie my arms? My fingers are going fucking purple.”
“Forget it,” Don said, still focused intently on the road ahead. “How many damn Zopimed did you put in the whiskey?”
“A couple,” Beppe said. “Three or four, I don’t know,” Beppe said. “You fine today, I don’t know what you worried about.”
“Only because half the shit was left at the bottom of the glass!” Don yelled.
“Er, ja, sorry about all that but, Don, Don, let’s talk. Stop the car. Let’s talk. I did a rough count of the money, there’s over nine-hundred in there. Split three ways…”
“It’s not a lot,” Don said.
Beppe continued undeterred. “Not a lot? How much do you earn at working at a fucking bookshop? Three?”
Don stared out at the road ahead, he wasn’t going to get into this discussion. Ahead a red robot. No cops around, from what he could tell, no cross traffic. He jumped it.
“Less than that?” Beppe said.
“I don’t earn much,” Don confessed. “I get by.”
“Well, let’s say you are getting by on three a month,” Beppe continued, “That’s thirty-six a year. How many years will you have to work to make up three hundred grand? Tax free.”
“I don’t pay taxes,” Don said. “You don’t pay if you earn less than like five or six thousand.”
“Oh,” Beppe said. “Whatever. For guys like us, it’s still a fucking good deal.”
“It’s not bad,” Ricky said, nodding.
Beppe continued to push his cause. “How many years could that be chilling out down somewhere on the coast?”
“I don’t know why you so confident of fucking Lesley over, cause I’m not,” Don said.
“I’m not scared of him,” Beppe said, seeming to brush the idea off. “We could just head down now! Get on to the N1 and keep driving! That fat fuck will have forgotten about the whole thing in a couple years anyway.”
“Yeh, I don’t think so,” Don said.
“Stop living scared, man. Let’s just fucking head down to Cape Town! Don’t think about shit. Just do!”
“That’s where Lesley is now!” Don roared. Then gathered himself. “Anyway, I don’t plan to be working at the bookshop forever.”
“Ja,” Ricky said. He had retrieved a cigarette from somewhere on his person and was trying to light it up with the dashboard lighter. “Anyway, I’m not too keen on fucking over Tabachnik either.”
“Huh?” Beppe said.
“Ja, it’s this Pinchas guy’s money,” Don said.
“Oh,” Beppe said and that seemed to bring an end to the conversation.
Don jumped another robot.
“Maybe if we were in the States,” Don said. “This country’s small and I don’t want to be constantly looking over my shoulder.” In the rear-view he saw Beppe just shrug.
Don was now returning to thoughts of the Aston Martin. Lesley was surely going to go ballistic. Don had been thinking about how he could try put all the blame on Beppe, but was now feeling bad about it. Best thing he could do now was minimise the damage, get the money back and then take it from there.
“Okay maybe just drop me off here,” Beppe said suddenly. “I don’t want to go with you. Just here. I’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean you don’t want to go? You’re a fucking hostage!” Don said. “I’ll drop you off after the money’s out of my hands.”
Beppe sighed and slumped back into his seat.
Chapter 47
Don slowed as he approached the house that he’d only a few hours ago been sure was seeing for the last time.
There was a purple Jeep parked across the road and immediately Don thought, one of this Pinchas guy guys? But then why hadn’t they parked inside? No, he was getting paranoid. It looked more like they were visiting the house across the road, anyway.
A million thoughts rushing through his head, Don pulled the little red hatchback up to the gate. He pulled up the handbrake and checked the Swatch. 10:12am. Only two minutes late… well, now just gone 10:13am, but surely they weren’t going to split hairs over a couple minutes? Don thought he’d actually done pretty well, all things considered.
In front of him, sheet metal gate now began a slow, rattly trundle open.
Don wondered who would come out to meet him. He was not keen on having to face any members of the House now having been unmasked as common lowlife rather than spiritual quester. He’d thought of just tossing the bag over the wall, but wanted to be sure it got into someone’s hands and at the right time, so it couldn’t be said he hadn’t delivered.
Now though, as the gate slid open, he couldn’t see a soul. He’d been used to at all times seeing members pottering about, either working, sunbathing, smoking. Now not even the two dogs were out. Probably after the events of last night the routine had been upended.
But as the gate rolled now back, Don couldn’t seem to get over an awful sense of sudden dread. For a moment he entertained the idea that the plants had somehow imbued him with a kind of ‘spidey-sense’—given him the ability to predict danger. Maybe he should’ve just kept driving like Beppe had said. Just now do a three-point turn back into the street and be gone.
Don sat for what felt like a good few moments, before Beppe his brought him out of his reverie. “So what’s the deal?”
Don didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t planning on driving up onto the property. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do. “Okay, pass the dough,” he said. “They’ve seen us. I’m just going to leave it in the driveway. Then we go.”
Don opened the Daihatsu door and stepped out. The House of the Vegetable gate yawed open. The only sound he was aware of was the tiny car softly idling.
Don gestured for Ricky to hand him the maize bag.
As it was being passed to him, Don caught movement in his periphery.
In the front passenger side window of the Jeep parked across the road, Don caught the brief glimpse of a slim face before the head ducked back down and out of view.
Don chucked the maize bag back over to Ricky and swung back into the driver’s seat. Then slammed the car into reverse, transmission grinding harshly.
“Hey take it easy,” Beppe said.
At the same time Don now saw a man in a beige suit emerge from behind the wall to the right of the gate, followed a second later by another b
igger guy in camo pants on the left. The guy in the suit brandishing a silenced pistol, the other guy a shotgun—also with what looked a silencer, the thing looking huge on the short weapon. Both guns were now trained on the car. Both men were shouting—something like, “Out of the fucking car, asshole!”
Without really weighing up the options, Don mashed hard down on the accelerator sending the Daihatsu rocketing back in a tight arc to crash into the side of the Jeep. Don’s teeth snapped together, and he bit the side of his tongue.
He realised both Ricky and Beppe were now (and had probably been for a while) screaming commands at him, shouting over each other—in addition to the other two in the street.
Don now felt his guts turn to water as he heard the shotgun bark, saw it cough sparks, at the same time a large hole materialising in the front windscreen, just to his left.
Don now even more wanting to get the hell out of there, threw the vehicle into first and punched down on the gas again. The car lurched forward and somehow managed to hit both the suited guy and the camo guy, who seemed to have suddenly gotten into an argument—Suit pressing Camo’s shotgun down.
The suited guy rolled forward on to the small Daihatsu bonnet, the camo guy getting clipped, enough to send him sprawling backward on to his butt.
Don remembered to hit brakes just in time to prevent the front of the car slamming into the House of the Vegetable wall but the inertia sent suited man hard into it.
Not stopping for second, Don kicked the car back into reverse, turning the other way. He swung his arm over the back of the driver’s seat and began heading down toward the bottom of the hill and the dead end.
The Jeep had already started to life, the skinny guy whose face Don had glimpsed earlier now up and behind the wheel, and the SUV wheelspun forward, trying to block the Daihatsu’s escape.
Don mashed down harder on the accelerator, feeling the Daihatsu bump over something—the shotgun guy’s leg perhaps—and just managed to avoid the front of the Jeep as it ploughed forward into the HoV wall, to the right of the gate, bricks collapsing down on its bonnet.
