by Frank Lamour
Don, arm still slung over the back of the seat, attempting to navigate at speed through the back window, wove the little car wildly backwards down the hill. Beppe and Ricky both ducked down and taking cover.
What now though? Nothing but the dead end. Just keep moving.
Still trying to keep the vehicle under control, not daring to chance a look back up the road, in case it would upset his navigation—all movements of the wheel now causing the car to turn in opposite directions—he heard three pops from further up the street. Now four. Each pop accompanied by solid metallic thunks from somewhere just in front of him, one also causing the vinyl to jump just next to his leg.
The Daihatsu’s engine starting hissing, began to shudder violently and then as clouds of steam erupted from gaps in the bonnet, the tiny hatchback finally stalled out.
Don pressed in the clutch, the little machine now continuing on rolling silently, backwards down the hill.
Clutch still in, Don toggled ignition key, one hand on the wheel, still looking out through the back window, trying not to crash. The engine turned but did not fire. He turned the key again a couple of times. Nothing.
The car rolled on silently down the hill. A quick glance forward, revealed through the front windscreen, only a cloud of steam. The little car continued on backwards, rolling down until Don finally pressed the brake gently and brought it to a stop at the bottom of the hill.
Chapter 48
The car and the street were now silent. The Daihatsu sat at the end of the cul-de-sac, surrounded on three sides by high residential walls. To the left next to some nicely tended, pavement ground-cover, there was a gate, behind which a huge Rottweiler, was standing quietly—possibly blood-thirstily—eyeing them.
Out through the shot windscreen, the steam now thinning, Don made out, about a hundred metres back up the street, the purple Jeep backing out of the House of the Vegetable’s front wall—and taking a small quantity with it.
The two armed men Don had knocked over were up and dusting themselves off. The camo guy looked to be testing his leg, limping a bit, but other than that both looked relatively unhurt.
The Jeep reversed and straightened out so it was facing down the hill. Then after a brief exchange between the suited man and the driver, and then a minute or two shifting bricks off the bonnet, the Jeep began a slow push down the street. Suit and Camo keeping pace with it, walking by its side.
Ricky was still taking cover, slid down on his back in his seat, Beppe laid out on the back seat, now staring up at the fabric on the inside of the roof of the car. He was holding his right shin, some blood visible between his fingers.
“What happened?” Don asked Beppe.
Beppe lifted his hand to reveal a bleeding, but not too serious looking, gash.
Don again took in his surroundings, trying to see a way out. The nearest wall he could possibly jump had a Rottweiler behind. But even if it were clear he doubted if he could even make it that far before bullets started flying again.
Had the gunfire caused one or more of the neighbours to call the cops? The two weapons were suppressed and although hadn’t been completely silent—hadn’t really sounded much like gunshots at all.
As the Jeep drew closer, Dons recalled the Street Sweeper in the boot. He did not fancy his odds if he got into a firefight with these, presumably, experienced marksman, but maybe he could at least hold them off long enough for some kind of cops or security to get there?
They would get picked up with a bloody maize sack of money and a shotgun. But perhaps at this point it was preferable to the alternative.
“Beppe,” Don said turning to the kid. “Can you get into the boot from the backseat?”
“If I’m untied.”
Don took the keys from the ignition, leaned over and used the teeth of one to work the duct tape around Beppe’s wrists loose—still trying to keep his movements visible to the men up the road to a minimum, the steam though providing a bit of cover.
Beppe free, now worked the back seat loose, pulling it down enough so that he was able reach into the boot and retrieve the Sweeper.
Up the road the Jeep drew closer. Maybe now only fifty metres away.
“Okay, so what now?” asked Beppe.
“Pass it here,” Don said.
“No,” Beppe said.
“What? Okay. Just shoot it out the window. Just to let them know we have it. Just let me…”
Before Don could finish Beppe had let off a round, blowing out the right back window.
The Rottweiler started barking wildly, froth flying from its jaws.
“I meant out the window! What the fuck is wrong with you guys? You almost shot the dog.” His left ear was ringing again.
“I’m not hanging out there!” Beppe said.
“You shooting up your own car,” Ricky said.
Beppe said nothing.
It had worked though. Up the street, Don saw, the Jeep had now stopped and the two men taking cover behind it.
“Get on your phone and call ten one… what is it?” Don said.
“The information number?” Ricky said, reaching to get his phone from his pocket.
“No, huh, what’s the emergency number?” Don said.
“I’ll just call information.” Ricky said dialling.
“Shall I try let off a few rounds at the Jeep?” Beppe asked.
“No.”
“I’ll let a few more out the window.”
“Gimme that fucking thing,” Don said making a grab for the weapon. Beppe pulled it out the way.
Don again turned to see, back up the street the two armed men, moving quickly, opening the Jeep’s doors and jumping in the vehicle. Two figures now emerged further up by the HoV gate. Acacia and Mandrake.
Don heard Ricky on the phone. Now just wait for help to show up.
Chapter 49
Joel sat in the backseat of the Jeep (the front passenger door now unable to open) staring down at the Daihatsu. Steam still snaking up from its radiator.
He turned to glare at Friedberger. “Where the fuck were you?”
Friedberger sighed. “I have to be honest with you. I could lie but I’m not that type of guy. I was resting my eyes.”
“You fell asleep?” Joel said.
“You woke up me up before I could get my nine hours. This was supposed to be my motherfucking day off. Baking in a fucking hot car. What did you expect?”
Joel hung his head, shook it. Perhaps he was getting too old for this kind of work. Getting too soft. He should’ve taken the Jeep duty himself, he also probably shouldn’t have fired at the little car, even though he’d been fairly confident of hitting the engine block. He supposed he’d just been a bit pissed off about being run-over. More and more, on days like this he’d recently been thinking, wasn’t there just like a nice job, maybe in a small stylish clothing boutique he could get? Punch in, punch out.
“Company,” Sunnyboy said, nodding back up the hill.
Joel turned and saw Acacia and Mandrake both standing at the gate. He turned again to the little Daihatsu stuck down at the bottom of the hill. How long did they have before some kind of law enforcement showed up?
Joel had read somewhere twenty minutes was supposed to be the average response time for JHB police. Security companies could be pretty speedy. Had a nearby resident had pressed a panic button? He checked his watch. “I don’t see how to work it without killing someone.” He scratched his jaw. “Get the Jeep out of here. I guess that’s what will have been reported if someone called in. Get it out of sight for now, but don’t go too far. Drop me off back up there, I’m going to try keep an eye on these guys from there. Let’s just see what happens. Be ready to get back here when I call—I mean don’t go for fucking take-out or something.”
Friedberger nodded, did a three-point turn and headed back up the street, dropping Joel outside the house before heading up over the hill and out of sight.
Joel approached the two standing outside in the driveway.
“Get off the fucking street!” Joel barked. “I need to get back up there,” he said to Acacia, indicating the addition above the garage. They headed back into the House of the Vegetable grounds, gate rattling closed behind them.
Chapter 50
Don watched the purple Cherokee head off up the street and take a left at the first corner.
The suited guy exchanged a few words with Acacia and Mandrake outside the HoV gate, before the three of them headed back inside.
Don, now through the shattered window heard the siren. Faint but rising in volume. He turned to see Beppe still hanging tightly on to the Street Sweeper.
“Hand it over,” Don said.
“Suck it.”
“I’ve got to hide it before the cops get here,” Don said.
Beppe reluctantly passed over the weapon. Don then retrieved the maize bag from Ricky, opened the car door and headed, with bag and gun, over to the pavement ground-cover next to the Rottweiler gate—the animal now having returned to silently, intently watching him.
There was a bunch of large-leafed plants that Don stuffed both items into, pretty much out of sight, parts of the bag still showing through, but it would have to do.
As Don jogged back over to the Daihatsu, the siren grew louder. Before he could make it back to the car he glanced up the road to see a little Toyota Tazz, blue light flashing, siren wailing, cresting the top of the hill.
Be cool.
Don slowed. He walked over to the car but didn’t climb in, just stood leaning as casually as he could, up against the door, as he waited for the Tazz to approach.
The police car pulled up in front of the Daihatsu with a, what Don thought was, rather unnecessary handbrake skid. The front doors then both flying open and two giant uniformed police climbed out.
Both were armed with assault rifles, the driver, with an Elvis thing going on, thinning hair seemingly died black (Don wondering idly if that was the regulation), the other with an impressive blonde handlebar moustache.
“Hands! Hands!” the both cops were bellowing, both just about foaming at the mouth.
Don also saw the back two doors of the car now open and what appeared to be two, surely, ‘ladies of the night,’ leisurely emerge and lean on the car doors to take in the action.
Don (perhaps not having learned) tried to put on a relaxed air beginning with, “Damn, are we glad to see you.” He took half a step forward and got a mouth full of the butt of the moustachioed cop’s rifle, the insides of his lips splitting against his teeth, and then was violently thrown down on the hood of the vehicle. He heard a loud thump and looked up to see Ricky folded over on the other side of the car, and then Beppe also bundled out next to him.
All were told to lace their hands behind their heads as the two cops both enthusiastically patted them down.
“We called you!” Beppe was shouting.
“You didn’t call shit!” the moustachioed cop said, now rifling through Don’s pockets. “We got report of gunfire.”
“He called you now,” Don said, nodding toward Ricky. “Swear! We got hijacked”
The moustachioed cop gave Ricky a brief disapproving look. “What the fuck happened to your ear?” he asked Don.
“Huh? Uh, that was from… earlier,” was the best Don could come up with.
The moustachioed cop seemed to take in Beppe’s black eyes, Ricky’s bloody shirt. “You dickheads look like you’ve been having a bad day.”
The Elvis cop laughed.
Don moved his tongue around his gums and swallowed some of the blood.
Both the (painted) ladies—Don couldn’t really be sure if they were prostitutes or not, but to him looked kind of rough, were both leaning on either side of the car looking bored. One of them, a slightly bigger girl than the other, standing on the passenger side of the car, said, “How long’s this gonna take?”
“Sfebe! Magosha!” the moustachioed cop shouted, and she climbed back in the car without further protest.
“There was fucking gunfire,” Beppe piped up. “They were firing at us!” He got a slap on the back of his head for that.
Don saw the Elvis cop had removed Ricky’s knuckledusters from his pocket and now had them laid out on the bonnet in front of him.
“What you doing with these?” the Elvis cop asked Ricky.
“It’s for an art project,” Ricky said.
It seemed to be a good enough answer as the Elvis cop moved on to now start searching the vehicle.
“Okay, hands down,” the moustachioed cop said. “There’s only one problem with your story. Who the fuck would want this?” he said indicating the Daihatsu.
Inside the car the Elvis cop laughed.
“Is this yours?” the moustachioed cop asked.
“It’s his,” Don said, nodding towards Beppe.
“That makes sense.” The moustachioed cop said, then sighed. “Okay who tried to hijack you?”
Don breathed out. “They were in a Jeep…”
“Grand Cherokee,” Ricky said.
The Elvis cop now had the boot open.
“Yes, purple,” Don continued. “They headed that way. Turned down there.” Don gestured with his head up the hill.
The moustachioed cop looked up in that direction somewhat uninterestedly. “I said put your hands down.”
Don realised he was the only one still with his hands behind his head, dropped them. “The Jeep tried to block us up there? I started to reverse out of there, but they opened fire. You can see there where they drove into the wall.” Don was a little unsure about what to tell and what not. He still didn’t fancy his chances in the legal system—and seeing these two now even less so—but wanted to make the story sound believable.
“Have you got any narcotics in the vehicle?” the moustachioed cop asked. “Ecstasy? LSD?”
“No, I, uh… No,” Don said, remembering Ricky’s baggy. He looked to see the Elvis cop had now found the framed picture of Lesley’s mother and was holding it out in front of him, looking at it.
He now put the picture under his arm and began walking around, taking in the surrounding houses.
Don tried to keep his breath even and calm as he watched the cop approach the shrubs where he had hidden the gun and bag. From where Don stood the white of the maize bag seemed fairly visible.
“You got a smoke?” the moustachioed cop asked.
“Uh…” Don struggled to focus on the question.
“I’ve got,” Ricky said.
The moustachioed cop rounded the vehicle. Ricky took a pack from his trouser pocket. The moustachioed cop took one and put it in his mouth then took another, took a packet of cigarettes from his own pocket and placed it in there. He then threw Ricky’s pack to the Elvis cop who took one out, put it in his mouth, took another and tucked it behind his ear, then tossed the box back to Ricky.
The moustachioed cop took a lighter out a pocket and lit the cigarette, took a drag, looking satisfied.
With smoke in hand he rounded the front of the car approaching Don again. “You gotta make a report at the station. Open a docket.” he said.
Don nodded. He was still nervously watching the Elvis cop who now appeared to be attempting to stare down the Rottweiler. If he had seen the bag he didn’t appear to be interested in it. He turned and headed back towards the car.
“Open a docket,” the moustachioed cop said again, then looking back and forth between Beppe and Don, “You going to have to get this vehicle towed.”
Don nodded.
“You can’t leave it here. What are you gonna do?” He asked Don.
“I got AA,” Beppe said.
“Yeah,” Don said.
The moustachioed cop took another drag of the cigarette then ostentatiously flicked the whole thing off into the street. Seemingly happy with the answer, and that all here taken care of, he turned and started back to the Tazz.
“Uh. Can we get a lift?” Don asked, the th
ought just popping into his head.
“We okay,” Beppe interjected.
Moustache gave Beppe another dirty once over. He turned to Don. “No space,” he said.
“We’ll sit on laps,” Don said.
The moustachioed cop stared at Don for a moment before cracking up laughing. He climbed back in the car. The Elvis cop followed, handing the picture of Lesley’s mother back to Ricky on the way. The prettier prostitute getting back in as well, the doors all shut, and the blue light went off. The Tazz then did a dramatic yooie and pushed off back up the hill.
Chapter 51
As Don watched the small cop car struggle back up the reasonably steep incline, he heard a retching to his left and turned to see, on the other side of the Daihatsu, Ricky double over, gagging.
Don rounded the car. “Hey, what…?”
Ricky gagged again and Don now saw a gross, wet little plastic baggie drop to the ground.
“So that went okay,” Ricky said, wiping his mouth off. He stooped to pick up the bag of remnant cat.
Over on the other side of the car Beppe said, “Let’s just get the fuhnnn…!” It was all he managed before dropping to the tarmac like a badly-hairstyled sack of potatoes. Maybe a half second later a little crack sound coming from direction of the House.
Don stood, trying to process this latest development. Ricky, oblivious, continued to wipe the mucous off his baggie with a tissue he’d taken from a pocket.
Looking up the hill, toward the House, Don could just about make out the windows to Thornapple’s flatlet above the garage. It seemed hella far, but evidently not far enough.
Don now heard a metallic plunk from the bonnet of the Daihatsu, followed again by maybe like a split second later by distant pop. “He’s shooting!” he shouted to Ricky, pointing up toward the HoV. For some reason this set the Rottweiler off barking again.
It took Ricky a while to put two and two together, but then he ducked down. Don followed, getting down behind the red Daihatsu. From here they were at least out of line of sight of the outbuilding.