by Frank Lamour
As they were settling back, each behind a tyre, Ricky asked, “What about Beppe?”
Don took a moment, then grudgingly crawled round the back of the car. Trying to be as out of sight as he could, he reached out, grabbed the kid roughly by his shirt and dragged him round to the safe side of the vehicle.
As Don was pulling him he heard Beppe making choking sounds, and Don felt a sinking feeling thinking the kid had been shot in the neck or a lung. It was only he had got him round to the other side of the car that he realised it was because he’d cut off the kid’s air supply pulling him by the collar.
Don let go.
The kid’s real wound seemed to be his right knee, just up from his previous bullet wound. He was clutching the knee, moaning softly, blood running quite freely between the gaps in his fingers. He already looked terribly pale.
The Rottweiler had returned to quietly watching.
“What now?” Ricky said.
“I don’t know. Call again?” Don said
Ricky began searching his pockets. After fumbling for a bit, he said, “I think that cop took my phone!”
Don stared at him.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t have helped anyway, Don thought. Would the police have even returned? And surely the Jeep would be back shortly. He thought of trying to make a dash for the Sweeper but was just not able to summon the strength. The short distance to it seemed miles.
Having had a little more time to process, Don had begun thinking that it didn’t seem that they wanted them dead. The two men behind the gate could have just come out blasting the moment Don had pulled up. Also the camo guy missing them, then Suit arguing with him after, pushing the shotgun down. So maybe this Pinchas character wanted them unharmed? But then again, for what new hell?
At the moment Don didn’t see any other option other than to wait, and find out.
Chapter 52
Sitting on a beanbag by the window in Thornapple’s little open-plan kitchen and living room, Mauser propped on his rolled up jacket on the windowsill, Joel pulled the bolt back to chamber another round.
Getting up to the little flatlet, he’d found Nutmeg by the window. She had filled him in that after the Jeep had left she’d seen Don (she’d told him he was the one driving) hide what looked some kind of weird looking gun and a white bag in the elephant ears on the side of the road.
Joel had squinted down. “You can see what kind of plants those are?”
“I have good eyes,” Nutmeg had shrugged.
Joel had told Mandrake, who followed him up, he was going to need to use her rifle.
“I’ll kill you first,” Mandrake had helpfully advised, before looking over to Thornapple for support.
“Hand it over,” Thornapple had instructed. He was sitting over in the corner, with a bag of Spar, No Name Brand, frozen vegetables half wrapped in a kitchen towel and pressed to his cheek.
Mandrake had grudgingly parted with the weapon, passing it over to Joel. A Boer War Mauser, iron sights, but it would have to do.
Joel had set up and then watched as the filth had arrived and proceeded to batter the three kids about a bit. He hadn’t expected Don or his crew to give up his location. Getting into the system was just a bad idea. Surely they would know that it would be no protection from his boss. Nevertheless he had breathed easier once the cop car was past the gate and out of sight.
He waited for it to reach the top of the hill, and then had taken aim, picking out the kid with the weird haircut who was on the near side of the car.
He had already adjusted the leaf sights for the one-hundred and fifty metres or so. He just hoped the rifle was not too out of whack. Joel seemed to recall something about the old Mausers firing high when set to around 100 metres or so, so had aimed for the kid’s foot. The wind was minimal which helped.
The shot had gone high, taking the kid in the knee.
The next shot he missed. Going for the driver’s leg, but perhaps not having enough time to aim, hit the car to his left.
It didn’t matter. As planned he’d been able to get the three pinned down and away from the shotgun.
“I’m a minute away,” Friedberger said now, via the speaker in Joel’s phone resting on the windowsill. That’s what he had said a minute ago. Where had they gone?
After another few minutes Joel finally saw the Jeep rolling into view at the top of the street. “Okay, I see you,” he said. “They’re on the right of the car. Your right.”
“You sure they not packing?” Friedberger asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”
“Just mine.”
“I’ll make sure everyone has a good time at the funeral.”
“Gee thanks.”
The Jeep pulled up to front of the little Daihatsu and Sunnyboy climbed out the passenger side, still wielding his suppressed pump action.
“How’s it going?” Joel asked.
“Fine,” Friedberger said. “They look pretty resigned.”
Sunnyboy ushered the two relatively uninjured kids up with the shotgun and then got them to drag the third around to the front of the car. Friedberger now backing him up with his pistol.
The three were ignominiously patted down for a second time in the span of about fifteen minutes and then loaded into the Jeep—two in the backseat and the legshot thrown roughly into the boot.
“Put something down under the guy,” Joel said, remembering that they’d used the drop cloth on the dead kid in the room next door. The car was pretty much wrecked and all, but he didn’t want to just throw it all in. Maybe they could still get some of the dings knocked out? Damn, what the fuck was Pinchas going to say? Anyway, no point, he thought, just adding to the mess by getting blood all over the interior.
Joel watched as Sunnyboy retrieved the bag of money and, what he, even from this distance, now identified as the South African Armsel Striker, in various incarnations also known as the Protecta, Bulldog—or ‘Street Sweeper.’
SB climbed back into the Jeep which then did an awkward turn in the narrow street before heading back up to collect him.
Chapter 53
As Lesley’s plane circled ORT, his gut was really beginning to slosh around. He had managed to avoid using the plane facility for a second time so far and was determined to hold now it until he got home.
Without having received any reply to his SMSes, Lesley had tried calling Clovis several times during the flight, getting increasingly terse requests from the hostess to switch his phone off as they approached Oliver Tambo.
All attempts to reach the man had gone straight to voicemail. He was fully panicked now. What the fuck was happening over there?
As the plane touched down, Lesley tried calling again, but was yet again forwarded to voicemail. Same for both Don and Beppe. Same for his home number.
He checked the time on his phone. 10:44a.m. The drop off time now long enough having passed.
Had Clovis made a duck with the money? Surely for him it wasn’t enough to make it worth it? So what the actual fuck was going on?
Lesley disembarked and made it through security as fast as he could. He then went to pick up his Toyota in the long stay parking lot. A white Corolla. It was an older model but it did the job. He thought he’d be driving the Aston more but had just been increasingly worried about getting keyed.
Lesley navigated the Corolla through labyrinthine twists and turns of the airport parking lot before exiting and merging with the highway. He plugged his phone into the hands free and tried Clovis again.
Still nothing.
So what to do? Despite his current business (and potential health) hassles, the memory of this morning’s interaction with Brunhilda was the scene that kept looping in his head. Needling him. What the hell did she want? Lesley knew of course. She wanted a top dog. He had a decent life now, but he certainly wasn’t at the top of his game. He’d mellowed. He’d fucking lost it since he’d moved out of Cyrildene, lost touch with his family, his old crew. His support system.
His guts had turned to shit, literally. Maybe he just felt weakened by being out of his element. Having been trying to fit in with all the artsy fucks, who he was sure were all the time, despite their smiles, just looking at him and thinking who the fuck’s this dumb asshole?
He’d lost his power, it bugged him, and Brunhilda, he was sure, sensed it bugged him.
The Toyota cruised along with the sea of cars. The radio was off, they were driving in silence. The traffic was at first moving but soon slowing to a crawl. Roadworks or an accident, or just the general build-up of traffic.
Lesley clicked on his voice app, took a moment and then said, “Call Pinchas Tabachnik.”
After two short rings the man answered. “Ah Mistah Resrey!”
Motherfucker.
Lesley chose not to respond to the baiting but knew his blood was getting up there. “I’ve just got off the plane. I’m on my way back home now.”
Silence.
“Did your guy get his money back?” Lesley said.
Pinchas sighed. “Your boy was fucking late!”
Shit. “But you got it?”
“Then your guy decides to back into one of my SUV’s, drive into two of my guys and for good measure reverse over one of their legs.”
What the fuck? “But you got it?”
“What did I say?”
“Huh?”
“This morning? What did I say?”
“Morning tea-time?” Lesley said.
“That’s right.”
Lesley pictured Brunhilda. Why don’t you just shoot him?
“What can we do about it?” Lesley said.
“I think we going have to renegotiate. You’re going have to pay some penalty.”
Fuck. “I’ve just got off the plane. I’m on my way back. I’m in the car now. Let me come over there. We can talk face to face. Smooth this thing over.”
Silence for moment then, “Okay, pull in, we’ll discuss it. Your guy’s on his way here too. Let’s say one o’clock? We’ll have lunch. Are you vegetarian?”
“Huh?”
“Banting?”
What?
“You still there?”
“Yes. One o’clock,” Lesley said.
“Ah, good show, Mistah Res.” Pinchas clicked off.
Lesley stared at the phone. In an attempt to avoid crushing the new Samsung, he punched a couple of holes in his dashboard, skinning and bruising his knuckles.
Lesley turned to see a thin necked guy, in the car next to him, staring at him. When Lesley met his gaze the man quickly turned again forward.
Chapter 54
By the time Lesley pulled up to his driveway about a half an hour later, his gut was busting and he still had no plan. He was certain Pinchas was not planning anything good. And certainly not a fucking vegetarian lunch. But what was he going to do? Just walk in and plug the guy through the head.
The knuckles on his left hand were also now smarting, beginning to throb and Lesley wondered if on top of everything he’d broken a bone in his pinkie. He did feel a little nauseous and he remembered when he’d broken his wrist he’d felt a similar kind of nausea. Maybe just his gut bile just tryna push its way back up his oesophagus. Well, at least he was home.
As Lesley had approached his driveway he’d pressed the button on the remote clipped to his visor, to open the gate. He now though realised he’d been sitting there absent-mindedly, for God knew how long, still waiting for the damn thing to move.
Lesley pushed the remote button again. Nothing. Power outage? Load shedding? Of course, Clove had said something about the fucking padlock being broken off.
Lesley continued to sit in his car staring at the gate, just not feeling like moving, doing anything. Finally though, motivated by his aching belly, he gathered enough momentum, pushed opened the Corolla door and stepped out. He shuffled over to the gate and began pushing it back. He had it halfway open, when he turned to see, accompanied by a brief screech of rubber, a big black Mercedes GLS swing in behind the Corolla.
All except the driver’s door of the large 4x4 swung open and three men leapt out—all bearing arms. One was a big inbred looking white guy with blazing red hair, wielding an old AK-47. Another a small black dude with a neat hipsterish haircut, beard and thick framed Buddy Holly glasses, also carrying a busted up looking AK—this one missing the stock. The third was a giant of a guy, also black, maybe with more of a West African look, with a tennis ball haircut and only one eye—the lid of the missing eye half closed over a cavernous black socket. He was brandishing a large panga.
The man with the panga approached Lesley. “Back in the fucking car, fatty!” he offered by way of greeting, all the while gesturing freely with the blade, flecks of spit ejecting from his mouth and hitting Lesley in the face.
Lesley still stunned, just stood blinking.
The one-eyed panga guy smashed Lesley in the eyebrow with the butt of the knife, then with his other hand gripped a fistful of Lesley’s hair.
He probably roughly matched Lesley’s weight (but just having it redistributed more vertically) and didn’t seem to have much problem dragging Lesley along back to the Toyota.
The one-eyed man opened the back door, and kicked Lesley roughly in on to the backseat. He slammed the door and swung in behind the wheel, depositing the panga alongside him. The hipster dude climbed into the front passenger seat and the redhead joined Lesley in the back.
If Lesley had been pressed for the toilet before the need was now beyond dire.
Before the doors were all closed, the black GLS had already reversed out behind, with the Toyota following. In seconds they were back out on the road, moving away from Lesley’s house, Mercedes and Toyota in convoy, cruising at a moderate and stately pace. Both armed passengers were holding their rifles low, out of sight, as they intently scanned the passing scenery.
Lesley rubbed his forehead. It was painful, with a knot rising, but at least not bleeding much. He did his best to be cool. The pressure in his belly though was making it very difficult.
“How long before lunch?” Lesley asked. Getting no response he followed up with, “Seriously. How long before we get there?”
The three thugs remained silent.
“Uh, seriously, I really need the toilet.”
The convoy continued on towards Melville. They weren’t heading to Pinchas’s. No doubt a disused warehouse the man used for torture and dismemberment.
Lesley rubbed at the knot. Shifted in the seat. He had already loosened the top button of his pants on the drive back from the airport and now saw in the scuffle they’d dropped down a little.
Despite his fear, and gut trouble, Lesley found himself idly wondering if the one-eyed man was a good choice to drive. He remembered there was this old guy at the club who’d had a glass eye and had to get lifts everywhere. He’d told Lesley that you couldn’t get a licence if you only had one eye—both were needed for depth perception. These thoughts were interrupted by a more urgent wave of pressure in his bowels.
“Seriously,” Lesley said. “I’m busting,” leaning forward to direct the request more to One-eye, his instinct telling him the driver was the one also in the (proverbial) driver seat. The threat of physical injury steadily paled next to the imminent threat of either his belly bursting or him soiling himself in the backseat of the car. “Where are we going? I thought Pinchas only hired fucking Jews anyway?”
“Hey, shut the fuck up,” Hipster said, threatening him menacingly with the AK.
Lesley ignored him and again directed his request at the driver. “Seriously,” he continued. “There’s a toilet at the shops here. Here.” Lesley gestured to a strip mall coming up on the right. “I’ll pay you five thousand rand if I can just go the fucking toilet. I’m serious! I’ll draw the money. This ginger can follow me in.” He pointed at the redhead.
One-eye gave no sign that he’d heard. Lesley thought his plea had fallen on deaf ears, and was worrying just what he was going to do, but at the las
t minute the man made a hard right and swung the Toyota into the parking lot of the little mall.
◆◆◆
A few minutes later, Lesley was sat on the filthy public toilet seat, not worried a jot by the wet stains he’d seen on its surface or the unflushed contents of the bowl, just thanking God that he was still alive and that he’d not had to loose his bowels in the car. Some things were so humiliating they were surely worse than death, or at least close enough, he thought.
The fat redhead was waiting outside the cubicle, in the communal bathroom area. He’d left the AK in the car, but just to ensure Lesley didn’t get any ideas had lifted his shirt to flash what to Lesley looked like a Russian Makarov, tucked into his waistband.
The physical relief Lesley felt was immense. Less encumbered now by the pain in his tummy, he had a chance to think, turning the sudden circumstance over in his head.
The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that these were Pinchas’s guys. They weren’t the usual type he hired. And the timing was off, why wouldn’t he have just waited for Lesley to show up? He’d just assumed—with Pinchas on the brain and all. What now seemed more likely, he thought, was just an everyday, run of the mill, carjacking.
Lesley wiped, flushed, and after washing his hands, returned with the redhead to the car—stopping on the way of course though to draw the five-thou’, as promised.
Climbing back into the Toyota, he handed the stack of bills to One-eye.
“Look I’ve been thinking. I’ve had a chance to think now. You got me by surprise. I thought you guys were someone else. Look I’m not going to bullshit you, how would you like to earn some money? Real money?”
“Ja, ja, you want to pay me to let you go,” One-eye said.
“No.” Lesley leaned forward. “I want to pay you, and all your guys, to help me kill someone.”
Chapter 55