The Lover's Children - Box Set One

Chapter Fourteen - Michael

Chapter Fourteen - Michael

“Where do you want this, Sally?” I hover in the door, a cardboard crate in my arms.

She peers over the top, poking at the contents, muttering to herself. “Flour… Cooking brandy… Dried fruit… Thanks, Michael. Just put it on the counter over there. Want a coffee while you’re passing through?”

“I will, yes. Everything under control?”

She gives me a brisk smile. “No problems at all. We’re fully staffed for the holiday period and my daughter’s on standby to help out if anyone comes down with that flu that’s going around.”

“Great. Is there…?”

The double serving doors bang open and Klempner strides in. “Ah, Michael. They told me I’d find you here. A favour to ask. I wonder if I could borrow that truck of yours?”

Sally pushes a mug into my hand, c***s a brow at Klempner, who nods. “Please, yes.”

I take a swig of the coffee. “Sure.” Fishing keys from my pocket, I toss them to him. “It’s in the barn. What's it for?”

His eyes flick to Sally, then back again. She tuts and hands him a mug.

“Just an idea.” He gulps, then blows over the mug before gulping again.

“You need help with something? If it’s big enough to need the truck, another pair of hands could be useful.”

He eyes me, sucking in his cheeks…

Weighed… Measured…

“Perhaps you could. Do you have any plans for the afternoon?”

… and found adequate…

“Nothing I can't put off. Are we going for a ride?”

“If you're volunteering, yes.”

“Should I get changed?”

He looks me up and down again. “No, come as you are.”

“In my work clothes and boots? You're wearing a suit.”

Klempner’s face is straight, but a wolf smile prowls behind his eyes. “I don't intend to get my hands dirty.”

“But I will?”

He tosses back the last of the coffee, then hands back the mug. “Thank you. Much appreciated, Mrs…?”

“Sally.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

*****

Strolling through reception side-by-side with Klempner, I call across. “I’m out for the rest of the day, Pauline. If anyone’s asking for me, take a message .”

“Sure thing, Michael.”

Klempner pauses by a mirror, checks himself over. Taking a comb from his jacket, he swipes it through his hair and beard a couple of times, replaces it, then straightens his jacket. The performance looks to have nothing to do with vanity.

And now that I think about it, the creases in his trousers would slice bread, his shirt and tie are fresh-pressed and the jacket has been brushed down.

I consider my own dress, chosen for a morning of lugging crates and cartons from truck to storeroom. “You’re sure I’m dressed okay?”

“Jeans, boots and a pullover are perfect.”

“So, where are we going? What do you want me to do?”

“Stay close and… um… loom.”

“Loom? You’re better at looming than me. What d’you need me for?”

“Think of it as an opportunity to practice your technique.” He pauses, looking me up and down, then shakes his head slightly. “It would help if you didn't look so much like an ad for fresh-mint mouthwash.”

*****

I drive. Next to me, in the passenger seat, Klempner checks a mapping app. Pointing ahead, “Take that next left, then park up wherever you can.”

Easing the truck around the corner, I pull in. We’re in the parking lot of some industrial complex. It’s not one I know, but it seems a popular venue. People mill and push. Vans serve fries, burgers and dogs, hot drinks and cans. An oily smell and a thrumming in the air says that a generator is running somewhere close by.

“Alright, what are we here for?”

“That way.” He aims a finger toward the heart of the throng. As we make our way through, we come to a series of small industrial units, and a whole mess of stalls, stands and pitches.

“A garage sale?”

“Yup.”

And the penny drops. “Ryan’s stolen equipment?”

He clucks. “Perhaps. There’s a good chance.” He pats down pockets over jacket and pants, then produces a folded sheet of paper. “Stolen goods list. Come on, let’s take a look.”

“If we find the stuff, how do we know it’s the right stuff?”

“I took down the serial numbers too. As it turns out, Ryan keeps good records.” He scowls at me. “You’re supposed to be the paid muscle. Can you try to look a bit less... corn-fed... It’s bad for my reputation.”

“Isn't your reputation that you're dead?”

He slants me a look, sniffs then scratches his nose. “Let's see how that works out.”

We make our way along the row. I stroll, trying to look casual. Klempner walks as though he’s about to charge rent on the lot.

“I don't know why you feel the need to show off paid muscle. It's not as though you can't handle yourself.”

He replies in lordly fashion. “It's part of the costume, Michael. To be taken seriously, one must be supported by a retinue of thugs.”

While I ponder why I volunteered to be part of Larry Klempner’s retinue, or for that matter, part of his costume, we make our way through the flea market. The units are mainly stacked with the big stuff, house clearances by the looks of things. Stalls and tables are set out, laid with second-hand jewellery, picture frames, knick-knacks and camping gear. Several stands… well-frequented… sell second-hand kids clothes and toys. Others display fishing rods, sports gear, antiquated computers, printers and TVs…

“There…” Klempner aims a finger. “That looks promising.” He throws a glance at me. “You happy about following my lead?”

“It’s your show. Just give me the cue.”

“Good. For now, we’re just a couple of punters, checking out the stuff.”

The pitch he’s interested in takes up a corner of the parking lot, the goods laid out in rough order on the ground. Hammers, wrenches and saws; shovels, picks, bolsters and crowbars, lie side by side on a tarp to the fore of the display. Trestle tables, sturdy, but old and well knocked about, display electric drills, chainsaws, sanders and routers, nail guns and caulk guns.

Klempner wanders in, picking his way through to the rear where the larger kit is arrayed: jackhammers, air compressors and generators; a concrete mixer, a compactor, a small excavator. Propped against the wall: ladders, builders planks and scaffold-board. Even a scaffold tower.

I amble behind, thumbs hooked into my pockets.

I’m beginning to enjoy myself.

Klempner flashes a glance toward the individual running the stand - currently occupied arguing the price of a battered toolbox - then consults his list, cupped in a palm.

Strolling to the concrete mixer, tugging up his trousers at the knee, he squats down, peering close. After only a second or two, he stands again. His voice low. “Matching serial number.”

Hands in his pockets, scuffing at the ground, he waits while the pitch-holder has finished his dicker over the toolbox.

The customer strolls off, a couple of notes are shoved into a leather bum-bag, and the owner pivots to Klempner. “Ah… Is it the mixer you’re interested in, Sor? That’s a fine piece of equipment, so it is. A good price too.” He jerks a thumb at me. “Would ya want ya labourer ta test it out?”

Klempner’s mouth twitches and he c***s a brow to me. “Why not?”

“Fine,” I mutter. “Got a power cable?”

Two minutes later, I plug into an extension lead and hit the On switch. The motor hums and the barrel comes to life, rotating smoothly, a few pebbles clinking around inside. “It’s a nice smooth movement,” I say. “Motor sounds okay. Seems fine to me.”

“Good.” Klempner clicks his tongue. “How much are you asking for it?”

“I couldn’t take less than three hundred.”

Brows rise. “I could buy a new one at that price.”

“We’ll say two hundred then, shall we? Shake on it?”

A grubby hand thrusts forward. Klempner regards the hand, making no move to take it. It wavers, then withdraws.

Klempner produces a second list from a jacket pocket; hand-written, crumpled. “I have a list of equipment I’m looking for.” He briefly meets my eyes as he hands it to… “What do I call you by the way?”

Eyes lighting up, “McGuire, Sor. I’m Conner McGuire.” He touches his forehead in a sort-of salute. “…But you can call me Conner.”

“Thank you, Mr McGuire. Now, if you could go over that list for me and let me know what you have that might fit the bill? We can discuss the price when I see what you can offer me.”

“Certainly, Sor…” McGuire briefly inspects the list then, “I can help you with most of this. Some of the stuff’s still in the van. I’ll get it brought across for you.” He waves a hand across the parking lot to where a lounging youth jerks to attention. “Oy, Jimmy, Open up, will ya.”

Klempner follows the hand. “Which van is it? I’ll take a look myself, save you the effort.”

McGuire beams. “Pleasure, Sor. This way.” He marches across the lot to a parked van. Klempner strolls behind, jerking his chin at me to follow.

Paint chipped and with doubtful tyres, I don’t think I’d want to trust my life to this vehicle. Jimmy unlocks the chained and padlocked roller door. As it rumbles open, Klempner, grabbing the side handle, hauls himself up inside.

He stoops over an air compressor, briefly lighting the rear with the torch beam from his phone. He snaps a photo. A table-saw gets a similar inspection. Another photo. And another. And another.

Tucking the phone back in his pocket, he jumps down again, brushing his jacket straight as he lands. “Michael, bring up the truck if you would. “We’ll be taking quite a lot of this.”

McGuire beams. “Shall we discuss the price first, Sor?”

“Get out what you have on that list. Let me see it in decent light.”

McGuire nods to Jimmy. “You heard the gentleman.” Then, “It’ll take a few minutes. Can I get you a coffee, Sor, while you’re waiting?”

“Thank you. Black, no sugar. My man here will have one too.”

McGuire awards me the kind of look normally reserved for something with too many legs found living under the kitchen sink. I give him my best smile. “Milk. No sugar.”

Klempner accepts coffee in a paper cup. For all his bland expression, humour lurks behind his eyes as McGuire scribbles on a scrap of paper, chews on the end of his pencil, then scribbles some more.

“That’ll be seventeen-fifty with everything. But, for you, Sor, I’ll say fifteen hundred.” He thrusts the paper forward for inspection.

Klempner surveys the contents. “There’s no welding kit.”

“Ah, sorry, Sor. If you’d turned up earlier, you could have had it. But I sold what I had earlier this morning. A good quality MIG. Very well looked after.”

“Could you get another? For next week, say?”

“I might well do that, yes.”

“How much?”

“Shall we say five hundred?”

“That’s a good price.”

“It is, Sor. But I always give a good price to a good customer. I charged seven hundred for the one I sold this morning.”

“Is that right?” Klempner scribbles an extra note on his list. “Alright, load it all onto the pick-up.”

“Jimmy, you heard the man. Now, Sor. It’s cash, I assume?”

I set my cup down, freeing my hands…

Here’s where the fireworks start…

“Nope,” says Klempner. “Just load up what we’ve agreed. I’ll be on my way.”

McGuire havers. “I’m not following ya, Sor?”

“It’s very simple. You load these goods onto the pickup. You can give me the seven hundred paid for the welding kit. I’ll drive away and we’ll say no more about it.”

Colour rises from McGuire’s collar. “Jimmy, go get Donovan, and be quick,” he hisses.

The errand boy darts off, vanishing into the crowd. Klempner stands, hands thrust in his pockets, sucking in his cheeks, apparently casual. But something about the way he rocks on the balls of his feet says the nonchalance is feigned.

McGuire bullies up close, eye-balling Klempner. “What the f**k you talking about?” Spittle arcs from his lips.

Klempner leans back a little, tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. “It’s very simple, Mr McGuire. These goods have been stolen from friends of mine. I’m here to reclaim them. You load the equipment onto the truck. I’ll drive away and you’ll hear no more about it.”

“Now, look here…” snarls McGuire. “This stuff’s mine. All bought and paid for. Legal like.”

“That, I doubt. But if it’s so, you’ll have no problem with my calling in the local cops, will you.” Klempner produces his mobile from a pocket, ambles around the air-compressor, aims, and the camera clicks and whirrs. “I have the list of serial numbers, so there’ll be no difficulty establishing that the goods are legally yours… Will there?”

McGuire’s chin juts.

Klempner continues, his voice mild. “Or if you prefer, I’ll put the photos I just took of your stolen goods up on social media. Hash-tag stolen-goods Hash-tag handcuffs. What do you think?”

From somewhere in the crowd, Jimmy reappears, swaggering in with a companion. The stranger is short, heavy-set and was born destined to play the part of the heavy with the low forehead.

McGuire spits onto the tarmac. “These gentlemen are leaving. Jimmy… Donovan… Escort them to their vehicle, would you. And get the phone off that bastard there.” Arms folded, legs akimbo, he stares Klempner in the face…

… or tries to…

Klempner’s not looking at him, but at the stranger. His head tilts and he sucks in his cheeks, then delivers a jack-o'-lantern grin. “Long time, no see, Donnie. I thought you were working for Vince Caproni? Moved down-market a bit, haven't you?”

‘Donnie’ double-takes on Klempner, gawks and pales, then mutters something to his companion, who halts in mid-step.

“What the f**k’s wrong with you two?” snarls McGuire. “Get this pair of fuckers out of here.”

Neither moves, instead shuffling their feet.

“Get on with it, then.” McGuire looks set to foam at the mouth.

Still, neither makes a move, but Donnie moves close to his boss, muttering something under his breath.

McGuire jolts and blinks, flicking a glance at Klempner. “You come looking for trouble?”

“No.” Klempner’s voice would oil wheels. “As I explained, I've come to recover my friends’ goods. Trouble is an optional extra.”

“I got this stuff legal and above board. I got receipts.”

“I’m sure you have. But you’ll have to discuss that with your supplier. I’m leaving with this equipment. You and your retinue of monkeys are going to load it on the truck. As for my phone, the photos are already saved to the cloud. You stealing my phone wouldn’t stop me posting anywhere that appeals to me. ”

McGuire's face passes through red and moves into purple. “I’m out of pocket on this, you know.”

“I daresay. I suggest that you check the provenance of your stock in future.”

“This is racism. It’s because I’m Irish, isn’t it?”

Klempner raises brows, lifts his chin. Without taking his eyes off McGuire, “What d‘you think of that, Michael?”

I fight down my laughter, keep my face straight. “I think you don’t have a racist bone in your body. You treat all thieving, lying, shites with equal contempt; regardless of race, creed or colour.”

“I’m glad you said that.” He gives a small satisfied nod. “In my experience, McGuire, criminality crosses racial boundaries equally. And since the rightful owner of these goods is himself part-Irish, the argument is moot. Now, are you going to load up the truck, or do we move along to that trouble you mentioned?”

McGuire toes at the ground, grunts, then jerks his chin at Jimmy and Donnie. “Get on with it, then.” The pair slide by us to the nearest item, the cement mixer, Donnie angling a wide berth around Klempner.

Klempner gives a small satisfied nod. “Michael, could I trouble you to secure the load, please.”

“Happy to.”

It takes twenty or thirty minutes, but as each item is loaded up, Klempner makes a show of ticking it off his list. “You can add those and that.” He jabs a finger at a toolbox, a mallet, a couple of shovels and a pick-axe.

McGuire splutters, “Them came from somewhere else.”

“Do you still have the ones that came with this batch of equipment? I’d prefer to take those?”

The Irishman scowls. “Already sold.”

“In that case, you can supply replacements. Donnie, load them on the truck.”

Donnie scuttles to load up the tools without so much as a glance at McGuire.

“I suppose ya’ll want the f*****g fillings out o’ ma teeth before ya go?”

“No. I’m happy to leave that to your orthodontist. But you can hand me that cash-belt you’re wearing.”

McGuire gapes, clutching at the belt and backing off.

Klempner surges forward. Somehow, a knife is already in the other hand, a wicked-looking, saw-edged thing. McGuire shrieks as the blade slashes out, but Klempner simply snags his hand around the belt, slices and it drops into his hand. “Michael, I’d like a witness. Count out the contents, would you, please.”

“Sure thing.” A grin is fighting for front seat on my face.

On a trestle table, in plain sight, I count the notes. Klempner stands close by. “You keep a knife like that down the back of your suit pants?” I hiss.

“Be prepared, Michael, is always my motto,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you were yourself once a Boy Scout.”

“So, I was, but they taught me to use a knife for cutting out turf before I lit a fire.” Klempner sucks away a smile, but his eyes are fixed on McGuire.

There’s quite a wad inside the belt. “I make that nine hundred and… ten… twenty… twenty-five… twenty-six.”

“Thank you.” Klempner scribbles on a sheet of paper, passes it to the apoplectic Irishman. “A receipt for nine hundred and twenty-six. Seven hundred, I think was mentioned as the price you obtained for the welding kit. However, the insurance value on it was nearly two thousand. So, we’ll take this with us and deliver it to the rightful owners of the goods.”

*****

Driving back, Klempner slants me a look and grins. “That felt more like old times.”

“Yes, I could see you were enjoying yourself. What would you have done if McGuire’d refused?”

“Nothing. I believe my understanding with the police commissioner is fragile as yet. If McGuire had resisted, I would have emailed the photos of the equipment and the serial number panels to the police station.”

“You could have done that anyway.”

“I could, yes. But if I had, the goods would have been seized as evidence. Ryan and Kirstie would have been no better off, at least for several months. As it is, they can get on with their work again now.”

“Are you really missing old times?”

He doesn’t reply, instead pulling a face, and twisting to reach into a pocket. He fumbles for a moment, then lays a knuckle-duster on the dash. “It was digging in,” he explains.

*****