The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2)

by Norwood, Shane

  “Hey, Squint, what’s the chances of one on the house, for old times’ sake?”

  Squint twisted his features into the expression he used when he wanted people to think he was smiling. “Same as the chances of me winnin’ the Indy 500 in a fuckin’ milk float, numbnuts.”

  “That good, huh?”

  Squint shrugged as Monsoon headed for the head. At least taking a dump was free. Monsoon relieved himself of his burden and reached for the roll. It was empty.

  “Yep. That just about sums it up,” he said aloud to the heedless tiles and graffiti. He turned his face to the ceiling and looked beyond it to Olympus, where the gods were falling about, spilling the ambrosia from their golden chalices as they pissed themselves laughing.

  “So this is it, boys, hey?” he continued. “This is how my hand plays out. Stuck in a stinking crapper in a third-rate lowlife gin joint, with a shitty ass and not even a dollar bill to wipe it with.”

  Outside, a door opened and a breeze blew. Monsoon heard a scraping noise and looked down to see the corner of a newspaper flutter in from the next stall. He looked back up to the ceiling with a curious expression on his face. He tore out a page and began to fold it. As he did so, an advertisement caught his eye. He unfolded the page and read:

  Do you look like somebody famous? Want to make one hundred dollars a day, plus tips? Familiar Faces Pro Celebrity Lookalike Caddy Agency hiring today. No appointment necessary. If you think you fit the bill, stop by Suite 226 at the Bellagio, anytime from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. All this week.

  Monsoon gave the ceiling another peculiar stare. As he walked out past Squint he was laughing.

  “What’s so funny, ace?”

  “The thought that I just nearly wiped my ass with a hundred bucks.”

  ***

  After his last experience in Louisiana, Crispin—who was back to being Crispin Capricorn again, after he made the shocking discovery that Ned Jelly was actually a brand of hemorrhoid cream, marketed by Bushranger Pharmaceuticals, and could be found on every chemist’s shelf in Australia, right next to Mad Dog Morgan crotch rot relief balm—was taking no chances. Asia saw him approach over the rim of her glass of chilled Chianti, which she was enjoying immensely, and she immediately sprayed the tabletop. The waiter who had just wiped it clean was none too pleased.

  “And what, exactly, are you giggling at, madam?” Crispin said as he jimmied his buttocks into the faux-wicker chair.

  “Crispin. We’re going to America. The USA. We’re not off to the Congo for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’d watch that tongue if I were you, missy. We’ve been in Australia too long.” Crispin eyeballed the men gathered at the bar to make sure that everyone had received and understood the message.

  “Too fuckin’ right, mate. ’Bout time you fucked off, I reckon,” one of them said.

  Even though they were in a busy departure lounge at Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport and not in a bar full of ockers on Manly waterfront, Crispin had lived in Australia long enough to be aware that the consequences of getting into a contretemps with a group of Australian men with a few beers inside them were likely to be of a physical nature, so he imperiously ignored the laughter and turned his attention back to Asia.

  “I assume it is my mode of attire that is causing you so much mirth.”

  “Crispin. You look like an extra in a Clark Gable movie.”

  Crispin crabbed round in his chair so he could see his reflection in the mirrored wall panel. He was wearing a khaki poplin self-belted safari jacket with dark green passants, pale blue jodhpurs with a yellow cavalry stripe, and a Panama hat. He assumed an appropriate facial expression and his chubby face gazed back at him heroically.

  “For your information, my girl, the jacket is a Ted Lapidus, the jodhpurs are Ralph Lauren, and the hat is a genuine Montecristi superfino, handmade in Ecuador. If my memory serves me correctly, the last time you dragged me off to that fetid swamp, apart from being almost assassinated, I was half devoured by every carnivorous flesh-eating bloodsucking bug in America, not to mention subjected to the attentions of that hideous stench-ridden toothless bearded hag. So I have therefore taken the proper precautions to ensure that I am correctly attired. If I am forced to be miserable, at least I can be comfortable.”

  “Crispin, you volunteered to come with me. No one is making you. So stop bleating and have a drink. And anyway, Irene does have one tooth.”

  Crispin smiled at Asia and leaned over and put his pudgy paw on her knee. “You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m stressed out. All this packing and rushing about has put me in a bad mood. Plus I’m not the best of flyers. Well, at least we have a couple of hours before our flight, so we can relax and enjoy an aperitif or six.”

  Asia returned his smile. “That’s more like my Crispin.”

  Crispin looked over to where two waiters were talking to each other by the bar. He waved his hand theatrically and said, “Cooeee.”

  The waiters remained locked in their conversation.

  Crispin turned to Asia, with his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. “Those bastards are deliberately ignoring me. I can tell by their body language they’re doing it on purpose. I know they can see me.”

  He stood up and shouted, “OI, YOU TWO. AM I FUCKING INVISIBLE OR WHAT?”

  All heads turned toward Crispin. Realizing he was the center of attention he struck a pose, standing with his legs slightly spread to show off his jodhpurs to good advantage, and nodding his head gently back and forth to make sure everyone noticed his hat.

  “If yer invisible, then so’s the fucken Sydney Opera House, mate,” said one of the blokes at the bar.

  Fearing that Qantas airlines might have a policy against allowing people onto the plane who have just had the shit kicked out of them, Crispin once again ignored the mob at the bar and focused his stare on the waiter, who had managed to wrest himself away from his no-doubt-riveting conversation and was ambling over with a smirk on his face.

  “If you are expecting a gratuity, young man, you had best wipe that leer off what serves you for a face, and give us some service. It’s like the fucking Gobi desert in here.”

  “Ah, g’day. Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” the waiter said.

  “Listen, you unsightly pleb. I realize that you are descended from a bunch of illiterate sheep stealers, but that was two hundred years ago. You could at least try to pretend that you have managed to acquire a veneer of civilized behavior over two centuries and display a little courtesy. Now scuttle off and fetch me a large gin and tonic.”

  “Crispin,” Asia said, looking embarrassed. “Don’t be so rude. The man was just trying to be friendly.”

  “That’s quite all right, darlin’,” the waiter said, “I get it all the time. I’m used to it.”

  After giving Asia’s tits a not-so-sly eyeball, the waiter headed for the bar with a look in his eye that would have told Crispin, if he had been paying attention, that he had just committed a serious diplomatic error. The waiter disappeared into the serving area.

  “’Ere, Bruce. We got a fat fucken pooftah out ’ere givin’ me a right piece a fucken insubordination. Reckon ’e needs a fucken Newcastle Special, mate.”

  The barman grinned a beatific smile. “One Newcastle Special comin’ right up.”

  Crispin’s drink was served without further incident, and so was the one after that and the one after that, and the crowd of rowdies was herded off to their steerage class flight to whatever inaccessible sun-fried sheep station they were headed for, and Crispin chilled out and began to enjoy himself. When the waiter brought his fourth drink and Asia’s third, he said, pleasantly, “I don’t know what you put in these things, my man, but I have to say this is a splendid G and T. Has some kind of piquant aftertaste that I can’t quite place. Almost makes up for the shabby service.”

  “Ah, yeah. Secret ingredient, mate. Specialty of the ’ouse.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll tell you what. You keep these coming, we’ll forget all ab
out our little unpleasantness earlier on, and there will be a handsome tip in it for you.”

  “Ah, ripper. Good on ya, mate.”

  The waiter headed back to the bar, smiling like a lawyer watching a car crash.

  “You see?” Crispin said. “All it takes is the mere mention of money to transform these churls into proper minions.”

  Just then, the loudspeaker announced the first call for Qantas flight QT223.

  “That’s us,” said Asia brightly. “Damn, that two hours went quick…Crispin, are you all right? You’ve got a weird expression on your face.”

  Crispin had his lips twisted, and he looked puzzled and pained at the same time, like someone had slipped a baby a lemon.

  “I have funny sensation in my tummy. I think I need the bathroom.”

  “Well, hurry up.”

  Crispin struggled to his feet and shuffled toward the toilet with a spasmodic stiff-legged gait, trying to speed walk with his butt cheeks clenched together. By the time he reached the door, he had one hand pressed against the seat of his pants, and was praying that there would be an empty stall. As even the most devout Christian will admit, prayers are not always answered. Crispin flexed his knees and began to bounce up and down as he stared wild-eyed and despondent at the row of closed doors. The sound of a toilet bowl flushing was the sweetest song he had ever heard and he was already standing outside of the door when it opened.

  He barged past the surprised occupant, almost knocking him back into the stall, and was too panic-stricken to wonder what a “fucken fat bogan” was. He slammed the door and reached for the fastener of his jodhpurs, rocking back and forth and not even attempting to remove his safari jacket.

  The reason Crispin had chosen that particular pair of jodhpurs was because he thought that the side release buckle and double row of buttons that fastened the flies gave him the air of an authentic desperado. How right he was. Trying to undo a stiff new polymer buckle and twenty-four small double-stitched buttons, with fat sweaty hands, when you have been slipped a Newcastle Special and your sphincter ani externus is about to explode as they are announcing the second call for your flight, is about as desperado as it gets.

  Despite his general lack of physical conditioning, a lifetime of piano playing had given Crispin surprisingly strong fingers…just not strong enough to tear triple-ply woven nylon thread. When his asshole had reached ground zero and explosion was absolutely imminent, Crispin tried to tear open the front of his jodhpurs, but his effort only succeeded in accelerating the inevitable. There was a noise like a room full of six-year-olds simultaneously sucking the dregs out of their milkshakes, and the back of Crispin’s jodhpurs ballooned out. A hot, noxious, viscous brown slick squirmed down both of his legs and spilled out onto his desert camouflage Panama-sole canvas-upper jungle boots.

  Crispin was too traumatized to move. If it had been blood flowing down his legs instead of excrement, he could not have been more mortified. His mouth was gaping open and his eyes were wide, as if he had been congealed at the moment of screaming, but no sound could emerge from his constricted windpipe.

  Back in the bar, Asia was becoming frantic herself. She had just heard the second call, and was cursing Crispin under her breath. She flitted her anxious gaze between the bathroom door and the relentless minute hand of the clock that seemed to be whizzing round at twice its normal pace, then she grabbed the waiter as he was passing.

  “Please help me,” she said. “We’re about to miss our flight. Could you please run into the bathroom and tell my friend we have to go now. I know he was rude to you, but here.”

  The waiter looked from the fifty-dollar bill to Asia’s tits to her lovely worried face, and back to the fifty. He grabbed the note and nodded. “She’ll be right, Sheila,” he said, heading for the restroom.

  The waiter stood before the only door that was still closed and said, “Oi, Dr. Livingstone. Yer bird says to stop looking at yerself in the fucken mirror, and fucken ’urry up.”

  “Tell her I’ve had an accident,” Crispin said in a small, plaintive voice.

  “Strewth. What kind of an accident? Open the door, mate.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You ’urt bad?”

  “No.”

  “Then open the fucken door, ya bell-end.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Fucken spiders!”

  The waiter moved into the next stall, climbed onto the seat, and looked over. He saw Crispin’s enormous stained backside wobbling as he tried to wash his jodhpurs in the bowl. There were pungent brown streaks down the backs of his legs, and a small putrid brown lake on the floor.

  “Jeez, Bruce. Reckon me mate overdone ’er a bit on the Newcastle Special. I’ll tell yer sheila what’s happened.”

  “Shit,” Asia said when the waiter told her.

  “Couldn’t have put it better meself, love.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got time, sweetheart.”

  “What the hell am I going to do? We’ll miss our flight.”

  As the words came out of her mouth, the words “Announcing the third and final call for Qantas flight QT223” came over the speaker.

  Asia’s eyes started to fill with tears.

  The waiter put his hand on her arm. “Don’t panic, darlin’. ’Ere’s what we’ll do. You zoot over to the duty-free and buy yer mate a new pair a strides. I’ll call Qantas and give ’em a shit-uation report. I dunno whether they’ll hold the plane, but I reckon it’s worth a shot. Then I’ll go back into the dunny and tell yer mate the plan.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Asia said, already running toward the duty-free.

  The Japanese tourists queued up at the checkout all seemed to have bought three of the same thing. It was an orderly queue. It was a very long orderly queue. Asia looked at her watch as she timed the first transaction. No chance. She would never make it. She walked up to one of the duty-free girls who was arranging magazines on a rack. The girl’s heavily made-up eyes opened wide and she put her hand to her mouth as she listened to Asia.

  “No worries, love,” the girl said. “Give me the money, I’ll check the stuff out and leave the bag up front. You just show that girl your boarding pass, and never mind about the queue.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” Asia said, handing the girl a hundred-dollar bill. “And keep the change.”

  The girl smiled as Asia rummaged in her purse for her pass. They could still make it. Crispin was going to be horrified at the pants she had bought, but they were the only ones that she was sure would fit him. Besides, lavender suited some people. None of the tourists objected as Asia rushed to the front of the line, flashed her pass, grabbed the bag at a run, and pelted toward the toilet. The checkout girl opened her mouth as if to say something, but Asia raced away. The waiter was waiting outside and caught the bag as she threw it.

  “Hang fire, Sheila. They’re sending a golf cart to pick you up.”

  Before Asia could reply, the waiter whizzed into the bathroom. “’Ere’s yer keks, mate,” he shouted, lofting the bag over the toilet door.

  Inside, Crispin had calmed down. He knew about the golf cart, and sat with stoical resignation. After all, it was only abject humiliation and embarrassment. Worse things had happened to him. Especially since he met Asia. He had cleaned himself up the best he could, using the water from the bowl and all the toilet paper. All he had to do was make it to the plane, and he could give himself a proper cleanup. It might even seem funny once they were well on their way and had had a few more drinks. He dreaded to think what kind of awful trousers Asia would have picked out for him. He opened the bag and peered in.

  In the end, it didn’t turn out too badly. Sitting on the golf cart it was difficult for people to tell that he was wearing his safari jacket with his legs forced through the sleeves as makeshift pants. And they even let him keep the toy koala.

  ***

  Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. So
much for that shite. The previous evening had been a glory to behold, the cumulonimbus a fiery furnace to rival Hades, the sky ablaze as if God had forgotten to turn off the gas. And the morning was seriously grim. Low petulant clouds, snarling squalls, an intermittent but quickening wind picking up from the north, the sea choppy and unpredictable as hell. At least the fish would be happy. No one in their right mind would be going out in that shit. Least of all him. The only way to look at this sea was through the window of the bar.

  Baby Joe winced as he stood up. Four years and the bastard still hurt. He grabbed his Driza-Bone full-length stockman’s oilskin coat and his Akubra slouch bush hat from the hook behind the door and went out. The wind kicked up as he turned onto the main road, and the rain came in heavy and he had to pull the brim of his hat over his eyes. He turned at the gate and whistled. Drover the blue heeler came bounding out of his kennel, with his ears back. He jumped up and Baby Joe patted him on the head.

  “Shit weather to be out in, Drove,” Baby Joe said.

  Drover looked at him with an expression that was the dog equivalent of saying, “Well, what the fuck are we doing out in it, then?”

  Baby Joe stopped at the mailbox. Inside was a package with a United States postmark.

  “Look at this, Drove. All the way from the good ol’ US of A. And sent express, no less. What do you reckon it is?”

  Drover looked at him with an expression that was the dog equivalent of saying, “I’m a dog. How the fuck should I know?”

  Baby Joe shoved the package into his pocket, and Drover skipped at his heels as he headed down the wharf. The wind billowed and Joe had to step back as the spray came over the breakwater. He looked at the boats jostling in the swell and listened to the pinging of the shrouds against the masts. He had always loved that sound. The windows of the pub were misted as they climbed the short flight of heavy stone stairs to the side door.