The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2)

by Norwood, Shane

  See? It had started already.

  ***

  A basic rule of dining out: If you expect to go home without a case of botulism and without having a phlegm wad secreted in your Chicken Kiev, don’t be rude to the waiters. More especially, do not be rude to the maître d’. The maître d’ does not view himself as a servant; he views himself as an expert collaborator whose job it is to cooperate with you in ensuring that you enjoy a memorable dining experience. So whatever you do, don’t call him “boy.” This rule especially applies in countries that, until recently, didn’t have much of a customer service culture. Russia, for example. But then, Crispin had never been to Russia before, so how was he supposed to know?

  Crispin looked like a six-month-old penguin chick. He was wearing a fluffy white astrakhan coat and a boyar hat, which he had bought at a discount from a man in the car park at the airport who had a load of such items in the trunk of his Lada, and who had assured him that the hat had been worn by Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago.

  As always, Crispin had insisted on the best, so they were staying at the Leningradskaya Hotel and eating at Johannes Places on Tverskoy Boulevard, seated at a table for two under a huge picture window. The flight over had been dreadful. Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with the flight itself, but Asia had been so tearful the whole way that Crispin had not been able to distract or reassure her. She was in the grip of an increasing sense of desperation and helplessness, exacerbated by a sense of foreboding that Baby Joe was going to suffer some harm, that something bad was going to happen to him as a consequence of a chain of events that she herself had set in motion or due to an unwonted vulnerability or recklessness engendered by her own rejection of him. She knew in her heart that the only way to forestall it was to put her arms around him, and make him all right again so that he could make her whole again.

  The fact that she had not revealed the true extent of the psychological and emotional damage she had suffered did not help, nor did the fact that Crispin himself was concealing a hysterical neurotic in his psyche, a traumatized basketcase who was liable to leap out of his emotional closet at any given moment and shout “boo” before suffering a complete cranial meltdown. They were two fractured personalities quivering on the edge of the drop with only each other to cling to, and they really had no business cavorting around the streets of a foreign city on a wild goose chase that had little chance of success and contained the potential to push them both over the top completely.

  But for better or worse, there they were. So he had brought her to what was generally considered the best restaurant in Moscow as part of his continuing effort to make her feel better.

  “So,” Crispin said. “All we have to do is find a person who may or may not be here, in a city of eleven and half million people, where we don’t speak the language, don’t know anybody, and have absolutely no idea where to begin. Piece of cake.” He stared at Asia and pointedly sipped his Black Russian.

  “Crispin, don’t be sarcastic now, please. I can’t handle it. I know how difficult it will be to find Baby Joe, but you knew that, and if you didn’t believe we could do it, you shouldn’t have come.”

  “I didn’t come to find Baby Joe. Personally, I don’t believe Baby Joe needs finding. I came to give you moral support, whether we find him or not, and especially if we don’t find him.”

  Asia reached out and touched Crispin’s fat hand. “I know, Crispin. I’m sorry. Please don’t let’s quarrel. I’m just not myself.”

  “I know, pumpkin. Listen. Let’s enjoy our dinner and have a few drinks, or maybe more than a few, and we can start early in the morning. We can hire someone to translate, and we can call the hotels, and you said Baby Joe was working with our government so we can check with the Embassy and they’ll be sure to know something. Okay?”

  Asia smiled at him. “Okay. We can do this, can’t we Crispin?”

  “Most certainly we can. Now, two more Black Russians, I think. Or would you prefer a White Russian this time?”

  After a few vodkas flowed, Asia started to feel imbued with a renewed sense of hope and optimism, and the ambience started to work its charm on her, and she was almost enjoying herself. After a few more vodkas flowed, she was on the good foot, getting down on it, with her mojo working, and about ready to do the funky chicken.

  Anyway you looked at it, the joint was cooking. The food was sublime, the service excellent, the music ridiculously romantic, the décor and attention to detail wonderful, and there was absolutely nothing at all that any reasonable person could possibly complain about, and Crispin was as enchanted with the place as the place was enchanting.

  The trouble didn’t start until halfway through the dessert, when a guy with a violin came up to their table and started to play a selection of Prokofiev, and something about Peter and the Wolf tripped a switch in Crispin’s noodle and switched it to weird-out mode.

  ***

  Fanny watched her image gradually appear as the condensation faded from the mirror. She felt sad. Something undefined ached inside her. It was the kind of feeling you got sometimes when you looked at an old photograph. She looked at her body. She studied her face. She was still a fine-looking woman. Still beautiful. Still sensual. But the frost of fall was upon the rose. As yet, it expressed itself only in the subtlest of ways, but she could feel the autumn breeze. Soon the leaves would begin to turn.

  Well, if these were the last days of summer, she was sure as hell going to make the best of them. She went to her closet and opened her underwear drawer. She put on black silk-seamed stockings and a suspender belt. She went back to the mirror and did her make-up, but not after her usual fashion. She plastered it on, brash and gaudy, heavy black Cleopatra eyes and bright red lipstick. She painted rouge on her cheeks so that she looked like a china doll. Or a whore. She put on red stilettos. She pulled a chair up to the mirror, put her feet up on the sink, and painted her labia bright red. She smiled at herself.

  She slinked over to the bar and popped a bottle of champagne, then took her glass over to a deep satin-covered armchair and sat down. She turned out the light.

  Through the windows she could see the lights of the airplanes passing in the distance on the way to the airport. The light from the lamps outside on the street glowed softly in her hair. It was silent. She sipped her champagne and began to touch herself, ever so gently stroking her clitoris. She half-closed her eyes and waited for the sound of Khuy’s footsteps on the wooden floor of the hall. They came. She heard the key in the door and stood up as it began to open, and she walked up to put her arms around Khuy and open herself to him.

  Except it wasn’t Khuy.

  ***

  “You’re where now?”

  “St. Petersburg, with Hyatt.”

  “What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell us you were going?”

  Endless Lee had patched his phone onto the big screen, so both he and Momo could see Sebastian Type.

  “It was a short-notice deal, man. I needed a particle accelerator to make some tests. For this kind of bread, we need to be real sure, right? Anyway, I’m in this, like, top-fucking-secret military installation. Your man Zalupa’s got some serious juice, let me tell you.”

  “So, what’s the verdict?”

  “Fucking buy it. Pronto. It’s a hundred percent legit.”

  “Are you sure that the gizmo is the only one?”

  “Yeah, for two reasons. One, they don’t have the tech here for proliferation. Two, fucking Hyatt is not as smart as he thinks he is. It’s not that easy. Even for me. I figure we’re about three months away from having the systems in place for mass production. Momo will have to patent the reproduction technique as well as the R3.”

  “Okay, so we’re good to go. When will you be back?”

  “I’m not coming back to Moscow. I’m heading straight back to the States, first flight tomorrow morning. There’s some shit I got to get cracking with.”

  “Okay. Momo and me’ll take care of this end, and we’ll see
you back home.” Endless Lee hung up and turned to Momo. “All right, then. Showtime. Call Huckleberry and tell him to meet us in the usual spot, around nine.”

  In the next room, Hyatt also hung up. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a vodka over ice. He went back to the DVD and flicked on the R3.

  “Damn, I’m good,” he said out loud, laughing as he watched the replay of the late, lamented Sebastian Type convincing the Americans to part with approximately one gazillion dollars.

  ***

  Oleg sat behind the wheel, watching the other car pull away. He could see the American in the back, talking to the interpreter. Funny how you could tell, even from behind, and in that light, that he was an American. Something about the way he held his head. A kind of undefeatable optimism. Oleg was confused. And surprised. He didn’t know Americans were so smart. How could he know the things that were in Oleg’s mind, when Oleg wasn’t really sure about them himself? He looked down at the case. All that money. He should be happy, right? It was what he wanted, right? It was the way it had to be. It was survival. It was smart. So why did he feel so bad? He took up the bottle and drained half of it. Fuck it. It was done. There was no going back.

  Oleg turned the key, jammed the car into gear, and pulled out without looking, ignoring the screeching of tires and the angry honking of horns.

  ***

  “Calculate the entire mobile phone turnover for a year and triple it, add in the combined revenues of Fox sports and the Disney Corporation, and stick Pablo Escobar’s laundry bill in the hat, just for good measure, and you’ll have a rough idea of the kind of dough-re-mi we’re talking about here. I’m talking astro-fucking-nomical, galactic-financial-insanity amounts of money.”

  Huckleberry Hicks, Endless Lee, and Momo Bibbs were sitting in a “gentlemen’s club” near Red Square, but gentlemen were thin on the ground. Maybe Tuesday nights were gorilla night. The prices were steep, even by clip joint standards, but Endless wasn’t there for the facilities. He dropped a couple of centuries on one of the bouncers to keep the flies away so he could talk business.

  “So, what’s it gonna set ya back?” Huckleberry asked.

  “Oh, about ten cents.”

  “Whaddaya talkin’ about?”

  “I believe that’s about the cost of a nine-mill slug, no?”

  “You mean…”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’m going to pay a king’s ransom for something I can just take, do you? Who’s going to ask questions if another Russian mobster gets himself blown away? You’re going to clip the sonofabitch.”

  “You are shittin’ me, right? You seen the army of fuckin’ goons around the place? The Green Berets couldn’t take Zalupa down in there.”

  “The goons won’t be there. I bought them a ticket to the movies, if you see what I’m saying. I’ve been talking to one of his boys. The word is that Zalupa is losing his grip.”

  “Shit. I’m surprised. I thought you were a fuckin’ bean counter.”

  “I am. But you have to have beans in order to be able to count ’em. Nice guys don’t get the corner Learjet. Capisce?”

  “So you got a plan?”

  “Yeah. My plan to pay a batshit loco killer like you to take care of it. All I do is create world-changing technology. Creating stiffs is your area of expertise. Play it any way you figure, Huck. Get ’er done. Just don’t blow your cover. We ain’t done with that yet.”

  Huckleberry grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Consider it done.”

  Endless nodded and stood up. “Okay guys, I gotta go. Catch you later.”

  He winked and headed out the door. Out of respect for Endless, Momo and Huckleberry waited until he had gone before they ordered a magnum of champagne and four Baltic beauties.

  ***

  Even in his current distracted state, Zalupa could not fail to notice that there was no police car outside his house, no guards at the gate, and all the lights were off. He called Oleg for the fourth time since he left the bridge, but there was still no answer. Any other time he would have waited and called some muscle, but this wasn’t any other time. Fanny was inside.

  He pulled his piece and sidled round to the back gate. Behind a column, there was a secret door that only he knew about. He slipped through and moved diagonally across the lawn until he was under the windows of the kitchen. There was a cellar with two wooden doors set at an angle. He unlocked them and slipped through. He felt his way to the bottom of the stairs that led up into the kitchen. He took his shoes off, climbed up to the door, pulled it to take the pressure off, and opened it. He crawled out onto the tiles, rolled to the side, and lay still. He heard nothing.

  There was a service hatch that opened into the dining room. Zalupa squeezed through it, then sat back against the wall, waiting to see if anyone was watching the kitchen door. Nothing. He eased across the parquet floor, went through the double door on his belly, and quickly moved to the foot of the stairs. Still there was not a sound. He was conscious of his heart beating fast in his chest, and took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. As he put his foot on the first step, he felt something wet soaking into his sock. He knew it wasn’t water. He rushed the wall, took cover behind the banister, and flicked the switch.

  He was momentarily distracted by the fact that the pool of blood, slightly congealed at the edges, but viscous and wrinkled in the middle, formed a remarkably accurate representation of Italy, right down to the islands of Sicily and Sardinia. He took the stairs three at a time, and barged, gasping for breath, into the bedroom. It was empty.

  Fanny wasn’t there. Nor were her clothes. Nor were the R3 or the Fab 13. Khuy didn’t jump to a conclusion…he leapt to one. He hurled himself full stretch into the gaping void of the dark and undeniable truth that lay before him.

  Khuy Zalupa turned out the light, and stood in the darkness hearing the blood rushing through his veins. As he stood there, the tender vines that had grown around his heart withered and died, and the fire that had entered his soul turned to ashes, and an intense, vitriolic hatred swept into his tortured mind, a bubbling bile of evil so vile that he was in that moment transformed into a thing possessed, a foul creature so pent with rage and vengeance that the Devil himself danced with glee, and the person that he had been before he met Fanny Lemming was as a rollicking puppy compared to the man who walked slowly and heavily back down the darkened staircase. In his demented state, he failed to notice that the downstairs lights had been turned off again.

  ***

  Monsoon was delirious. And not in the ecstatic sense. No gypsy women in flimsy skirts danced in circles around the campfire that was his brain, with the intoxicating scent of their pudendas wafting into his dilated nostrils. But there was most definitely a giant that stood on the hillside and pissed under the moonlight, and the shining river thereby formed was the sweat that flowed from him and soaked the rough sheets of the cot where Yevgeny had laid him. The soup and bread that that kind man had given him lay untouched on the crude floor. He was beset by lurid dreams and visions but yet he knew not if he were awake or asleep, and although the putative existence of genetic memory was a concept lost on Monsoon Parker, to whom the only meaningful form of memory would be the sequence of a slug of cards dropped by a bent dealer at the Nugget on Friday night, whether in quickness or in slumber he could not deny the apparent and vivid reality of the images that paraded beneath his flickering eyelids, in which he walked down a black tunnel and heard an explosion and smelled smoke and looked behind and a huge bullet loomed out of the darkness and he tried to run but the bullet got closer and closer and he closed his eyes but nothing happened. He opened his eyes again, and saw a beautiful Asian lady and a handsome black man, walking hand in hand down a lane filled with paper lanterns and cherry blossoms, and the air smelled of smoke and sesame oil, and he ran after them shouting “Mama” and “Papa” but they did not stop or turn around, and he could not keep up with them, and he started to cry, but then a huge frightening whooshing sound came, a
nd he looked up and saw a helicopter, and hard men stared down at him, but their stares were not unfriendly and one of them reached down and so Monsoon held out his hand and took a hold of the other’s, and he suddenly realized why he felt so heavy, because he carried a full pack and ammo and his boots were wet and the webbing was gone from his helmet so that it sat cold and hard upon his head. He looked around at the other men, and they were laughing and smiling, and there was loud music playing, and he heard “Woolly Bully” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, and he was happy, and safe, and among men who knew what to do, no matter what, and as the helicopter rose into the air, the sun shone on his dog tag and he took it in his hand and read the engraved words by the bright light reflected from the silver and they read “Captain Philip Parker,” and he smiled and was happy, but then some evil wasps buzzed up from the ground with blinding speed and stung him in the chest and he fell out of the door of the chopper and he tumbled toward the ground, but as he did so, he started to laugh because he suddenly realized it was all a dream, a silly shitheel nonsense dream about things and people who had nothing to do with him, and that Monsoon Parker would wake up and be okay and all the bullshit would go away, and he would not have to cry as he fell because he loved people he had never loved or knew people that had never known, because they had not known or loved him, because if they did the stupid motherfuckers would not have gotten themselves killed for nothing and left him alone in a hard and friendless world, and so he laughed because he knew it was all a big bullshit dream and he laughed as he watched the beautiful and true images from the real world parade before his eyes and Cool Hand Luke filled an inside straight against the Cincinnati Kid, and Lauren Bacall kissed him and told him all he had to do was whistle and Humphrey Bogart punched him in the mouth and told him not to get smart and he stood in the dusty street and reached for his iron but Rooster Cogburn was too fast for him and filled him full of lead and he lay there gasping in the hot sand staring up at the blinding sun but he did not blink and it was only then that Monsoon Parker understood that he was not dreaming, and he knew then that he was dying.