“The what?”
“Ze transformair, ze machine, ze fucking sparklair, ’oo ’as it?”
“The creep does,” said Fanny. “Monsoon Parker. He stole it from Hyatt after Hyatt swiped it from Khuy. I was just trying to get it back for Khuy.”
Some surreal game of spoof was taking place, with everyone trying to figure out what everybody else was up to.
Khuy was looking from one face to the other, trying to read their expressions, strenuously wrestling with his desire to start throwing people off the tower, beginning with Fanny, while simultaneously strenuously wrestling with his desire to believe Fanny, all the while castigating himself for being a sucker, and keeping any leftover brain capacity for figuring out how to get his hands on the goods first, and trying to guess who really had them. He was also trying to figure out how many of the people up there pretending to be tourists were actually Nightingale’s people, in case he had to start getting physical.
Hyatt was stalling and sweating, hoping that Low Roll and Hard D would get into position and take care of Zalupa before his uncle’s simmering bitch’s brew of rage bubbled over and he started severing family ties. And family throats. But if Alphonso saw Zalupa go down, he would realize that Hyatt had the drop on him, and would be compelled to reconsider the consequences of unsound business practices, and play the deal straight. Then the shine would be easy to take care of, and he could turn Fanny over to Alphonso as a sweetener.
Alphonso’s brain was performing mental chiropractic, clicking facts into alignment like vertebral discs. Fanny’s presence, of course, explained why Antonio Lo Vuolo had dropped off the radar, and her relationship to Hyatt was made clear by the video of her using the R3 that Hyatt had sent him. Hyatt’s pantalon-pissing reaction when he saw the Russian made it obvious that there was some dastardly double-crossing afoot. What wasn’t clear was how come all these people suddenly crashed the party, or how they’d even found out about it—but they had to be dealt with before the Zouave showed up. But the timing had to be right. The time to act would be when he got the call from his people that Monsoon was in sight, then he could give the signal. As for Fanny, she looked so magnificent up there, framed against the blue Parisian sky with her hair blowing in the wind, that he was seriously toying with the idea of forgiving her. After he had tortured her to find out where his diamonds were, of course.
Fanny was looking remarkably serene, but the permutations were bouncing around in her brain like popcorn. She knew she could slink her way out of it, but it was like defusing a bomb. If you didn’t cut the wires in the right sequence, adiós ass. She knew that Nightingale was on home turf, obviously had backup, and had the upper hand at the moment, but she couldn’t start schmoozing him too heavily in case Khuy did a Vesuvius. And where were the two boys from the bathtub, and what did Hyatt have up his snotty little sleeve? As she was wondering whom to pucker up to, the situation took the turn from Strangeville to Weird City, missed the light, and ended up in Insaneola.
First, Hyatt fell over. Sound travels a mile in approximately five seconds. That meant that by the time the faint, distant pop of the rifle reached his ears, he didn’t hear it, because he had already been dead for nine and a half seconds. Alphonso reached inside his coat, and three people started to close in quickly. Basilisk appeared from behind a group of schoolchildren and rushed forward. Khuy moved with a speed that took everyone by surprise. He slapped Alphonso in the mush and grabbed Fifi Foufette. He cocked his arm like a quarterback, with the dog clenched like a ball in his hairy fist. Alphonso looked stricken.
“Give gun, or dog go over,” Khuy said. “And tell gorilla move back.”
“Do as ’e says,” Alphonso snapped. The three people, two men and a woman, stopped and began to ease backward. Basilisk stood his ground, glaring at Khuy.
“Basilisk,” Nightingale hissed.
Basilisk backed off. Alphonso slid the gun out and handed it over, butt-first.
“Fanny. Go elevator. If you telling me truth, wait downstairs. If you no there, I know truth, and you know what happen.”
Fanny moved over to the elevator. Khuy and Alphonso stared at each other in silence. Alphonso had blood running from his nose. The dog squirmed and whimpered. Khuy pinched it. It yelped. Alphonso took a step forward, but Khuy stopped him with a look. The staring match resumed. It was a surreal scene. One group frozen in a tense tableau, isolated among the sightseers milling about oblivious to the fuse that burned among them, as if existing in some alternate dimension.
Khuy waited until the elevator doors closed behind Fanny, and then began to edge toward the stairs. A woman screamed. People craned their necks and began to approach. A spreading pool of blood had gathered around Hyatt’s head. Khuy used the people as a screen. He shot the lock off the door at the top of the stairs and kicked it open. People began screaming and scattering when they heard the shots. Alphonso came running up. Basilisk was right behind.
“Don’ worry, ma chérie,” Alphonso called out to the struggling dog. “Papa will save you.”
“I no think so, pizda,” Khuy said, pitching the dog over the railing. Alphonso screamed and ran to the rail. The woman and the two men followed. Basilisk turned his head and looked back at Khuy, just in time to see himself shot in the gut. Alphonso watched in horror as Fifi Foufette plummeted through the air like an albino bat and zinged into the crowd below.
He raced to the top of the stairs with murder in his tearstained eyes. He stepped over the fallen Basilisk and started shooting blindly down the stairwell. But Khuy Zalupa was long gone. When Khuy Zalupa got to the bottom of the stairs, so was Fanny.
Chapter 19
On November 21st in 1783, in the grounds of the Château de la Muette on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, Benjamin Franklin was staring upward, as a big blue-and-golden balloon designed by the Montgolfier brothers, and carrying Pilâtre de Rozier and the Marquis d’Arlandes in what was the first-ever manned, untethered balloon flight, floated slowly overhead. It was not recorded what old Ben was thinking at that moment, but it was probably something like, “Are these French bastards out to lunch, or what?”
Two hundred and twenty-five years later, Crispin Capricorn and Asia Birdshadow were standing very close to that spot, staring upward as a flotilla of multicolored balloons bubbled with solemn insolence through the late afternoon sky. Next to them was a tethered balloon with a sign in eight languages announcing thirty-minute joyrides.
“Oh, come on, Crispin,” Asia was saying. “Stop being such a blouse. It’ll be fun. What a way to see Paris.”
“I’m not getting in that fucking thing.”
“They give you champagne.”
“I don’t care if they give you diamonds and blow jobs. No way, José.”
“All right, then. Be a chicken. I’m going. See ya.” Asia held out her hand and allowed the balloonist to help her into the basket.
There was only one other passenger. He was staring out toward the racecourse as if deep in some reverie. Or maybe just shitting himself. A couple dozen balloons were already in the air, glistening in the bright sun, striped and spotted, speckled, orange and gold and blue, green and yellow, a rainbow flock of fat, beautiful birds soaring into the blue sky. The gondolier reached for the guy rope.
“Wait, wait,” Crispin shouted. “Wait for me.”
He flubbered over to the basket. The pilot struggled to half-help, half-heave him over the side.
Crispin gave Asia an arch look. “So?” he said with his eyebrows raised. “I changed my mind.”
Asia laughed at him. “By the time we land you’ll probably need to change your underwear.”
“You’re talking to bold Captain Capricorn, king of the air,” he said.
“King of the hot air,” Asia said.
As the balloon lurched into the air, Crispin instantly regretted his decision. He closed his eyes and gripped the rail. His stomach churned and his knees began to tremble. It swooped into the sky much faster than he had expected. From the ground the balloon
s looked so serene, but from up in the basket if felt like being carried off by a giant rocket. The gentlest of breezes that swayed the basket felt like a tropical cyclone, and the sturdy, high-tech basket felt like a frail eggshell that he was certain he was going to fall though.
“Crispin,” Asia said, “open your eyes, you pansy. We haven’t paid thirty euros each just so you can look at the inside of your eyelids.”
Crispin forced himself to open one eye. The other opened automatically. All of Paris lay below him, gleaming in the sun like a fairytale landscape of princes and princesses, with castles and spires stretching into the distance and the silver Seine snaking through the center, and the mighty tower standing proud like the magician’s lair. He half expected to see a dragon winging through the cloudless sky.
“Oh, wow. Oh, my. Oh my God. I don’t believe it. I think I’m going to cry. This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Pass the fucking champagne.”
Crispin assailed the bottle. After five minutes he was feeling euphoric and heroic at the same time. He looked over to where the third passenger still stood against the rail.
“Asia,” he whispered, “that man hasn’t moved. I’ll bet he’s scared. Ha.”
“Crispin, five minutes ago you were shitting yourself, and now you’re the fucking laughing cavalier. The poor man. I’m going to talk to him.”
“I think he’s got something wrong with his neck,” Crispin said, a little too loud.
Asia noticed that the man was carrying his head at a peculiar angle, like someone supporting a cell phone with his chin.
“Shh, Crispin,” she said.
She walked up to the man. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you all right?”
That was when she realized why the man carried his neck at such a funny angle.
***
Baby Joe couldn’t move. He stared straight ahead. There were colors floating against the green background. His eyes were fixed on them, as if nothing else existed. He felt the pressure. Enclosing him, building and growing stronger as the colors got closer. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. There was a roaring in his ears. Unintelligible. There were words, but they had no meaning. He couldn’t understand them.
The colors resolved themselves into individual jockeys. The horses came around the turn, and into the straight. Baby Joe put his hands on the rail and pushed against the mass of people surging forward to see the finish. That noise came and went. The thundering of the hooves, the flying turf, the smell of the hoof-scythed grass. The cheers, the shouts, the imprecations. You didn’t need to be able to speak French to figure out what they meant.
Baby Joe smiled. He forced himself back into the moment. Think about the races. Guys that win drink champagne. Guys that lose drink beer. And Monsoon Parker—fucking beer tent for sure.
It was much easier than Baby Joe expected. Then again, some people just like red shirts and baseball caps.
“I guess picking ’em ain’t any easier over here, huh?”
“You got that right, bro—What the fuck?”
“Hey, Monsoon?”
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“Is that an existentialist question?”
Monsoon looked perplexed.
“Never mind. Shit, what happened to you? You look like you kissed a moose.”
“You don’t wanna fuckin’ know.”
“So what’s the score?”
“Oh. I was winning. Three in a fucking row.”
“You know what I’m fucking talking about. The Easy, then Moscow, and now here. What’s that all about?”
“Yeah. Big coincidence, huh?”
“Listen, numbnuts, don’t make me get physical. I’m on vacation. People are chasing each other all over the goddamned world, and shooting each other, and you’re right in the middle of it, as per fucking usual, and now so am I. So let’s make a deal. You tell me, in precise detail, everything that’s going on, and why, and I won’t tear you a new asshole and throw in a colostomy bag for free.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you what I know. But we gonna be civilized about this, and suck back a couple?”
“For old times’ sake?”
“For old times’ sake.”
Baby Joe grinned, despite himself. “You know what? Why not?”
They went over to a table, hard by the tight-stretched canvas. Baby Joe loved the smell. Racecourses were the same all over the world. Even with your eyes closed you knew where you were. The waiter brought beer.
“So,” Monsoon said. ”Here we are again.”
“If you say ‘small world’ I’ll punch your fucking lights out.”
“I thought we were being civilized. Been making some time, I see, bro.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You got fucking face powder all over your coat.”
Baby Joe looked down and smiled ruefully. “Yeah. I was in some gin joint over in Place Pigalle and this hooker sat next to me and sneezed her powder all over me. Asia’s never gonna fuckin’ believe it.”
“Asia. You two still together?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we are. But this ‘old times’ shit don’t make us buddies, Monsieur fucking Parker. I trust you about as far as a mosquito can fart in a hurricane, so spill.”
Monsoon took a long swig from his bottle while he gave himself time to come up with a suitable lie. A movement caught his eye. He almost choked.
“Hey, Baby Joe,” he managed to say. “Can I say ‘It’s a small world’ now?”
“Why?”
“Khuy Zalupa just walked in.”
The dragon that lived in Baby Joe’s soul was old and weary. It slept most of the time. Sometimes he almost forgot that it was there—until something stirred it from its slumber and released its ancient rage. Like the demon that lived in Khuy Zalupa’s soul, for example. As the two men faced each other, calmly gazing into each other’s eyes, each immediately aware that he stood opposite a man with a capacity for violence equal to his own and, should his strength need to be tested, the outcome would hang in the balance, the two beasts screeched at each other, howling in ageless enmity.
“Well. Fucking small world. Look good for dead man. Except for face look like inside toilet bowl in cholera epidemic.”
“How did you find me?” Monsoon said.
“Slug leave slime trail. So why you ain’t dead?”
A waiter walked past. Baby Joe signaled for more beer. He turned to Khuy. “You want one?”
“Nyet. No like beer. Hey, you, pedik. Bring vodka.”
The waiter assumed that facial expression that only French waiters can do properly. He pointed to the sign. “Is monsieur not able to read, per’aps? Zis is a beer tent.”
Zalupa grabbed the waiter by the nuts. “You no able hear, perhaps. Bring fucking vodka, pizda. Bottle.”
Khuy shoved a bunch of notes into the man’s top pocket and pushed him away. “Stick and carrot. Always get donkey move, da? Now, fucking Hyatt?”
“I don’t know where he is!”
“Bullshit.” He turned to Baby Joe. “So why you in this shit city?”
“I’m sightseeing. What about you?”
“I look four things. Hyatt, R3, Fab 13, and whore.”
“Whore? You’re in the wrong part of town, pal. You need to be over by Pigalle.”
“I mean one particular whore. Fanny. Fanny Lemming.”
“Fanny Lemming? The writer?” Baby Joe said.
Khuy Zalupa’s natural facial expression, when his face was in repose, was one of deep suspicion. He cranked it up a notch. “You know her?”
“Not personally.”
“You know where is she?”
“I know where she was this morning. My woman saw her getting into a cab, outside the Ritz, with three guys.”
“So what your angle?”
“I don’t have one. I’m looking for the heart of the beast so I can stab it, before it fucks my life up any more.”
“I don’t know no fucking beast
. Only animal I know is this one, and I need him help me find what I want.”
“So do I.”
Khuy spat onto the grass. He looked at Monsoon. “You fucking come with me.”
“Stay where you are, Monsoon.”
“You better mind you own business, mudak.”
“You forgot to say ‘or else.’ If you really want to intimidate someone, you have to say ‘or else.’”
Monsoon looked from one man to the other. It wasn’t a reassuring sight. Zalupa looked like he could go a few rounds with Hellboy, but Monsoon knew what Baby Joe could do. You could almost hear the squealing tension, like nails on a blackboard, or a freight train with the brakes jammed on. The dragon and the demon hissed and shrieked from their soul cages, frantic to be at each other. Monsoon wasn’t sure what the line was, or who he thought would win if it came to it, but he was sure that he had to get the fuck away from those psychos pronto and get to the meet, and that if he managed to start something he might get the chance to run for it. He tried to pour a little oil on the fire.
“If you want me, you’re gonna have to fucking take me, pizza face,” he said.
Zalupa turned a glance on Monsoon that was so full of undiluted malice that he actually felt his bladder loosen. But he didn’t move. Instead he smiled. It was even more piss-in-your-pants-inducing than the glare.
“Nice try, sambo,” he said, getting up slowly without taking his eyes off Baby Joe. “Nice meet you. Next time we meet, and trust me, will be next time, won’t be nice. Ponyal.”
Zalupa backed away from the table slowly, just as the waiter rushed up with a bottle of vodka. Zalupa grabbed it, guzzled half of it without taking his eyes off Baby Joe, poured the rest slowly and meaningfully out onto the grass, dropped the bottle, and turned and walked out.
“Shit,” Monsoon said, suddenly able to breathe again. “I never figured on him to back down.”
“He didn’t,” Baby Joe said. “So, now that we’ve got the pleasantries over with, start fucking talking, before I change my mind and hand you over to laughing boy.”
The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) Page 38
