Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  Captain P. Parker. LRRP.

  Monsoon took a slug of bourbon, clicked open the catches, and gingerly lifted the top. Just my luck, he thought, there will be a scorpion in here, or some fucking slope death spider or something.

  It had been so long since he had opened the case that Monsoon could not remember exactly what was in it, but he remembered his mother showing it to him when he was a young boy, just arrived in the country. He remembered staring at the shiny medals and looking, uncomprehending, at the photo of the handsome young Negro in the smart uniform and the stiff white hat. A stale, musty smell came from inside the case, and Monsoon tipped its contents out onto the kitchen counter.

  The medals landed on the chipped surface with a loud clank. He grabbed them and held them up to the light, reading them one by one. Purple Heart, Distnguished Service Cross, Legion of Merit, Congressional Medal of Honor.

  Fuck, these gongs must be worth a few hundred bucks, if not more, he thought. What else? An old dress uniform, a bundle of letters tied up with string, and a pile of faded black and white photographs. He thumbed through them.

  Young men in uniform, young men in the jungle, young men on tanks, young men lying on the ground in strange attitudes. White men and black men and Asian men, some smiling, some not. And all with that look in their eyes, that faraway look.

  And pictures of the man he knew to have been his father. His father on a beach in Hawaii on R and R, next to a girl with flowers round her neck and a sign that said Honolulu; his father receiving a medal; his father among low smoking hills with choppers in the background; his father in a bar surrounded by other men and smiling Asian girls; his father in the doorway of a Huey, with the jungle far below him; his father holding a beer; his father holding an M14; his father holding a baby. He looked closely at that one, then tossed the pictures aside and went back to rummaging. There were clothes, and a bayonet in a steel scabbard, and an old Russian camera with Cyrillic script around the lens. And nothing else.

  Fuck it, he thought. Is this what I’ve been keeping all these fucking years? A shit, Stone-Age commie camera and the memories of some bastard I never even knew? He grabbed the case, angrily, to throw it. And something moved. He tipped the case, and it moved again. There was something square and heavy inside the lining. He grabbed the bayonet and tried to pull it from its scabbard, but it was corroded fast. Snatching a knife from the kitchen drawer, he punctured the lining and made a long diagonal cut through its center. An oblong package, a foot long by six inches wide by an inch deep, fell onto the counter. It was hard and heavy and covered in very thick foil.

  Jesus H. fucking Christ, he thought, leaping back in a sudden panic. Plastic explosive.

  He stared at the package glistening in the light from the bare bulb. It did nothing. Approaching cautiously, like a dog approaching a stranger, he studied it. There was printing on the foil, and what appeared to be a motif, or decal, but so badly faded as to be illegible. Over the top, somebody had scratched something into the foil with a nail or a screwdriver, and these words were just about readable. He moved around the table so that he could examine the writing without touching the thing.

  It read: Machine Gun Jelly. Good on yer mate. Woolloomooloo Wal.

  What the fuck is machine gun jelly? And what the hell is a Woolloomooloo supposed to be? Monsoon considered the packet for a long moment. Shit to it. If it was going to explode, it would have gone off when he dropped it. Picking it up, he very carefully made a small triangular incision in the foil and raised the flap. Inside was a dark waxy substance. He poked it with his finger, and it made a very slight indentation. He smelled it, and his eyes widened.

  “Sweet Mary’s Ass!” he said out loud. It was dope. Definitely some kind of dope. Precisely what kind he had no idea, but if it was dope he could sell it, and if he didn’t know what it was, then chances were nobody else would either. And if they didn’t, so much the better. That way he could charge the suckers what he wanted.

  With exaggerated care, he sliced a one-inch strip from the wad. Taking a roll of tin foil from the drawer where he kept his paraphernalia, he resealed the package, wrapped it in a plastic sandwich bag, and put it into his fridge. The one-inch strip he cut into twelve more or less equal chunks, then wrapped them in foil and stashed them in his cket pocket. Downing his drink, he killed the kitchen light and headed for the garage. Minutes later, the old Buick was clattering and coughing down the empty street, heading for the lights of the Strip.

  The claws were out, and the fur was flying thick and fast.

  “Get her. I wouldn’t wear that to a fucking dog fight.”

  “I didn’t know there was a Salvation Army shop in Henderson.”

  “Two-faced? She’s got more faces than Rod Stewart.”

  Crispin and Nigel were sitting together on a plush tiger-stripe sofa in a penthouse just off Tropicana. Crispin was purposely wearing a pair of paisley-pattern Bermuda shorts that would allow him to show off his wound and elicit the proper amount of sympathy, but thus far the reaction had been less than satisfactory. The French doors to the balcony were open, and a gentle breeze ruffled the lace curtains. On the stereo, Rod was singing “The Killing of Georgie,” and a maudlin crew of inebriate stagehands was singing along with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Behind them the lights of the planes and helicopters zoomed to and from the airport, floating through the night sky like slow meteors.

  It was an after-hours show biz affair, and some of the boys and girls of the chorus were still in their paint, a gaudy cocktail of fruits with barely a cherry between them. One of the leading lights from the new show at the Bellagio was holding court in the center of the room, and the younger queens were fluttering around him like hot moths. A rumor was circulating that Aerosmith was coming to the party, and a frisson of excitement passed through the room every time the doorbell rang.

  The hostess, an aging English dowager named Dorothy Deviche (pronounced like ceviche), a fast-fading bloom with the demeanor of a ded parrot, had locked herself into the bathroom and was refusing to come out, claiming that someone had taken advantage of her after she had had just a teensy-weensy bit too much coke and passed out on her bed.

  “She should be so lucky,” whispered Crispin to Nigel. “It would have had to have been fucking Ray Charles!”

  Nigel snickered behind his hand and said, “Crispin, shush.”

  The bell rang, and as the door was opened eager heads turned, hoping to see Steven coming in. But they were all disappointed. What they saw instead was a slight man with dark skin and large almond eyes, wearing frightful clothes, walk across the room, fix himself a drink, move into a corner, and stand there looking nonchalantly around. After an initial flurry of curiosity and catty remarks, the gathering went back to preening and bitching.

  Crispin sipped his gin. “Who on earth is that pleb?”

  “It’s not that golfer fellow, is it?” said Nigel.

  “Heavens, no. You don’t think a famous golf player would be parading round in those rags, do you? Does look a bit like him, though.”

  Ten minutes later, the hostess had been coaxed out of the bathroom and was standing in front of Crispin and Nigel, allowing herself to be consoled. She was pushing sixty, had more lifts than Lake Tahoe, and was wearing a bizarre sequined creation that flashed and winked like a defective Christmas tree. Crispin hailed her with a little grasping motion of his chubby fingers.

  “I say, Dorothy. Lovely party, my dear. Simply lovely. And you look ravishing as always.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling. Those Bermudas are simply divine. But my God, what happened to your leg?”

  “Oh, don’t ask,” said Crispin, happy to have been asked at last. “It was Oberon. He ate some stuff that I had left lying around and he turned into some kind of ravening wild beast. It was dreadful.”

  Crispin went on to recount the whole sorry tale, with Dorothy making the right oohing and aahing noises in the appropriate places, and Nigel chiming in when it got to the pa
rt where he had rescued Crispin’s leg by driving him to the doctor.

  “My God. You poor dear,” said Dorothy at the conclusion to the tale. “And where is he now?”

  “We left him at home, sedated, with an ice pack on his head. I’m taking him to the vet tomorrow to make sure he hasn’t got a concussion.”

  “Well, my advice to you, darling, is to have a stiff gin, and take lots of drugs.”

  “The gin is no problemo, sweetie,” Crispin said, displaying his half-filled glass, “but as for the drugs, I’m afraid my entire stash is inside poor Oberon. We haven’t had time to get more. I don’t suppose…”

  “Well, I’m a bit low myself, luvvie, but you might just have dropped in lucky. You see that little man over there, looks a bit like that handsome golfer what’s-’is-face?”

  “Yes, we were just talking about him.”

  Dorothy started to giggle, making her dewlaps wobble. “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but his name is Monsoon Parker.”

  Crispin, who was just taking a sip of gin, blew like a spouting dolphin, soaking Nigel.

  “Oh, thanks very much,” said Nigel, pouting, looking at the wet spots on his blue satin pants.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” said Crispin, raising his eyebrows.

  Dorothy scooched in between Crispin and the sulking Nigel, and put her hand on Crispin’s thigh. “No. Really, that’s his name.”

  “So who is he? Don’t tell me he’s a friend.”

  “Good God, no. What do you take me for? No. He’s a tradesman.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nigel, too curious now to continue his snit.

  “Oh, don’t be dense, Nigel,” said Dorothy. “He supplies me sometimes.”

  Nigel went back to sulking.

  “How very interesting,” said Crispin. “You must introduce us.”

  “I’ll fetch him,” said Dorothy, shuffling up and stepping across the room, smoothing her dress.

  When she came back with Monsoon in tow he was wearing his best ingratiating smile, which, it has to be admitted, was pretty good as far as ingratiating smiles go.

  “Crispin, Nigel, allow me to introduce you. This is my friend, Monsoon Parker.”

  Only Nigel was unable to suppress a giggle. Monsoon’s smile never wavered.

  Fuck these shirt lifters, he was thinking. They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces after they’ve paid five Cs for what is probably compressed bat shit.

  “Enchanté, brother,” he said, offering his hand. “Definitely pleased to make yo’ acquaintance, my man. Seen yo’ act couple of times. Yeah. It’s a scream, baby, an absolute scream.”

  Crispin gave a nod of appreciation, royalty acknowledging the admiration of a peasant. “Dorothy tells us that you may have something to sell us, Mr. Parker.”

  “Call me Monsoon. I sure do, but it’s very special merchandise. Unique, you might say.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Shouldn’t we go somewhere a little more private?”

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Crispin, tut-tutting. “We are all friends here. What is it? Show us.”

  With a theatrical flourish that he thought appropriate for the company, Monsoon pulled out one of the little packets and unwrapped it before them.

  “Looks like hash. Is it?”

  “Well, not exactly, bro. More of an…opium derivative. But I promise you, it will be like nothing you ever smoked before.”

  “So you smoke it?” said Nigel.

  “Yeah. Melt it a little and spread it on paper, just like oil.”

  Monsoon had to suppress a laugh at the picture that jumped into his head. What if the stuff really was plastic explosive? He imagined this little cocksucker blowing his head off trying to light a Semtex reefer. He bit his lip and continued.

  “Now, there is only one source for this shit, baby. A small region in Southeast Asia. It is very, very potent. You got to be careful, amigo, an’ only use it in very small amounts, at least until you get used to it. Comprende?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Dorothy. “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars an ounce.”

  “WHAT?” blurted Crispin, spraying Nigel with gin again. “Five hundred fucking dollars an ounce. I could get a ticket to Cartagena for that. What part of Israel did you say you came from?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Crispin,” said Nigel, fussing with his newly spotted pants.

  Crispin’s outburst had raised a few eyebrows, and caused a few heads to turn in their direction. Monsoon looked nervously around, and made a calming motion with his hands.

  “Easy, brother. I know it seems a shade high, my man, but once you’ve tried it you will realize it’s worth every cent. And as I said, you only need yea much to get higher than Yuri fucking Gagarin.” Monsoon held his pinched fingers together, to indicate the miniscule quantity required.

  “Who the fuck is Yuri Gagarin?” Nigel said.

  “The first Soviet cosmonaut, you ignoramus,” said Crispin, still looking at the little brown wad in Monsoons hand.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think, Dorothy?”

  “Oh, you know me, dearie. Anything goes.”

  “Nigel?”

  Nigel studiously examined his fingernails. How could he be expected to know anything about Soviet cosmonauts?

  Monsoon played his ace. “If you ain’t sure you can afford it, that’s cool. I know plenty folks that can.”

  Crispin fixed him with a glacial stare and pulled out his billfold, making sure that Monsoon could see how fat it was. He peeled off five hundreds and handed them to Monsoon as if he were handing him a used tissue.

  “This shit had better be as good as you say it is, young man, or there will be repercussions. I am very well connected in this town.”

  Your bum buddy’s butt cheeks are the only thing you’re connected to, you fat turd, Monsoon thought as he took the green, saying, “Don’t worry, Crispy baby. This stuff will have yo’ jockeys inside out in no time. And if it doesn’t, Dorothy knows where to find me. What about you, Dorothy?”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “Never let it be said that Dorothy Deviche was afraid of a new experience. Crispin, be a dear and lend me five till I fetch my purse, would you?”

  Crispin handed the notes to her, who in turn handed them to Monsoon, who passed one of the packets to Dorothy.

  “A distinct pleasure doin’ business with y’all. See you around, ladies. And don’t forget, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “What an objectionable, smelly little object,” said Crispin disdainfully, as he watched Monsoon hot-footing it across the room and out the door.

  “Not the most pleasant of people, I agree,” said Dorothy. “But he comes in handy from time to time. Now, what say we repair to my chambers and give this stuff a try?”

  The three swanned across the increasingly crowded room, exchanging smiles and pleasantries and air kisses as they went. Entering Dorothy’s master bedroom, they locked the door behind them.

  Monsoon Parker was a happy man as he tripped down the stairs to the underground car park. He hoped the shit was legit because Dorothy was a steady customer, and he couldn’t afford to close any more doors. On the other hand, it would be sweet to lay a burn on those other two Nancy boys. Whichever way it panned out, he wasn’t going to worry about it. If it was good stuff, so much the better. If not, fuck ’em. He had more important things to concern himself with. Like the grand nestled snugly in his inside pocket, just itching to get out and into the action.

  Chapter 3

  Where most people have eyes, Don Ignacio Imbroglio had stones. Cold, coal-black stones. Shark’s eyes. Eyes that you almost expected to roll back in his head when he took a bite of his food. There were several reasons for this. One was that he was Sicilian and shared the olive complexion and dark eyes of his race, and another was that he was the most ruthless, cold-hearted, merciless, murdering son of a bitch since Attila the Hun.

  An
other reason was that he was totally blind.

  Of course, this condition was not general knowledge and Don Imbroglio went to very great lengths to ensure that it remained so. After all, Stevie Wonder is loved and admired by millions, but not many people are afraid of him. The Don had not always been sightless, and while clawing his way to supremacy over the bloody remains of his rivals he had had sharper vision than most. He would have thought it ironic, if he thought in such terms, that he could live through Korea, several gang wars, innumerable assassination attempts, and a close brush with the Big C, only to be blinded by an inept chef and a spectacularly botched attempt at a bombe surprise. The chef quickly ended up being surprised by a real bombe, and the Don went into seclusion for a year to recuperate. Such was his indomitable will that he had not only survived but had also overcome his disability, kept it a secret, and maintained his hold on one of the most powerful organizations in the west for twenty years.

  Only his most trusted people and his immediate family, who were installed behind the high walls of a villa in the hills above Palermo and who saw almost as little of the world as he did, knew. Since the accident the Don very rarely left his apartments, and when he was compelled by extreme circumstances to do so, it was always under conditions that would absolutely preclude anyone from discovering his affliction. In his apartments, everything he used and needed was kept in precisely the same place so that, with his practiced movements, he could disguise his condition from his occasional visitor. The lighting was always subdued, visits were always kept brief, and most visitors were usually too intimidated to notice anything but how slowly the time seemed to be passing.

  The Don had the most fearsome of reputations, and it was entirely deserved. He had the instincts of a barracuda, the intellect of a summa cum laude, the manners of an English gentleman, and all the compassion of a Waffen-SS tank commander with a sore ass in a winter shitstorm in a Polish ghetto.