Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  His neighbors were transients and illegals, welfare cases, and a host of other unfortunates who had been sucker-punched by life, who had either never gotten a fair deal from the big croupier in the sky, or who had drawn to twelve, with the dealer showing a six, and gotten a ten. Everywhere windows were barred and steel grates covered doors. On every wall, arcane graffiti ciphers proclaimed their grim and colorful warnings. Empty bottles, tin cans, and Styrofoam cups rolled in the streets, the byproducts of an unforgiving consumerism, just like the people who had left them there. Sirens and helicopters, breaking glass, and the occasional gunshot filled the bleak nights with their unchained melody.

  It was the perfect environment for Monsoon’s small-time pushing business. The majority of his neighbors were also his customers, and only the needy, desperate, or foolhardy ever went down there. Normally the only vehicles in the neighborhood newer than ten years old were squad cars, and Crispin’s pink Lexus was about as inconspicuous as a crocodile turd on a pool table. Crispin would never have come to such a place after dark, and even in the sweltering brightness of afternoon he was jittery. He would not have come at all except under these exceptional circumstances.

  As soon as he had pulled up to the curb, the car had been surrounded by a crew of sinister children adopting bizarre gangsta poses, hooded and capped and draped in ill-fitting sports clothing, like a race of malevolent basketball-playing dwarfs. As he climbed from the car, rocking the suspension and holding Oberon in front of him like a weapon, the leader stepped forward, his Lakers shirt down to his knees and his shorts down to his ankles, like Sammy Davis Junior in Kobe’s uniform. Oberon growled, a sound calculated to strike terror into the heart of the most hardened gang member. The crew burst into gales of laughter, their flinty juvenile eyes watching Crispin melting in the heat and the fear.

  “Yo, Mistah,” said baby Kobe, “You wan’ we should watch yo’ ride? Hate to see anythin’ happen to nice wheels like these.”

  “Why, er…yes. That is very kind of you. I won’t be very long. I’ll give you something when I come out.”

  “We know,” said baby Kobe, and again laughter riffled through the pack, laughter that had pushed Crispin all the way to the door.

  Inside, Monsoon was saying, “What can I do for you Crispin? I suppose you are here about the stuff I sold you?”

  “Yes, Monsoon, I most certainly am.”

  The words “Fuck off” were already forming on Monsoon’s lips when Crispin said, “Yes. I need some more.”

  “You do?”

  “Monsoon, that was absolutely the best shit I’ve ever smoked.”

  In his head, Monsoon heard the loud joyous ringing of a cash register. The price went up to a six hundred an ounce.

  “I told you it was some serious shit, bro.”

  “Mr. Parker, I’ve never smoked anything even remotely like it. I just have to have some more.”

  Seven-fifty an ounce, and counting.

  “Tell me more, my man.”

  “Well. Dorothy had some, too. And if Radio Dorothy knows, Las Vegas knows. She’s a more reliable source of information than the Revue Journal. So I wanted to get round here, before they start knocking down your door.”

  Crispin, my man, Monsoon thought, an entertainer you are. A businessman you ain’t. A straight grand an ounce, sucker.

  “Well, Crispy baby, I’d like to help you, but see, the shit sellin’, man, and I’ve only got a couple ounces left. An’ see, the thing is, I don’t know when I can get any more.”

  “Shit. Okay, I’ll take those two.”

  “They yours, baby, but it’s goin’ to cost you two grand, my man. Simple case of supply and demand.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Crispin.

  “No, sir, you dealing with Monsoon Parker. Jesus couldn’t make it. Two grand, yes or no? C’mon, Crispy, you know you goin’ to sell half.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. This is going to be all mine. You are a shameless bandit, Monsoon, but all right.”

  “Okay. Sit tight. I’ll be a minute. Have a chair.”

  Monsoon went through a door at the back, and Crispin looked in disgust at the grimy sofa. Taking his handkerchief from his top pocket, he carefully spread it on the discolored cushion, and lowered himself down. Momentarily, Monsoon returned with a package and a bottle.

  “Drink?” he said.

  “No thanks. I really must get along. Here’s your money.”

  Monsoon took the proffered bills, flicked through them like a deck of cards, stuffed them into his pocket, and handed Crispin the packet. Crispin grabbed Oberon, and waited while all the locks and bolts were clicked and clunked. He said a hasty goodbye, dispensing with the air kiss on hygiene grounds, and bustled out to where the basketball dwarfs were arrayed around his car. He managed to get away with only giving them twenty dollars, and was soon speeding gratefully back down the freeway to his pad.

  Behind his locked door, Monsoon was dancing a little jig. Taking his drink into the kitchen, he took out a set of scales, and weighed the remainder of his stash. Two pounds, three ounces. Thirty-five grand! Halle-fucking-lujah. Thirty-five thousand motherfucking dollars. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more. Got to put this stuff someplace safer.

  He swallowed his bourbon, took down his threadbare cket from a hook behind the door, put the .38 in the side pocket, and headed for the garage.

  When the late, late crowd spilled out of other bars, the Black Tarantula Cocktail Corner was where they spilled into. In the kind of place where creeps go to socialize with other creeps, you were guaranteed to meet a better class of lowlife. It never closed; you could acquire, or arrange to have acquired for you, just about anything that anyone could possibly wish to acquire—and short of actual murder on the premises, all forms of human interaction were tolerated. The Black Tarantula used to have a real tarantula in a big glass jar on the bar, but someone had eaten it. The light in the Black Tarantula was baby-shit yellow, and twisted skeins of smoke writhed slowly upwards towards the cupola ceiling like midnight spirits in a Celtic graveyard. Cigarettes and joints winked at each other from dark corners, and the jukebox reflected its voodoo colors from the sleeve-polished bar. From a back room, a vicious swamp guitar whined with evil intent and a raw, angry female voice bit off jagged pieces from the night. From a deep shadow in the corner, under dead neon, a ragged butterfly wafted her wings at no one in particular and softly sang to herself, sad songs of better days.

  Bugle Buchanan was sitting at the bar, ostensibly minding his own business as he sipped his gin, but actually closely earwigging a conversation that was taking place at a nearby table between a couple of none-too-convincing transvestites and some weird, Chinese-looking spade that Bugle recognized.

  Nobody knew for sure if Bugle was called Bugle on account of the massive, hooked schnoz that cast a permanent shadow over his feet or the fact that he had ratted out enough people to populate a decent-sized, Midwestern town. His livelihood was knowing other people's business and making it his own business by selling info to whoever might be interested. In fact, it was more than a livelihood. If it weren’t for his carefully stashed collection of other people's dirty laundry—laundry that might be aired at any minute—where his next meal was coming from would have been a moot point.

  The chink was waving a big cigar about, voice too loud, eyes a bit too shiny, being expansive in the way that people are when they think they are holding all the aces. Apart from the hooter, Bugle was all ears.

  “This town thinks it has seen it all,” the weird-looking geezer was saying, “but wait till they get a load of what ol’ Monsoon is bringing to the party. This shit make cocaine look like chocolate mousse. Give you the biggest high and the biggest hard-on of yo' entire natch, baby. And ain't but one source. Yessir, boys—er, excuse me, ladies—Mr. Parker in the house. But you gotta act fast. When word start gettin’ around, sheeeit, they gonna be buildin’ a new fuckin’ freeway right to my front door.”

  A short while later, Bugle Buchanan was whisper
ing into the reeking receiver of the public phone next to the restroom at the Black Tarantula Cocktail Corner.

  “That’s right,” he was saying, “Parker. Monsoon Parker. Some kinda wigged-out jig. Looks like a Chinese coal miner. We all seen him around. And hey, numbnuts, jus’ remember to make sure that the Don knows where the information comin’ from. Otherwise...!”

  Bugle smiled to himself as the line went dead.

  Handyman Harris was not a religious man. In fact, to the best of his recollection, the last time he had been near a church was the time he and his buddies stole the lead off the roof of the Chapel of Our Lady of Redemption, in Chicago, on a freezing Christmas Eve night the year “She Loves You” got to number one on the Billboard charts. But as he waited for the elevator in the richly appointed lobby of Don Imbroglio’s apartment building, he was praying fervently. He was praying fervently that the Don had not made the call himself, and had therefore not overheard his outburst. Five lousy grand. What good would five hundred grand do if you were at the bottom of Lake Mead covered in bass shit? He felt the cold sweat on his forehead, and brushed it off.

  Across the lobby, the cadaverous superintendent leered at him. That fucking vulture! He could smell fear as unerringly as a junkyard mutt. The elevator arrived and Handyman dragged himself inside and punched in the code, without which the elevator would not go to the penthouse. He saw the second floor light blink on and off, wishing he were getting off there. Handyman had taken an apartment on the second floor, which the Don let him have cheap in return for the occasional service rendered, which had seemed a good idea at the time. Still was, if you didn’t mind living like a circus tightrope walker. They don’t pay rent either, but one false move and…!

  The ride seemed to take an eternity. He hoped it would seem as long coming down. He had heard of guys coming down from the Don’s crib very quickly indeed.

  The car jerked to a halt on the third floor, and a pretty brunette climbed in. She was wearing a tight-fitting business suit, and she smiled at him openly. Handyman did his best to compel his tight facial muscles into a smile, while simultaneously checking her waistline for bulges. Well, you can’t be too careful.

  “Seven, please,” said the woman, brightly.

  Handyman crabbed towards the buttons and pressed seven without turning his back to her.

  The elevator bumped to a stop at the penthouse, the bell rang with a portentous clang, and the doors slid open. The man standing in front of Handyman, who was smaller than the Statue of Liberty but only just, grabbed him by the lapels and spun him around. His companion, who was only as big as the stratosphere, dragged his wrists above his head and patted him down. Satisfied, he indicated a large, polished double door with a nod of his head, and as Handyman headed for it the two men walked close enough behind him to be able to read the label on his shirt. A discreet brass plaque by the side of the door read: Don Ignacio Imbroglio. Investments.

  Stratosphere opened the door, while the Statue of Liberty pushed him inside. The room was dimly lit by lamps of Italian glass, and through the open window Handyman could see the spotlight at the top of the Luxor dividing the night in two. Walking on the carpet was like walking on dollar bills. In a deep leather armchair, behind a low black marble coffee table upon which stood a decanter, a single crystal glass, and a brass ashtray, a slight, immaculately dressed figure was smoking a cigar. Handyman could not make out the man in the chair clearly because of the two bright lights, one next to each arm rest, that were pointed towards him at eye level. All he could see was the soft glow of the cigar tip and a small plume of smoke drifting towards the open window. Handyman stood, feeling the cold sweat trickle between his shoulder blades, waiting for the Don to speak. The cigar tip glowed brightly, and dimmed.

  “Hello, Mr. Harris. Good of you to come.”

  The voice was like a bad impression of Lee Marvin, but the diction was pure Oxford English.

  “Good of you to ask me, Don Imbroglio. How can I help you?”

  “Please, please. Let’s not be hasty. Plenty of time to discuss business. Let’s be sociable. Have a seat.”

  Handyman looked around. There was no seat. He was wondering whether he should sit on the floor when the Don snapped his fingers, and Stratosphere lumbered over with a leather chair and set it behind him. Sitting on it was like sitting on a cloud.

  “Drink?”

  “Yes, please…”

  The cigar glowed and the fingers snapped. Stratosphere’s hand appeared over his shoulder with the kind of glass that you are not sure whether to drink from or wear, and put it on the table. It made a slight screeching noise on the marble.

  The Don himself leaned forward to pour Handyman a generous measure. The effect was dramatic. “Cognac is all right?”

  “Yes. Good.”

  The fine liquid glowed yellow in the lights as the Don poured, whirling around the glass in a tiny cascade. He handed it to Handyman. Handyman had spoken to the Don many times, and seen him on a few occasions, but never like this. This was different. This was Dracula in his castle. The Don sat back, and the cigar glowed.

  “I know why they call you Handyman, Mr. Harris.”

  “You do? I mean, do you?”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Harris. I know they call you Handyman because you fix things. You fix things like boxing matches, and horse races, and the like.” The cigar glowed.

  “Well, yes, Don Imbroglio, but I never interfere…”

  The cigar tip waved in a small circle. “Nobody is accusing you of anything, Mr. Harris. The fact is, I need a little repair work done myself. I was wondering if you might help me.”

  “Of course, Don Imbroglio. Anything at all. I’d be happy to.”

  “Very kind of you, Mr. Harris. Do you, perchance, know a fellow who goes by the rather quaint name of Monsoon Parker?”

  “Yes, Don Imbroglio. You might even say he is a client of mine.”

  “Good. Good. All right, then. Listen very carefully, Mr. Harris. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  The Don leaned forward.

  Handyman’s mind was racing as the elevator descended towards the lobby. He had a bad feeling about all this. It seemed simple enough, but what was he getting involved in? What was the English-sounding Guinea creep playing at? Lord fucking Grease Ball. He’s about as English as a fucking lasagna. But what choice did he have? The French have an expression: “He who says no to Champagne, says no to life.” Saying no to the Don was very similar.

  The elevator landed and Handyman stepped into the lobby, seeing the vulpine old superintendent leering at him as he walked towards the door. He gave him the finger, and pushed out into the street.

  Chapter 4.

  Asia was standing under the sun-bright lights of a casino sign, negotiating with a prospective client through the rolled-down window of an out-of-town Chevy. She was looking at him the way princess Leia looked at Jabba the Hutt.

  “How much for a blow job?” the guy was asking. Asia couldn’t place the accent, but he was from the north somewhere, maybe over the border. The state of his wheels told her that however much it was, it would be too much.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” she said. “I’m Muslim.”

  “What? Muslims don’t suck dick?”

  “No. They don’t eat pork. Now fuck off!”

  The guy gave her the finger and gunned the engine.

  Asia straightened up as he accelerated away. She looked up and down the stream of traffic in both directions, looking for the cops and looking for guys that were driving like they were watching something other than the road. She wasn’t too concerned about the cops and had it mostly covered, but she was still relatively new in town and didn’t need any unnecessary hassle. In the center lane she watched a big black Cadillac slide over and slow down. A colored girl, with whom she was quite friendly and sometimes went partying, strutted her stuff over to the tinted window as it rolled down. The girl put her head to the window, and then looked over to where Asia was standing and waved to her.r />
  “Guess this one don’t eat dark meat,” she said, as Asia stepped up to the car. “He wants to speak to you. Good luck, hon.”

  Asia smiled at her friend and bent to the window. A most unsightly man, with dark glasses and halitosis that could have stunned a hyena, looked her up and down with slow contempt. She had seen better complexions on a bubonic plague victim.

  “Get in,” the man said.

  “Listen, Dracula, only if you promise not to bite me in the neck.”

  The man leered at her. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. It ain’t for me. I’m careful where I put mine. Now get in.”

  “The only place you put yours is your hand. Fuck you!”

  The man removed his shades. “If I have to come out there and get you, you ain’t gonna like it.”

  Asia took a step back from the car. She bumped into something hard and turned around. While she had been talking, the other passenger had gotten out and come around behind her. Looking up at him towering above her she was suddenly frightened, but she didn’t show it.

  “They must be feedin’ ‘em good in Joliet these days,” she said. “What do you want, Lurch?”

  “Lurch” slapped her hard. A mean, backhand slap that she hadn’t seen coming. He grabbed her arm, twisted it, and, as the door opened, bundled her roughly inside and climbed in after her, still holding her wrist. She tried to pull away, but the grip tightened.

  “Ow. You creep! You’re hurting me.”

  “Baby,” the man said, in a soft, nasty voice, “you don’t even know what the word means. Now, you just sit tight. We goin’ for a little ride. You get paid, don’t worry.”

  The man released her arm and sat back as the big car pulled away from the curb.

  For twenty anxious minutes Asia tried to look through the darkened windows as the car wound through the back streets. She knew they were headed in a southerly direction, but could not be certain exactly where they were. Just as she became concerned that they were headed out of town altogether the car pulled up in front of a tall building, which she calculated to be a couple of blocks back from the Strip, about level with the Mandalay Bay. None too gently, she was hustled out of the Caddie, through the foyer, and into an elevator. No one had spoken to her since the first exchange. The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and she was handed over to two enormous men. They escorted her through large wooden doors and into the presence of a small, dapper man, with slicked-back white hair and dark glasses, who was sitting in a deep leather chair behind a low table, smoking a cigar.