Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  “So when do we meet?”

  “How about three o’clock? The Shell on Sahara.”

  “You got it,” said Monsoon, hanging up with a grin.

  Monsoon was surprised when Handyman’s buddy climbed out of the car. The guy looked to be about seven feet tall, and looked as if he had never indulged in anything stronger than an aspirin. Handyman introduced him as Frankie Merang, out of Chicago.

  “Jehesus Christ,” said Monsoon, watching his hand disappear into Frankie’s massive paw, “who the fuck do you play for, the Bulls or the fucking Bears?”

  Frankie’s grip tightened. “I play for the chapter eighty-six, ass kicker’s society,” he said, with a grin that had all the warmth of a T-Rex’s in December, and was about the same size.

  Monsoon decided to conduct business without further pleasantries. Frankie bought two ounces and took Monsoon’s number, saying he would call him tomorrow if the shit was anything like as good as he’d heard it was. Monsoon assured him that it most definitely was.

  Monsoon was even more surprised the next time he met Frankie, which was the following day, after Frankie had called and arranged another meet, this time in the long-term parking at McCarran. He was surprised when Frankie punched him in the mouth with a fist the size of a pork knuckle, and cold-cocked him.

  When Monsoon came to, he was sitting in the back of a stretch Caddie with blacked-out windows between two guys wearing dark glasses who made Godzilla look like Barney. Frankie was driving, and when he noticed that Monsoon had recovered he turned around and smiled his saurian grin.

  “Hi, Monsoon,” he said, pleasantly. “Where’s the box?”

  Monsoon rubbed his jaw. He looked up at the massive figures on either side of him, and then at Frankie. “Which part of Jurassic Park did you find these two in? What fucking box are you talking about?”

  Frankie smiled indulgently. “Monsoon. C’mon, man. You know the score. Tell him, Thumper.”

  The man on Monsoon’s right removed his shades and grinned. Monsoon had once had a boil on his ass that looked more pleasant. His blood ran cold as he recognized Thumper Thyroid…the Don’s man. End of charade.

  “Okay, Frankie,” he said, “I’ll show you.”

  They made him walk inside the bank and empty the box, and then they took him back to the car and drove him to the apartment building of Don Ignacio Imbroglio.

  Chapter 5.

  Milton “Eyeballs” Gonski was finding it difficult to concentrate. He wasn’t supposed to be in here for one thing, and if someone snitched to the Prof he’d be in deep doodoo. Again. He’d been warned several times about using the Uni lab after hours, and he’d had to fork out five bucks to the security guy for the key. Furthermore, tonight was the weekly meeting of his discussion group CWESTYAN (‘Cos WE’re SmarT, & You Are Not), and they were in the middle of a really interesting debate about the effects of water pressure on the reproductive cycle of pre-Cambrian arthropods, and he had a really unique perspective that he wanted to introduce, at which point Lily Blauengel would undoubtedly recognize him for the genius he was and agree to accompany him to the next lab tech expo at the Convention Center. But that weird little Asian-looking guy had given him a hundred bucks up front to analyze this resin, with another hundred when it was done. And with two hundred bucks he could get a shitload of extra RAM for his PC and some really cool new software.

  He was called “Eyeballs” because he could sit at a microscope longer than anyone else without getting tired. Or so he thought. The real reason was that he wore glasses with lenses like the bottom of fruit jar, which made his eyes goggle like a dying tuna and which made Lily Blauengel think he was an absolute dork.

  Eyeballs eyeballed the big white clock on the wall. If he left now, he could still get to the meeting in time to make a dramatic entrance and impress Lily, and anyway he was getting seriously nervous about getting caught. Weighed against his growing anxiety was the fact the Asian guy had been adamant on the point of absolute secrecy, and had hinted at more money to come. The erotic image of a softly glowing state-of-the-art flat screen materialized in Eyeballs’s mind. He decided to take a quick look.

  The sample he had been given was miniscule, so small that he had to hold it in a pair of tweezers in order to pare off a scope-sized slice with his scalpel. He spread it onto a glass slide, slid it under the lens, flicked the switch, and pushed his eye sockets down onto the cool, comforting, familiar lenses of the microscope.

  “Holy shit!”

  Eyeballs sat back in surprise, and quickly leaned forward again. What the hell was this stuff? In his hand it appeared a dull, lifeless gray, but magnified a thousand times it looked like a bad acid trip. Purple and lurid green, lava red, with sinister-looking black veins running through it like an evil cheese. Eyeballs prided himself on the encyclopedic gallery of chemical compounds he was able to recognize from memory, but he had never seen anything remotely like this and had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. Images of the smiling Lily Blauengel in her holey-kneed baggy grunge jeans, and the wrathful figure of Professor Medes bursting through the swinging doors of the lab, and even a pulsating bank of chips giving his PC mega brain power to the max faded from his mind as his intellectual curiosity kicked in.

  Eyeballs took a hard copy and ran it through to mainframe, but not only did he not come up with a match, he didn’t come up with anything even marginally similar. He was going to have to break it down. Man, this was a real turn-on. He was into it, man. Eyeballs Gonski, chemistry ace, hot on the trail, and Professor Medes could go and fuck himself. And when word of this got around campus he would be famous, and Lily Blauengel would not have to fuck herself, ‘cause Eyeballs would be in the chair.

  Eyeballs went through into the lab next door and came back with a glass-stoppered bottle and a pipette. He got himself a hot chocolate from the machine in the corridor and turned on the small radio next to the microscope. It was tuned to an oldies station, but he left it. He wasn’t interested in music anyway. It was just white noise, to take the static off his brain and help him concentrate. He took a sip of his chocolate and got down to it. He slipped on a pair of white gloves and then, with extreme care, transferred a tiny droplet of liquid from the bottle and dropped it onto the smear of compound on the slide. Letting it settle for a couple of seconds, he leaned forward and turned the volume dial on the radio up a notch. He vaguely recognized the tune as some song his old man listened to all the time. Some Stone-Age group. The Beatles, maybe.

  Eyeballs leaned into his scope and his goggle eyes goggled even wider. The sample was changing color, and it was fucking moving! He saw the vivid colors on the slide all swirling together, becoming a flat brown, and then beginning to glow at the center—orange at first, brightening to an angry red, and then to hot white. Eyeballs Gonski was fascinated. Mesmerized, in fact. So mesmerized that he didn’t hear the banging of the lab door as the irate professor of chemistry charged into the room and strode towards him. Nor did he hear the explosion that immolated the bench, torched Professor Medes’s new hairpiece, and turned Milton “Eyeballs” Gonski into the most spectacular chemical reaction that he would never see.

  Fear comes in many degrees. If mild alarm is one and trouser-shitting, hair-raising, spine-chilling, abject ice-cold nervous system shutdown comatose petrification is ten, then Monsoon was an eight-and-a-half climbing out of the limo, rising to nine as they stepped into the elevator. The sight of Stratosphere and Liberty put him up to nine-point-five. From there it leveled off a little, and it wasn’t until the Don spoke to him that he actually reached eleven.

  “Mr. Parker. Good of you to join us.”

  Monsoon really, really wanted to speak. But some things are just not to be.

  “It’s perfectly all right. I fully understand your reticence, Mr. Parker. Permit me to speak on your behalf. Could I offer you a drink?”

  The realization that he was not about to die anytime soon—at least not in the next few minutes—allowed Monsoon’s rigor m
ortis to relax enough for him to nod his head. The fingers snapped, and the chair and drink arrived.

  “Drink up, Mr. Parker. Drink up. Now, to business. We understand that you have had a little windfall, shall we say. Las Vegas really is such a small town, Mr. Parker. Nobody keeps their secrets for very long here. Especially from me. When we got wind of your new merchandise, and the excitement it was causing in certain circles, we decided to see for ourselves. The results were quite…surprising. Now, I’m sure you will agree, something this good should be made available for all to enjoy.”

  The fingers clicked, and the box was handed to the Don. He removed the contents and placed them on table in front of him, without looking at them. He gave a stage whistle.

  “One thousand dollars an ounce. Remarkable. Where is the rest of it?”

  The bourbon had restored some of Monsoon’s circulation, and he was thinking as fast as he could, under the circumstances. He could tell the truth, but the truth seemed so unlikely that the Don might assume he was lying and put him to the test. And the test was liable to be somewhat less than pleasant, what with the Don working on the assumption that being suspended by the testicles from a twelfth-floor penthouse window staring at the pointy bit on the Luxor is a fairly convincing argument that honesty is the best policy. A simple lie might be the less stressful alternative, in the short term. He could lie, and buy time, but sooner or later the Don would find out, and then leaving town, the country, and, if at all possible, the solar system, would be the advisable option. And whatever he said, it was unlikely that the Don would leave him unwatched, so giving him the slip was probably unfeasible.

  So, at the risk of having a blowtorch pedicure, the truth seemed to be the wisest course of action. Or, at least, as much of it as would see him out of the room in one piece and not qualified to stand outside the door of a harem with a tea towel wrapped around his head.

  “Don Imbroglio,” he began, his voice growing stronger after a weak start, “I realize what I am about to tell ya will seem incredible, but I am gonna tell ya everything, exactly as it happened.”

  “Pray continue, Mr. Parker. You have our undivided attention.”

  It’s like listening to Shere Khan in the fucking Jungle Book, Monsoon thought as he prepared to continue.

  “Well, Don Imbroglio, I have to admit I was in dire straits. I was into ya for a grand up front, plus two for the vig, and I didn’t have the green. Fucking O’Neal! Anyway, I’m looking round for something I can sell for a stake to maybe get the money back, when I remember my old man’s suitcase. My old man got greased in Vietnam, and this case has been with me ever since I was a boy. I’m thinkin’ maybe I can sell the medals or somethin’. Anyway, I find this shit, Machine Gun Jelly. I have absolutely no idea what it is. It looks like dope, and smells like dope, but it could be fucking C4 for all I know. Anyway, like I said, I’m so desperate that I don’t give a rat’s ass what it is. I know this old Brit society broad is having a party, so I go round there and sell this stuff to her and a couple of fags for five hundred a pop. The next day, this fairy is knockin’ my door down. I figure the stuff is a dud, and he wants his dough back, so I have the old insurance policy handy when I open the door. But it turns out the shit really lit his candle. That’s when I know I’m onto something, so I up the price to a grand a shout, and the rest you know.”

  “So you are telling us that what is here is all that there is left?”

  “Don Imbroglio, I swear by my mother’s ovaries.”

  “And you really don’t know where to get any more?”

  “Don, I only wish I did.”

  The fingers clicked, and two things happened. First, from over Monsoon’s shoulder, an envelope with Singapore Airlines printed on the front flew into sight and landed in his lap. And second, a hard, heavy object—which later turned out to be a monkey wrench—slugged him hard in the back of the head, lifting a piece of his scalp. He fell forward onto his face, and a boot came down on the back of his neck, pinioning him to the carpet.

  “So. We must assume, then, that your ticket to Ho Chi Minh City is merely a celebratory vacation, to enjoy some of your newfound wealth.”

  Monsoon attempted to speak, but the neck-breaking pressure prevented him from doing much more than breathing.

  “Tell me, Mr. Parker. Have you suffered a bereavement in the family recently?”

  The fingers clicked, and Thumper relieved the pressure on Monsoon’s neck just enough for him to be able to reply.

  “Don Imbroglio, I…”

  Before he could finish, the fingers clicked and the boot came down again.

  “Mr. Parker. While you have been our guest, my associates paid a visit to your apartment. In addition to these tickets, they found a coffin. It was occupied. We all have skeletons in our closets, do we not, but in your case the skeleton is real. A man’s hobbies are his own business, of course, but if you do not tell me for what exact purpose you have acquired a coffin and a skeleton, and tell me quickly—let’s say in the next three seconds, for example—your closet will shortly have two skeletons in it.”

  The fingers and Thumper’s boot did their little routine again, and Monsoon was grabbed by the collar, hauled to his feet, and shoved into his chair. Thumper punched him in the face, and then handed him his drink. Monsoon drained his glass, coughed, and started to speak.

  “Don Imbroglio. Please. I’m not holdin’ out on you. It’s just a long shot. An idea. It’s probably bullshit.”

  “Well, indulge us.”

  “It’s a guess, for chrissake. I swear. It’s a big maybe. You gotta believe me. It’s a what-if. The fucking Yellow Brick Road. What do I have to lose? How can it be worse than here? I go. I look around. I ask questions. I come home rich or I get to fly business class, get drunk, and get laid. That’s all there is. Believe it or don’t. I can’t tell ya nothin’ else.”

  “And the coffin?”

  “Well, that’s part of my plan, see? And not bad, for a joker like me, even if I do say so myself. I ask myself this: If I do find a supply of this shit, how do I get it into the country, first without the Feds finding out, and second, without some mob muscling in on the action. No offense meant, Don Imbroglio. Then I get my idea. My old man’s remains were never recovered. But he was a big-time war hero. More gongs than a Buddhist temple. So, what if I go over there, say I have discovered the stiff, and inform the military and the media. I still got the dog tags, see?”

  Monsoon opened the top button of his shirt and pulled out the dog tags and held them towards the Don. The Don remained impassive.

  “Big splash in the paper,” Monsoon continued. “The USAF’ll fly the bones back with full military honors, and a big fucking band. Except it ain’t the old man in the box. It’s the dope. The beauty of it is, not only do I get the shit flown back and into the country without being inspected, but I get it flown in for free by the fucking Air Force. I had someone bring me the coffin, so I could experiment with the weights. I was going to put it back when I was finished.”

  It went very quiet, and stayed like that for a good two minutes. Monsoon started to sweat. And then the Don clapped his hands, slowly, three times. The fingers clicked, and a hand came over Monsoon’s shoulder with another drink.

  “Mr. Parker. I’m impressed. Congratulations. A scheme like that deserves to succeed.”

  Monsoon relaxed and smiled. He grabbed the drink, glanced triumphantly and contemptuously at Stratosphere, took a large gulp, and faced the Don.

  “Break both his arms and throw him down the garbage disposal,” the Don said.

  Monsoon knew the routine by now. Fingers, punch in the face, boot on the neck, etc. etc. He tried to forestall the impending.

  “Okay, okay, okay. There’s more. Lots more. I got contacts. I can get more. I can get more.”

  Something surprising happened. Nothing. Nothing happened. No fists, no boots, no nothing.

  “You see, Mr. Parker, confession is good for the soul after all. How much more?”

/>   “I reckon about thirty-eight mill. Thirty-eight million dollars’ worth.”

  The Don gave an ever-so-slight whistle of appreciation. “I see. Thirty-eight million dollars, you say. A sum not to be sneezed at. At the current selling price, I imagine. Hmm. Perhaps that could be increased. It would appear that cooperation would be to our mutual benefit. I could always persuade you to reveal your contacts, could I not? An industrial compressor inserted into the lower bowel generally does the trick. But I admire your plan, and I can use your local knowledge, and you need my financial backing. I would like to offer you our assistance. You have no objections, I presume.”

  “No. No, Don Imbroglio, none whatsoever.”

  “Very good. Now, I couldn’t help but notice that there are two tickets. One for yourself and one for a Mr. Bjørn Eggen Christiansson. Who is he?”

  “He’s my grandfather. My father’s father. He’s part of the plan. To make the whole thing seem more legit. Only he don’t know it’s a scam, see. He comes over here once a year. To see me and to visit my grandma’s grave. He’s arriving on Wednesday. I suckered the old bast…I mean, I convinced him to go with me.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Parker. Ever more impressive. In that case you will proceed as you have described, except for one detail. I see your grandfather has a reservation at the Mirage. He will not be needing it. Your grandfather will remain with us, as our guest, until such time as you have contacted your business partners. We’ll arrange a…shall we say…courtesy car, to meet him at the airport, and the new arrangements will be explained to him. My associate, Mr. Merang, and his assistant will accompany you. Arrangements will be made for the provision of funds sufficient for any transaction once we have your assurance that everything is…“kosher,” I believe is the term used these days. Your grandfather will accompany my financiers. Later, you and I can come to some arrangement as to how you are to benefit. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Parker?”

  “Yes, Don Imbroglio. Yes we do.”