“Very good. Now, I notice that you have purchased an open return ticket. How much time are you expecting to need to conduct your transaction with your contacts?”
“Well, quite a while. A coupla weeks at least. The shit…er, that is the, er, merchandise…has to be brought in from the jungle.”
“I see. Very well. But before you leave, you must know that if our arrangement fails to come to fruition, for any reason, I shall be very disappointed. I have several ways of expressing my disappointment, none of which you will find very amusing, I fear. I rather doubt that your grandfather would enjoy them either, I’m afraid. Furthermore, you must also be aware that anything you may be able to think of, I shall have anticipated you. So if you were thinking of any… deviation, shall we say… from your stated path, I strongly advise you to think again.”
“Don Imbroglio, I would nev—”
The Don stopped him with a motion of his hand. “One final question, Mr. Parker. If one were to throw a chicken from an airplane, how long would you expect it to survive?”
“I, er…I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but an interesting question, don’t you think?”
Monsoon said nothing.
The Don permitted the silence to work for a few moments before saying, “All right then. Mr. Thyroid will escort you out and see that you are driven wherever you wish to go. Stick to your travel arrangements. Mr. Merang will rendezvous with you at the airport. We will hold onto your ticket and your money for the time being, if you don’t mind. They will be returned to you at the airport. Well. Goodnight, Mr. Parker, and bon voyage, as they say. I shall be monitoring your progress with great interest.”
“Yes. Goodnight, Don Imbroglio, and thank—”
The fingers clicked, and Thumper Thyroid grabbed Monsoon by the collar and dragged him towards the door.
Asia was sitting in the passenger seat of Crispin’s Lexus as they headed down the freeway towards Monsoon Parker’s house. Elton John was blasting out of the stereo, and Crispin was singing falsetto harmony parts to “Crocodile Rock.”
Oberon was cringing in the back, with his paws over his ears.
“Turn that shit down and listen,” said Asia.
Crispin sighed as his pudgy fingers turned the knob.
“I still can’t get over it,” Asia continued. “That guy had to be seventy. He had to be helped out of his chair, for fuck’s sake. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so scared. Anyway, one minute he’s this wheezing old geezer, then he takes a couple of tokes on this spliff and the next thing he’s all over me like a dog with two dicks, giggling like a schoolgirl and drooling like some cretin. I’ll bet that’s the first hard-on he’s had since he was jerking off in the back row of The Seven Year Itch, watching Marilyn Monroe’s knickers gusset.”
“You’re probably right. Usually the only stiffs he sees are in coffins.”
“But don’t you think this is a coincidence? And why didn’t you tell me about this stuff before?”
“Well, I never had the chance, luvvie, did I? But like I said, I’ve never experienced anything even remotely as good as this stuff. It was worth the money just to watch Nigel fucking Dorothy.” Crispin erupted into squeals of laughter at the thought.
“Well, what if he hasn’t got any left?”
“Well, pumpkin, if he hasn’t, he hasn’t. We’ll just have to wait and see. The little bastard lied to me the last time and said he only had two ounces left, and the next thing it’s all over town. Anyway, we’re nearly there now.”
Minutes later, they pulled up in front of Monsoon’s house. Crispin was mildly surprised when the expected reception committee of hoop-playing midgets failed to materialize, and he kept looking over his shoulder as he led Oberon up to the front door. Asia rang the bell, while Oberon pissed against the portal. No reply.
“Maybe the bell’s broken,” Crispin said.
He balled his beefy fist and rapped on the front panel. The door swung open a couple of inches, and they could see the splintered wood and hanging fittings where the door had been jimmied.
“Shit. Look at this,” Asia said. “Something is definitely upside down here. C’mon. Let’s go.”
She turned to walk away. Oberon decided to piss on the other portal for the sake of symmetry.
“No. Wait,” Crispin said. “Let’s look inside.”
“Crispin. Come on. You were the one who told me that in Vegas, the smart play is to mind your own business. The best thing to do is just turn around and get the fuck out of here!”
In reply, Crispin pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Oh, fuck,” said Asia, following him inside. “I just know I’m going to regret this.”
The house looked as if a herd of bison had celebrated the Fourth of July in it. Cushions, mattresses, upholstery, pillows—anything that could potentially conceal anything had been shredded. The fridge had been emptied out onto the floor, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Oberon, who immediately seized upon a moldy, half-chewed enchilada that looked as if it should have been in the Smithsonian, and began chomping on it.
They went into the bedroom. All the drawers had been pulled out, there were clothes everywhere, and on the floor next to an ancient suitcase with the lining ripped out, an old military uniform lay in a pile of photographs and letters.
“Jesus Christ,” said Asia, really nervous now, “somebody really did the job on this place. C’mon.”
“Wait, there might be something in here,” Crispin said, heading into the bathroom and stepping gingerly over broken bottles and squeezed-out tubes. Oberon, meanwhile, who had never fully recovered from the episode with the coke and had been looking and behaving like a disturbed angora sweater ever since, had finished his impromptu Mexican dinner and had begun to take an interest in the door to the garage, sniffing at it and scratching.
Crispin came out of the bathroom and said, “What’s with the fur bag?”
“I don’t know. He wants to go into the garage.”
“Let’s look, then.”
“What if someone’s in there?”
“Asia, for fuck’s sake! Stop being such a big blouse. Come on.”
With Asia close behind him, Crispin pushed open the door. Inside, the garage was dark, with just a thin streak of light coming in under the shutter. Crispin felt around for a light switch and flicked it on. He let out a high, thin wail.
“Oh my God. That’s it. Asia. Come. On. We’re out of here. Oberon. Come here.”
“No, no, wait, wait,” she said, her curiosity suddenly overcoming her trepidation. “You were the one that insisted on coming in. I’m going to open it.”
Crispin was barely in control of himself or his sphincter. “Are you insane?” he gasped. “Are you completely out of your tiny Confederate mind?”
“No, I’m not. And who’s being a big blouse now? I bet that’s where he keeps the stuff. It’s better than a safe. Nobody would touch it.”
“Leave it and let’s go, you stupid cow. You don’t know what disgusting incurable disease you could…”
Crispin never got to finish the sentence. Asia strode purposefully towards the soiled black coffin that leaned against the back wall, grabbed the unscrewed lid, and yanked. A white skeletal forearm rattled out from behind the door and shook back and forth, the thin bleached bones of the hand moving in a macabre but strangely good-natured wave. Asia screamed. An astoundingly loud noise erupted from Crispin’s nether regions, accompanied by a noxious odor. He sprinted for the door, dragging Oberon, with Asia close on his heels. Crispin speed-walked to the car with a strange shuffling gait and, wrenching the door open, swung Oberon in like a bolas. As soon as Asia was inside, without waiting for her to close her door, he started the engine, and with a squeal of tires circled round in the road and headed for the freeway.
Such had been their haste that neither he nor Asia had noticed the car pulled up on the other side of the street a little way down the road, with the engine running. Nor had the
y noticed, sitting in the passenger seat and watching them with great interest, Monsoon Parker, and beside him, behind the wheel, watching with even greater interest, Thumper Thyroid.
They were heading down the freeway, going only marginally faster than ninety-five, when Thumper said, “Know what it’s about?”
“Nah. Somethin’ to do with some fruit, an’ that spook-lookin’ slope we dragged in.”
“Oh yeah? Listen, Francis. Pull over, man. I gotta take a leak.”
“For fuck’s sake, Thump. You’re worse than a dame.”
“C’mon, stop the fucking car unless you want me to piss on the leather.”
Frankie pulled the Caddie up under an overpass, and Thumper climbed out. He was standing in the shadows with his meat in his hand, enjoying a long luxurious piss, when he was suddenly illuminated by a flashing blue light, which turned the arching urine stream an interesting shade of night-purple. He heard the squad car doors bang and saw two flashlights approaching. He finished pissing and turned to face the cops, leaving his dingus hanging in the breeze.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?”
“I was playing with it, but my magazine blew away in the wind.”
“Hey, Marve,” said the cop to his partner, “this guy is so funny, I think we musta pulled Jay Leno over. Gee, Mr. Leno, can I get your autograph?”
“C’mon, officers. What’s the beef?”
“The beef is what’s in your hand, pal. Firstly, this is a sixty-five stretch, an’ we clocked you at ninety-seven miles an hour. Secondly, urinating in a public place is an offense. And thirdly, if we really want to dance, public exposure of genitalia is a serious misdemeanor.”
Thumper took a deep breath. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if you can see my wang from thirty yards away, through the windows of a squad car doing seventy miles an hour, in the middle of the fucking night, then either you’ve got eyes like a shithouse rat, or I’m a better man than I thought I fucking was!”
“Right, that’s it! You’re comin’ in. Spread em’. Cuff him, Al.”
Thumper heard the unmistakable sound of blued steel sliding from leather as the cops approached. Then they suddenly stopped and spun around, aiming their torches at the sound of the voice behind them.
“You boys must be new in town.”
“Jeez, Frankie. You almost made me shit in my pants,” said the first cop.
“Marve. Al. What’s the deal?”
The cops holstered their weapons.
“This guy with you?”
“No, he was fucking hitchhiking, what do ya think? This is Thumper Thyroid, the fighter, you assholes.”
“Shit. Didn’t recognize ya, Mr. Thyroid. Sorry ’bout that.”
“Ah, no sweat, fellas.”
The two cops turned off their flashlights and started walking back to their car.
“G’night, Frankie. G’night, Mr. Thyroid. Tell the Don we said hello. And Frankie, try’n keep it down, hey? You’ll make us look bad.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Frankie, waving at the departing boys in blue, and then to Thumper. “C’mon. Put that skunk back in its cage and get in the fucking car. The Don’s waiting.”
The doors slammed shut, and the sleek black Cadillac slid back onto the tarmac and headed towards the distant lights of the big hotels blazing in the night sky, more brilliant than the heavens themselves.
Chapter 6.
Bjørn Eggen Christiansson was a contented man. Not necessarily a happy man, but contented. He was two summers and a winter away from his eightieth birthday and still had a thick head of hair and most of his own teeth. The sky-blue eyes were still keen and observant, and twinkled out from under snow-white eyebrows that resembled small furry animals. The gnarled, blue-veined hands that curled around the shaft of his fishing rod were still strong, and his slender, bowed legs and knobbly knees could still carry him a day’s march across the ice. A lifetime of drinking and smoking had dulled neither his wits nor his wit. He had outlived his wife and his only son and most of his friends. His only living relative was a worthless and improvident grandson with a ridiculous name who lived in far-off America, whom he visited once a year to tell him what a useless waste of space he was, how he was nothing like his father, and, if not for the promise that Bjørn Eggen had made to his own son, he would not cross the road to piss on him if he was on fire, before leaving a him considerable sum of money and returning to Norway, where he no longer kept elkhounds.
Bjørn Eggen did not fear death, as he had not feared life, and, although he carried his grief with him every waking moment, he was not defeated by it and it did not detract from the beauty of his memories. Often he dreamed of his wife, as she had been when he had first brought her north, after the war, smiling from under her sealskin bonnet, her beautiful young face very black against the snow.
Bjørn Eggen had arrived at a simple acceptance of things the way they were. He had had a good life, and now he fished and drank and waited for God to summon him with all the stoicism and fatalism of his Viking ancestors. His beloved dogs had passed on one by one, and were buried in his yard beneath neat rows of white crosses, each with a name inscribed upon it and a collar hung from it, and now he no longer kept a dog for fear that he should predecease it and leave it friendless and alone in a bitter world. He lived on the edge of a lake in a wooden cabin that he had built with his own hands fifty years earlier, on the edge of the small village of Gjudbumsenningbjerg, and the Arctic Circle actually passed through his outhouse.
He was now sitting on a small wooden stool inside a reindeer-skin tent, drinking periodically from a bottle of aquavit and watching the point where his line disappeared into the frigid water in the small neat circle he had cut through the ice. His pale blue eyes watered, like melting ice, his nose was Santa-Claus red, and his white breath mingled with the smoke from the ancient, thin-stemmed pipe that was stuffed into the corner of his mouth. He was humming an ABBA song to himself and tapping his booted foot on the ice in time to his humming.
Suddenly the tip of his rod dipped, and he struck fast and hard and began reeling in. Presently he hauled out a large Arctic char, flapping and struggling, through the hole, sprinkling his face with icy water from its frantically flailing tail. He unhooked the fish and deftly broke its spine. He stuffed it into the pocket of his fur coat and picked up his bottle of aquavit. He stooped and pushed through the flap on the tent and began trudging through the translucent light, across the thin layer of snow atop the ice and back towards his cabin, singing in time to his crunching footsteps.
“So I say thank you for the music…”
When he reached his front door, two lines of footprints informed him of a visitor, and he entered to find an envelope on his hall table and an empty glass beside it. The postman had delivered a message, and helped himself to an aquavit for his trouble. Bjørn Eggen picked up the envelope and carried it through to the kitchen, where a log fire flickered in a stone grate. Taking the fish from his pocket, he slapped it on the sink top, and then went to sit on the aged tree stump that he kept next to the fire. He took a long pull from his bottle and examined the envelope. “From USA” was written on it. From his boot he pulled a knife with a worn, shiny blade and a deer horn handle, and neatly slit the envelope open. Inside was a printout from a computer and a newspaper clipping. Bjørn Eggen had no use for a computer. The few people that he was in communciation with knew that they could send a mail to the postman.
It was from his waste-of-space useless bastard grandson.
Dear Grandfather,
I hope you are well. I am just writing you a short message to tell you that I am looking forward to your visit as usual. Plus, I have great news. I know you will be happy to learn that my father’s remains have been found at last, and I am going to Vietnam to bring him home. He will be buried with full military honors, and the United States Air Force will be flying him home. I have sent a copy of what they said about it in the newspaper.
I would really like you to go w
ith me, so that we can spend some time together before you die, and so we can bring my papa back home together. I will pay all your expenses. I know you are very old and feeble, and, if you think it will be too much for you, I will understand.
Your loving grandson,
Monsoon.
The cutting was from the Las Vegas Review Journal and read:
HERO TO RETURN HOME AT LAST
The remains of Captain Philip Parker, the father of local entrepreneur, Mr. Monsoon P.E.S.A.P.H. Parker, are to come home at last. Captain Parker is a war hero, and one of America’s most decorated soldiers, who fell in defense of his country in Vietnam. Lost for all these years, his body has been discovered by Vietnamese villagers and identified by the military. His father is to go to Vietnam to accompany his son’s remains on their voyage home. Mr. Parker’s body will be repatriated by the USAF and buried with full military honors.
The old man read through the mail and the cutting, each twice, then folded them and put them in his coat pocket. Taking a brand from the fire, he re-lit his pipe, took another long drink from his aquavit, and stared into the flickering, crackling flames, with the rising blue smoke from his pipe swirling slowly around his head.
Tears attempted to come into his eyes, but he fought them, just as he fought the pain of an old wound re-opened as he thought of his son, who he had not protected. Even though his son had been a grown man and had volunteered to go to the war, and there was absolutely nothing that Bjørn Eggen could have done, he felt guilty and grieved for his son. He was afraid of the pain that he would feel, but he knew that he must go, and that he would go.
He also thought that perhaps his useless grandson was not quite as useless as he had imagined, and that his English and grammar had improved dramatically. He also thought that when he saw him he was going to kick his ass for calling him a feeble, old man.
It was one of Crispin’s favorite times of year. He loved everything about it. The long drive from Vegas though the desert and the hills, with his music playing and a jigger of gin on the seat beside him. The final approach across the winding road over the mountain and the magnificent blue lake surrounded by those majestic white peaks and towering trees. Every year at this time he did a two-week booking at Harrah’s, in Tahoe, and every year he looked forward to it. He wasn’t a great skier, but he could manage to navigate the moderate-intermediate slopes on his skis and not on the crack of his ass most of the time. And he just adored those après ski parties. All those fit and tanned young men in their ski gear. Some of the tight lycra-clad butts and muscled thighs that he got to see on the pistes were worth the drive, just for that. This year he had treated himself and bought a new Italian ski suit in flamingo pink, and a yellow mask that made the world look like those summer days that he remembered from his boyhood.
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 10
