When the girl from Florida showed up later in her war paint, she was disappointed that Davy wasn’t there. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and waited for a whole hour and a half before going back to her hotel with a basketball player from Des Moines.
The following morning the ski lifts set off as usual, at six sharp. But Davy Dupree wasn’t at his station. Davy was asleep in the backseat of a Greyhound bus, heading north.
Crispin looked out at the sunlight on the lake and felt like it was shining just for him, and just to demonstrate this fact he sang, “It’s for people like me that they keep it turned on…”
He felt absolutely marvelous. The mountain air was so invigorating, the hotel people were treating him like the queen he was, and his audience—far less jaded than those Philistines back in Vegas—had been very appreciative, almost like the good old days. Some weirdo had even asked him for his autograph, a huge, scary-looking guy with breath like a warthog. Well, what the fuck, a fan was a fan. And, best of all, his hot-pink ski suit was turning heads everywhere he went.
Even his skiing was improving, which was something at his time of life. His last couple of runs yesterday had been quite impressive, and he was almost considering moving onto one of the more difficult slopes this afternoon, except that the advantage of going at a more sedate pace was that it gave people the opportunity to admire his ski suit, and anyway there was another set of curves that he wanted to negotiate first. He was certain that one of the instructors at the first lift had been giving him the eye, so he had one of his cards in his pocket to slip him at an opportune moment. And, if the kiddy happened to turn up at the show, maybe he could slip him something else at an opportune moment. Hey, you never know. For a guy in a flamingo-pink ski suit, anything could happen!
Thumper held up his finger and growled at the barman. Except for an elderly couple in matching his-and-hers plaid spandex leisure suits and plastic cowboy hats bent over a slot machine opposite, the bar was empty. The room had a sour, stale-beer smell, the light was gray and greasy, and the pall of last night’s smoke still lingered, as if the bar itself had a hangover. Thumper looked at the shiny, black piano and the poster on the wall behind it with a glossy photo of Crispin, his fat cheeks grinning from under his pompadour like a manic cherub. He had caught the act last night and the Don was right, the guy was pretty good. He had even gotten his autograph. Frankie would get a big rise out of that one.
The barkeep silently handed Thumper a bourbon and back, his third, and took the money from the pile of dollar bills on the counter. Thumper did not acknowledge him. He looked at his watch. Nearly time to go. He looked and felt ridiculous in his ski outfit, but he had to admit that it was a perfect disguise. Inside all these hoods and balaclavas and goggles, it could be Ming the fucking Merciless, and nobody would know. Plus the boots were pretty cool, although not really much good for getting the boot in, there not being enough flexibility in the ankle for the proper range of movement. And his ski bag looked exactly like everybody else’s ski bag, the only difference being that the majority of ski bags contained skis, and Thumper’s contained a precision-milled .375 Remington rifle with a silencer and a scope.
He went over his plan once again as he finished his drink: Wait in the lobby of the hotel until the fat prick came out, just in case the fruit had a whole wardrobe of rainbow-colored outfits. Once he made sure he was wearing the same gear, give him a half-hour start and then wander down to the lift and ride it up to the vantage point that that little ski-lift shithead had showed him on the map. Stake out a spot in the shadow of some tree. Nobody would pay any attention to him shuffling around in the snow. Just another clown who couldn’t handle the ice, picking his way down on foot.
Then the easy part. Pick his shot. Head shot, if possible; if not, one wing shot to drop him, and one placed shot to close down the store. He figured that, depending on how much blood there was, it would be a while before anybody took any notice of the stiff, the sight of somebody lying on their ass on a ski slope not being exactly noteworthy. When someone finally paid attention, the hill would be crawling with blue lights and badges, by which time he would have skedaddled along the cross-country trail marked on the map and down into the California side where he had left his wheels gassed and ready. He’d be having a breakfast of beaver and bourbon in some ranch house before the police quack had even prised the slugs out.
On his way out Thumper overheard the old lady saying to her husband, “I hear this fella’s real funny, hon. What say we stop by tonight?”
Thumper smirked to himself. The only place you goin’ to see that fat fuck is on the six o’clock news, he thought, as he headed towards the lobby.
Morris just loved these ribs. So juicy, and the meat just falling right off the bone, and if this wasn’t the best damn barbecue sauce he’d had his chops ‘round in a coon’s age, then he didn’t know shit from Shinola. And all washed down with this good Mexican beer. He could go another plate, but he didn’t want to feel too heavy on the slopes. He could always come back tonight. Morris licked his chubby fingers and carefully wiped his mouth. Taking up his beer he tilted his chair back against the wall, took a deep, satisfying swallow, and grinned to himself.
In the coffee shop immediately adjoining the rib shack where Morris was enjoying his lunch, Crispin was enjoying his third blueberry muffin and his second café latte. He knew he should feel guilty about the third muffin, and he knew he should feel guilty about not calling Nigel and not really missing him, but he actually didn’t give a flying fart. He did miss little Oberon, of course, but that was only natural. Anyway, he was going to have a great day. He took up his cup, with his pinky finger extended like some English maid at tea, and tilted his chair back against the wall. This was the same wall against which Morris was leaning on the opposite side, so that, but for the thickness of some bricks and insulation, they would have been leaning against each other, back to back.
Morris finished his beer, left a handsome tip, smiled at the waitress, collected his skis from the rack outside, and headed towards the gondola.
Crispin finished his café latte, left a handsome tip, smiled at the waitress, collected his skis from the rack outside, and headed towards the gondola, then froze in his tracks, dropped his skis, and exclaimed out loud.
He just couldn’t believe it. Some fat-ass crud was wearing the same ski suit as he was. Exactly the fucking same. Stitch for fucking stitch. Crispin’s eyes narrowed into slits, and his glare could have drilled holes in Morris’s back.
This is fucking outrageous, he thought. Outrageous. Just look at the size of that butt. What the fuck does he think he looks like? The last time I saw an ass that size it had fucking fins on it. The fucking cheeky cunt. You have to have style to be able to pull off something like this, a natural grace. That lumpy fucker. About as graceful as a camel humping a cactus. That sack of shit. Of course my day is ruined now. Ruined. I shall have to go to the California side. I can’t possibly be seen on the same slopes as this schmuck. Not only will I not get to see my little instructor with the buffed buns, but if I don’t want to walk all the way back to the hotel for my car, I shall be compelled to ride on the bus with these peasants. Oh, the fucking humiliation. If there is any justice in the world, that fat turd will break his neck on the first bend.
Crispin spat venomously in the direction of the diminishing figure of Morris Albright and, still seething, stomped across the road to the bus station, ignoring the traffic and flipping the bird to a housewife in a station wagon full of kids, who had the audacity to honk her horn at him.
I hope the next time the Don sends me to waste somebody, it’s in fucking Miami, Thumper was thinking as he lay in a two-foot snowdrift under the low-hanging branches of a fir tree. Fuck this for a game of soldiers. He was going to have to take the next decent shot, otherwise he was going to be too cold to shoot. He had followed the ass bandit from the hotel, but he had passed the gondola and gone into some coffee shop a bit further down the street, so Thumper ha
d had to sit in the bar across the road and wait. He knew the fat bastard wouldn’t waddle very far, so he was either going to take the bus or he was coming back after his coffee. An hour later, Thumper saw him enter the gondola station and moved in.
As he reached the top, Thumper had seen this pink speck meandering slowly down the slope and, after eating a lot of snow, had finally made his way to what seemed the prime spot. He had a really good view of two slopes and a reasonable view of the third. Pink pants had made one run down the third slope, and Thumper had tracked him through the scope. Not an easy shot, although he could have made it, but he decided to wait. For one thing, the later it got, the better. Also, he figured that the guy was bound to use one of the two easier slopes before long and, hey, why make things more difficult than they had to be? But the bitter chill creeping through his bones was rapidly changing his thinking.
Thumper was reaching into his pocket for his hip flask when he saw a flash of pink ascending slowly on the lift. It disappeared over the crest of the hill, and Thumper let go of the flask and picked up the rifle. After a couple of minutes he saw the pink-clad figure slither down the slope immediately in front of him, slowly and somewhat unsteadily, like the Michelin Man on mescal. This was going to be almost too easy. He was going to have to add a couple of hundred yards to the range and some speed to the skier when he started bragging about this shot. There was a flat spot in front of him, about a hundred yards out, where he had noticed people swinging out wide to make the turn. The nearest skier was fifty yards away when the target hit the flat and steered towards him. Thumper held his breath and took up the slack in the trigger, making sure to allow for the resilience in the material of his gloves. He waited until the bright-yellow goggles filled the lens of the scope, with the cross hairs meeting at the bridge of the nose, and squeezed.
The yellow mask exploded in a cloud of red mist. The body snapped backwards onto the snow and slid in a slow circle with the ski poles swinging on their strings at the end of arms outstretched like a broken puppet, leaving a thin red trail in its wake before coming to rest in a deep drift at the foot of a tree.
As Thumper Thyroid was clambering through the trees towards the cross-county trail, he heard a woman’s voice screaming.
Morris was really, really enjoying himself. He was on his third run and had only fallen down once, and that hadn’t been his fault. Somebody had bumped into him and they had helped each other up, laughing. The slopes were incandescent in the late-afternoon sun and below the lake sparkled, a majestic, cobalt blue. He had time for a few more runs and then he would have a few beers and watch all the beautiful, young people enjoying themselves, and then go for a big plateful of those ribs. Mm-mm-mmm.
He had not been down this slope before, but looking ahead he could see that it leveled off and then went into a steep left-hand turn. His confidence was building and he was thinking that, when he got around this bend, he was going to try to go really fast. It was going to be really exciting, and if he fell over, so what? He would just get right back up again, and carry on.
And that was the last thing that Morris Albright ever thought.
Crispin’s mood had improved immeasurably and, once he had got over his snit, the day had been a great success. He had had several great runs and when, after a surreptitious wander through the changing rooms—taking the scenic route, so to speak—he had gone into the bar for a quick après or two, there had been a band playing, and the singer had recognized him and asked him to sing with them. After a not-too-convincing show of reluctance and some feeble protestations he had allowed himself to be cajoled onto the stage, and had done “I Will Survive” to great applause. Then some cute guy in his thirties had bought him a drink and said he was coming to the show, and you just knew what that meant.
And as Crispin was sitting on the bus, glowing with pride, gin, and anticipation, he looked down into the car park and saw a huge man shoving things hastily into the trunk of a big red Mercedes. The bus’s headlight fell momentarily on the man’s face, and Crispin recognized him. That’s that big smelly creep who asked me for my autograph, he thought.
Crispin’s hand was shaking as he gripped the receiver, with a combination of shock and increasing agitation. Why didn’t the little shit answer, and where the fuck was he at this time of night? This was bizarre. A horrible, morbid coincidence, and he was just dying to tell somebody, and the sneaky little bastard was probably getting his tiny cock sucked in a public toilet somewhere.
He still couldn’t believe it. Those awful pictures on the news. It had almost been as if he himself had been lying there, in all that frozen blood, looking so black against the snow in the darkness. It made him shiver just to think about it. And what he had said? How he had hoped that the guy would break his neck. What if…? No, that was ridiculous. And this is fucking ridiculous. Where is he? He’d better have a good excuse, or he’ll be looking for another meal ticket. In fact, he’d better be fucking dead!
Crispin slammed the receiver down. He drained his G and T and fixed himself another, examining his face in the mirror behind the bar as he tinkled the ice in the glass. He looked pale beneath his tan. He took a piece of ice, pressed it to his eyelids, and tried to breathe deeply. Taking his gin into the bathroom he bustled about getting ready for the show, trying to concentrate, trying to keep those horrible pictures from his mind. Before he left for the gig, he called Asia and left a message asking her to pop round and check on Oberon when she had a moment.
Chapter 8.
A transcontinental flight gives people a long time to think, and Frankie Merang was doing just that. He’d had a hard ride in his thirty-four years. It hadn’t been the School of Hard Knocks; it had been the University of Fucking Adversity. He’d been shot, stabbed, slapped down, shit on, and reamed from asshole to breakfast. And then he left school, and things got really tough. He looked around at the darkened cabin, most people asleep except for a few isolated lights where people were reading. Next to him Belly Joe was snoring, squeezed inside against the window. The slope was out for the count. Frankie got up and stretched his legs, heading back to where the stewardesses were playing with their crotches behind the red curtain, or whatever it is they do on long trips. He pulled the drape aside and a pretty, sleepy girl raised a smile.
“Got a bourbon layin’ around, baby?”
“Sure.”
Frankie watched the material of her skirt stretch over her buttocks as she bent to get his drink. She handed him two miniatures, smiling. He nodded and went to stand by the emergency exit. He peered out of the window. Far below some river meandered along, shining silver in the moonlight. He cracked one of the tiny bottles, poured it into his plastic glass, and drained half of it.
Yup. Hard slaps, all right, and plenty of ‘em. And how long was it gonna be before his luck ran out, or he made a mistake, or he got in the ring with the wrong guy and got his slate wiped clean…permanently? Workin’ for the Don had its perks, and paid good, but there wasn’t much of a retirement plan. So far, the Don was treatin’ him good. But that could change. The Don didn’t get to be the Don because of his full social calendar. And here he was, headed for the asshole of the world, an’ maybeez a shot at the title.
He looked back down the plane, wondering who the Don would have sent to watch them. Or was he already there? How far was the Don’s reach? If he did what he was thinking about doing, the Don would have to believe he was dead. That was the only way it could happen. It didn’t matter how much dough you had if you had to spend every second of every day for the rest of your natch looking over your shoulder and shitting yourself every time somebody dropped a glass, or a car backfired, or the doorbell rang when you weren’t expecting anybody. And a fat Geneva account would be cold comfort if you were sitting in some alley with your cojones in your mouth, wearing a Colombian necktie. With this deal, baby, when you said you were puttin’ your balls on the line, you weren’t fuckin’ kiddin’.
Frankie opened his second miniature and looked at
the soft benign clouds floating past the window, like the innocent dreams that he had never had. He imagined what they would look like from the deck of his yacht, moored in the harbor of some European hotspot, with a bottle of Moët in one hand, a cigar the size of a mule’s wang in the other, and some French courtesan on her knees with her cherry lips round his dingus. Fuck the Don. Shit or get off the pan. All I need is a bulletproof plan and a bit of luck, and I’m away. At least I’m lucky the Don sent Belly Joe. That wasn’t very smart. Belly Joe couldn’t find his asshole in a diarrhea epidemic.
Frankie went back to his seat, where his two companions were still soundly sleeping. You be sleepin’ even better soon, boys, he thought, sitting down to rehearse his plan.
Asia was concerned. She had just gotten back from Crispin’s apartment, after getting his message, and found it locked and strangely quiet. The hairball usually freaked out when anyone knocked, but not this time. And it was much too late for Nigel to have taken him out for a walk. If Nigel had gone away somewhere, surely he would have told Crispin. And there had been something else. A smell. A weird, sweet, sickly smell. Something definitely didn’t feel right. She would have to go back and break in. But she knew enough not to go alone and she knew she needed some backup, preferably some backup with muscles. She called up her friend, the colored girl she knew from the streets. Rhonda would know the score.
“Hey, Rhonda,” she said.
“Hey. What’s up, girl?”
“Nothin’, babe. Listen. I need some muscle. Not for anything heavy. Just in case. You know anyone? You know I’m still kinda new around here.”
“Sure, baby girl. No sweat. I’ll send you a guy over. How soon?”
“ASAFP.”
“Okay, hon, jus’ hang tight. I’ll call you back.”
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 13
