Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  Rhonda called back fifteen minutes later and said the guy was on his way. She said his name was Baby Joe Young and that you couldn’t bang nails into him.

  The heat slapped Bjørn Eggen Christiansson in the teeth as he stepped off the plane at McCarran International. He was not accustomed to it, and even though Tuscaloosa had been humid it was nothing like this. He was feeling faint by the time he had negotiated customs and was standing in line for a taxi, especially as he was nursing a hangover of biblical proportions. He was pale and sweating, and the young woman in front of him in the queue asked him if he was all right.

  “Ja, ja. I’m very gud, thank you very much. I’m not very much used to the weather.”

  The lady smiled understandingly and, when it was her turn, she attempted to let Bjørn Eggen go ahead of her.

  He tipped his hat with the reindeer band, and graciously refused. “No, no. Women and children first into the boats, ja,” he said.

  When the next cab pulled up, a wiry woman in her forties with a rose tattoo on her shoulder was driving, and she got out to open the door for him. Since she had been a Vegas cabbie, she had seen humanity in all its bizarre and colorful splendor. If a sumo wrestler in a tutu had gotten into the back of her ride, she wouldn’t have been surprised, so she hardly paid any attention to this frail old man with his skinny white legs sticking out from the bottom of his leather shorts, with long socks pulled right up to his knees and leather braces that crisscrossed over the front of his embroidered shirt. She smiled a little when the old fart refused to let her lift his case into the back.

  “Where to, hon?” she asked him brightly when he was installed in the backseat. Bjørn Eggen handed her a piece of paper with 2694 Wampum Vista written on it.

  “Please, I need to go here. This is the house of me grandson. But first I need to stop somewhere for a beer. I am haffing the very bad overhang.”

  The woman smiled at him through her mirror. “You mean hangover?”

  “Ja. This also. I am in need off thee hair off thee dog vhich has been biting me, no?”

  “You got it, pops. Sit tight.”

  She hit the meter and pulled out into the traffic, muscling in front of a minibus full of Hare Krishnas, who smiled at her and chanted a blessing in unison. She flipped them the bird.

  Bjørn Eggen stared out of the window at the huge hotels marching down the strip, examining every structure, every billboard that they passed. They made the short journey to the Tropicana, where the cabbie pulled up outside the Crown and Anchor.

  “Vould you care to join me for something, maybe? You can leave the meter.”

  The woman smiled again. She was beginning to like this old dude. What the fuck, why not? She had been at it for six hours, and her dogs were biting. She killed the engine, and the meter.

  “Hey, why not, pops. Let’s go.”

  She smiled again as Bjørn Eggen opened the door for her and ushered her inside with a small bow.

  Inside it was cool and dark, the air stirred by the slow fan sweeping overhead. A strange glow emanated from the slot machines set into the bar. There were few other customers, and they took a seat at a high, shiny table underneath a flickering TV screen with the volume turned down.

  “Vat vill you haf to drink?” Bjørn Eggen asked.

  “Oh, just a Coke, thanks. I still gotta work a coupla hours on my shift.”

  “I am Bjørn Eggen,” said the old man, extending his hand.

  “Maggie,” replied the woman, taking his hand. She was surprised by the strength of the grip. “Pleased to meet you. Are you on vacation?”

  “Not really. I haf my grandson here, he sent me this from newspaper, ja.”

  Bjørn Eggen took Monsoon’s letter from the back pocket of his shorts and handed it to Maggie. While she was reading a waiter came, and Bjørn Eggen ordered a Coke and a pint of lager.

  “Wery cold, if you don’t mind, ja.”

  Maggie handed back the letter and the clipping, looking quizzically at the old man.

  “Ya, so you see I vant to go vith him on the trip.”

  “Is he at work?”

  “Vork? Him? Ha. This idiot don’t know even vat means this word.”

  “So why didn’t he come to meet you?”

  “Ah. This is maybe my fault. I vas supposed to be here yesterday. I meet some very fonny boys from ball game. I get very much dronk, and miss me flight. This is vy I am having the overhang.”

  Maggie smiled vaguely and shook her head. The drinks arrived. “To Las Vegas in all its splendor,” she said, raising her glass.

  She watched the old man grasp his glass in his horny claw, say “Skoll,” and drain it in one go.

  “Damn, you were thirsty,” she said.

  “Ja. The beers on the plane very small and varm. This is very much better, ja. If ve haf time, I would like another, ja.”

  “Go for it, baby,” Maggie replied, considering him closely.

  The newspaper clipping was a fake. Every souvenir shop from Downtown to the Strip could knock you one up in two minutes. Any child could see that. Couldn’t they?

  Asia peeked through her spy hole when somebody knocked on her door. Usually people rang the bell. She saw a man standing with his back to her, and punched the intercom.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  A static voice came back. “Young. Baby Joe. I believe you’re expecting me.”

  She opened the door and looked into Baby Joe’s steady blue eyes. She was wearing a green gym leotard with a black silk blouse hanging loose over the top of it, and her long red hair framed her face and hung over her shoulders. She smiled.

  “Jaysus,” Baby Joe offered, involuntarily.

  “Excuse me?” Asia said.

  It was Baby Joe’s turn to smile. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting…”

  “You weren’t expecting what?”

  “Listen, can we start this conversation again? Hello. I’m Baby Joe Young. I understand you’re in need of a little assistance.”

  Asia held out her hand. “Asia Birdshadow. Yes. Yes I am. Thanks for coming at such short notice. Please come inside.”

  She stepped back to let him pass, and Baby Joe stepped into and out of her warm, heady fragrance.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “Asia, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, but you wouldn’t happen to have something a little stronger, would you? I had a rough night.”

  Asia smiled again. “Sure. What?”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Done. How?”

  “Straight, no ice.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Louisiana, if I’m not mistaken,” Baby Joe said as she set his drink in front of him.

  “You’ve got good ears. What about you?”

  “Boston. Fifth-generation Mick.”

  “You don’t sound Irish.”

  “Wait till I’m drunk.”

  “What happens then?”

  “I sing.”

  “I’d like to hear that.”

  Baby Joe grinned. “No you wouldn’t,” he said. “I have a musician friend who says my ears are only painted on.”

  Asia laughed. It was like water trickling over stones.

  “So. What’s the deal?”

  Asia explained the situation to him, and Baby Joe listened as much to her voice as to what she was saying. It was honey and smoke. When she had finished he said, “Well, it’s probably nothing, but you were right to call me. You never know. This is Vegas. Things are rarely what they seem.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said, and the water ran over the stones again.

  Baby Joe downed his bourbon. “Shall we?” he said, standing.

  “Should we take two cars? If everything is okay, you won’t have to bother driving me home.”

  “No. We’ll take my car. I’ll bring you back.”

  “Okay. I’ll just get my purse.”

  “You won’t need it. Come on.”

  As
ia shrugged and headed towards the door. She wasn’t accustomed to acquiescing so easily, but there was just something about Baby Joe’s manner that she was comfortable with. There was actually no good reason for going in one car, except that Baby Joe wanted to be in his car with her. Baby Joe’s white ‘72 Mustang convertible was parked across the street, and Asia curtsied as he opened her door for her.

  “This is a beautiful car,” she said when they were pulling away.

  “It’s like its owner. Old and tired, but it still goes if you give it a bit of attention.”

  Baby Joe smiled without looking at her, and Asia smiled at the side of his face and turned to look out of the windscreen.

  “Take Rampart, and the Summerlin expressway to the freeway, then get off on Jones, and I’ll tell you from there.”

  Baby Joe nodded. “Do you like music?”

  “What have you got?”

  “There’s a CD case behind you.”

  Asia opened the case, and flicked through it. A lot of jazz and bebop, Sinatra, Bennett, some blues. The Stones, the Beatles, Hendrix. Zappa. Steely Dan. Some Irish bands.

  “Haven’t you got anything by anybody who’s still alive?” Asia asked.

  Baby Joe grinned. “I think there’s some Prince in there somewhere.”

  Right at the back Asia found Around the World in a Day and slotted it into the machine. They were listening to “Raspberry Beret” as they pulled up outside Crispin’s apartment.

  Baby Joe knew something was wrong before they even got to the top of the stairs. It was a just a feeling that you got, a way of knowing without knowing. He turned to Asia, who, at his request, was just behind him.

  “Listen. Asia. I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I want you to go and wait in the car. Here’s the key. Use it if you need to.”

  Asia gave him a questioning look, but did not argue, and wordlessly turned and went back down the stairs.

  As he turned the key, the smell confirmed Baby Joe’s sense of unease. There was only one thing that smelled like that, and once you smelled it you never forgot it. He opened the door, and the stench washed over him. He could hear the buzzing of flies. He doubted anybody would be inside—anybody still capable of shooting, anyway—but without turning on the light he stepped into the room, letting the light from the open doorway guide him. Between that and the dim light coming through the windows, he could see the feet of the body in the doorway of what appeared to be the kitchen. Approaching more closely, he could see a telling, dark shape around the corpse. Stepping over it, he opened the refrigerator door. Its light revealed a ghastly scene. Nigel, bloated and pale, lay in a corona of congealed blood, his swollen features frozen into an expression of pain and terror. As Baby Joe looked, a fat bluebottle crawled out of the open mouth. The front teeth were missing. There were five holes in his back in a tight pattern, from a .38 or bigger. Probably a .38 revolver. Baby Joe calculated the angle of the fall of the body and traced it back to the probable location of the shooter. One of the cushions from the sofa was on the floor, but otherwise, nothing else had been disturbed. No drawers opened, nothing obviously missing, nothing broken.

  Being careful not to touch anything, Baby Joe whistled softly, twice, in case the frightened dog was hiding somewhere. Nothing. The doors to the patio were open, and he walked outside. The Vegas night air seemed a good deal fresher than when he had walked in. Something glittered on the floor, and he bent down to examine it. A whiskey glass. Expensive. Going into the kitchen to look again at Nigel, he noticed the mess in the microwave. Using a tea towel, he opened the door. The whole inside was encrusted with congealed blood, bits of flesh, feathers and bones, and sticking to the top was a large beak.

  Baby Joe closed the door and stepped over Nigel, making sure he didn’t step in the blood. He walked out of the apartment and closed the door behind him, carefully wiping the lock and the handle. As he walked down the two flights to the car, in his mind’s eye he was running through what had probably happened. The perp had roughed the John Doe up some, probably wanting some answers. He must have gotten what he wanted, because dead guys don’t tell. The perp had been on the couch, with a drink. The stiff had been in the kitchen, with his back to the room. For some reason the shooter had rolled off the couch—hence the cushion on the floor—and with a snub-nose revolver had put five shots into a two-inch circle, coming up from a roll. He had thrown his glass onto the patio and shattered it to destroy the prints, and left, taking the dog with him. Or else the dog had been somewhere else, because there were no paw prints in the blood. A pro! Baby Joe wasn’t about to even try to figure out what the deal with the microwave was.

  As he came through the door Asia was leaning against the hood of the car looking anxious, and Baby Joe’s expression did nothing to allay her anxiety.

  “What is it? What happened?” she asked.

  “Get in, babe,” Baby Joe said, gently. “We have to split. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.”

  They were sitting in a dark corner of Jack’s Irish pub, in the Palace Station. Baby Joe was on his third pint, and Asia on her second double Courvoisier. She was pale, and her mascara had run from crying. She had made no attempt to fix it. Her elegant hand, with its long fingers and beautifully manicured nails, shook as she set her drink back on the table, listening to Baby Joe and struggling to comprehend what had happened. A tough cookie from a hard upbringing, she had seen a lot of life in her twenty-three years, but nothing had prepared her for something like this. She was scared, and it showed.

  “I’m fairly certain it was a professional job. Whoever did it was very good, and very careful. Nothing obvious had been touched or taken, so robbery was probably not the motive unless they were looking for something specific that we don’t know about. There was only one glass, so it was probably only one guy involved. I believe he was looking for your friend Crispin, and I think your man Nigel was just unlucky. I think the guy smacked him around a bit, and we have to assume that Nigel told him what he wanted to know. Can you think of anybody who would want to hurt Crispin, or any reason why they’d want to?”

  Asia shook her head. “Crispin is such a nice, gentle man. Why would anybody want to hurt him, and why did they have to kill poor Nigel? Nigel didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He never hurt anybody. And what has happened to little Oberon?”

  She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Baby Joe let her alone for a minute, took a long pull from his pint, and looked around the room. It was starting to fill up, and the band was setting up. He turned back to Asia and gently touched her hair.

  She looked at him and tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I know it’s tough, but there are things that need to be done. Is there anything that can connect you to the place?”

  “Well, I used to go around there all the time, but why would the police think that…”

  “I wasn’t thinking about the police,” Baby Joe said.

  “Then who?” she said, her eyes looking scared again.

  “Never mind. We’ll worry about that later. When is Crispin due back?”

  “Not for four more days.”

  “Okay. We need to call him, now, and tell him to get the fuck out of there. Sorry, I mean, tell him to leave.”

  Asia smiled for the first time. “That’s okay,” she said, “I hear much worse than that every day.”

  Baby Joe nodded. “Would you prefer if I called?”

  “Yes. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Will he believe me?”

  “He will if I speak to him afterwards.”

  “Okay. We’ll call now. Listen, Asia, I don’t want to scare you, but it would be better if you didn’t go home until I have had a chance to find out what this is all about. I suggest you come and camp out with me for a couple of days. It’s not much, but you’ll be comfortable. And safe.”

  Asia studied him. “Okay,” she said, evenly, “if you think it’s necessary.”

  “I don’t really know what to think
yet, Asia. But I undertook to protect you, and I will. Vegas is a much smaller place than people think it is. I’ll need a couple of days to find out what’s going on, and if you’re connected in any way. If not, you go home. If anything comes up, we make a plan. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I promise. I’m an old dog, but I’ve still got a few teeth left.”

  Asia smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Young. You’re a good man.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said with a grin, standing up. “Order me another pint, will you? I’m just going to phone Crispin.”

  “He’ll be working. And you need the number.”

  “I’ll page him.”

  Chapter 9.

  Baby Joe walked Asia out of the office. The manager had been waiting outside.

  “Thanks, Pat,” Baby Joe said. “I owe you one.”

  “Ah, fuck off, ya eejit,” replied Pat.

  Baby Joe nodded and escorted Asia back to the table.

  “We finish our drinks, and then we go. Okay?” he said.

  Asia nodded and they sat in silence. She did not seem inclined to speak, so Baby Joe didn’t bother her. The band came out and started to play, and when Baby Joe asked Asia if she was ready to leave she shook her head and said she’d like to have one more drink.

  “It feels cozy in here,” she said. “Safe. Normal. Just people out having fun. As if all these other things never happened. As if nothing bad ever happened.”

  They had another drink each and stood to leave. Baby Joe let Asia walk in front. As they were halfway to the door the singer from the band wolf-whistled and said over the mike, “Sneakin’ out like the thief in the night that yer are, are yer, Baby Joe?”

  “Fuck off, you paddy twat,” Baby Joe retorted, with a big grin. “I’m being a perfect gentleman, as always.”

  “Yer neither one, yer big thick pudden-headed Mick,” said the singer, laughing. “This is for you and yer fair colleen, yer bollocks.”

  Baby Joe raised his hand in salute, and as he escorted Asia out of the door the band started into “The Girl from the County Down.”

  “This is the other side of Vegas. The shadow side. The demon that lives behind the lights. The side that people don’t see and don’t think exists anymore. They think it’s Disneyland now, with fairy castles and magic carpet rides. All feathers and fun. But underneath that veneer, it’s just as harsh and brutal as it ever was. Mr. Grim Reality wears a different hat now, and a more subtle disguise, but he still lives here, and if you stay here long enough you’ll learn to see him in everything.”