Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  Baby Joe was talking quietly in his front room, lit only by the amber light creeping in from the streetlights outside and by candles in two ornate brass stands, one tall and one short. They were set on his coffee table, which he was leaning against as he sat on the floor, with Asia stretched out next to him on the sofa nursing a glass of bourbon. On the floor next to Asia’s Italian shoes, a row of Guinness tins were lined up with military precision.

  “I don’t know if I want to stay here, now,” she said, in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “I don’t really like it anyway. It’s just the money. I feel so alone here. Apart from Crispin, I don’t really know anybody. I’ve got a couple of girls that I hang out with and have a laugh, sometimes, but nobody I could really call a friend.”

  “Vegas is that kind of place. It has a transient soul, if it has any soul at all.”

  Asia smiled in the half-light. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve learned that much. I miss my family, and I miss the sea. I miss sitting on the levee under the moon, with my dog and no shoes, drinking a beer and listening to the sounds of the night. I came here because we had nothing, and I wanted to make things better for everyone, no matter what I had to do, but it sometimes seems that I had more back then when I had nothing than I do now, when I have all these things. It sounds funny, I know. It’s hard to explain.”

  “No. I understand. It’s the difference between being somewhere you’re supposed to be and somewhere you’re not. The absence of the subtleties and qualities that make the difference between living and existing. Requirements of the spirit unfulfilled. A feeling of the rightness of things, of waking up in the morning, and not wishing you were somewhere else. When there is some flaw in the fabric of our lives, when some color is missing from the palette that we use to paint our visions of contentment…no amount of material success will compensate for that.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Whoa, what?”

  “It’s the way you speak. It’s not at all what I expected. I thought you’d be some kind of evil barbarian, but you’re more like some sage or oracle.”

  “No, you were right the first time. It’s just that you can’t live as long as I have and not accidentally acquire a little wisdom.”

  “How old are you, Baby Joe?”

  “I’m forty-four.”

  “My God! You could be my father…Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  Baby Joe laughed. “That’s all right. You’re right. I could be your grandfather, actually.”

  She sat up and smiled at him. “Yeah, well, every little girl should have a granddaddy like you. Can I please have some more bourbon, granddad?”

  Baby Joe poured her another shot, and as he was pouring she said, “Why are you here, Baby Joe? You obviously don’t like it any more than I do.”

  “I stopped thinking like that a long time ago. The life I’ve lived, being anywhere is quite an achievement.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The wind just kind of blew me down here. I grew up in Boston. Ordinary Irish-American childhood. Old man was a cop. Tough guy, but a good father. Lyndon Johnson fucked me up. Lied about my age and joined the Marines. Thought it was the right thing to do. Went to the war. Came back. Joined the cops. Had a little situation, which meant I had to turn in my badge. Came out West and here I am, plugging away until I’ve got enough stashed for my boat. And then it’s sayonara, baby.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Anywhere between the tropics of Capricorn and Cancer. Buy a little house on the beach, do a little fishing, watch the sunsets, get drunk, wait for the reaper, and spit in his fucking face when he comes. Finis!”

  “That’s a nice dream.”

  “It isn’t a dream. It’s a plan.”

  “I hope it happens.”

  “Me too. And now, we better call it a night. I want to be on the road early tomorrow. Can you handle Crispin on your own when he shows up, or would you rather I be here?”

  “No. I’ll be okay.”

  “Good.” Baby Joe stood and turned on the light, and Asia covered her eyes against the glare. He went out of the room and came back with a towel and a denim shirt and handed them to her.

  “Here, this is in case you get cold. The spare room is in there. There’s an en suite bathroom, and the sheets are clean. If you want anything, just help yourself. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

  “Goodnight, Baby Joe. And thanks. I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”

  Baby Joe smiled at her. “I’m not,” he said. “Now get some sleep.”

  After he had closed his door, Asia turned out the light and sat for a while in the darkness, finishing her drink. She held it cupped in her hands like soup, as if drawing some comfort from it. Then she, too, went through to her room and closed her door.

  A soft footstep broke the spell of Baby Joe’s fragile sleep and he was immediately awake, with his .45 Heckler and Koch pointed in the direction of the noise. In the faint ambient light, he saw Asia framed in the doorway and slipped the gun back under his pillow.

  “Baby Joe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Baby Joe. I don’t want to be alone. Can I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Without speaking further, she stepped into the room, softly closing the door behind her. She was wearing his denim shirt buttoned up at the front, and nothing else. He saw the sheen of her long legs as she slid in beside him. She wriggled up against him, and he put his arms around her and pushed his face into her soft, fragrant hair.

  “That feels good,” she said, quietly.

  “Shh,” he whispered into her ear.

  Baby Joe tried to be still, but a part of him would not cooperate and was soon poking against Asia’s perfect behind. He shuffled backwards and started to turn onto his back.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

  Asia turned to face him. “It’s all right. You can if you want to.”

  “Asia, of course I want to, but…”

  “I want to. I want you to put it inside me.”

  Baby Joe kissed her, and her lips pushed back and her mouth opened, and a thrill went through him that was like a memory, something from another time and place. He slowly popped the buttons on whoever’s shirt it was now and slid his hand onto her full breast. The nipple was proud, and very big. He pushed her gently onto her back.

  “Baby Joe, I don’t want you to wait. I’m ready. Put it in me now.”

  Baby Joe started to climb on top of her, and she put her hands against the hard muscles of his shoulders and looked up at him. He could see the faint gleam of her eyes, and her breath was the most wonderful thing that he had ever inhaled. He had his glans pressed gently against the lips of her vagina when she said, “Baby Joe.”

  He stopped. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I feel wonderful,” she whispered. “It’s just, well…You know what I am?”

  “Asia, what do I do for a living? I’m not a fucking librarian, am I?”

  “But I’m a whore.”

  “No, you’re not. Being a hooker is what you do, not what you are. I don’t think you have the heart for it. But, even if you do, so what?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Asia, shush,” he whispered, kissing her and pushing slowly inside her.

  They made love very slowly and for a long time, and Asia came three times, and it was real, and he could feel her tears in the darkness. He knew that she was crying not for him, but for herself, and for all the countless, nameless, faceless ones. He felt that he knew her, and recognized her, and he knew that he was too old and too far down the road for such foolishness. When they finally came together, as the first dove gray was in the east, he felt something leaving him that he knew he was never going to get back.

  Later, when they had slept and were sitting up in bed drinking coffee in the golden light that streamed through the be
droom window, he smiled at her tenderly and said, “So, how much do I owe you?”

  She smiled back and said, “Nothing. It’s personal now. My services are gratis. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, setting down his coffee, and leaning towards her. “It’s personal now. My services are gratis.”

  Asia smiled at him with her big amber eyes, put down her cup, and reached up to him.

  Thumper Thyroid was feeling extremely pleased with himself when he walked into the Don’s apartment. He had done the deed, come away clean, and spent an extremely entertaining evening in the company of a big bouncy blonde with massive jugs in Biddie’s Roadhouse. He had had a steak the size of Texas for breakfast, and now he was walking in to see the Don, make his report, and receive his just rewards. Maybe the Don would be so pleased he would give him a permanent gig on the A Team, and no more hokey boxing matches and sweaty sock-smelling locker rooms. His pleasure grew when he saw the beatific smile on the face of the Don as he was ushered in by Stratosphere and Liberty.

  “Ah. Mister Thyroid. What an absolute pleasure. Please, do have a seat.”

  Thumper eased himself into the chair in the center of the room, a smile spreading over his face like spilled honey.

  “Now, Mr. Thyroid, in recognition of your efforts on our behalf in Lake Tahoe, your colleague has something for you.”

  Thumper grinned in anticipation of what he was going to get. What he got was a loop of piano wire, attached to two wooden pegs, slipped around his throat from behind and stretched tight. Thumper’s hand automatically flew to his throat, and his fingers frantically tried to insinuate themselves under the wire, but it was already too tight. He could feel it biting into his flesh, drawing blood and cutting off his breath. He tried to stand, but Stratosphere quickly stepped around the chair and thumped him in the testicles. He sat down heavily, his face turning red and his tongue feeling twice its normal size. He stared, wide-eyed, at the impassive Don, and saw the light close in around him as his vision narrowed into a tunnel.

  Just as he was about to black out, the wire was loosened. Thumper fell forward onto the carpet, gagging and gasping. Liberty and Stratosphere grabbed an arm each and hauled him back into the chair. He put his hand to his throat, and it came away bloody. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  “I’m waiting for an explanation, Mr. Thyroid.”

  Thumper coughed and wheezed, and forced himself to say, “An explanation for what, boss? I did jus’ like you tol’ me.”

  “Well, then all I can say is Mr. Capricorn sings awfully well for a dead man.”

  “But boss, I drilled him right between the peepers. He had to be wasted.”

  “Oh, certainly you shot somebody.”

  A copy of the Revue Journal landed in Thumper’s lap, with a picture of Morris Albright on the front page, looking like he was asleep in the snow.

  “Not only did you shoot the wrong man, but you did it in such a manner as to attract the attention of the combined media of Nevada and California.”

  “But, boss, how do you know it’s the wrong guy?”

  “Because as you were driving back here, Crispin Capricorn was singing to a roomful of inebriated tourists.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Do you seriously imagine I would allow a lumbering, punch-drunk oaf such as yourself to go on an errand unsupervised?”

  Thumper had nothing to say. Some ratfink fuckup had followed him and snitched.

  “Would you mind telling me how you came to shoot the wrong person?”

  “Jeez, boss. It was a fat guy, in the same color suit. I never figured for there to be two schlubs in the same gear.”

  “Thyroid, you bring new meaning to the word imbecile. Go and find Capricorn, and do what you were supposed to do. You have twenty-four hours. If, at the end of that period, he is still alive, you will not be. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Good, now get out. And do something about that neck!”

  “Yes, boss.” A cowed Thumper stood and shuffled towards the door. Stratosphere and Liberty followed him as far as the elevator.

  “Hey, Thump. No hard feelins, huh?” said Liberty.

  “Yeah. Sorry, Thump. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know. No sweat, fellas. I’da done the same thing.” Thumper Thyroid stepped into the elevator and pressed the button, waving to them as the doors began to close. His neck hurt, badly, and there was murder in his heart. Not like killing-somebody-for-money murder. Real murder. When you mean it. That fat fuck was gonna pay for this.

  Back upstairs, the Don was talking. “Yes. It’s a girl. I presume you have no problem with that. Yes, quite. I don’t want to send Thumper because I fear the task is beyond him. Frankie is out of town. You’ll have to stop by here and take one of the boys with you. They know what she looks like. One hour. Fine.”

  The Don clicked off his phone, and turned to Stratosphere. “Maxie is coming around to take care of that girl. I want it done today. This thing is getting too messy. Go with him, find her, do it, and come back. No fuss, and no mistakes. Got it?”

  “Sure, Don Imbroglio.”

  “Good.”

  Crispin burst into tears as soon as Asia opened the door to Baby Joe’s apartment. Great, huge, wracking sobs. He grabbed her in a bear hug, clinging to her so hard she could scarcely breathe. She guided him to a sofa, and he lay prostrate with the back of his hand on his forehead.

  “Oh, Asia. I’ve had such an ordeal. You’ve no idea. No idea. I don’t know where to begin.”

  Baby Joe came out of the bathroom and introduced himself. Crispin started to bluster, but Baby Joe cut him short. “Crispin, listen. I’m sorry for what’s happened. We both are. But if I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen to you, you have got to get your shit wired. Can you think of anybody who would want you dead, for any reason?”

  “N-no, nothing, nobody. I’m just a singer, for fuck’s sake. Why would…” Crispin’s voice was rising, building towards hysteria.

  “Calm down. It’s going to be okay. Now think. Do you owe anybody any money?”

  “No, not a red cent.”

  “No gambling debts?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think of anyone you might have upset, maybe insulted without knowing it?”

  “No. When I insult someone, I like them to know about it.”

  Baby Joe grinned. “That’s the spirit. Describe your movements over the days before you went to Tahoe. Everything that you did. Don’t hide anything, or leave anything out. It’s important that you tell me. Remember, I’m not judging.”

  Crispin began to unravel the threads of his life, gradually warming to the task, and getting a sparkle in his eye when he got to the party at Dorothy Deviche’s (pronounced ceviche’s). Then he got to the part where he and Asia had gone to Monsoon’s house and found the door busted in and a skeleton in the coffin.

  Baby Joe said, “Whoa. Wait a minute. Run that by me again.”

  He listened intently as Crispin went through the story again, in fine detail—except for the part where he had shit in his pants, of course.

  “That may be it. At least it’s a place to start. Here’s the deal. Asia, you and Crispin stay here. Don’t answer the door or the phone. If I need you, I’ll use your mobile. If anyone you don’t know calls your cell phone, hang up immediately. If it’s me I’ll ring once, hang up, and ring again. I’m going to go by your place and check it out, then go on down to your man Monsoon’s lair and see if I can come up with anything.”

  Baby Joe went into his bedroom and came out carrying a snub-nosed .38 Police Special and handed it to Crispin. Crispin shrieked and dropped it as if Baby Joe had handed him a hot turd.

  “Guess not,” Baby Joe said. “Honey, can you shoot?”

  “Shit, yes. I’m from down home.”

  “This ain’t squirrels, baby! Ever use one of these?”

  Asia shook her head. Baby Joe carried it over to h
er and handed it to her.

  “Hold it like this. If anybody tries to get in, don’t hesitate. Shoot through the door. If someone gets in, aim for the middle, shoot, and keep shooting. This is just a precaution, you understand. Nobody knows you are here. So don’t worry. I won’t be very long.”

  Crispin raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as Baby Joe kissed Asia on his way out the door.

  Maxie “Slide” Grimmstein could walk under the belly of a rattlesnake with a top hat on. He was a complete and unmitigated lowlife of the first order, without a single redeeming feature, and was immensely proud of it. He had committed every criminal and deviant act described under the Federal Criminal Code, and a few that weren’t, and was proud of that too. With his pointy, sallow face and unkempt, shaggy hair, he looked like a borzoi with lung cancer. He particularly enjoyed brutalizing women and was looking forward to this little escapade.

  As he sat next to Stratosphere in the parked Mercedes, with his nasty little eyes glittering as they watched the girls working the street, he was becoming impatient. “How much longa ‘fore the cunt shows?” he whined, in a voice that made mosquitos sound pleasant.

  “Dunno. But I ain’t sittin’ here lissenin’ to you pissin’ an’ moanin’ all fucken day. I betta try sometin.” A good-looking black girl was sashaying past, and Stratosphere leaned out of the window. “Hey, sweet cheeks, c’mere,” he said.

  Baby Joe left the Mustang in the next street, and walked down the road on the opposite side to Asia’s house. Bingo. There was a big, black Mercedes parked three houses down, and he walked past it, catching a glimpse of the driver in the side mirror. It wasn’t Uncle Al, the Kiddies’ Pal, and he sure as hell wasn’t selling vacuum cleaners. Baby Joe kept walking, following the curve of the street until he was out of sight. He turned down a side road and walked back in the direction he had come, watching the houses until he calculated he was in front of the one that backed onto Asia’s place. The garage door was closed, and there was no car in the driveway. He went up to the side gate, whistled, and waited. No dog. Moving swiftly, he reached over and unlatched the fence, strode through to the back, grasped the branch of an overhanging apricot tree in Asia's yard, and hauled himself over the wall.