Baby Joe backed up slowly, until he felt the back of his legs against the fender of a parked Cherokee. He held up his hand, covered in blood from the other one’s skull. “Oh, dear! Blood. Your girlfriend’s tampon must have fallen out!”
Liberty charged, snorting like a bison and smelling not much different. Baby Joe ducked under his wild swing and turned, simultaneously snapping the antenna from the hood of the Jeep. As Liberty’s momentum carried him into the vehicle Baby Joe stabbed him twice with the jagged edge of the broken metal, once in the back of the groin and once in the neck under the ear. He stepped back as Liberty turned around, the blood gushing from his neck looking black under the blue lights of the pub. He put his hand to his wound, looked at it, and looked at Baby Joe.
“The next one is in your fucking eye, big man.”
Liberty held his hands out in front of him. “Okay,” he said, “okay.”
“Good boy. Now tell the Don that if he asks me nicely, I’ll come and see him. And tell him that if either of you two refugees from the Guinness Book of Retards ever raises your hands to me again, he’ll be needing two new pizza delivery boys. Understand, Shrek?”
Liberty nodded. Baby Joe backed off a safe distance and then sidled up to his car. He figured if either of the two goons had been packing heat, they would have used them—or at least pulled them—but he wasn’t taking anything for granted.
Pulling off the 15 onto the 95, Baby Joe conceded to himself that when Handyman Harris had called earlier in the evening and summoned him, telling Handyman Harris that the only Don he knew was a fucking River and then hanging up had not been the shrewdest move he had ever made. But then again, Don Ignacio Imbroglio was seriously starting to get on his tits. Furthermore, the last time he had unthinkingly done as he was told he had been seventeen years old and had ended up, as a consequence, in two feet of stagnant water in a paddy field, covered in buffalo shit, with a half a key of Soviet-made shrapnel in his ass and tracers flying over his head like Tinkerbell with PMS.
As he peeled off onto the Summerlin Parkway he decided that he was sober enough to realize that he had probably made a bad mistake, but drunk enough to not give a fuck. That was a bad policy. When the Don’s word was in the street, it was like the weather forecast to a sailor: you had better pay attention, or you could end up with more sea than you could handle. He decided he’d better camp out somewhere and think this through. The place he chose to camp out was his usual spot in the darkest corner of the Whale Lounge, where he told the waitress to keep ‘em coming and settled down to ponder the situation.
As far as he was aware, until tonight the Don had not even known that he existed. All of a sudden he was being invited for a little tête-à-tête. If the Don had wanted him dead, he would be dog meat. It was that simple. So whatever the Don wanted required him to be alive in order to do it. So…what were the permutations here? He had been made for smoking Maxie? He didn’t think so—it was too soon, and anyway he had been careful. The Don had eyes on Monsoon’s place? Maybe. The Don had a soft spot for the miniature kid he had dumpstered and was upset? Probably not the case. The Don had put him together with Asia and Crispin? Possible, in the case of Asia, if the Don had eyes on her crib or was tracking her. If the Don had a crew on him they were very good, because he had been watching and had seen nothing unusual, nothing at all. And anyway, if the Don was onto him and knew who had been staying at his house, why hadn’t he had a visit before now?
So what to do? Split now, and never come back? He had been through that already. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—the Don was going to send somebody else. He wasn’t going to be thrilled about his goons being bloodied up, if nothing else. Bad for his reputation, having his muscle slapped about in public. The thing to do was to preempt the situation. He decided on a simple plan, always the best, which called for nothing more than taking a room in the hotel, listening to the band, drinking enough Guinness to be able to sleep, and confronting the Don in the morning.
He was on his third pint, while the band was halfway through a rousing version of “The Craic Was Ninety In The Isle Of Man,” and he was just on the point of shouting “Yeeehoooo,” when the manager tapped him on the shoulder and put his hand to his ear. He followed Deck into the office, asking with a jerk of his chin who it was. Deck shrugged.
Baby Joe took the receiver and said, “Young.”
“Mr. Young. Don Imbroglio speaking. Enjoying the music, I trust?”
“Yeah, I’m all in favor of a good reel every now and then. How can I help you, Don Imbroglio?”
“I understand there was a little unpleasantness this evening. A slight misunderstanding, no?”
“Well, I think we came to an understanding, Don Imbroglio.”
“Yes, quite. Actually, I’m rather impressed. Perhaps my people were just a tad overenthusiastic. But you know it was all entirely unnecessary. If you had accepted my original invitation, none of this would have happened.”
“Well, Don Imbroglio, if you yourself had invited me, I would most certainly have come. But, you know, your man’s telephone manner could stand a little work.”
“Allow me to apologize on both counts, Mr. Young. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I would be most grateful if you could step round to my apartments tomorrow afternoon, say four o’clock. I have a proposition for you which I am sure you will find irresistible.”
“Okay, Don Imbroglio, I’ll be there.”
Baby Joe hung up. A personal invitation, no less. Legit? Probably. Easier to send some better talent otherwise. At least the corny fucker hadn’t said he was going to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now all he had to do was figure out what, exactly, the Don did want from him and, more importantly, who he had on his tail. He would watch as he left, although he was pretty sure that the dogs would be called off now. Unless he didn’t show tomorrow, of course.
Baby Joe stood before the Don, and even though the Don could not see him something in the air—some perceptible tension in the web—made him realize that this was no ordinary fly. Don Imbroglio dispensed with his customary theatrics. The fingers clicked and the chair arrived.
“I am sure you would care for a drink, Mr. Young.”
“Yes, Don Imbroglio, that would be nice.”
Again the fingers, and Stratosphere arrived bearing a cold, perfectly poured pint of Guinness.
Baby Joe smiled. “You do your homework, I see, Don Imbroglio.”
“I like to make my guests feel comfortable.” The Don made an almost imperceptible motion with his head, and Liberty and Stratosphere vanished. “I feel a little privacy is in order for the proposition I am about to make.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the invitation.”
“Ah, a regrettable incident…a misunderstanding, as you said. I understand you were in Vietnam, in the Special Forces, Mr. Young. I myself was involved in the conflict in Korea. Frightful business.”
“Did you ask me here to swap war stories, Don Imbroglio, or are you going to get to the point?”
The Don was not used to being spoken to in such a manner, and red static flickered through his brain. He controlled it and continued in his smooth voice, “The reason I ask, Mr. Young, is because I would like you to go back there.”
Baby Joe took a big swallow of his pint. Vietnam! He heard the sound of snapping fingers in his mind. His face remained completely impassive. The Don’s acute ears could hear the gurgling of the fluid.
“Are you enjoying your stout, Mr. Young?”
“As ever, Don Imbroglio. As ever. What would you like me to do for you in Vietnam?”
“You were recommended to me by an associate whose opinion I value, as a man of integrity and ability, with the appropriate qualifications. As I learned from your unfortunate encounter with my employees, my associate was not mistaken in his opinion. Some of my colleagues have encountered some…difficulties, shall we say…whilst on business for me in the Orient. I have unfortunately begun to lose confidence in them. They we
re last seen in Ho Chi Minh City. I imagine they believe that the distance and the exotic location will allow them a certain independence of action that they would not enjoy here, but you understand a man in my position simply cannot allow that state of affairs to exist. I need you to locate these people.”
“And then what? Contracts are not in my job description.”
“No, no, Mr. Young, nothing like that. I merely want you to observe them and report their activities and movements back to me. ‘Shadow them’ is, I believe, the expression used in your profession. I am particularly interested in whom they might meet with. I have no doubt that the nature of their business on my behalf will lead them into negotiations with certain parties whose entrepreneurial enterprises might mirror my own. I would very much like to be put in direct contact with my Asian counterparts. I understand you speak the language?”
“I used to. A little. Enough to get by. So, what’s the deal? I usually get two-fifty a day, plus.”
“I’ll pay you one thousand, plus expenses, and first class travel.”
“When do I start?”
“You may consider yourself employed as of this moment, Mr. Young.”
The fingers snapped. Liberty reappeared, and placed an envelope in front of Baby Joe.
“In there, Mr. Young, you will find your ticket, photographs and descriptions of the parties you are looking for, and a telephone number to use, which is not to be given to anyone else, you understand.”
“Yeah.”
“You will also find a generous cash advance, and a credit card with a five-thousand-dollar daily limit, which I must ask you to use for all your business-related expenses. I am very meticulous on the point of accountancy. It will also allow me to keep track of your progress, as it were. Are these terms to your liking, Mr. Young?”
“Deal,” said Baby Joe, taking up the envelope and standing. Draining his glass, he set it softly on the table.
“I am sure you understand the need for absolute discretion, Mr. Young. Any information you may acquire is strictly for my ears only.”
“Understood,” Baby Joe said, and then, “You were very sure I would take the job, Don Imbroglio.”
“Well, I generally get what I want, Mr. Young. And as you say, I do my homework. Your profession can have its ups and downs, can it not?”
Baby Joe nodded curtly. “Thanks, Don Imbroglio. You’ll be hearing from me in a couple of days.”
“I’m sure I will, Mr. Young, I’m sure I will. Bon voyage, as they say.”
Liberty and Stratosphere followed him to the elevator door. They both wore dark glasses, and Liberty had a bandage tied around his throat and walked with a limp, which he was trying very hard to disguise, but couldn’t. Baby Joe gave them a smile that was no smile at all.
“Nice shades,” he said, as the doors closed.
They were strictly minor-league guys. Small fish hanging around the reef, picking up occasional scraps from the sharks that constituted the Don’s A Team. If his looks were anything to go by, Poxy Purdy should have been as hard as they come. He had a face like a warthog drinking battery acid from a pisspot. But being ugly doesn’t necessarily make you tough. His partner, Bender, knew that. He made Poxy look like Brad Pitt, but if he had ever tried shadowboxing, the shadow would have won. They were okay when it came to slapping hookers around or leaning on some poor stiff who was so terrified of the Don that he wouldn’t defend himself, but when it came to the real nitty-gritty they were way out of their depth. Nevertheless, between the two of them they should have been able to handle an eighty-year-old man. The Don thought so, too, which is why he’d sent them to snatch Bjørn Eggen from his hotel. Well, even criminal masterminds make mistakes.
Bjørn Eggen had a way with animals, and with dogs in particular. To them, he radiated amicability in some canine spectrum that only they could see. From the sappiest show poodle to most vicious, psychotic pit bull, dogs loved him instantaneously. Cerberus himself would have loved Bjørn Eggen.
And Behemoth loved him. Behemoth was some kind of monolithic sheepdog from the Caucasus. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone with Smilodon teeth at one end and a dick at the other, Behemoth belonged to the head gardener at the Mirage. When Bjørn Eggen would go to sit on a bench by the pool and drink beer while watching the children play, Behemoth would go with him. Which is why Behemoth was asleep under Bjørn Eggen’s bench when Poxy Purdy and his partner Bender approached.
“You comin’ with us, old man,” Poxy said.
“Excuse me, vat haf you said?” replied Bjørn Eggen
“You deaf?” Bender said. “He said get up, you comin’with us.”
“To vhere are ve going?”
“Just shut up and get up. You’ll find out,” Poxy said.
“Ja, okay, but I am old man. Please to help me stand up.”
“Sure thing, Granddad,” Bender sneered.
Bender reached down, grabbed Bjørn Eggen’s shirtfront, and hauled him to his feet.
Bjørn Eggen reached down, grabbed Bender’s nuts, and twisted them. Bender was surprised at how strong the old man’s grip was.
Poxy stepped forward with his fist cocked, ready to punch the old man in the face. Then something distracted him. What distracted him was Behemoth removing three and a half pounds of his left buttock and swallowing it, together with his wallet.
People have certain expectations of old men. We expect them to be frail and forgetful, and to reminisce a lot. We don’t generally expect them to head-butt us and break our noses—hence Bender’s surprise. Behemoth was trying to decide between more buttock, or perhaps a nice slice of thigh, when Bjørn Eggen called him off and walked away without a backwards glance.
“Good boy,” he was saying. “How about I buy you nice packet of beef jerky, ja?”
Bender looked over to where Poxy Purdy was lying, bleeding heavily, in an intermediate state somewhere between shock, agony, and disbelief.
“The Don ain’t gonna like this,” he said.
Baby Joe sat in his customary chair in the Whale Lounge, nursing his customary pint and staring at the ticket on the table before him. Vietnam.
There are many kinds of wounds and many kinds of scars. Some say the way of it is that the scars inside, the ones you can’t see, are the worst. Scars of the mind, sucking puncture wounds of the soul that never close, damage that stays with you for as long as you breathe, damage so profound that a person becomes something else altogether. Baby Joe had come out of the maelstrom of the battle for Hue with his limbs and his sight and his faculties more or less intact, but something of his being had been left behind, something that wandered among the ghosts of his friends in the Forbidden City and floated down the Perfumed River with all the other wraiths on cool misty mornings.
Vietnam. Like most of the others he had tried to put it out of his mind, to not think about it, to push it out of his daily life. But it was like a swollen river. You can hold it at bay, but sooner or later it bursts its banks and the memories, like the water, come flooding in, washing away everything that you have made until nothing remains but the water.
He looked again at the pictures on the table in front of him. Monsoon Parker looked like he had been made up of spare parts—African skin and lips, Asian eyes and cheekbones, European nose, and hair from Discount Cheesy Greasy Wigs R Us. The other two guys were real beauties—the one looked like he shaved with a chainsaw, and the other had a face like an enema gone wrong.
Baby Joe was starting to wish he had read more Sherlock Holmes stories as a kid. What was the deal here, Lucille? It was like looking for images in a cloud…every time you looked you saw something else, something you hadn’t seen before. Monsoon has got something, or knows about something the Don wants, something the Don thinks Asia and Crispin also know about, but they don’t. The something is big enough for the Don to want to eliminate any inconveniences…like Asia and Crispin, for example. The something is in Vietnam. The Don sends Monsoon to Vietnam with Chainsaw and Enema as nursemaids. Mons
oon does the ten-toe tango. The Don hires him to play watchdog. Why him? Because he knows the country? Or because the Don knows or suspects all or some of what has happened and is setting him up. But then, why the charade? Could it be a simple improbable coincidence? Was it dangerous to even think that way, to think that the Don would ever do anything except weave a web from razor wire and vipers’ tongues? And even if the whole thing was coincidence—just the Olympians, bored out of their eternal skulls, having a little fun—he had to assume that the Don would make the connection between him and Asia, sooner or later, and therefore put him in the frame for Maxie Grimmstein. He had been careful, but he couldn’t afford to assume that there was nothing he had overlooked. There was always something. And what was the story with the old man, and the fake newspaper cutting?
So much for what he didn’t know. What he did know was that he was inextricably involved in something complicated, in the tight embrace of something that would not let him go. He knew that inevitably he would assume inconvenience status. He knew that he was back to his original choice. Go or blow! He knew he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in the shadow of the Don, and he knew that it would be more sensible to hire Hannibal Lecter as a babysitter than to underestimate him.
He knew that whatever was or was not between himself and Asia could not possibly endure very long. He knew it was a love affair—if that was the name for it—with the life expectancy of strawberry jelly in a kindergarten classroom, but he also knew that he wanted it. Whether it lasted ten days or ten years, it was his for now and he wanted it, and he wasn’t going to let anybody take it away from him without a fight. He knew that the waters had suddenly become irremediably muddied, when a few short days ago all he’d had to worry about was where his next check was coming from. That’ll teach you not to answer your fucking phone, he thought.
He stared into the bottom of his glass as if the answer would be written there, in some mysterious runic configuration of foam. All that was written there was that his glass was empty. He remedied that situation with a passing waitress, and continued his rumination. Asia was safe for the moment. The best thing was to go ahead as planned, see what developed, find out what it was all about, see if some way out presented itself, and just be good and ready for when the Don made his move. The move would probably not be until after he had hooked up with Mr. Monsoon Parker and his watchdogs and the Don had gotten what he wanted. And besides, as suicide missions go the pay on this one was pretty good.
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 19
