Oh, except for one small thing. He really enjoyed killing people.
Baby Joe was beginning to see the light. He had needed to get away on his own for a while, to think things through, and had rented a sampan that had drifted him down to the little bar where he now sat, overlooking the colorful noisy chaos of a floating market. Slimy stone steps led down to the murky water, and his boatman squatted at the foot of them smoking a brown cheroot and holding the rope between his toes. Baby Joe had a tall, cold one in front of him. It wasn’t Guinness, but it would do. It would have to.
He had met Asia from the plane and spent the night with her, and his skin remembered her touch and the feel and the smell of her body was still with him. He had hoped that when she arrived it would have felt different for one of them, or both of them, but it hadn’t. It had been better—or worse, depending on how you looked at it. One of those deals where people say things like, I feel I’ve always known you, or, I feel so comfortable and natural with you, although I barely know you, or, I feel like I’ve always imagined I would feel.
It was romantic bullshit, but unfortunately it was true romantic bullshit. The way he felt inside her, the way she kissed him, the way she tasted, the way her hair felt against his face, the small sound of her voice in the darkness…this was exactly the way he had always imagined it would be if it was real, and right, and meant anything at all.
And now he found himself wishing for things. Wishing he was twenty years younger, wishing the circumstances were different. For fuck’s sake! The next thing, he’d be tossing coins into the fucking river or crossing his fingers or clicking his fucking heels together. You don’t see too many fucking pagodas in Kansas. Fucking wishes. I wish my dick was bigger, I wish I had fucked my school teacher, I wish I spoke fucking Mongolian, I wish my dog would have had better eyesight, then the fucker wouldn’t have gotten run over. I wish I could erase the memory of flames over this city and bloated bodies floating down this river. I wish I hadn’t pissed thirty years away without knowing or understanding, not for one minute, what any of it was about.
Well, there was only one thing to do about Asia. Surrender. Fucking capitulate. Let it roll, and be ready for when the tide burst. Enjoy it while it lasted, and live with it when the fucking roses died. If you can’t stand a bit of pain in this life, you’re on the wrong fucking planet. And you have to be alive to be in pain. Which led to the next problem: the problem of making sure they both lived long enough for their blossoming romance to come to its sad and inevitable conclusion and become a tear-stained note under an empty whiskey glass on an empty, perfume-smelling dresser.
At least that side of things was becoming a clearer, if no less complicated, equation. Evil gangster plus opportunist shakedown artist plus incendiary drug minus two mobsters and two innocent bystanders plus one ill-advised love affair in the midst of a potentially life-threatening situation, multiplied by a shitload of dollars, equals an all-singing, all-dancing, state-of-the-art fuckup of biblical proportions.
So what was the score now? From the fragments that he had to hand, the mosaic looked something like this: After the Captain cashes in, the MGJ somehow comes into Monsoon’s hands. What a fucking family heirloom that turned out to be! Monsoon starts passing it around town, which attracts the vultures. Crispin is just looking to get high, but somehow gets connected, which also puts Asia in the shit. Somebody, either the Don or Monsoon, figures there’s more of the stuff, hence this jolly little excursion. If what Hazy says is true, there is no more Machine Gun Jelly, and if there was it would be dangerous beyond any reasonable definition of the word.
Is the Don aware of either of those facts? What happens if he finds out? What is the Don’s next move? Has he made the connection with Asia yet? If he is convinced that there is no Machine Gun Jelly, hence nothing to protect, and does that mean the heat is off?
There is only one way to find out. Call him! Fuck this cat-and-mouse shit. Wondering, waiting, watching. What if this, what about that? Enough. Time to mock the boar in his lair.
Frankie Merang’s nose had been an embarrassment to him all his life. It had subjected him to much verbal abuse from his peers, with wisecracks such as “Frankie’s hooter is so big, it generates its own weather system,” and “Frankie’s beezer is so immense, small dogs attempt to stand under it in the rain.” The thing about it was, though, that for all its size and deformity, it actually worked very well. Frankie could always smell a rat…or in this case, a Sasquatch.
As he opened the door to his room, his beak immediately informed him of a presence, and he knew that either the cleaning lady had not changed her underwear for about fourteen years or that some diseased animal was in his room. He stopped abruptly, which is what allowed him to avoid the wicked curved blade that came slashing upwards towards where his throat would have been if he had not done so.
At this point, Frankie could have stepped back and slammed the door, but it was not in his nature to do so. Furthermore his gun was inside the room, hidden in the cistern. Instead, he grabbed the fist that held the knife and forward-rolled into the room, twisting the wrist completely around. He was surprised when instead of the sound of a cracking wrist he heard the sound of a cracking fist against his skull.
Whoever it was had rolled with him and delivered a blow of astounding force to the side of his head. Ironically, it was the very force of the blow that saved him, for despite his enormous bulk the punch actually knocked him end over end and out of reach of the vicious blade that came swooping down again. He rolled to his feet and saw some kind of incensed chimpanzee attempting to wrest the knife from the carpet where the force of the strike had driven it. Frankie stamped on the blade and snapped it, and brought his other foot up flush under the Sasquatch’s chin with all the weight of his massive thigh behind it. The kick would have certainly stunned, and perhaps even killed, most men, but the Sasquatch merely shook its head and advanced, weaving in a mesmeric sway.
Frankie Merang had been in a great many confrontations during the course of his coarse and brutal career, but nothing had prepared him for the strength and speed of the blows that began to rain on him, and he began to fear for his life. The fear came to his rescue, leading to the desperation that caused him to grab the long, greasy tresses that hung down the Sasquatch’s back, and dive over its head and out of the third floor window. The sound of the shattering glass mingled with an unmistakable crack, and Frankie found himself dangling ten feet above the street, clinging to the hair that was attached to the now-lifeless head that was wedged up against the windowsill.
As he clung to the braids, turning in a slow circle, he saw Monsoon sprinting towards the nearest taxi.
The Don’s ears were burning. He had just fielded his third consecutive long-distance phone call, which had occupied the best part of an hour and caused his cigar to go out, and he was about to summon Liberty when the phone rang again. Oh well, such is the price and cost of success. He picked up the hot receiver, and waited for the other party to speak.
“Don Imbroglio?”
“Mr. Baby Joe Young. How nice of you to think of us. We were beginning to become concerned about your welfare. Those foreign climes can be so unpredictable, can they not? How’s the hangover?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Irish propensity for strong drink is well known, but I doubt that even you can consume twenty-six Singapore Slings without repercussions. Cambodia was a nice touch, too.”
“I know what’s going on.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad somebody does. Would you care to enlighten me?”
“I know about the drug. Machine Gun Jelly. You can forget it. It was all destroyed by the army during the war.”
“Oh, really? How disappointing. I assume you have this information from a reliable source.”
“From the horse’s mouth, Don Imbroglio.”
“I see. And what of my associates?”
“That’s up to you, now. I just want to know if you’re prepared
to call your dogs off.”
“My dogs?”
“Come on, Don Imbroglio. Playtime’s over. You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about. There’s no percentage in this anymore. Just let it go. We’ll call it quits.”
“Mr. Young. Whatever you are making reference to appears to have eluded me. Perhaps you could clarify matters.”
“All right. If you don’t already know, you are bound to find out sooner or later. The singer and the girl had nothing to do with any of this. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad luck. You lost a few of your people. You were doing what you thought you had to, and so was everybody else. But there is no point anymore. Just leave it.”
“Well, since you choose to be so frank, Mr. Young, I am indeed aware of your role with regard to the missing parties. Not very ethical of you when you were under contract to me.”
“Yeah, well. Call it a conflict of interests.”
“You can call it whatever you so desire, Mr. Young, but the fact remains that you not only interfered in my affairs, but you also attempted to mislead me.”
“Yes, Don Imbroglio, I did. I had my reasons. I’ll refund you your advance. Just leave it alone.”
“You seem extremely concerned about the welfare of our little refugees, Mr. Young. It wouldn’t be something more than just professional interest, would it?”
“Don Imbroglio. I know you’re a reasonable man. I know you value economy of effort. There is absolutely no point in you pursuing this now.”
“Well, that is not quite true. I still have my reputation to consider. You know how important that is to a man in my position.”
“Well, Don Imbroglio, I’ll leave it to you to decide just how important that is.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Young?”
“Let’s just say I’m appealing to your sound business sense.”
“You are very sure of yourself, Mr. Young. I admire that. You realize, of course, that I shall have to verify the nonexistence of the merchandise myself, before I come to any decision.”
“That’s fair.”
“All right, Mr. Young. Let us leave it like that for the nonce. Goodnight, Mr. Young; give my regards to your friends, and don’t forget to return your advance.”
The Don hung up. He summoned Liberty to light his cigar and pour him a drink, dismissed him, and sat sipping brandy under a swirling cloud of smoke and listening to the faint beeping of horns far below. Presently he reached for his phone again. The voice that answered spoke for five minutes before the Don said anything.
“Good,” he said, finally, “very good. Now, tomorrow afternoon, call Mr. Flowers. Verify that the merchandise exists. Once that is ascertained, then I want you to clean up this mess. Yes, all of them. Oh, and I want you to give Mr. Young the deluxe service. Oh, yes. Very slowly. Take all the time you need.”
The Don hung up and went to his cigar. He inhaled deeply and smiled. He did appreciate a good Havana.
Monsoon had changed cabs three times and had driven halfway around the city before he figured it was safe enough to stop for a drink. He chose a bar directly across the street from the police station, and after surveying the other customers to assure himself that none among them had, at present anyway, any reason to want to kill him, sat down outside to ponder the latest complication.
When his drink came he grunted and reached out to take it from the waiter without looking up, which was unwise because the fist holding the drink turned out to belong to a very seriously pissed off Frankie Merang, who had just spotted Monsoon after having negotiated his release from the police station with a number of small, green, oblong pieces of paper. Frankie had an impressively swollen lip, a burgeoning and colorful black eye, and a plaster across his broken nose.
“Ya fucken slimy little piece of zipperhead shit. Ya set me up,” said Frankie, by way of greeting, before lifting Monsoon bodily out of his chair and head butting him.
While this was taking place a taxi pulled up, and a compact, middle-aged man climbed out. The taxi waited. As he stepped forward to put the boot in, Frankie noticed the compact, middle-aged man standing very still, watching him.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” said Frankie.
Baby Joe ignored him and spoke to Monsoon, where he lay on the ground holding his bleeding nose. “Your grandfather wants to see you.”
“I said, what the fuck are you looking at?” Frankie repeated, leaning forward.
Baby Joe continued to ignore him. “You’d better come with me now, Monsoon.”
Frankie reached out and grabbed Baby Joe’s shirtfront. “Lissen, shithead, I…”
Frankie never finished his sentence. Baby Joe straight-fingered him in the eyes with his left hand while grabbing the hand that held his shirt in an underhand grip with his right. Rotating his elbow sharply, Baby Joe heard the wrist crack. Frankie bellowed and stumbled backwards, upsetting the table. He began clawing at his eyes with one hand, and fumbling at his waistband with the other.
A heavy stone ashtray stood by the table on a bamboo stand, and Baby Joe lifted it and swung it backhand in a lazy arc. It cracked against Frankie’s temple and he dropped where he stood, like a brain-shot bison.
Baby Joe looked at Monsoon, who was trying to decide whether to run for it or not. The bleakness in Baby Joes’s eyes made up his mind for him, and he walked towards the taxi.
Frankie Merang was half drunk, sweating, and in a great deal of pain, and the scotch wasn’t killing it. His left eye was bloodshot, his vision blurry, and his wrist throbbed mercilessly. There was a huge knot at his left temple. But if the scotch wasn’t dulling the pain, the anger was helping, and at least it wasn’t his gun hand.
It was all goin’ to shit. The guys were showin’ up tonight, an’ here he was, all banged up, an’ no fuckin’ Monsoon. That fucker had been fast for an old guy. It had surprised him. Well, he wasn’t going to get another chance. He was goin’ down to that shitbox boat, or maybeez that sleaze-pit bar, where he figured Monsoon to be. Anybody that got in his way was dog meat. In fact, anybody that didn’t get in his way was dog meat. Then, once he got ahold of Monsoon, everythin’ would be sweet again. He knew what that ratfuck little zipperhead bastard was up to. They get to the meet with this character Long Suc, carrying the green, and all of a sudden it’s Vietnam Part Two. Yeah well, it wasn’t goin’ to work like that. There was gonna be a little traffic accident on the way, see. An’ the only survivors were gonna be Big Francis Merang and ten million dollars. This clown the Don had on his ass would see the bonfire, an’ assume that Frankie was toast. Some fuckin’ tail. If the Don had sent a wildebeest in a fuckin’ tuxedo it would have been harder to spot.
Frankie took another heavy slug of whiskey, then rang the bell captain and asked him to send a couple of girls up. He was goin’ to show these fuckers that you don’t fuck about with Frankie Merang. He was gonna give these two slopettes the high, hard one, take care of this joker who suckerpunched him, and then take care of business.
It was a face Jordan Young reserved for those occasions when he was so angry that words would not suffice, and looking into it Monsoon Parker was afraid. The Incredible Hulk would have been, if not exactly afraid, at least a little concerned. It was a face that contained no recognizable element of humanity or compassion. It was winter in Stalingrad, midnight in Birmingham, shit-out-of-luck in the Mojave, the dark side of the moon, and stormy fucking Monday all rolled into one.
Monsoon was desperately trying to decipher the thoughts that were taking place behind those bleak and lusterless eyes. He would not have found them comforting. Baby Joe was thinking that if Philip Parker had survived to guide his son, then maybe Monsoon Parker would not have turned out to be such a contemptible shit bag, and that therefore he himself was in part and indirectly responsible for some of what had occurred. He was also considering how he would feel about sending the son of the man to whom he owed his life to eternity, and what Philip Parker would have made of all this. He was wonderi
ng which way the scales tip when love and sacrifice and regret in the one cup are balanced against guilt and justice and necessity in the other. He was thinking that moral implications are the domain of the living, and that the dead don’t give a shit one way or the other. And he was concluding that this treacherous little ratfuck had it coming whichever way you looked at it.
Looking into those colder-than-penguin-shit eyes, any ideas that Monsoon may have entertained of attempting to lie, con, prevaricate, hedge, play for time, or just plain bullshit, evaporated like the mist on the glen.
“This is the bit where people usually say, ‘You’ve got two choices,’” Baby Joe was explaining. “Except you don’t. You’ve got one. Tell me what the fuck is going on, and why. The other one, you don’t even want to contemplate.”
They were on the end of the jetty at the bottom of the garden where Asia and Crispin were staying. In lieu of a belt, Monsoon was wearing about twenty pounds of reef-knotted anchor chain, the other end of which was attached to a piece of iron protruding from the anvil-sized lump of concrete to which the sampan was normally attached. The concrete was balanced precariously on the very lip of the jetty and Baby Joe’s booted foot rested lightly against it, rocking it gently back and forth. Feeling an entirely understandable sense of déjà vu, Monsoon was wondering what he had to do to pass a day without finding himself chained to eternity.
Wally and Bjørn Eggen were standing slightly off to the left, behind Baby Joe, and Monsoon looked anxiously into their eyes, searching for a glimmer of empathy or sympathy and finding none. Bjørn Eggen’s eyes were as cold and hard as the ice upon which he was accustomed to fish, and Wally’s as distant as his ancestral home.
“Lissen. Wait. I…”
“Before you start, I want to explain something to you. Because of you, at least seven people are dead. Oh, and a dog. Two of them were innocent people, minding their own businesses. Just trying to get through, you know. Just trying to squeeze whatever drops of happiness they could from all this, however they could. Because of you, people that I care about have been inconvenienced, frightened, wounded, dispossessed, humiliated, threatened, and assaulted. Your own grandfather has traveled halfway across the world to end up in the middle this shit, because he imagines that you are all he has left in the world, and through you, something of his son lives on. Because of you my life, and the lives of other people, will never again be what they were. Because of you more people are going to die, and I may very well be one of them. So. Speak. And choose your words very carefully. Don’t give me the slightest reason to drop you deep into the slime at the bottom of this river, because you have absolutely no idea how much I want to.”
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 30
