There was brittleness in the room, a palpable tension, almost audible, like a violin string stretched to its breaking point.
“I’m so sorry, everybody,” Mary Rose, was saying. “It was supposed to be just a job. I never meant to get involved. I’m just a silly, sentimental old lady. At first I was just supposed to watch and report back to the Don, keep an eye on everybody. But then it kept changing, and I was getting different instructions every day, and all the time I was getting closer to you all, and especially to Bjørn Eggen, until I didn’t know what I would do when the time came. And even when I had made my mind up, I had to go through with the arrangement to protect everybody. I had to make it look real, and to be sure that that creature Horatio was the right person, and then put him off his guard. I couldn’t say anything, in case somebody panicked and gave the game away. I’m so sorry.”
She bent her head again, and Bjørn Eggen stroked her hand.
“Do not cry. Ve understand. You haf anyway do the right thing, ja. Only Crispin haf shit himself again, I think.”
Wally sprayed beer again and, of course, just happened to be standing next to Crispin when he did it, and it was as if the fine beer mist washed the tension from the room. Everybody cracked up except for Crispin, who just stared at his ruined new shirt and said, “I fucking give up.”
The laughter swept away the last fragments of unease, and the room dissolved into small talk, the beers went down, the bottle was passed, traumatic events became anecdotes, and for an hour it seemed as if it were nothing more than just a pleasant social gathering of friends, and not of fugitives, as if no evil shadow stretched across half a world to threaten them.
Asia’s conflict resolved itself, her anger dissipated, and she went to sit next to Mary Rose and took her other hand. Mary Rose stopped crying. Monsoon went to sit by his grandfather, who proceeded to bend his ear and to tell him what a useless waste of space he was, how he was nothing like his father, and, if not for the promise that Bjørn Eggen Christiansson had made to his own son, he would not cross the road to piss on Monsoon if he was on fire, et cetera. Crispin was coaxed out of his shell and began to elaborate on the adventure of Rodney and the latrine, and Wally dispensed beer, wisdom, and shit-eating grins all around.
Baby Joe let them enjoy it, leaving it for as long as he could, letting the poison drain out of it and the fear melt away. He watched Asia, laughing with Mary Rose, the beer making her voluble and theatrical, seeing how her body moved beneath her clothes. She glanced at him and smiled, and her hand went up to touch her hair. Twice now he had almost lost her, and would have if not for the intervention of others. There would be no third time.
When he felt the moment was right he clinked two bottles together, and into the suddenly quiet room said, “Okay. Time to get serious. Mary Rose, do you know of anyone else that the Don has sent out here?”
“No, Baby Joe. Apart from myself and the one from the boat, I don’t know of anyone.”
“Okay. Monsoon, what about you?”
“No, man. I come out here with Frankie, an’ another guy called Belly Joe. Frankie took care of the Belly, and the elephant took care of Frankie.”
“So as far as we know, the only two guys the Don has out here at the moment—who are still breathing, anyway—are the two money guys. What’s your take on that, Mary Rose?”
“Well, we never get the full story, dear. All we ended up with was a shopping list. And I’m afraid you were on it and our friend here.”
“Fuck,” Monsoon opined, grabbing the whiskey bottle and glugging noisily.
“I see. Well, the most important thing is to get everybody safe. That’s where Wally comes in. Wal?”
“Yeah, right. We’re all goin on a little cruise. I’m about ready to ’ead ’ome anyway. It’s time. I got a mate who’s the skipper on a freighter, runs between ’ere and Fremantle. Brings me all me Aussie grog so’s I don’t ’ave to swaller the local piss. Anyway, I fixed us up berths, an’ we sail tomorrow night. It ain’t exactly the QE2, but it’s comfortable and there’ll be plenty of good tucker and loads a cold tubes.”
“Where the hell is Fremantle?” Crispin wanted to know.
“Australia, ya bladdy ignorant petrol pooftah,” grinned Wally. “We’ll ’ead up north, I reckon. I’ve got ’alf a share in an ’otel up there, and that’s where me people are from. It’s fucken bush up there, mate, nothing but roos, crocs, dingo shit, and fucken billabongs. Sherlock fucken ’Olmes’d never find ya.”
“Everybody okay with that?”
Nobody spoke.
“Mary Rose?” said Baby Joe.
“Well, I might as well. It wouldn’t be very wise for me to go back to the USA, and I really don’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, a sea trip will be fun.”
“Bjørn Eggen, what do you want to do? Go home?”
“No, fock dat. For sure, I go vith you,” said Bjørn Eggen. “Vil be great adventure.”
“Asia?” said Baby Joe.
“You know I’m with you,” she said with a soft smile, then added, “Crispin, you’re in this too.”
Crispin was pouting because even though he wasn’t quite sure what a “bladdy ignorant petrol pooftah” was, he was sure that it wasn’t something nice.
“Oh, sure,” he said, “a long sea voyage on an unseaworthy vessel in the company of geriatric assassins, alcoholics, and jungle bunnies. How delightful.”
“Well, if you prefer, you can always go back to Vegas and get shot.”
“No, thank you very much. I’m coming with you. Where else have I got to go?”
“What about me?” Monsoon said. “I won’t have no place to go neither.”
“Bjørn Eggen?”
“This little bastard is not deserving to come with, ja, after all the trouble he make, but I think ve must not leave him.”
“Anybody else object?”
Again there was silence. Crispin looked as if he might be about to say something but did not.
“Okay, then, you’re in. But you have to earn your keep.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this: According to what you say, a lot of money is on its way here. A lot of the Don’s money. I say we make it our money. We have all had our lives irretrievably altered because of what that man has done. I say he owes us. Monsoon is at the root of all this. He owes us, too. It’s payback time, ladies and gentlemen. Time to take the money and run, as they say.”
“But what about the Don?” Crispin blurted out. “He’ll find us again. He’ll never stop looking for us. Never ever.”
“Yes, he will,” said Baby Joe quietly.
“How do you know?” said Crispin, half-hoping, half-despairing.
“Leave it to me,” Baby Joe said.
The way he said it made Crispin believe him.
The light had faded from the western sky as Asia and Baby Joe stood together on the bow of the junk, watching the endless and unintelligible semaphore of reflected, flickering lights glistening on the water. The wood of the deck was cool in the afterglow of the recently descended sun, although the night was yet hot. An uncountable host of crickets added their stridency to the general din surrounding the junk. A slight breeze had risen from the east, cooling their faces. Bjørn Eggen and Mary Rose were asleep, and Wally had gone ashore to make some arrangements.
Even though Baby Joe knew that the plan would not work without Monsoon, and even though he knew that Monsoon was aware of the score and realized his best and perhaps only chance of coming out of this thing anything like okay was to play it straight…he didn’t like it. Monsoon was a joker when you needed a jack, any way you looked at it.
Apart from the Monsoon Factor, it looked okay in theory. Monsoon would meet the money people at the airport. Later, he would take them to Long Suc to see the MGJ. Wally’s mob of kids would be watching every step of the way. Then, theoretically, the actual exchange would take place later, at which point he would relieve the Don’s men of the burden of their responsibility, with
Wally acting as unseen backup. The others would be waiting aboard the tramp steamer. Once they had the money, they would hightail it to the ship and set sail immediately for Australia. Simplicity itself!
What could possibly go wrong? If you discounted double crosses, triple crosses, accidents, mishaps, coincidences, the fickle finger of fate, the winds of change, the icy finger of destiny, divine intervention, blind luck, shooting stars, the prophesies of Nostradamus, and the potential, sudden, unexpected appearance of the Harlem Globetrotters.
“I’m scared,” said Asia. “Are you sure this will work?”
“I’ve never been sure about anything in my entire life,” Baby Joe said. “And I’m certainly not about to start now.”
“This is no time to be funny,” she said. “Tell me.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. Asia, this is the only way. Whatever happens, he won’t let go.”
“What are you saying?” Asia said.
“I’m saying this. As Crispin said, after we do this, the Don is going to come after us with everything he has. Here, somewhere else, wherever we go, it won’t make any difference. It will be relentless, unending pursuit. We’ll never be safe again. There’s only one way that it can really be over.”
“Which is what?”
“The Don.”
“What do you mean? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“You what? They’ll kill you if you try.”
“They’ll kill me if I don’t. I’m tired now. Enough. I didn’t ask for this. The only way to end it is to walk right up to the heart of it and kill it. The Don is just a man. I’m through hiding. It’s not my way. This fucker has threatened me and people that I care about, and it’s like with a rabid dog. You can’t give it a fucking biscuit. You have to shoot it.”
“Oh, please.” Asia grabbed him and clung to him. “Oh, please don’t. Please don’t do this.”
Baby Joe pushed her away, gently but firmly, and held her at arm’s length, looking at her. “I have to. For you. For me. For us. I’ll be all right. I’ll do what is necessary to stop this, and then I’ll come and find you.”
“Will you?”
“You believe me?”
“I believe you.”
Chapter 18.
Put an image in your mind of a typical male banker. Early middle age, conservative suit, conventional tie, briefcase, laptop, glasses probably, something discreet, possibly with a silver half-frame, expensive platinum-tipped fountain pen. Put this image in your mind, and then forget it.
Booby Flowers looked nothing like that. For one thing, Booby was only twenty-three. For another he wore Blues Brothers shades, sported a ponytail, chewed gum, and favored jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts with corporate logos that he got for free at all the conventions he attended. In lieu of a laptop he had an MP3 player almost permanently attached to his ears, which he used for listening to esoteric classical works by composers that nobody else had ever heard of. He also had more degrees than a protractor, had declined membership of Mensa due to a paraphrased version of the old Groucho Marx gag—insofar as he didn’t want to be a member of any intellectual elite who were not intellectually elite enough to recognize his unsuitability as a member—and had been laundering, expediting, and transferring funds for shady individuals from Buenos Aires to Toronto since he was seventeen years old.
For a description of his partner, Giuseppe Scungulo, refer to the original concept. Giuseppe was a bit long in the tooth, but what he lacked in street cred he made up for in experience, sound judgment, and the fact that he was Don Ignacio Imbroglio’s cousin. Approaching similar financial views from opposing ends of the philosophical scale, Booby and Giuseppe worked well together and the talents of each complemented the abilities of the other. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they hated each other’s guts, it would have been a really cool partnership.
Being used to the vagaries of their chosen profession, neither man was unduly surprised when the expected people were not at the airport to meet them as they stepped into the arrivals hall. Nor were they surprised when, having stopped in the bar for a little something to take the cabin pressure dryness out of their throats, a perspiring and breathless person bearing a certain resemblance to Tiger Woods approached them and asked them if they were from Las Vegas.
“Vaffanculo,” Giuseppe explained.
“What?” said Monsoon. “I said, are you from Vegas?”
“What did he say?” Booby said, without removing his earphones.
“He wanna know if we’re from Vegas?”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Well, turna the fucking radio off.”
The piece that Booby was listening to was coming to a particularly important passage, so he held up one finger until the stanza came to an end, then removing his earphones said, “What did you say?”
“I say you a fucking ignorant stronzo, an’ wanna these days I gonna kicka your ass.”
“I see. And who is this person?”
“Are you from Vegas, pal? I don’t think your buddy speaks American too well.”
“He’s an Italian peasant. He should be selling ice cream, actually.”
“So, where ya from?”
“My mother’s pussy. And you?”
“Look, pal. I asked you a simple question. Are you from Las Vegas, and are you on business for the Don, because if you are, I’m supposed to meet you.”
“I thought you’d be taller.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Yes, quite. I’m Booby Flowers.”
“Booby?”
“Short for Beauregarde. Old-fashioned family. This is my associate, Giuseppe Scungulo.”
Monsoon nodded, noting that old Giusseppe looked less than thrilled to see him.
“Monsoon Parker,” he said.
“Monsoon?”
“Short for rainy season. You bring the dough?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Rainy Season, one does not bring such amounts, one withdraws them. Do you have the merchandise?”
As he said the word “withdraws,” drawing out the letter A, he made an effete stretching motion with his hand. Monsoon wasn’t much of a fighter, but he’d lay eight-to-one he could take this fairy and made a mental note to give him a slap in the chops if the chance presented itself.
“I got the meet set for this afternoon. You get to view the stuff.”
“Very good. Once that has happened, you get to see the money.”
“All righty, then. There is a place called Wal’s Outback. Everybody knows it. I’ll meet you there at three, and we go. Okay?”
“Wal’s Outback. Sounds exotic. Super. At three, then.”
Booby gave a supercilious little wave as Monsoon was leaving. Monsoon left a supercilious little gobbet of spittle on the pavement.
“Cazzo.” Giuseppe said, as Booby was about to re-attach his earphones.
“What?”
“I say cazzo. That cocksucka. I am noa to trust ’im. Ain’ta straighta.”
Booby shrugged. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave.”
“What the fuck you talkin about now, frocio?”
“Nothing. It’s of no consequence. After this evening, it won’t matter.”
Booby plugged in his earpieces, turned the volume on his player up to full, closed his eyes, and began to conduct an imaginary string quartet.
“Vaffanculo catso,” said Giuseppe.
In the cab on the way to their hotel Booby’s enjoyment of an especially complex piece was disturbed by a cheeky kid who was riding next to them on a scooter, peeking through the window. He interrupted his listening experience momentarily to give him the finger. The rider, who dropped back, was wearing an oversized crash helmet. Otherwise Booby might have noticed that it was a girl, and that she had hair like an electrocuted Yorkshire terrier.
As Asia cried out Baby Joe put his hand over her mouth, holding her tight around the waist with his other arm as she writhed and convul
sed under him, waiting for her to be still. When she was calm again he looked into her face, into her dilated pupils, huge and shining in the half-light coming though the opening in the canvas that surrounded them, and began to move again, very slowly. He kissed her and felt her tongue insinuating itself between his lips and his teeth, and inhaled deeply, sucking her sweet breath into his lungs. They lay together like that for a long time, barely moving, caressing each other gently, listening to each other’s heartbeats, feeling the rising tide, which, gathering, grew until it filled them both, and there was nothing else in the world but their coming together and flowing together, like the confluence of two streams.
And afterwards they lay in stillness, listening to the muffled noises from outside, the clucking and cooing of birds as the sun dispersed the mist, seeing the subtle changes of light on the inside of the canvas over their heads. They lay in a makeshift bivouac at the very stern of the junk, barricaded from the rest of the boat by stacks of birdcages, with ducks and geese and chickens bearing witness to their intimacy. When Baby Joe sat up his head made an indentation in the fabric above him and he had to lean back against the material, feeling the sweat cool on his body in the rising breeze. Asia lay on her back, her disheveled hair arrayed around her head in wild curls, tracing the outlines of the scars on his body with her finger.
“You’re full of holes,” she said.
“So are you.”
“You should know.”
Baby Joe brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead.
“Do you have to go?” she said.
“If we want the money, yeah.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“No. It’s liable to get hairy. Anyway it’s best if you stay here with Crispin. He’s just about at his breaking point.”
“I don’t like it when you go away.”
“Nobody likes it. That’s just the way it has to be sometimes.”
“Why can’t we just go away? Wally said there is a place where no one can find us.”
“We’ve been through this. Maybe Wally’s right. But I couldn’t live like that. Hiding. Waiting. Watching every stranger. Never knowing it’s over, even after years. I’ve got to make it over.”
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 32
