Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  Long Suc studied Monsoon, who was now viewing the world through a narrowing tunnel due to the pressure of the evil henchman’s steely fingers on his throat. He indicated that the choking should stop long enough for Monsoon to be dragged forward, closer to him. The general’s eyes were not what they had once been, and since he felt it was only ethical to honor the terms of the contract himself he did not wish to lose face in front of the Americans by missing with the giant .357 Magnum Colt Python hog leg that he now withdrew from his waistband.

  As Monsoon lay, gasping and gagging on the floor, unable to voice even the feeblest of protests, one of the evil henchmen grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, so that his unfocused eyes were pointing approximately in the direction of the general. Long Suc cocked the hammer of his piece and, leaning forward, placed the barrel against Monsoon’s forehead. His eyes swiveled inward, seemingly independent of one another, and aligned themselves with the cold blue metal.

  It’s amazing what the contemplation of a .357-caliber mercury-filled hydroshock bullet exploding into your brain cavity will do for your powers of recuperation and, given that time appeared to be at a premium, Monsoon decided upon a policy of begging, pleading, protesting, bargaining, and abusive invective, all combined.

  “Nowaitpleasedon’tI’lldoanythingI’llpayyoucan’tdothiswhyI’minnocentIdidn’tdo ithelpfuckyouyoustinkingslanteyedfaggottcocksuckerohGodnopleasedontshootmercy.”

  Because Long Suc did not actually understand a word Monsoon said, and because he actually didn’t give a frog’s watertight fanny anyway, he ignored him, and instead addressed Booby. “Okay. You see. You tell boss. Okay?”

  The general was about to squeeze the finger that would relieved Monsoon Parker of the burden of existence, when Booby said, “No, wait. Hang on a minute.”

  The general was suddenly embarrassed by his lack of manners. He uncocked the weapon and extended it to Booby. “Oh. So sorry. Excuse me. You want do you self.”

  “No, General, thanks, I’m sure you understand, but our employer would like to have some kind of proof.”

  “Like head in basket?”

  “No. Shit, no. That’s not my bag, man.”

  “Ah, you want bag for head. No problem. I give.”

  “No, man. I need a photo. I want to get my camera from the car.”

  “Ah. Photo for boss see. Very good idea. Okay. I wait.”

  Escorted by two evil henchmen Booby headed for the door, while Long Suc instructed the pleasant henchman—who had just arrived with the drinks—to go and fetch him a mirror. After all, even cold-blooded, murdering, son-of-a-bitch Asiatic warlords want to look their best for the camera.

  Baby Joe had chosen a spot outside Long Suc’s where he would be concealed by the shadow of a magnificent banyan tree, which marched its multiple trunks in a stately procession all down the length of one side of the street.

  There had occurred a period of unhelpful bickering, during which they had decided that the best thing to do would be for Monsoon to brazen it out, and to go in and find out what the fuck was going on. Or rather, Baby Joe had decided that the best thing to do would be for Monsoon to brazen it out, and to go in and find out what the fuck was going on. Monsoon had decided that the best thing to do was for Baby Joe to go and fuck himself, and for him to go back to the boat. Baby Joe then revised his thinking, and had decided that the best thing to do would be that if Monsoon wouldn’t brazen it out, and go in and find out what the fuck was going on, he was going to shoot him.

  After weighing up the relative merits of brazening it out and getting shot, Monsoon had decided in favor of the brazening.

  Once this decision had been arrived at Monsoon had—uttering a fervent prayer, spiced with a decent helping of foul and abusive language—reluctantly crossed the road and pushed open the doors of Long Suc’s Extravaganza of Exotica.

  Ironically, it now appeared that the decision between brazening it out or getting shot had been pointless, as he was about to get shot anyway. Under the circumstances he decided the best thing to do would be to assume a ghastly pallor, vomit in terror, tremble uncontrollably, hug his knees, and rock back and forth, blubbering incoherently.

  Baby Joe, meanwhile, was standing behind the bole of the banyan tree, hefting the Browning he had inherited from Frankie Merang. Cleaned of its coating of dust and elephant shit it contained one full clip, as Frankie had helpfully refrained from shooting anybody since he reloaded after emptying it into Belly Joe. When he saw the door open and the kid with the ponytail emerge, flanked by two tough-looking gooks, Baby Joe took a step backwards, deeper into the concealment of the tree’s tangled and overhanging limbs.

  Watching, Baby Joe weighed his options. There was no way of knowing what was going on inside, but he could speculate. Having more or less compelled Monsoon to enter, did he feel any sense of responsibility for his wellbeing? Not really, given it was all that little shit’s fault in the first place. Infinitely more important than Monsoon’s state of wellbeing was the money. If the dough was already inside, then it was too late. Perhaps the cash was in the car, but he seriously doubted it.

  So what was he going to do? Sit under a tree all night, scratching his ass, or vent some of the frustration and anger that had been building inside him to furnace intensity—anger that he was storing inside, holding, waiting for the moment when he would need its energy.

  Ponytail was rooting about in the back of a black Toyota Celica that was parked outside, with the one guard behind him and the other watching the door. They looked like two Dobermans, taut and alert, and Baby Joe knew all too well the folly of giving them anything less than the full respect they deserved. And how many more inside? How many more to come swarming out like angry hornets if he disturbed the nest? There was only one way to find out.

  He stepped into the street, looked at the two men, and spat on the floor. The two men exchanged glances, and the one guarding the door began to walk across the street, with the other’s eyes following him. Baby Joe ran diagonally away, doubled back, and trotted up to the Toyota. The first henchman started back, not running but walking quickly, and the second stepped forward.

  Baby Joe, smiling, said, “Good evening.”

  The man hesitated, unsure, leaning forward slightly, one hand reaching behind his back. Baby Joe engaged his eyes and, still smiling, whipped his hand up, caught hold of the bandolier, and pulled the man forward and down, crashing his head into the doorsill of the Toyota. The man’s knees buckled and Baby Joe pushed past him, knocking him over. As he attempted to rise, Baby Joe brought his boot down onto the back of his head, driving it into the pavement. There was a noise like a coconut being struck with a machete, and the man lay still.

  Baby Joe looked up to see the other guard advancing upon him, swiftly but unhurried and relaxed. This would be a lot different. This one was ready. He glanced over to where Booby stood frozen in the headlights like a startled doe, his comic book characters having suddenly jumped off the page, forgotten the script, and turned scary. Baby Joe had the gun drawn, not wanting to shoot but ready if the man showed the slightest sign of reaching. He had to be sure the man was coming for him and not making for the door. He suddenly sprinted away from the car. It worked, and the man changed direction and dashed forward to cut him off, a boxer cutting down the ring. Baby Joe grabbed the petrified Booby, spun him in between himself and his pursuer, cracked him over the back of the head with the butt of the gun, and pushed him down.

  The man stepped easily over the fallen Booby, stopped, and stared steadily at Baby Joe and at the gun pointed at his heart.

  “You no shoot. Others come.” He smiled and started to walk away.

  “Stop,” commanded Baby Joe, feeling foolish saying it.

  “You no shoot,” the man repeated over his shoulder, still walking away.

  Fuck it. The nerveless little bastard was right. He looked at the retreating figure, at the tight muscles rolling under the oily skin of the shoulders, at the loose, balanced walk. Shit.
Baby Joe didn’t fear size or strength, or skill, but at his age he feared speed. The guy was a lot smaller than he, but less than half his age. As he stepped forward, he hoped that meant he only knew half as much. He knew he was going to have to take some incoming to get close enough and prepared himself.

  The man whirled, and three fast and accurate blows thudded into Baby Joe’s head and stomach. Rolling and tensing, Baby Joe took as much of the sting out of them as he could, but they still sent bells ringing. He pulled up, as if hurt, and let the gun fall from his fingers. Before it had hit the ground, the man was already bending down to retrieve it. As the fingers closed round the piece, Baby Joe’s boot crunched down, splintering them.

  Amazingly the man did not cry out, but stepped back and up and into a defensive posture. A foot came whirling up, which Baby Joe just managed to avoid by rolling against the Toyota, letting it support his weight. A second kick came zipping up and, hoping it wasn’t locked, Baby Joe grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. The glass popped and tinkled to the pavement as the man’s foot drove through the window. This time he did cry out as Baby Joe slammed the door with his shoulder, breaking the leg. His pain was brief as Baby Joe stepped around and elbowed him hard three times—once in the temple, and twice at the base of the neck—each time cannoning his head off the doorframe. The man went limp.

  Leaving him dangling from his trapped leg, Baby Joe took up the gun and walked back across the road into the shelter of the tree and waited a couple of minutes to see if the fight had disturbed the hornet’s nest or not. As he waited Booby groaned and rose to his knees, rubbing the back of his head. Keeping a sharp eye on the door, Baby Joe strode quickly up to Booby, grabbed him by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and pulled him back over to the tree. Booby did not resist. Suddenly it was not cool anymore, and his detached irony had detached itself.

  Once safely concealed by the branches, Baby Joe stuck the muzzle of Frankie’s Browning against Booby’s temple.

  “You must have seen lots of movies,” Baby Joe said, pleasantly.

  By way of answer Booby cranked his eyes wide open to maximum, and his eyeballs rotated slowly in opposite directions like a pinball machine with a serious tilt. Baby Joe debated whether slapping him hard in the kisser would bring him to his senses or make him worse. He decided to experiment. The sound, like a haddock hitting a stone slab, could be heard across the street. Booby focused.

  “I said, I’ll bet a young guy like you goes to lots of movies,” repeated Baby Joe.

  “Sure,” Booby managed.

  “Well, this ain’t one of them. The cavalry ain’t coming, and the good guys don’t win in the end. I’m going to ask you some questions. If I get the right answers, you get to go home and jerk off to Pet Shop Boys records. If I don’t, you get to be part of someone’s chicken chow mein. Now all I need are simple, yes-and-no answers. Are you following me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy. Is my friend still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the other guy that was with you inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the money inside?”

  “No.”

  “Can they get to it without you?”

  “No.”

  “How many other guys inside, not including your buddy?”

  “Five, maybe six.”

  “Well done. Now, repeat after me. ‘A man has got me. A very bad man, with a big gun. The other two are down. Let Monsoon go, or my brains will be chop suey.’”

  “A man has got me. A very bad man, with a big gun. The other two are down. Let Monsoon go, or my brains will be chop suey.”

  “Very good. Now we are going back over the street, and you are going to repeat what you just said through the doorway, as loud as you can.”

  Baby Joe stood with his back to the wall, holding the gun tight against Booby’s head, as Booby did as instructed. There was momentary silence, followed by the sound of stealthy footsteps.

  Inside, Long Suc was very annoyed. He was looking his absolute best, and now it looked as if he wasn’t going to get his photo taken after all. He shouted, “What you say?”

  Baby Joe tapped Booby on the head with the barrel of the Browning, and he dutifully repeated his words.

  “So what?” said Long Suc.

  “Tell him, ‘So you don’t get the money, asshole,’” whispered Baby Joe.

  “So you don’t get the money, asshole.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Long Suc conceded the point. “Okay. Me let nigger go.”

  “Tell him,” whispered Baby Joe, “that anyone who comes out of that door and don’t look like Tiger Woods gets blown away, and so do you.”

  Booby repeated the word verbatim.

  A brief period of tension ensued before Monsoon came hurtling out of the door and landed face-first on the pavement. Baby Joe shoved Booby inside, fired three shots in quick succession into the ceiling just behind the door, hauled Monsoon to his feet, and dragged him across the road, through the twisting trunks of the banyan tree and into the darkness beyond. After a few feet he came to a steep incline leading down to a rivulet. He pushed Monsoon down the hill, and turned and lay prostrate with the gun pointed towards the door. All that happened was a muscular figure appeared briefly in the doorway, glanced up and down the street, and closed the door.

  Inside, Long Suc gazed at the zombiefied Booby, tenderly straightened his collar, and then slapped him very hard in the teeth. “That for calling me asshole.”

  Back at Wal’s Outback, a man known to his few friends as Hmong Hmong whistled tunelessly as he labored to reconstruct the outhouse. From what he had been told, first somebody had vandalized it and stolen all the bricks and then, after a temporary affair had been knocked up, an elephant had apparently trampled it into splinters.

  Hmong Hmong had heard many stories in his life, but he knew from his teachings that all was truth and illusion at the same time, so what difference did it make what had happened to the building? It was true that there was a large elephant in an enclosure next to where he was working, but his teachings told him that it was unfair and unwise to put blame upon an innocent animal, whose spirit was pure, and in truth he had no interest in what had happened to the building. What did interest him was that he was getting very well paid to rebuild it, and was getting free food and free drink, and with the money he would be able to buy a new bicycle and have a little left over for some jiggy jiggy at the weekend.

  As he reached a leathery hand down to grab another brick, he noticed a strange substance on the ground and picked it up. It was a small, malleable lump with the texture of putty, but a very dark gray-brown color, much like the elephant. He raised it to his nose and sniffed, but it had no recognizable odor. He licked it, but it had no discernible taste. He was about to discard it when he noticed that his tongue was tingling with a most pleasant sensation. He gave it a bigger lick. The tingling grew stronger and even more pleasant. He decided to bite off a little piece.

  The world suddenly looked brighter and clearer, and the sky appeared radiant, and the singing of the birds became enchanting and magical. He swallowed the whole piece. The sky turned into an atomic rainbow, and the singing of the birds became symphonic, and a huge bulge appeared in the front of his cotton pants. His tongue felt ten times its normal size, and flicked in and out of his mouth like a cobra’s tongue, moving with a will of its own.

  He looked at the elephant. It had turned bright pink, and its eyelashes were three feet long, and its trunk was a sinuous, sensuous, provocative delight, and its eye was as big as the harvest moon and gazed at him with tender longing. His eyes fell upon the elephant’s vagina. It was swollen, bright gorgeous purple, and glistening and gaping and then, joy of joys, it was singing, singing to him alone.

  Hmong Hmong dropped the brick he was still holding and, grabbing a plank of the elephant’s enclosure, tore it from its fittings, creating a gap large enough to squeeze through. He was sobbing with ecstasy and love as
he thrust himself into the hole.

  The secret of the survival of species is adaptability. Baby Joe Young knew this, as he also knew that the secret of the success of a game plan is its fluidity, its ability to change when confronted with an unexpected move by an opponent. He knew all the mantras. Expect the unexpected; if something can go wrong, it will; blah blah blah, ad infinitum, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera.

  So the trick here was to subtract the known from the unknown, add the possibilities, subtract the impossibilities, multiply by the intangibles, and come out with ten million dollars and a deck chair on Bondi Beach with a cold lager in hand, watching the surfers fall on their asses.

  The known was that Monsoon had overheard Long Suc set up the exchange at the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha, and that Wally knew where it was and what it was. It was, apparently, a legitimate place of Buddhist worship, but with a decidedly secular addition. In the back was a dining room where all manner of dodgy deals went down under the watchful eye of the Living Buddha, who represented the deity, served the tea, kept an eagle eye open for the fuzz, and slipped surreptitious messages between the conspirators in return for a discreet donation.