Jimmy strolled to the front of the car, idly scratching his narrow asscheeks with the blade of his boomerang, and lifted the hood. Wombat Jimmy loved his car. It was older than he was. In lieu of a motor was an ingeniously rigged, battery-operated fridge. Reaching into it, he grabbed an ice-cold tube of XXXX and cracked it with a loud hiss. In the trunk the wombat’s eyes sprang instantly wide open and it leapt from its mattress and galloped round to where Jimmy leaned against the hood, pouring the amber nectar down his throat. Jimmy eyed the beast, who stared up at him intently with its beady eyes.
“Ah, g’day, Walkabout,” he said. “’Owareya.”
By way of reply, Walkabout farted loudly.
“I see. ’Ere ya go then.”
Jimmy grabbed another beer, cracked it, and poured the frothing brew into an upturned hubcap at his feet. Walkabout planted his front paws in the beer and began slurping noisily.
“Good on yer, mate,” Jimmy said, raising his own tinny.
As he tilted back his head to drink he saw the high droning speck of a small plane circling overhead in the faultless blue sky. Crushing the can in his hand, he tossed it over his shoulder onto the enormous pile of its predecessors, retrieved his spears and woomera from where they were propped against the bole of the eucalyptus, and, taking his boomerang in his free hand, headed into the bush.
“See yer, Walkabout,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m off to see about me mornin’ tucker.”
Walkabout farted.
Stavros “Big Bazouki” Papastopalotovus was having a hard time. He was having a hard time keeping up with the demand for beer caused by the celebration attending the sudden and unexpected arrival of Woolloomoloo Wally, an occasion of such momentous consequence to the community of Blue Billabong, Queensland, that it had brought out every sheila, bloke, dingbat, ocker, and drongo for miles around. And keeping them topped up with amber nectar at the correct temperature of just above freezing was like trying to barbecue ice.
He was having a hard time making himself heard above the noise in the packed room, over which the overhead fans were churning impotently in a humid funk of sweat and smoke. He was also having a hard time keeping his eyes off Asia’s tits and on the register, which was apt to end up shy a few shekels if he didn’t watch it like a pit bull watching a pork chop. And all this while trying to conduct an investigation into the mysterious disappearance of Captain Cook, Captain Cook being the stuffed koala that had adorned the lintel of the Big Blue Billabong Hotel for as long as anyone could remember, and whose loss was widely predicted to portend impending disaster, rather like what is supposed to happen if the ravens ever leave the Tower of London.
Wally was obviously ecstatic to be back home, and would have been even more ecstatic if he had actually had any idea of where he was, having been more or less legless since they had arrived in Cairns. He was currently staring with rapt attention at the Coke machine in the corner, in the belief that he was watching a rugby match on TV.
Crispin was feeling better than he had since the whole dreadful episode had begun. Beginning with the glorious and enchanting arrival into Sydney harbor, the five-star hotel, the shopping, the sightseeing tour, the Blue Mountains, the day at Bondi, he had found everything just wonderful, and not at all what he had expected. Then there had been the first-class flights, the dinners, the days in Cairns, the trip on the cable car to the rainforest at Kuranda. And now here he was in this charming little country hotel surrounded by all these rustics who were really very nice, even though most of them were drunk and didn’t have shirts on and you couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Bit like Louisiana, really. And these dark fellows, well. They were just so, you know, svelte and mysterious. Crispin had decided to get into the swing of things, so he had bought himself a hat with corks hanging from it, and a vest, and was sitting drinking beer just like the others, just one of the fellows. He had considered spilling something down the front of his vest for the sake of authenticity, but decided against it.
Baby Joe’s ghost had followed Asia to Australia, and it slept with her, and ate with her, and walked with her everywhere she went, and the longer that went by without her hearing from him the stronger its presence became, so she had decided to build a house of beer cans to hide in, and had so far finished the dining room and the kitchen and had made a good start on the garage. Seated in one corner an ancient, burly man with an eye patch and no front teeth grimaced and grinned as he kicked the shit out of a wheezy accordion. Asia swayed and weaved in front of him, doing the too-many tango.
Bjørn Eggen was sitting happily on the sunny front porch, having an earnest conversation with an Australian stock dog—a blue heeler—and the dog was making a great deal more sense than most of the other people at the gathering. Mary Rose, having seen which way the wind was blowing, had sensibly retreated to the cabin that had been given to them and was sitting in the shade of a eucalyptus, reading and drinking tea. Monsoon, who had arrived to join them only that morning, having stayed behind in Sydney to make some “arrangements,” was hors de combat, having been punched in the eye by a Greg Norman fan, and was lying in his room with an ice pack on his face.
His sudden appearance on the ship had naturally been a great surprise to them all, and Penguin Brew had had to be dissuaded from administering some suitably nautical stowaway punishment like keelhauling, and had had to satisfy himself with a relentless barrage of abuse that lasted the entire journey. Monsoon’s explanation that he had been so traumatized by his harrowing experience and skin-of-the-teeth escape that he had been too afraid to come out of hiding until he was sure that they were well away elicited suitable sympathy from the ladies, and he was once more restored to the cautious good graces of the company. It had been generally agreed, however, that it would be a wise course of action to refrain from mentioning the case full of the Don’s liberated moolah to that particular young man.
The journey thereafter had progressed uneventfully and pleasantly. Neptune had smiled upon them, and the sea had remained balmy and tranquil under blue Capricorn skies. They had passed the time reclining on deck, and playing cards, and reading, and one day Bjørn Eggen captured a yellowfin tuna from the stern. They gathered in the evenings and dined and drank, and while Wally and Bjørn Eggen and Penguin regaled each other with tales of derring-do, Asia and Mary Rose and Crispin spoke of gentler things, and Monsoon went below to hang out with Norm and the crew.
And thus the days passed, until one evening just after sunset they steamed around the heads and saw the Opera House, and the harbor bridge, and the towering lights of Sydney. They all went ashore together that night and enjoyed a splendid dinner, and while they were thus occupied a crate went ashore under the supervision of Norm and was delivered to an address in the Five Docks.
They all took rooms in the InterContinental—all except for Monsoon, who had accepted Norm’s kind offer of hospitality—and they breakfasted overlooking the park the following morning and later went back to the ship to collect their belongings.
And it was later that day, when Monsoon stopped by to speak to his grandfather, that he saw a large black suitcase sticking out from a closet.
They spent a couple of days in Sydney, and Wally took them around to all his old haunts, and they went back down to the docks to say goodbye to Penguin Brew and watch the Wollongong set sail, heading back to Ho Chi Minh City; and the following day, when they took the plane up to Cairns, Monsoon did not go with them.
In any other era, they would have been pirates. They looked like pirates, thought like pirates, fought like pirates, and between them had more plastic limbs than a Macy’s window. In recent years, at least one of them had been involved in every armed conflict, major and minor, in every poverty-stricken third-world shithole from Angola to Afghanistan.
They had all been through the gates at Fort de Nogent at Fontenay-sous-Bois, outside Paris, all knew what Legio Patria Nostra meant, and all got religiously fuck-faced every thirtieth of April in remembrance of Capitaine Dan
jou. They had all left the tricolor behind, with French passports and new names, and they were no longer the people they had been before, and the people they had been before were no longer them, or anybody else for that matter. They had reunited in Zurich, formed the Association Sans Sympathie, and earned their living resolving little difficulties for people who could afford them and who were not especially particular or squeamish about how their little difficulties were resolved, as long as it was discreet.
A.S.S. was a democratic organization and each member’s voice had equal weight, and no project was undertaken unless all were in agreement. They sat now around a large cherrywood table in their headquarters, which was part office, part clubhouse, and part cathouse, and discussed the telephone call that they had just received. They had a strict policy about drinking and business—they never contemplated any business unless they were suitably well oiled—and to this end, they all had their tipple of preference in front of them.
Magnoon Piastre, a one-eyed Greek Egyptian from some stench-ridden chicken shack on the outskirts of Alexandria, sat with a bottle of ouzo in front of him. Curtains Calhoun, the product of a failed abortion in a cold water Dublin workhouse, favored John Powers whiskey. Gaspart Descourt—the result of a vigorous ten-minute union between a Belgian lieutenant and a teenage Congolese virgin during a brief respite in an artillery barrage outside Katanga—drank Courvoisier. Dugong Heartache, an overweight child of the prairie—the only son of a born-again Baptist who had drowned his mother, in the name of Jesus, during an overenthusiastic rebirthing ceremony in the Ohio River—was a Wild Turkey man. The final member, who was of course drinking vodka, was Vladimir Pizda, conceived during the sacking of Berlin by an inebriated Cossack cavalry major who had missed his aim while attempting to bugger a fat Bavarian seamstress.
Dugong Heartache had taken the call, and he addressed his comrades.
“Yeah. Fucking Vietnam, I said.”
“I sink zis war is over, no. You lose already?” said Gaspart Descourt.
“So did you, you French fuck. Diem Bien Phu, remember? At least we didn’t fucking surrender like a bunch of pussies.”
“I am not fucking français, monsieur. I am ‘alf Belgian, and ‘alf Congolese, as you well know, and I’ll thank you to remembair it.”
“When you ladies have finished bickering, perhaps Dugong would care to elaborate on the nature of the call,” Curtains Calhoun said.
“I’ve never fucked a Vietnamese,” Magnoon Piastre added, helpfully.
Displaying the stoicism of his forefathers, Vladimir Pizda declined to comment.
“Ah don’ know if we want to fight with ze Vietnamese. Zey are ze tough cookies, non?”
“We don’t have to fight them, you frog-eating dipshit. If you’ll shut the fuck up long enough, I’ll explain. This is a guy we did some business for a couple of times before. Last time was a few years back. You remember, that boat at LA. The creepy English-sounding Italian fucker in Vegas, yeah? Well, it seems someone has absconded with some of his dough and also some merchandise belonging to his business partner. This is a simple search, destroy, and recover job. The only wrinkle is that whoever did the deed amputated the partner’s fucking feet in the process, so we might be facing some incoming. This wop wouldn’t have called if it was going to be easy. For one, I’m in. Anything is better than sitting round here looking at you ugly motherfuckers. What do you say?”
“How were the feet amputated?” Vladimir asked.
“With a fucking sushi knife. How the fuck should I know? What difference does it make? Yea or nay?”
“Da.”
“Okay, good. Magnoon?”
“I’ve never fucked a Vietnamese before.”
“So you’re in. Now we’re getting somewhere. Gaspart?”
“Fucking oui. Pourquoi pas?”
“Curtains?”
“You might need to draw on my experience.”
“All right, gentlemen, it’s a done deal. We go. Raise your glasses, and leave us toast Operation Xanadu.”
“For fuck’s sake, you corny twat,” said Curtains.
“Got any better ideas?”
“Yeah.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Operation fucking Ho Chi Minge.”
Coarse laughter pierced the room, and as the five men clinked their glasses together their arms were reflected in the high French polish of the cherrywood table.
“Sláinte!”
“Sherefe!”
“Na zdorovie!”
“Salut!”
“Up yours.”
The draft from the air conditioner felt strange and cold blowing onto the back of Baby Joes’s newly shaven head and he rubbed his hand over his skull, feeling the weird smoothness of his skin as if he were touching somebody else. He was drinking in unfamiliar surroundings, wearing unfamiliar clothes, and feeling disoriented and out of place, as if he had accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
He was parked in a joint called Trez Chez, and the ritzy décor, the muzak, the chintzy furniture, the garrulous, exhibitionist patrons who may as well have had “look at me, look at me” tattooed on their foreheads all amounted to a place that he wouldn’t normally have been seen dead in. But then, the reason he was in there was because he didn’t want to be seen dead anywhere else, either. In fact he didn’t want to be seen dead, period. His leather trousers creaked as he reached for his drink, and he looked around self-consciously from behind his shades as if the whole room could hear it. He felt like an actor at a screen test and knew that he was blowing the part and that he would have to do better, to learn to be comfortable and at ease, to learn to accommodate his new identity for as long as he needed to.
His apartment had, of course, been trashed. He had expected it, and would have been surprised to find anything other than the wreckage he had encountered when he went around. It had been a professional job. A message. Nothing had been taken, but everything of any value had been destroyed or defaced beyond repair. Not that there had been anything that had been really worth anything to him, either materially or as sentimental value, but the fact of its happening was another coal on the fire of his anger.
He had flown into LAX, rented a set of wheels, and checked into a cheap hotel where the noise of the couple arguing and making up in the next room had been drowned out by the almost constant roar of jet engines overhead. Sitting by the window in a bar he had watched people playing pool and dancing to country and western songs on the jukebox, and he had watched the people standing at a bus stop outside waiting in the darkness for the light and warmth to come. It came and went, and one old lady stayed where she was, sitting on the bench with two plastic bags. Baby Joe walked the block back to the hotel and lay awake for a long time, staring at the slow fan and watching the lights from the passing cars traverse the walls.
In the morning he shaved his head, bought new clothes, and drove back to Vegas. He took a room at the Budget Suites on Lake Mead and holed up in it all day. As night fell he ventured out to eat, staying away from places he knew and was known, avoiding anywhere where he might be recognized. He bought a bottle of whiskey and drove to the apartment at three in the morning, driving past it in both directions twice before parking the car a street away and walking back. He entered the place in darkness, stepping over broken glass and splintered wood into the bedroom.
The mattress had been razored and the stuffing pulled out, but he turned it over and lay down on it and it was good enough. He lay there for a couple of hours, drinking from the bottle and staring at the darkened ceiling, listening to the small noises that accentuated the silence. Somewhere a dog barked, and later a motorbike roared past heading for the freeway.
He stood again and walked over to the wall that separated the bedroom from the kitchen, and punched it. A thin piece of paper-covered plywood gave way, and Baby Joe reached inside and pulled a Glock 9mm and a spare clip from the cavity. He checked the action of the weapon, and the clip, and stuck it in his waistband. Putti
ng the extra clip in his side pocket, he went over to the door, opened it, and stood watching the street for several minutes. Then he walked to his car and drove back to his lodgings.
Trez Chez was across the street from the Don’s building, and Baby Joe went there every afternoon and sat at a seat where he could see into the lobby. Although at first he felt conspicuous among the vacuous and vain clientele of that neon poodle parlor he did not look it, and after a day he did not feel it either. After a while the regulars tried to engage him in conversation, but he was aloof without being rude and soon they dismissed him as a boor and a dullard and left him alone. After three days and nights he stopped going to the bar and instead parked his car down the street and watched all through the night and into the morning. He did this three nights in a row, driving each day to the airport and renting a different car from a different company, and each night parking in a different place.
Except for the fact that the most-feared hoodlum in the state occupied the top floor, the building was an ordinary residential apartment block just like any other and had a rhythm to it, a sequence of events that kept repeating itself. Baby Joe studied the comings and goings, committing them to memory, observing each person with care, taking note of each car, slowly accumulating the knowledge that he was going to need. Who came and went, how many times, and at what hours. Who had a routine and who did not. How they behaved. Who had children. Who frequented the local establishments up and down the street. Who used the bar, and the café next door. After one week he had identified the people that worked for the Don and the people that did not, and knew most of what he needed to know. He was ready for the next step.
From a public phone he called the number the Don had given him, hanging up as soon as he heard the Don’s voice so he knew the dog was in his kennel. Although the two heavies he’d had the little dance with in the car park of the Crown and Anchor came down occasionally—though never at the same time—he had not seen the Don himself, from which he concluded that he rarely, if ever, left the building. Not much of a life…unless you were blind?
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 38
