She was aware that it was, perhaps, the strength of her desire overcoming her reason, but she was also aware of how much she needed to believe it and to have something to cling to. She also questioned whether, deep down, it was Baby Joe the Man or Baby Joe the Savior that she missed. If it was his rough-hewn charm and pragmatism, and the sense of security he gave her that she wanted, or if it was what he represented: the knowledge that she could resume her life. A life where nothing nasty was hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe. A life where you could turn out the light and the darkness was a comforting blanket and not a black screen on which to project your worst nightmares.
One thing was for sure. When this was over, no matter how it turned out she was never going back to those city lights and that life. At first it had seemed like a good deal. A few moments of discomfort, some brief unpleasantness in exchange for a world of things, things that she had never had; and if the occasional bout of self-loathing occurred it could always be drowned in whiskey and too-loud laughter. But she knew better now. If nothing else, this insane game of hide-and-seek had taught her that some things that are given away can never be recovered, and that a dead end is just that. Dead. End.
Wally had been unusually subdued on the way back and had disappeared somewhere as soon as they pulled up in front of the hotel, leaving Stavros and Bruce to unload the money and the Machine Gun Jelly, which had been loaded into the back of the pickup. The lifeless Combi had been abandoned, to become a koala-shit-covered home for spiders, snakes, bats, bugs, and whatever peripatetic creature wandered by looking for a place to sleep.
On the pretext that they might need another hand if things got hairy, Jimmy and Walkabout had come along for the ride, when actually the only hairy thing Jimmy had in mind lived inside a pair of polyester knickers and came out to play every time it saw a ten dollar bill or a crate of Castlemaine XXXX on the back seat of a Combi. Although Jimmy was a good man in a tight spot, which was another reason why he had come along.
Being one, Walkabout knew all about hairy things, and anyway, anywhere Jimmy went Walkabout went, especially if there was a chance of loads of beer and an uninhibited fart.
Once the truck was unloaded and the cargo secured Stavros set about making preparations for the night, which included giving strict instructions to the extra staff he had hired, removing all the windows, and reloading the fowling piece with birdshot. His people informed him that the people who had been looking for them had not returned and, somewhat reassured, Asia and Crispin decided to make an early start of Saturday and went to the bar.
Monsoon, who had spent the most miserable of nights and the most arduous of days being bounced around in the back of a truck with his former riches within a fingertip’s reach, if he had been able to reach out a fingertip, was locked in the cellar. Nobody being quite sure what to do with him, and with everybody being preoccupied with more serious concerns, it had been decided to let him stew for a while, although a local physician had been summoned to attend to his nose and his foot. Even the physician, however, would have conceded that the term “physician” was stretching it a bit, his medical experience being limited to puncturing kedge-gutted sheep and shoving his forearm up gastric cows’ rectums.
Monsoon was in a state of total and absolute demoralization and had capitulated totally to the capricious whims of the gods of cruelty and misfortune, who had obviously singled him out for special attention. He was in such pain—from his swollen nose and his throbbing foot, and from the unbearable loss of his fortune—that the bottle of whiskey that he had been given in lieu of anesthetic was doing nothing to alleviate it. Against the backdrop of the darkened cellar, visions taunted him relentlessly. All the women that he was going to fuck, all the cars that he was going to drive, all the lobsters and steaks he was going to eat. Monsoon at the races in a silk suit; Monsoon in the Salon Privé, sticking C-notes down the waitresses’ bosoms; Monsoon in a ringside seat at the fights, rubbing elbows with the elite; Monsoon the cigar-smoking drug king of Australia, with a beauty queen on either arm and a wad in his pocket that would choke a humpback whale.
And in his vision all the characters—buxom, raven-haired beauties, head waiters, concierges, drug-dependent lackeys, bent jockeys, groveling toadying sycophants, dodgy shysters, politicians on the take, bribable police chiefs, mansion salesmen, limo dealers—all gathered and joined hands and began dancing around him in a circle, laughing, singing in mocking, childish voices, “Monsoon’s lost his money. Monsoon’s lost his money. Monsoon’s lost his money.”
Over and over again. Monsoon squeezed his eyes shut, cupped his hands over his ears, rolled into a ball, and begin to whine.
Can nightmares exist in permanent night? Is that possible? If they are heard, and not seen, what do they sound like? Will it be harder to die, being dark already? If there is an after, will it be dark there, too? Are you afraid now? No. Of what? Too late for questions. What matters now why, or how, or if? If will kill you.
The Don reached into his top pocket and, pulling out a cigar, moistened it with his lips and bit off the tip. He took his diamond-encrusted lighter from his pocket, diamonds that shone for no one, and held the flame to the tobacco, inhaling deeply. Smiling, he tossed the lighter over the balcony wall, seeing it glittering in his mind’s eye as it hung at its apex before flashing down to the ground below. Would somebody be lucky? Luckier than he?
He sucked on his cigar, drawing the rich smoke deep into his lungs.
“What about the old lady?”
“She will be going nowair. Eizer we catch ’er latair, or pairhaps we do not ’ave to bozzair at all, n’est-ce pas?”
“Frog Features is right for a change. She might croak without our help, and anyway we can pick her up on the way back.”
“The Don wanted her alive.”
“Then he better get Jesus down here. Resurrections are out of my jurisdiction.”
“Mais, you Baptistes ’ave preferential treatment, non?”
“Lissen, garlic breath…”
“Before you two start, when do we go?”
“As soon as Magnoon starts shooting.”
“I’ll go see if he’s ready.”
Curtains Calhoun climbed the small hill behind the encampment and lay down on the cool grass next to Magnoon Piastre. Below, the lights of the hotel competed with the headlights of the convoy of vehicles that continued to arrive from both directions. Magnoon was scanning through a pair of night vision binoculars with one arm draped over the stock of a .44 Ruger rifle. Curtains took the glasses from him and focused on the windows of the long bar. The place was rocking and rolling, and a band was in full flight.
Right at the end of the bar, nearest the bandstand, a very attractive redheaded girl sat next to a fat guy with some kind of weird fuzzy beret on. The faint sound of whistling and clapping rose up from the parking lot, and Curtains swung the glasses around to where an appreciative crowd of men of mixed race was watching a parade of garishly dressed women climb down the steps of a bus. He focused back on the girl.
“That must be them, right?”
“No. It’s Abbott and Costello in drag.” Magnoon said.
“Jaysus. What a fucking shame.”
“What is?”
“The girl, man. She’s a peach.”
“Yeah, pity.”
“Want the glasses back?” Curtains asked.
“No. I can use the scope.”
“How many can you see?”
“Only two.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. What does everybody think?”
“I’ll go and find out.”
Curtains went back down into the camp, and Magnoon picked up the rifle and peered through the night scope.
A.S.S., having tuned their radio to the hotel frequency, had followed events from the discovery of the Combi onwards, and had elected to move in; neglecting, of course, to give full details of the operation to their Vietnamese colleagues, who had taken up pos
ition on the same ridge a hundred meters further down. Eavesdropping on the arrangements concerning the evening’s entertainment, they had also decided to take advantage of confusion, in every sense of the word. But business before pleasure, although in their case it was all pretty much one and the same.
Magnoon heard Curtains coming back up the hill and said over his shoulder, “And so?”
“Take the two you can see.”
“And then?”
“We’ll take care of it.”
Magnoon settled himself behind the sight, snuggling the butt comfortably into his shoulder and resting his cheek on the smooth, warm stock. He pushed the sight snugly into his good eye. It felt like it belonged there. A trade tailor-made for a Cyclops. He lined the sight up to the first target, bringing the crosshairs to bear on the cheekbone, and then swung it onto the second. The barrel moved no more than an eighth of an inch.
“Everybody ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Goodnight, sweethearts.”
Babam. Two shots sounding like one. Two heads flying backwards. Two souls shocked out of their bodies. Just like that.
“Not bad.”
“Shit. I could have hit them from here with a fucking pea shooter,” said Magnoon, picking up his rifle.
Stupid, stupid. Weak and stupid. Think, man. Think. Pop pop pop like champagne. Click. Lucky, lucky. Nails being hammered into him. Falling backwards. Into the wall. Lucky again. If you fall down you die. The man standing up. With a blade. Coming. This other. Bleeding but not dead. Didn’t check. Stupid, stupid. Time for one shot. Staggers, but does not fall. Too close. Grab the wrist. Gun slams against the wall. Knife goes in. Cold, but not pain. Feel the blade dig into the wall. Gun falls. Bring up the knee. Drop the head, bang bang bang like a woodpecker. Wrist free, grab the knife with your teeth. Slide it from your own flesh. Sticky. He bends for the gun. See the veins in his neck. Sweep the legs. Down he goes. Hand still grips. No tendons cut. Lucky lucky lucky. He kneels. Hand to the gun. Drop down. Knee onto the hand. Hear the fingers break. Kneel before each other. Facing. Two penitents. Last rites. Bring the blade up under the chin. Into the brain. The eyes go wide.
And then out.
A hundred meters away, the Vietnamese were having a similar conversation to the A.S.S. crew.
“They lie about everything.”
“We should kill them.”
“No. The general does not want trouble with the Americans. He wants to do business with them. But we can still teach them a lesson.”
“I agree. But first the business.”
“This is what we must do. You see what is happening here tonight. The Americans will want the women and the drink. They will want to listen to their rock and roll. They will not be serious. It will be a game to them, like before. That is why we will win, like before. They will drink and become foolish. We will go down in darkness and take the dark one and the drugs.”
“And what of the money?”
“I think the money is in the black bags.”
“I agree. I think the Americans know, but they do not want to tell us. I think they heard it on the radio, and they know.”
“If the money is in the black bags, where is the one who stole it?”
“I do not know. Maybe the others have done something to him.”
“Maybe so. But the general will be angry.”
“He will not be angry when we bring him the drugs and the money and the black one.”
“But the drugs belong to the Americans.”
“Yes.”
“The general cannot do business with the Americans if he takes their drugs and their money.”
“He will not keep the drugs. He will give them to the boss of the Americans. The boss of the Americans will owe him a favor. It will be good for business. And it will make these ones look foolish.”
“And us good?”
“And us good.”
“When will we go?”
“Later, when all are drunk. We will take the spark plugs and distributor caps from the Americans’ car. Also we will put sand in the tanks, block the exhaust pipes, and puncture the tires.”
“Will that stop them?”
They all looked at the one who had just spoken.
“Sorry.”
“We will take the black one and cut the tendons in his ankles so he cannot try to escape. One will do this. The others will find the money and the drugs. I saw them carry them into the big house. They will not be difficult to find.”
“What if someone tries to stop us?”
“Do only what is necessary. Do not hurt anyone unless you have to.”
“What if it is the Americans?”
“Then you may do what is not necessary. But do not kill them unless you have to.”
“There is one thing.”
“What?”
“These are not Americans.”
“Who do they work for?”
“Americans.”
“Then they are Americans.”
“No. They are French.”
“That is even worse. Rest now. I will wake everyone when it is time to…”
Two sharp cracking reports from a rifle cut short the speech, two shots so close in succession to one another that they sounded like one shot.
A cloud of cigar smoke. A soft breeze. A man enjoying his evening. Below, the sirens singing. Calling him onto the rocks. A noise behind.
“Mr. Young, I presume?”
Baby Joe swaying, gagging, holding it back. Black spots before his eyes.
“Don Imbroglio.”
“You are a remarkable man, Mr. Young. A remarkable man, and a great deal of trouble. Under different circumstances, perhaps…Who knows?”
Getting weaker. Do it. Do it now. Step forward.
“Isn’t this the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘I’ll pay you anything’? Not much point when you already have ten million dollars of my money.”
Talking, talking. Don’t listen. Finish it. The throat. No anger any more. No rage. Fire out. Just something to do. Something necessary. A simple thing. Do it. One more step.
“You know, Mr. Young, you are the only one who ever realized. If we had more time, I should have liked to ask you how you did that.”
Raise the knife. Smell the smoke. Watch the tip glow.
“What? No grand speeches, Mr. Young?”
“You know.”
“Mr. Young, I know a great deal more than you can possibly imagine.”
The cigar spinning against the sky, end over end, glowing. The Don walking forward. Climbing. Follow? No. Watch. Watching the Don lying across the wall. His shiny shoes tilted into the air. And he was gone. Tumbling soundless into a darkness deeper still. Looking over the wall. Down below. Weird angles. Like a swastika. Blue lights. Turning to go. Dizzy. Sat down. Too late. Fell down. Back against the wall. Legs out straight. Tasting the blood. Hearing the breath. Bubbles. Watching the blood run into the carpet. Life was supposed to pass before my eyes. Where was it? No life. Only cold. Cold and dark. Darkness.
Baby Joe Young closed his eyes and slid sideways, leaving a bright red smear on the wall behind him.
And lay still.
Chapter 27.
Vulture Skull Hangover was sounding pretty good, or at least they were to anyone who thought the LA Riots were entertaining. The band, led by the bass player Noni “Goat Bollocks” Kamehameha—a 400-pound Tongan who played the upright bass strung round his neck like a guitar—had originally been a Sydney heavy metal crew called Dildo Skyline and had been going pretty good until one night the lead singer had had this brilliant idea. Instead of biting the heads off rats and chickens like Ozzie Osbourne, he had brought a twelve-foot Siberian Tiger onstage and let it bite his head off. Apparently no one had informed the tiger that it was supposed to be an act, so that turned out to be the final performance of Dildo Skyline. The new lead singer—the self-styled Anna Rexia, an emaciated ghoul in a moth-eaten feather boa—was ripping up the stage like a pea
cock on amphetamines, trying to get the audience’s attention. Unfortunately for Anna, as far as this particular audience was concerned she didn’t have the correct equipment for the job.
Stavros was having a hard time again. One eye on the till, one eye on the clock, and one eye on Asia’s tits was just not a mathematical practicality. At least he probably wouldn’t have to worry about fights for a while. For one thing, until the crowd thinned out later there just wasn’t enough room for a decent swing, and for another no one was going to risk missing out on getting some by getting crocked before the ladies showed up. But he didn’t like it when the bus was late. You could feel that incendiary cocktail of testosterone and alcohol building up, and you knew that some bright spark out there was just dying to set it off. And with Captain Cook gone missing, there was no telling what could happen.
An unanticipated movement behind him made him jump, and he reached for the fowling piece.
“Shootin yer fucken mates now, are ya, ya mongrel?”
“Wally. Where the fuck ’ave you been hidin?”
“Went to fix the fucken phone line.”
“What was wrong with the fucken phone line?”
“Some dirty stirrer cut it.”
“Strewth. What does that mean?”
“It means I ’ad to go an’ fix the fucker.”
“I know that, ya bladdy nong. I mean, what does it mean?”
“It means it’s gonna be a fucken bonza Saturday night. ’Ere, cop for this.” Wally stuck a radio receiver on the bar.
“What is it?”
“It’s a fucken nuclear submarine, what does it look like?”
“Looks like a fucken radio.”
“Must be a fucken radio then, ey?”
“But waddya gonna do with it?”
“Oh, I dunno. I thought I might shove it up me arse and sing ‘Walzing Matilda.’ Whaddya reckon?”
“Nah, Wal. Fair dinkum. What’s it for? We got the band.”
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 44
