Ray had on his new batik shirt, just bought that afternoon at the Galang marketplace. Red and black batwing designs on the shirt, along with long white pants and white loafers. He'd wet-combed his blond hair straight back. Sleek-looking, two days out of the jungle, all primed and ready to find one of those slinky working girls from Bugis Street, take a few rides on the old Malaysian slippery slide.
Sitting next to him, his brother Orlon was a foot shorter at five-two. Thirty-two years old and slick bald. Every morning Orlon completely shaved his body; plucked his eyebrows and lashes for good measure. Worked at it the way some people gnawed their fingernails down to the quick. Straight-razoring himself till his head, face, his whole damn body was as smooth as an ice cube.
Then he'd go over every inch of flesh for another half hour with a pair of tweezers, plucking out anything he might've missed. Next morning Orlon would start the whole damn process over again. Told Ray he got the idea from those Olympic swimmers, shaving themselves so they'd go faster through the water. He heard one of them say how it made his flesh ultrasensitive. So Orlon tried it, and it gave him such a kick he kept on. And now he was addicted, claimed that every tickle of air, every brush of cloth lit him up, gave him a little rush.
Tonight Orlon had on his usual outfit, ratty blue jeans torn at the knees and the butt, no undershorts, letting the world see the crack of his ass. A white T-shirt with a monster truck-pull logo on the front. Dressed like that, short and soft-bellied, completely hairless, nine times out of ten Orlon could still pick up the prettier lady. Damned if Rayon could say why. Maybe it was a smell thing, some kind of sex dust hovering around him. Apparently it rose off Orlon like sand off the Sahara. And strange as it seemed, that left Ray, handsome as a Tom Selleck movie star, not getting half the action his twin brother did.
Harvey, their bartender, was red-faced and sinewy, an inch under six feet, with a skinny mustache that looked drawn on with an eyeliner pencil. The guy didn't say much, but he looked like the kind who might've served in the French Foreign Legion for a while or the Royal Gurkhas, been up to his elbows in guts and blood more than once and jolly well liked it, and as a matter of fact was considering jumping over the bar and slinging some blood with the White brothers if the conversation kept heading in the direction it was.
"Another thing I hate about the British," Orlon was saying, "they all talk like queers."
"He means homosexuals," Rayon said to Harvey. Then to Orlon, "The word queer is offensive to some people."
"Uppity faggots is what I mean," said Orlon. "Damn British talk like they're yawning at you. Like they went to college too long, now everything bores them. Know what I mean, Harv? See what I'm saying? Uppity, like they still run the world."
"Indeed."
Orlon smiled, getting his licks in. Ray took the folded-up gunnysack off his lap and dropped it down by his feet. He had another sip of his Singapore Sling.
Trumbo was leaning against the liquor shelf, arms crossed over his skinny chest. Head tipped back, his sleepy eyes focusing on the tiger's head across the bar. Been standing like that for the last ten minutes, pretending he was only half listening, all the while the gibbon swung from the ceiling of his cage, hooting and yodeling a few feet above Trumbo.
"Your names," the bartender said without looking their way. "Rayon and Orlon." Slowly he twisted his mouth out of shape like he was trying to pick food out from between his teeth.
"Yeah, that's right. He's Orlon, I'm Rayon."
"Those would be synthetic fibers, would they not?" Harvey kept his eyes on the tiger's head. "Petroleum products, if I'm not mistaken. Like plastic. Cheap, disposable."
"Whatta you doing, Harvey, trying to piss us off? That your objective here?" Without looking away from the bartender, Orlon sipped his Singapore Sling and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he glanced at Ray, and back at Harvey. "Well, let me tell you, bud, you're going to have to try harder than that. I been insulted by some major-league assholes in my time. I got a very high threshold of provocation."
"Quite."
The gibbon had stopped roaming, and now it was peering through the weave of his cage at Orlon. The two of them making deep eye contact like they were sending wavelength messages.
"So tell me, gentlemen," Harvey said, clearing his throat. "Are these names of yours derived from American TV? Tom and Jerry cartoon characters, perhaps? Something of that nature?"
"Good, good, Harvey. That's better. I'm starting to get a little pissed. Tiny puffs of steam coming out my ears."
"They're nicknames, is all," Ray said, jumping in to cool it off before anybody fired the first shot. After all, they had business to conduct, then women to locate. Ray said, "We made the names up, gave them to ourselves. Like aliases."
"Yeah," Orlon said. "Like it's any of your goddamn business, Harvey, one way or the other."
"My legal name," Ray said, "is Raimondo and his is Orlando. That's what our mother named us originally."
"I see," Trumbo said, bringing his eyes wearily to the brothers, looking at one, then the other, the trace of a smile. "Then that would make you of Hispanic origin." Putting a little prissy spin on Hispanic.
Orlon stiffened, but Ray rested a hand on his arm.
"We're Irish, is what we are," Ray said. "Presbyterians."
"Is that a fact?" Harvey said. "Then where did the Latino appellations come from, if I might be so bold?"
" 'If I might be so bold,' " Orlon said, mincing the words. "Would you listen to this guy? 'Appellations.' Is that faggy or what? Am I wrong, Ray? Am I off base here? 'Indeed.' 'Quite.' 'If I might be so bold.' 'Appellations.' Does this guy dress up like the queen mother or what? Walk around in his high heels, playing with his scepter."
Ray pressed his brother's arm down hard against the bar, kept him in place.
"Our mother," Ray said, "she had a crush on Ricky Ricardo. You know, the bobaloo guy, Desi what's his name on TV. She thought the guy was sexy or something, I dunno, so when me and Orlon came along, she picked these names for us. Raimondo and Orlando."
"What're you telling this fucking guy about our mother for?"
"I take it that when you got older," the bartender said, "the names embarrassed you, so you changed them to something else. Something, I must say, equally grating on the ear."
Trumbo picked up a shot glass and began polishing it with a towel. Keeping his eyes on his work.
"Okay, here's how it is, Harvey," Ray said, feeling Orlon starting to boil beside him. "The town we live in, see, Miami, Florida, if you're called Raimondo or Orlando there, what people think is, you're Cuban."
"And we don't like Cubans," Orlon said. "Almost as much as we don't like smart-ass faggot Brits."
Trumbo put the shot glass down behind the bar. Watching them in his peripheral vision, but keeping his eyes hidden. Sneaky bastard. Ray was about to let go of his brother, let him scramble across the bar, rip the guy's hamster dick off.
The gibbon had taken a seat on a piece of driftwood. He was grunting to himself, eyes fixed on Orlon. Probably never seen anybody so hairless before. The gibbon tipped his head to the right and left, still studying Orlon like he was trying to figure out what species he belonged to.
"So." The bartender turned around, looked at them full on for a second, resting his hands on his side of the bar, smiling like they were all great pals. "I'm sorry to inform you that it is now one A.M., and the bar is officially closed. You may settle your accounts, gentlemen, then be on your bloody way."
Orlon eased back on his stool. He squinted hard at the bartender, noisily sucked down the last of his drink, and pushed the empty glass forward. He ran his hands across his smooth head, then slid a finger along the ridges where his eyebrows used to be, and said, "So how much you want for that gibbon?"
While he waited for an answer, he reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and came out with a black-handled jackknife. He opened the largest blade and began to trim his nails.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the hotel."
"But you're its keeper, aren't you, Harv?"
"I have nothing to do with that animal."
"We'll go four hundred," Orlon said. "Four hundred U.S. dollars. More'n you make in a week, I'd be willing to bet."
Orlon brushed his nail shavings off the bar and settled his eyes on the bartender.
"Four hundred's a solid offer," said Ray. "More than fair."
"Especially since we're going to take the fucking thing anyway," said Orlon.
"You'll have to speak to the management about that, gentlemen."
"Afraid I can't do that, Harv," Orlon said. "I never been real good talking to the management. Not to cops either. You might say I got a subconscious problem with authority."
Orlon pressed the point of his knife into the teak bar and dug it in.
"My little brother," Rayon said, "in case you haven't noticed it yet, Harvey, he was born with a pathological wild streak. Regulations, rules, closing times, shit like that — it's what sets him off." Ray was catching the mood now, a little contact macho coming off Orlon.
"You see what he's doing now, carving up your bar. That's typical of my little brother. He sees something, a brick wall, something standing in his way, a sign says no trespassing, like that, he'll rip that sign down, or smash himself up against those bricks till he's either knocked himself out or broken a hole in the wall. See what I'm telling you? The man's a natural-born rebel. You tell him he can't do something, it's like throwing gasoline on a campfire. That's no way to put it out."
Harvey wasn't moving. He was staring at the damage Orlon was doing to his bar, moving his eyes fast between that and Ray. Getting the picture.
"What he's doing there, Harvey, he's carving his signature. The letter O."
"I'm almost done. Give me a minute more before you look."
"It stands for Big O. You know, like in recognition of Orson Welles, the movie director. Shot some great movies. So Orlon took it as a second nickname for the same reason. 'Cause he's such a great shooter. Only it isn't movies he shoots. See what I'm driving at with you?"
Harvey was beginning to, but he didn't open his mouth.
"Now why don't you try it, Harvey? Call him Big O. Go on, go ahead. See if he isn't nicer to you as a result. Sometimes it works with him."
Orlon smiled at that, but didn't move his eyes, all focused on his work. A nice round O appearing in the beautiful teak bar. About the size a Coke can would leave.
"Now, see, the reason we came in here tonight, Harvey, it wasn't to drink your drinks. It wasn't to fraternize with you. Tell you about our mother, our names, nothing like that.
"It just so happens the last time we were in here, a few weeks back, we saw that little fellow in the cage there, and we made a mental note of it, and then yesterday when we got back in town, we realized we had an extra space in one of the cargo crates we're shipping home, so Orlon here, he turns to me and he says, hey, remember that prize monkey, that cocktail lounge exhibit, and I say, yeah, yeah. So he says, hey, Ray, let's go pay a call on the Gunga Din Bar. And that's why we're here, Harvey. The complete story."
"That gibbon, gentlemen, is a member of the siamang species. Very rare. Even if it were in my power to sell it to you, you wouldn't be permitted to ship it out of the country. You can't sell it anywhere. It's endangered."
"Endangered, Harvey? Endangered? That the word you used?"
"That's right."
"Hey, Harv," Ray said. "We're all of us endangered. Every single one of us. Isn't that right, Orlon?"
Orlon brushed away the wood shavings, folded up his knife, looked up at the bartender.
"Some of us, Harvey, are a lot more endangered than others."
***
Once Orlon wrestled Harvey to the floor, it was all over. The man knew how to fight standing up, a stiff-backed play-by-the-rules boxer, got in a couple of right jabs to Orlon's right cheek and mouth, but Orlon bulled in underneath his fists, butted him in the sternum, and once Harvey was flat on his back, Orlon straddling his chest, holding a blade against the man's Adam's apple, the power went right out of his muscles.
"I believe our buddy Harvey needs a drink. His royal hine ass looks a little frayed around the edges."
Ray just stood there.
"Get me a bottle, would you please."
Ray went over to the shelves and took down a quart of Jim Beam and brought it back, handed it to his brother. Orlon tipped it over the bartender's mouth, let some trickle out. Harvey sputtered, spit it out, then tried to twist free, but Orlon gripped him hard with his legs and pressed the naked blade against Harvey's throat. Drew a thin line of blood.
"What's wrong? You not a drinker, Harvey? You a twelve stepper or something? Got yourself one of them higher powers? I heard about guys like you."
He poured more of the bourbon into the bartender's mouth, but again the man spit it out.
"Hey, now, I'd say that's an insult, wouldn't you, Ray? A direct affront to the great state of Kentucky. This man is being thoroughly disrespectful to our land of origin."
"Yes, I believe he is. I believe he's showing a very definite anti-American sentiment."
"Can't have that," Orlon said. "Not and hold our heads up."
Orlon raised the bottle above his head, held it there for a second to let Harvey get a good look at what was about to happen, then he brought it down, smacked it across the side of Harvey's skull just hard enough to put him under.
"Hey, Harvey," Orlon said. " 'I don't like your face. Never have. You got shifty eyes and a weak chin.' " He looked over at his brother. "Know where that's from?"
"No," Ray said. "I don't."
"Edward G. Robinson said it to Byron Foulger in I Am the Law — just before he threw him out of his office."
"Fascinating."
"Shifty eyes and a weak chin. I like that." Orlon smiled and got off the man's chest and rolled him over, and Ray tied the bartender's wrists with the braided nylon rope they'd used on the orangutans. Then Ray climbed up on the teak counter behind the bar, kicked a few liquor bottles out of the way to get a better footing. He reached up and pried opened the cage door and waited till Orlon hoisted Harvey up to him. Ray cradled the man in his arms for a second, then hefted him up and rolled the skinny guy into the cage.
In a frenzy, the siamang gibbon chirped as it raced from one end of the cage to the other. Each time he passed Harvey he touched a finger to the bartender's face. Eyes, mouth, nose.
It took almost twenty minutes before the gibbon quieted enough that they could snag the little bastard. Rayon got him in a headlock, dragged him out of the cage, and held on while Orlon twisted the ape's arms behind his back and secured him with the Velcro handcuffs he'd bought in an adult entertainment complex back in Miami. Red satin with big squares of black Velcro. The gibbon fought and twisted, but the cuffs held.
When they had his ankles done, too, they dropped the siamang into the gunnysack and Ray carried it out to the lobby, right out through the front door of the hotel. No one seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn't say anything.
***
Allison was lying in a hospital bed in Singapore, the room dimly lit, hushed bells and voices echoing in the hallways. Heart stopped, blood hardened, breath empty. Hearing the voices, hearing the quiet business of healing going on around her. Hearing Harry's voice, Sean's. Words coming from the thick, dark vacuum. Dead, but hearing the distant sound of Harry describing his meeting with the Malaysian authorities.
"Little bastard sat there not even taking notes. Chief of major crimes division. I told him everything you told me, Allison. Every detail. He didn't even suggest flying over to Singapore to interview you himself. Just sat there listening to what I told him. Three men hunting orangutans, the whole scene, and this self-important little man, smoking cigarettes the whole time, dingy office, he had his eyes closed, he might've been asleep for all I k
now. When I was finished, he took a minute more, then he opened his eyes, looked out his window, and all he said was, 'We will do our utmost.'
"Our utmost! Can you believe that! We will do our utmost. My daughter dead, my wife in the hospital, and this little man is lighting another cigarette, eyes closing again. He's doing his goddamn utmost just to stay awake."
Sean telling her father to calm down. It's okay. Just relax, okay?
Floating in the exhausted half-light of the room, with the aroma of dying flowers, of aftershave, the discreet vanilla scent of the sheets, the hollow ache of death filling her joints, the bruised, breathless drag of air into her body, mindless respiration, her body's pointless act of self-perpetuation.
Allison spoke the man's name, which had been hovering like a poisonous fume in her head since that afternoon in the jungle.
"What'd she say?"
"Something Bond," said Sean. "James Bond?"
Allison willed herself to pronounce his name again, vile in her mouth.
"Oh," Sean said. "Joshua Bond."
"Jesus Christ," said Harry. "It never stops with her. She's practically in a coma and it's still 'Joshua Bond, Joshua Bond, Joshua Bond.' Alpha and omega of everything abominable. Al Capone of animal dealers."
Allison was a shell of flesh, her will departed, mind blank, body rotting with self-hatred. Endless hours stretching in all directions, an eternity of vanilla and flowers and bells chiming in the distance. Caught in the undertow of her loss. Harry speaking, Harry nudging her numb flesh. Sean's voice. But Allison was lifeless. A frail husk, even when she rose from this bed, walked out the door, sat in the plane, strapped herself in, put food in her mouth, drank water, mechanically took what was offered, she was still inert. Allison, embalmed by grief.
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 4
