Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4)

by James W. Hall

  CHAPTER 5

  When Ray White woke on Monday, last day of October, their final morning in Singapore, he found himself tangled in the mosquito netting. The white gauzy stuff was wrapped from his toes to his waist.

  He and Orlon had been sharing a two-room suite in Raffles Hotel, best in Singapore. Old colonial decor, built when Harvey Trumbo's predecessors ruled the world. Lily ponds filled with giant goldfish, cast-iron fountains, Persian rugs, stained glass. A few hundred potted palms in the lobby, ceiling fans as big as DC-3 propellers, Roman columns everywhere. The kind of place where tigers used to wander in from the jungle, prowl the billiard room, guys playing pool had to stop and shoot them.

  Orlon kept saying it felt like they were walking around in a Bogart movie. All the time going, "Where's Sydney Greenstreet? I know he's around here somewhere. Where's Peter Lorre, Mary Astor?"

  Their plush bedroom had two giant four-poster beds with the mosquito netting rigged up under the canopy on each one so that you could pull a rip cord by your head and the thing would whoosh down around you like a heavy fog. Just don't get twisted up in it.

  "King Tut," Orlon said. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his tweezers in his right hand, a hand mirror in the other. "That's who you look like wrapped up like that. King Tut." Ray rolled to his right, but that only tightened the netting around his hips.

  "Jesus, I don't know why I associate with you, Rayon. You're such a mongoloid."

  Ray lay there for a minute, staring over at his brother.

  "You associate with me because if you didn't, you'd be in Raiford serving a dozen life terms. I'm the smart brother, you're the dumb, violent one. Don't get us confused."

  Ray rolled to his left, came just to the edge of the bed, and had to stop. The gauze had loosened.

  He watched Orlon pluck an eyelash, then open his tweezers over the rug and shake it loose. Ray hated seeing him do that to himself. Every day the same thing. Some screwed up self-mutilation fetish. Though whenever Ray started in on it, suggesting Orlon might want to make an appointment with a qualified health professional about his problem with body hair, Orlon would just stare at him until the words withered up and died in the air. These days Ray had stopped mentioning it altogether. Though he had asked his brother to at least refrain from plucking himself in public.

  Ray kicked off the last of the mosquito netting and stood up.

  "Man, you look just like Boris Karloff in The Mummy. Like you're just waking up after three thousand years in your tomb, peeling off your bandages. Karloff's greatest role."

  Ray stood there a minute, waiting to see if Orlon was going to go on, educate him further about Hollywood. Man, almost every night back in Miami the guy rented three, four movies, mainly old crime films, the noirs, and he watched them one after the next. Knew all the actors' names, the directors. Always watched the credits roll at the end, wouldn't get up and switch it off like any normal person, had to sit there and study all that shit. Best boy, grips, catering company. Committing it all to memory.

  But no, this morning Orlon wasn't handing out any more Hollywood facts. He turned his back toward the mirrored medicine chest, twisted around so he could see himself, then held the hand mirror off to one side and closed the tip of his tweezers around a hair that must've been growing from his shoulders.

  Ray groaned, went over to the minibar and got a Perrier, then drank it down in one continuous swallow, keeping his back to his brother. Three weeks in the Far East, and Ray still hadn't had diarrhea once. Which he attributed mainly to good drinking habits. Bottled water and Singapore Slings.

  "You finished in there?"

  Orlon was bent over the sink, slapping his face with alcohol. He raised up, jerked a towel off the rack and patted himself down with it, then came over to the door.

  "What's your hurry, man? You can't wait to get on that plane, strap yourself in for thirty hours?"

  "Sooner we're back in Miami, the better. I'm homesick to see a full-figured woman."

  "You mean a woman with tits," Orlon said.

  "I'm not that uncouth."

  "Tits," Orlon said. "A perfectly acceptable word."

  "It's demeaning to women, that kind of language."

  "Well, personally, I've come to appreciate these Orientals," Orlon said. "What I particularly like is how slick their bodies are. You notice that? Almost hairless. Genetically depilated."

  Orlon stood naked in the doorway, no pubic hair, no leg hair, no armpit or nose hair. The guy glistened. His skin was as sleek as the goddamn day he was born.

  ***

  "Where's Rawi today?" Ray asked the little Malaysian customs guy in his short-sleeved white shirt and black trousers, and some kind of admiral's hat.

  "Rawi no here."

  "We can see that," said Orlon.

  "He coming in later on or what?" Ray asked.

  The customs guy looked the White brothers over. Piss-stained eyes, a sour twist in his mouth. Gold braids on his shirt, epaulets. The squirt thought he was General Pershing, Commander in Chief of the Changi International Airport.

  A gang of tourists was gathering behind the White brothers, talking loud; Germans, it sounded like. One of the men peeked over Orlon's shoulder, trying to see what the holdup was.

  Ray said, "I mean, usually we deal with Rawi. We do a lot of business here. He's like our personal friend."

  "He no come in today," the customs guy said. "No come in tomorrow, or no more. He fire."

  "Rawi! Shit. What happened?"

  "He taking bribe. Chief fire him. Now let's see papers."

  Ray glanced at his brother. The Germans grumbling.

  Orlon said, "You want to try back later? Make a few calls first?"

  Ray shook his head. "Let's risk it. I'm ready to be home."

  Ray took out the documents from the Lampung Zoo and Nature Preserve and slid them across to the customs guy. The address for the Lampung Zoo was Beri Rambai Avenue, in Manila. Nice official seal, a professional-looking logo that showed a gorilla touching one fist to its chest, the other hand reaching up, holding on to a vine. Even had a slogan underneath the zoo's name. Ray'd thought it up. "Life on the Wild Side." A street address, a phone number, all the other hundred and one numbers and signatures required for international transportation of wildlife. All of which were totally phony. No such zoo, no such address. Just the telephone number was real.

  Back in Manila, someone was sitting there waiting to answer, say "Lampung Zoo and Nature Preserve," a person who cost the White brothers five hundred a month, but who knew all the export rigmarole inside out: the weird, complicated etiquette, the names of every single relevant Filipino official, the entire chain of command from the president on down; knew all the shipping standards and regulations. Even knew the rules of the CITES charter, the international agreement about which animals were protected, which weren't; which could or couldn't be shipped where. Five hundred a month was a bargain for all that. A smart lady. So valuable to them that neither of the White brothers had hit on her, though she was something of a fox. Of the Asian persuasion.

  The brothers stood there waiting while the customs guy had a long look at all the paperwork. Their carry-on bags sat at their feet. Ray, with his hair shampooed and tousled dry, his Beach Boy look. In another batik shirt, loose elastic-waist warm-up pants, black with a white stripe. Going to stay comfortable for the long flight. Orlon in tennis shorts, sandals, a black T-shirt with an ad for a Holly camshaft.

  Orlon watched the customs agent as the little guy read over the permits, then picked up their passports and studied them.

  "Birds?" the man said.

  "That's right," Ray said. "Parrots, songbirds, cockatoos."

  He set aside the passports and stared down at the shipping manifest. Stepping out from behind his podium, he went over to the luggage cart where the wooden crate was sitting. Five-by-five box, little breathing holes, but you couldn't see anything through them 'cause Ray had thumb-tacked some cheesecloth inside. The box weighed almos
t four hundred pounds. They'd had to hire a flatbed truck to get them from the bird shop to the airport. Storing the orangs in some back cages at the Jurong bird shop, fifty bucks a day storage fee. A rip-off, but what could you do? One of the problems with smuggling animals, you had to deal with so many criminals.

  "We are quite late. We will miss our plane," the German said over Ray's shoulder. "Maybe you might act polite and let us go first before you?"

  "Bite my Jockey shorts," Orlon said.

  The German stared down at Orlon for a few seconds, then turned back to his group and consulted with them, working on the translation together.

  The customs guy tapped on the crate with his knuckles, bent over and tried peering through a breathing hole. There was a small crowbar sticking out of his back pocket.

  "You take to America as excess luggage," the man said. He tapped one of the crates. "Why you not ship birds normal way? Pay cargo rate. Much more cheap."

  He stood up, looked at Ray.

  "Word is cheaper," Ray said, trying to be helpful. The Indonesian guy in his white rooster suit with gold braids eyed Ray for a few seconds. The man was way too eager, paying too much fucking attention. Ray was beginning to perspire.

  A big guy behind them made some remark in ugly German and herded his platoon away to another line.

  "What you're trying to say is, it's less expensive to send the birds cargo rate. But see, we already know that. And this is how we want them to go anyway. We always do it this way."

  The customs man studied Ray some more, his chin jutting out an extra inch. Then he extracted his pint-size crowbar and gave the crate a good whack. Brought his ear close to the wood. There was a faint noise inside it. A warble, a high moan. Christ, that was all they needed, the damn apes starting to act up right there. Throw another whining, peeping fit.

  The man straightened up and squinted at Ray.

  "You got problem with my English? You not understand me? I go get my boss, he better English."

  "What my brother is trying to articulate to you." There was acid rising in Orlon's voice. "We don't care about the expense. This is the way we like to ship our birds. As extra baggage."

  "All go in the same place inside airplane," the man said. "Cargo hold. Same place. Either way you ship, box sit in same place." Again he rapped the crate with his knuckles. "Not make sense pay extra for same place in airplane. 'Less maybe you try play game. Want keep from shipping inspection, think we not do as good job, something like that."

  The brothers looked at each other. Orlon rolled his eyes, ready to pinch this guy's breathing tubes closed. Ray reached back for his wallet. Took it out, fiddled in there, and withdrew a hundred bucks American. He palmed the bill, then reached out like he was going to take his passport back, and he let the hundred stay there on the guy's podium.

  The guy edged back to the desk and peered down at the bill. Then he looked Ray up and down, did the same to Orlon.

  "You give me this?"

  "Give you what?" Rayon said. "I didn't give you anything."

  The man touched the bill with a finger like it was alive, looked over his shoulder briefly, and the bill disappeared.

  "Birds?" the customs guy asked.

  "That's right, birds. Tweet, tweet. Like that."

  "Yeah, birds. Shit on your head, like that," Orlon said.

  "I know English," the man said. He picked up his rubber stamper and gave the passports each a whack. "More you think."

  ***

  As they were passing into the waiting area, Orlon cuffed Ray on the shoulder and smiled.

  "Tweet, tweet?"

  "Yeah," Ray said. "Tweet, tweet."

  "Man, you were pissed, weren't you? You never get pissed."

  "Guy irritated me. Officious little prick."

  "Tweet, tweet," his brother said. "Tweet, tweet, tweet."

  "Oh, here we go. I'm gonna be hearing this for the next twenty-something hours."

  ***

  Ray stuffed the Time magazine back in the flap on the bulkhead. Christ, he'd already finished two magazines, and they hadn't even reached altitude yet. Gonna be a long damn day, long night too. Long tomorrow.

  The White brothers always timed their flights so they made it back to Miami International in the midnight-to-two A.M. time frame. The Fish and Wildlife inspection office was closed then, and a lot of times you could breeze right through, bring in live snow leopards as far as anyone cared. Hell, Ray believed that that was how the entire world should work. Close down all the law enforcement facilities between midnight and dawn, let the lawless element have a few hours of the day to transact their business. Less mess for everybody.

  In the seat beside him, Orlon was sulking. Lately the White boys had gotten used to riding first class, but tonight first class on the Singapore to Los Angeles leg was completely booked, and they were bumped back to business.

  "It's some rock band up there," Ray said.

  "Which rock band?"

  "I think it's the moonwalk guy. Or the one with the puffy lips, the skinny blond wife. Mick the dick."

  "So which is it?"

  "How should I know?" Ray said. "I just heard somebody say something, one of the flight attendants."

  "The moonwalk guy, the Stones, shit, they have their own goddamn planes. They're not going to fly with the rabble."

  "Maybe their plane is in for repairs."

  "I don't like it. I don't like sitting back here with the goddamn subordinate classes."

  "Business class is fine," said Ray. "These are leather seats. They're wide. What's the big deal? Only difference is you get caviar up there. We get the liver pate and cashews. Hell, a year ago this time we couldn't afford to ride in the cargo hold. What's your problem, man?"

  "It's the principle of the thing."

  "Oh, yeah. I forgot for a minute what a principled guy I'm traveling with."

  "What's that mean?"

  "You know what it means. I'm referring to your propensity for violence."

  "Me? Violent?" Orlon was quiet for a second, then said, "Yeah, and who was it shot that girl in the jungle?"

  Ray leaned out in the aisle, looked behind them to see if anybody'd heard. Just an old couple, eyes closed, both of them hooked up to headsets, giving little synchronized jukes to the music. Cute. Dancing together side by side. And across the aisle nobody riding beside them tonight either.

  Orlon leaned close and whispered, "I know I didn't shoot her. 'Cause I didn't have a gun. You fucking confiscated it from me. Remember?"

  "I didn't shoot the girl," Ray said.

  "Bullshit."

  "Our esteemed business partner shot her."

  "You both aimed," Orlon said. "I saw you."

  "But I missed. I saw where my shot went. It hit a tree."

  "How do you know it wasn't his shot hit the tree?"

  Ray took another look around to see if anybody was eavesdropping. Then he turned back around, looked Orlon dead in the eye.

  " 'Cause I aimed at the tree, that's how I know."

  "You aimed at the tree? Why the hell'd you do that?"

  The flight attendant went by with a bottle of champagne. She opened the curtain to first class and Ray leaned out, but he couldn't see much before she snapped it closed. One black guy in leather pants, tall, skinny, standing in the aisle talking to someone. Could have been the moon-walker himself, or a stagehand from Jagger's band. Could have been anybody.

  "I aimed at the tree 'cause — hell, I don't know why. I didn't feel like killing anybody that particular day. I was taking a day off, okay?"

  "She was a pretty girl," Orlon said. "Maybe that was it. You saw her, got a good look, pretty red hair, and you couldn't bring yourself to squeeze one off at her."

  "Maybe. Maybe that's it. She was a pretty woman."

  "Jesus, you're getting soft, Ray. You're starting to flab up on me. I think maybe what we're going to have to do, we're going to take you in to the liposuction doctor, have him suck all the softness out of you."

 
"I'm not going soft."

  "Yeah, so why'd you shoot a tree?"

  "I had my reasons."

  "Liposuction," Orlon said. "It's your only hope."

  The stewardess came through the curtain, smiling, carrying two empty champagne bottles. Ray put his arm out across the aisle, blocking her way. Her smile disappeared. She was still showing her teeth, lips still in the right position for a smile, but it wasn't genuine anymore. Unfortunately, Rayon and Orlon had that effect on a lot of women.

  "That the moonwalk guy up there?"

  "The moonwalk guy?" the stewardess said. An older woman, chubby face, gray in her hair, probably edging up on fifty. Man, what was happening to the airlines? Deregulation, was that it? Ray could remember when all the stewardesses were Playboy bunnies.

  "The moonwalk guy, you know. The one with the glove, grabs his crotch and holds on, that guy."

  "No," she said. "It's Fresh Meat."

  Orlon asked her to repeat the name, and she did.

  "Never heard of 'em," Orlon said. "What kind of music, opera?"

  "Rap," she said, nudging Ray's arm aside and moving on down the aisle.

  "Rap," said Ray.

  "Should've known," Orlon said. "First class. Rap stars."

  Orlon was squinting at one of his knuckles. Probably spotted a bristle.

  Ray shook his head, staring at the closed curtain.

  Orlon said, "Christ almighty. What's the class system coming to? I mean, the world's in total turmoil. Those guys make more money faking like they're gangsters than we get for being the real thing."

  He smiled at his brother. Then he put his knuckle in his mouth, started chewing off that hair.

  "Man, I told you not to do that in public. It's revolting. Upsets my digestive tract."

  Orlon lowered his hand.

  "Tweet, tweet," he said. "Tweet, tweet."

  "Oh, great. Here we go."