by Mike Coony
When we reached light jungle we transferred to a twenty-ton truck. I guess it can take the eight foot drops in what is laughingly described as a highway.
“Man oh man!” I yelled to no one in particular. “Ain’t this the dry season? This must be impassable when the monsoon rains come!” No one answered, but the driver grinned.
I’m tired of being tossed around every time we hit a pothole, and I asked if we can pull over so I can get a short rest…to give my head a break from banging on the roof of the cab. Hearing me bellyaching just made the driver put his foot down; the jerk seems to be finding more holes in the road to fall down or drive over.
Twenty minutes later, after a couple of nasty glares from Hussein, the driver got the message. We pulled into a Gambian-style roadside service station – a grass hut – to get something to drink. There are three tractor-trailers piled high with teak trees parked beside it.
A wizened old man with thick, sinewy arms is holding a truck’s suspension spring barehanded in a blazing wood fire. He dragged it from the flames while it was white hot and belted it on an anvil with a twelve pound hammer. The old guy makes our iron workers back in the States look kind of lame.
Our driver grabbed a US five dollar bill from me, and he and Hussein disappeared into the grass hut in search of cold drinks. While I was waiting for them to come back I lured a chameleon on to the end of a stick. I moved it from dark green vegetation to in front of the dust-red bodywork of our truck. It’s cool watching him change colour to blend in with the background. But no matter what I try I can’t tempt him to walk up the stick on to my arm.
Hussein and the driver returned with three bottles of ice-cold beer. “Mister, they make a tasty meal when they are cooked over the fire,” said the driver, referring to my new buddy. “Not today pal,” I said, as I returned my little chameleon to the safety of the green vegetation.
Refreshed by the cold beers, and our little rest from the bumps and bangs, we drove through the jungle for another hour until we came to the grassy plains. Away from the shade of the tall trees and overhanging lichen, the heat of the sun on the roof of the truck is unbearable. On the upside, the open trail is less potholed and our speed crept up to twenty miles per hour.
Along the way we passed groups of women carrying bundles of freshly cut green plants on their heads. They waved and cheered our truck, and some of the women made gestures to our grinning, black-toothed driver that leave nothing to the imagination. Every time that happened he turned to us, grabbed his crotch and gave us a leering grin that exposed his rotting teeth. The ladies egging him on is another fine example of the fact that there is no accounting for taste – as if another example is needed!
After a sharp turn to the right, and a short drive through head-high pampas grass, we arrived at a village with ten huts. Small kids are sitting cross-legged on the ground amidst piles of African bush weed. They’re picking through the piles and discarding large leaves and stalks before placing the ‘triple-picked’ marijuana on long folding tables between the huts. Every so often men come out of two of the huts and prepare large bundles from the grass piled high on the tables. They weigh the bundles with ancient spring scales and carry them into the huts they came out of.
Hussein is strutting around like he owns the place…and maybe he does. A fat woman is waddling over to him; she’s dragging an almost-beautiful little girl behind her. The girl is light-skinned, with skinny legs and the early sign of breasts beneath her thin cotton dress. She’s clinging to the big woman, and trying to hide behind her enormous rear end.
“Say hello to Daddy. Go on, go on! Give him a kiss. Tell him you and Mummy love him, go on…go, go!” said the woman as she pushed the girl towards a blushing Hussein.
The Chief arrived moments later and hollered something at the big woman. The little girl ran over to him, and he swept her up in his arms. “Hello there, hello there. Who is this then, who is this then? You have met my granddaughter then….Yes?…Yes?” he said.
Hussein regained his composure and, taking his daughter from the Chief’s arms, he introduced me. The Chief grinned at me with a mouth full of Hollywood-white teeth, and he gave me a high five. One of the young women lurking around him handed him an enormous joint and lit it with a big gold Dunhill lighter. High fives, high-priced dental work and classy gold lighters are the last things I expected to see in a grass-hut village in Africa. I can see the brothers back home claiming this dude as one of their own…he’d be right at home in the ’hood.
My plan to cut Hussein and Flynn out of my little scheme is going up in smoke. Seeing as Hussein’s kid is the Chief’s granddaughter, that definitely puts the kibosh on any plans I had to buy grass behind his back. Anyway, there’s more than one way to make a buck. I can buy at their price, cut Flynn in on this end, and then sell at my price…and there’ll be no one getting any cut but me.
We chewed the fat until the sun suddenly dropped out of the sky, like it does only in Africa. Between the Chief, Hussein and me, we agreed to send a trial shipment of African bush weed to Cyprus. Then it will be shipped on to another destination, to be advised at some later date.
At fifty US bucks a pound, two thousand pounds of grass is going to cost me a hundred thousand, plus expenses and the sweetener to the Customs and Excise man. It won’t cost me much to get my friends in Cyprus to put two thousand pounds of pot in the hands of the Hells Angels, Chino Hills Chapter. If I sell at a friendship price of two thousand US a pound, that’ll pretty much be a hundred thousand outlay for a four million return. Not bad, not bad at all. And it sure beats what those Mexicans are getting for schlepping their crap grass across the border into California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.
With our business done, Hussein headed off to do whatever it is you do with a three hundred pound woman. The black-toothed driver’s been missing for hours – not that I want to travel back to Banjul in the dark – so I decided to hunker down in the truck.
During the night I was joined by one of the Chief’s women. She burrowed her hand up the leg of my safari shorts and took my dick out of my boxers. Then she unzipped my shorts, gave my dick a few tugs and checked her handiwork by the flickering flame of a Dunhill lighter. She’s giggling real quietly and she seems amused, but I’m not. Her giggling kind of put a dampener on it for me.
The driver returned with the dawn; he looks totally screwed. My princess was finished playing with my dick, so she climbed out of the truck before the driver got in. But Hussein still hasn’t dragged himself away from Mount Rushmore, aka his African wife.
Right before we left the village, on the pretence of going for a piss, I snuck into one of the huts where they vacuum-pack the grass. I wrapped a handful of Hussein’s ‘most excellent African bush grass’ in plastic and shoved it in my pocket before we set off back the way we came.
I didn’t tell Hussein about my night-time visitor until we were back at the Range Rover.
“Gerry, my friend, she was a present from the Chief…to cement our business deal.”
“Hussein, my friend, tell me, exactly who is getting what out of my grass deal?”
He laid it out for me, and I can’t really argue too much. I tried to convince him that we don’t need to include Finn, but he’s not buying it. Of course, he’s probably scared shitless of ‘the Fearless One’.
“Gerry, my brother, you must understand that my connections to Finn are many and long-standing. Besides, did he not introduce you to me? I know you will make good money selling my African bush grass in America. Please, try to be satisfied with our arrangement.”
When I pressed the issue, Hussein explained that Finn’s friends buy a million gallons of peanut oil out the back door of the government refinery every year. So at least I get why he has to be included. But it makes me wonder what else the IRA bastards are into…if that’s who his friends are. Who else could they be, eh?
Hussein dropped me back at the hotel, and I bought a rag doll from the souvenir shop before going to my bungalow
. I ripped the doll open, took out most of the stuffing and replaced it with the grass wrapped in plastic. I’ll make a quick stop at UPS in the morning, and the doll will be in Chino Hills before I’m home at Sea Ranch.
27
HONG KONG
After the flight from Africa I took a taxi from Kai Tak Airport to Citizen Tower. I stepped into the second-floor lounge of my penthouse and found a naked Susie lying on the couch…with her nipple in the mouth of a naked woman I’ve never laid eyes on before.
———
Shirley’s asleep, sort of curled around me with her lips resting on my nipple. A suntanned Finn just sauntered into the lounge and casually gestured for me to stay where I am.
He disappeared up the spiral staircase and returned moments later – completely naked. I can’t help noticing that the long, thick thing hanging between his legs almost reaches his knee. It’s like something in one of Fran’s porno movies.
Finn beckoned me to join him. I eased out from under Shirley without waking her, kissed her upturned bum and pranced across to him. It took fourteen steps up the spiral staircase to reach his bedroom – where he shagged me until I screamed with pleasure.
Shirley came bounding up the stairs. “Susie! Are you OK?!” she yelled.
“Ah! Whoever you are, come on in…there’s just about room for one more at the back of the bus,” Finn said to Shirley.
It took me a moment or two to understand what he meant about a bus…he was imitating a London bus conductor, for my benefit I suppose. Anyway, it had the desired effect and Shirley leapt into the bed. Over the following hours we experienced every combination available to three fit sexual athletes. But eventually, even the fittest athletes must fall asleep….
The soft purr of the phone on the black lacquer night table woke me. Finn and Shirley are asleep, so I grabbed the cordless handset and pushed the talk button before the phone made another sound.
“Hold on just a moment,” I whispered. Slipping from the bed, I grabbed the note pad, pen and handset, scooted into the sauna and closed the door behind me. “Sorry…Finn’s just back from Africa and I don’t want to wake him…go on.”
When I had the stocks and buy and sell prices from Paul I returned to the bedroom and quietly placed the phone back on its cradle. Finn isn’t in bed, but I hear him in the gym. And luckily, Shirley’s sleeping, so she won’t be asking any questions about the early morning call.
I tiptoed down the spiral staircase and rang Finn’s stockbroker from the office. After I read him the day’s information I dropped the piece of paper I’d written everything on into the shredder beside Finn’s desk.
Shirley’s still fast asleep, but I hear the shower. I’m determined to take a closer look at the appendage that gave me so much pleasure….
———
Susie thought I was sleeping when Paul rang; I didn’t let on that I was awake. I wanted to see how she’d handle the call with her lesbian lover in my bed. I’m pleased that she went into the sauna to take down the information. There are no security issues to bother Paul, and her discretion guarantees that she isn’t going to get any grief off me for having Shirley in the penthouse.
While Susie was in the sauna I went to the gym, and when I heard the whirring of the paper shredder I was satisfied that her job was well done. I got in the shower and Susie appeared moments later. I’m delighted to continue our earlier activities, sans Shirley….
I left the girls in the penthouse and took a taxi to the Island Shangri-La Hotel. I want to find Uncle Sui, but if I can’t find him, Limp-wristed Eddie will do.
Mister Roger Wynne, the head concierge, is at his station in the hotel lobby. I asked him if Mister Sui Wong-Li is here. Roger sat me in a settee beside a thirty foot display of sweet-smelling flowers and told me to wait.
Roger appeared moments later. “This way Mister Flynn,” he said.
Pot luck, first strike! I’m getting tuned in to this Chinaman’s habits, I thought. I was escorted up to the rooftop swimming pool, where Uncle Sui and his henchmen are sitting around under giant parasols.
“Mister Flynn, please wait in the cool of the changing rooms. Mr. Sui Wong-Li with be with you shortly. Shall I send a casual shirt and a pair of swimming trunks up for you?”
“Please do. And you know me well enough by now Roger, let’s drop the Mister. Please call me Finn. OK?”
“Very good Mister Flynn…sorry, Finn. I will have them sent up immediately,” he said. Five minutes later an assistant concierge arrived with two cotton shirts, a selection of swimming trunks and rubberised pool shoes. I chose my swimming costume and he took away my suit and shirt.
In the reflection of a full-length wall mirror, I saw one of Uncle’s men enter the changing rooms. He waited patiently for me to slip on my pool shoes, and then he politely asked me to join his boss by the swimming pool. I called across that I’ll be out shortly.
I reached for the guest telephone and rang Susie in the penthouse. She sounds breathless. I imagine that she’s back in bed with Shirley – in her own suite – and ran up to take the call in my bedroom.
“Go collect the rest of your things from the professor’s flat and move in with me…permanently like,” I suggested. Susie squealed with delight. “That’s only if you want to…of course,” I had to add. There’s more squealing from Susie, and Shirley’s yelling in the background.
I stepped out of the changing rooms and joined Uncle Sui’s group. He dismissed his men with a wave of his hand, and completed the gesture with an invitation for me to sit beside him under the largest parasol. I ran through events in the Philippines and the Gambia, and warned him about my Lebanese friend’s tendency to make money on the side.
“Finn, I trust that you will always ensure the Sun Yat Sun get our fair share…no matter what your Lebanese friend may or may not do. Anyway, I prefer to rely on corrupt people, rather than so-called honest people. You always know where you stand with the corrupt. They will always serve their own interests…unless you instil in them such fear that they sweat at night…every night. And I have faith, Finn Flynn, that you have instilled such fear in your Lebanese friend. After all, why else would he call you ‘the Fearless One’?”
“Yes, of course Uncle Sui. I believe my friend is in no doubt about what would happen to him should he decide to be dishonourable in our dealings.”
“Very good, Finn, very good. I will say this for your Lebanese friend, exchanging forged traveller’s cheques for valuable timber is a smart move. With the help of corrupt officials in the Gambia and Japan, it will be possible to make a great deal of money and cover the trail. But the Filipinos must not be greedy and ask for a large spoon of the golden rice. Our people in Taiwan are better forgers and printers. All we need from the Filipino groom is his list of numbers. I must consider how to convince him to hand it to us. Our friends tell us that there will be changes in the Philippines when the American Navy leaves Subic Bay. Ferdinand Marcos and his bitch wife may not survive once their Yankee friends go home. He is a weak man, and she is a greedy, malicious, stone-hearted, evil woman.”
“Uncle Sui, have you given any more thought to my other situation…the missing shipment from Cambodia?”
“Finn Flynn, are you sure that you wish to complete that business? I am told that your Chief would prefer you to abandon your heroin plans. It seems that they do not see eye to eye with your idea of flooding Britain with heroin. Too many things could go wrong…and reflect badly on the movement.”
I’m well aware of the mixed feelings in the IRA Council about getting involved in drugs.
“Uncle Sui, I will give a great deal of thought to what you have said. But you must not believe everything you hear from Northern Ireland, eh. And there is the wee matter of the two hundred thousand dollars of my money.” I decided not to complicate things at this stage by mentioning that Ingrid is also in for a share.
Uncle Sui acknowledged my reply with one of his all-knowing grins, then he stood up and leaned down towards me. �
�Be most careful with your little insider trading business,” he whispered in my ear. Then he turned and walked into the changing rooms, followed by his ever-attentive entourage.
Feck, is there nothing the old goat doesn’t know about? I thought.
After they’d gone I had the rooftop to meself. I stood under a freezing-cold shower, and then dived headlong into the pool and swam ten lengths.
I was relaxing in the outdoor Jacuzzi when Roger approached me. “Finn, your suit’s been pressed and your shirt’s been laundered and ironed; they’re hanging in the changing rooms. Mister Sui Wong-Li would like you to join him for lunch in the hotel’s Restaurant Petrus.”
“Thank you Roger. Please tell Mister Sui Wong-Li that I will be there presently.”
During IRA fund-raising trips to America – when my lineage to Fionn mac Cumhaill was played up and I was paraded around by rich Irish Americans showing me off to their friends – I’d been wined and dined in some posh New York, Boston and Chicago restaurants. But I’ve never been in a restaurant as high-class as Petrus. The tables are set with Royal Crown Derby dinnerware and sterling silver Tiffany flatware, and I’m told the restaurant was named after the world’s most expensive wine.
Uncle Sui is sitting alone at a window table, almost hidden by a Steinway grand piano. He can see everyone entering the restaurant, and he has a spectacular view of Victoria Harbour, Kowloon and the New Territories.
“Finn, I recommend the lobster with hollandaise sauce and asparagus spears, with a Domaine William Fèvre Chablis Grand Cru, 1969 vintage. Unless you’d prefer to eat beef and enjoy Bordeaux? In which case you will have a Château Margaux, 1953 vintage, perhaps?”
“The lobster and Chablis sound fine.”
Uncle Sui didn’t have to place my order. The hovering waiter was gone and returned with an ice bucket and the expensive bottle of Chablis in no time, and my entrée soon followed.