The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2)

by Norwood, Shane

  He studied the picture for the thousandth time, waiting for it to reveal itself to him. What had he missed? What was there that he wasn’t seeing? It was a bar. It could be anywhere. Or could it? Asia and Crispin were headed for the bayou. Wherever it was, this wasn’t any Cajun shitkicker’s bar. This was big city. So where? Baton Rouge? Shreveport? New Orleans? There was nothing that he could see. No T-shirts, no logos, no monogrammed glasses. There was no window in the picture that he could see out of, no walls. Just Asia and Crispin and Lundi behind. Leering. At him. The eyes that he knew were mocking and spiteful behind the shades. Wait—the shades. There was a slight reflection in the shades.

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  ***

  One of the many reasons that Fanny Lemming never got caught was that she was herself a brilliant detective. Some of this brilliance was displayed in her novels, which is what made them so popular and which were another reason that she never got caught—because of the sheer improbability of someone in her position needing or wanting to rob baubles, bangles, and beads. Because of her brilliance she was able to work from any given scenario and extrapolate backward to anticipate and forestall any attempt by the forces of law and order to trace the jewel scams back to her. She was a past master at false trails and red herrings, and smoke screens and chicanery were second nature to her. She could pull the triple-inverted-Machiavellian-reverse-enigma routine in her sleep, and she was also a dab hand at the old Judas goat ploy, and an absolute whiz when it came to the double-body-swerve-flip-side-whammy, so the good guys had no chance. Except for maybe one. Only the most flawless and brilliant of diamonds will stand absolute scrutiny, and the same applies to people. And Fanny was no exception. She had one chink in her otherwise-impeccable armor, a fault that the gods will not forgive: hubris.

  From the nebulous and diaphanous information that she had managed to cobble together from smoke and mirrors, Fanny had formulated a clear mental picture of what she thought the Fab 13 should look like if it existed. She liked to carry this image with her for the pleasure that it gave her, and on many a sleepless night it glistened and pulsated in the dark dream-spangled ether behind her closed eyes, but it was a sweet phantasmagoria and nothing more. Until the day the genie came unbidden from the lamp, to work his mischief.

  Fanny was doing some research about circus life for her latest novel, For Your Thighs Only, and had bought a coffee table book full of vivid illustrations and photographs from the heyday of the Ringling Brothers, before people got tired of sad, gaudy Grimaldis making embarrassing spectacles out of themselves and started watching Jerry Springer instead. She wanted to include a scene about a girl who performed a lion-taming act. She was studying a picture of a girl back in the thirties, writing down details of her dress, when she noticed what the girl was wearing in her ornate headdress.

  She did a double take, the hair on the back of her neck actually stood on end, and her skin burst out in goosebumps. It looked almost exactly as she envisaged the Fab 13. She quickly scrabbled through the pages to the index.

  Fanny was not a gal prone to fits of fainting and keeling over every five minutes, but she had a distinct sensation of vertigo when she identified the girl. Her name was Maria Rasputina. The daughter of Grigori Rasputin.

  ***

  Baby Joe took a cab straight downtown. He had the guy drop him off at a print shop and he asked for a blowup of the photo. While he waited, he dived into the bar next door. He was calmer now. He was doing something. In action. He drank a Dixie and a shot of Wild Turkey and went back to the shop. He asked them to crop the enlargement, and zoom in again on Lundi’s face. He went back to the bar and waited again. He drank another Dixie and another shot. When he got back to the shop he asked to borrow a magnifying glass. Bingo. Reflected, very faintly but legibly, were the letters S NIS. He went back to the bar. He ordered another boilermaker, dropped a twenty on the counter, and flipped the photo onto the polished wood.

  “Hey, man. You recognize this place?”

  The bartender was a young black man. He looked older than he was. Either he’d done time, or he needed a new razor. He shook his head.

  “Ain’t much to go on, chief. Could be anywhere.”

  Baby Joe nodded. “Okay. This mean anything to you?” He laid the blow up on the bar.

  “Snis. What the fuck is a snis, man?”

  “It’s a reflection. The letters are backward.”

  The young man looked dubiously at Baby Joe, then back at the letters. He clicked his fingers. “Shit, man. It’s a cinch. Basin Street, man. The Basin Street Bounce. It’s a jazz joint. Five blocks from here. It’s a—”

  But Baby Joe was already headed out the door.

  The Basin Street Bounce was just opening up. The chairs were still up on the tables and an old guy was sweeping the floor. Some kid was cleaning glasses behind the bar. He didn’t look old enough to be in there.

  “We’re closed, mister,” he said. “Open at six."

  Baby Joe flicked the picture onto the bar. “Recognize these people, son?”

  The kid just looked at Baby Joe. “No.”

  “You didn’t look.”

  “I said no.”

  The kid eyeballed Baby Joe.

  Going into a bar in Oakland and shouting out “All Raiders fans are homosexuals” wouldn’t be a very good idea. Neither was eyeballing Baby Joe. The kid’s head rocked back as Baby Joe slapped him in the teeth. It wasn’t hard, but it got his attention. Tears came to his eyes. He looked at the picture. He looked as if he was about to cry. Baby Joe studied his face.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I seen ’em. Coupla days back. I remember ’cos the fat guy played the piano. Went down real well. The house player was pissed.”

  Baby Joe dropped a ten on the bar and walked out. The kid flipped the bird at his back and pocketed the fin.

  Baby Joe was lucky again. He only had to call three hotels before someone told him that Ms. Birdshadow was not picking up, and could he leave a message.

  He told the cabbie to drop him off one block before the hotel, and he approached from the opposite side of the road. Old habits died hard. The desk clerk looked at him askance as he walked through the foyer. He couldn’t blame the guy. He looked like shit. Probably smelled like shit, too. He was wearing the same clothes he left with—the clothes he stood up in, his passport, and his wallet. That was all he had. That was all he needed.

  Any supercilious remark that the clerk might have been planning froze on his lips as he looked into Baby Joe’s eyes. He swallowed hard. “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

  “No. I’m looking for Ms. Birdshadow.”

  “You can use the lobby phone to call the room.”

  “It won’t do any good. Let me speak to the house dick.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The security. Let me speak to hotel security.”

  The beds had not been slept in. The maid told them that no one had used the room for two days. Only the old lady, and the old lady wasn’t there. The house dick was from out of town. He didn’t recognize Lundi. The receptionist did.

  “Why, yes, I saw him yesterday. He came to pick up Mrs. Birdshadow. The elderly lady. He said he was going to take care of her.”

  ***

  When he awoke to the profound and breathless silence of predawn and saw the gray tracery of hoarfrost on the windows, like the winter turning of Odin’s beard, Bjorn Eggen knew with absolute certainty that she was gone from him. Mary Rose lay on her back, still and cold, with a half-smile on her lips, and an expression of such peace that Bjorn Eggen could find no sadness in his heart, but only wonder. In her left hand, clutched against her breast, she held a rosary, as if she had known it was her time. Bjorn Eggen reached across with his gnarled white talon and gently stroked the hair at her temple. Her skin was as smooth and cold as marble. He bent down and gently kissed her unyielding lips.

  “Ja, ja,” he whispered. “You sleep now. I vil see you very soon.”

  Bjorn Eggen stood up
very slowly, suddenly feeling all the weight of his years, and knew that Father Time had vanquished him at last. He dressed painstakingly, and pulled on his boots. From the pocket of his parka he pulled a terracotta flash of aquavit, and poured it down his throat like water. From a pot above the mantle he took two coins. He went back into the bedroom and reverently placed them on Mary Rose’s eyes. He took down the lace curtain from the window, and laid it across her face for a shroud. He went back to the kitchen, took up the terracotta flask again, and drained it. He opened the heavy oak door and went out, leaving it open behind him. The tears were cold against his cheeks as he trudged across the snow toward the village.

  Chapter 5

  Night fell fast over the city, but that quarter was darker than the rest. The cab driver wouldn’t take him all the way to the end of the street. The air was heady with oleander and cheap perfume. People stared at him from doorways and windows as he passed. As he walked into the bar, the men stopped playing pool and looked up. There were three men playing cards in a corner, and two more seated in a booth with a bottle between them. One big guy was sitting alone at the bar. There were no women in the room.

  As Baby Joe walked toward the bar, the big man stood up to meet him.

  “What the fuck y’all doin’ in here, white boy?”

  Baby Joe head butted him, then kicked him in the groin. The man fell face-forward and Baby Joe stepped up and kicked him in the head. The two pool players started to walk toward him. He smiled at them. They paused, looked at each other, and started forward again.

  A sharp voice stopped them. “Ray. Ike. Easy.”

  A small fat man came out of a side door. His hair was pomaded down, and he wore a collarless white shirt and suspenders, and a houndstooth sports coat.

  “Little far off your range, ain’t ya, cowboy?”

  “I’m looking for Atlas Page.”

  “No. You lookin’ at Atlas Page. What can I do ya for?”

  “I was told you could help me.”

  “With what?”

  “I need a piece.”

  Atlas Page maintained a blank, expressionless face that expressed plenty. “How do I know you ain’t a cop?”

  “How do I know you ain’t Fats fucking Waller? Marvin Lake told me you could fix me up.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place, boy? Let’s get ourselves a drink. Ray, Ike. Clean that shit up offa my floor.”

  “Marvin and me was tight back in the day. How’s he doin’?”

  “Shit. Divorced. Broke. Fucked liver. Working surveillance, graveyard at the Nugget.”

  “That good, huh? The poor bastard.”

  “Yeah, well. I knew he was from down here, so I called him.”

  “Well, you done come to the right place, son. How does this fine piece of all-American artillery strike your fancy?”

  Atlas handed Baby Joe a Colt Python. Baby Joe flipped the breach, dropped the clip, and examined the weapon.

  “Only one careful owner.”

  “Yeah? What happened to him?”

  “He got shot.”

  “Guess he wasn’t so careful. How much?”

  “Lay five on me, an’ I’ll even throw in a spare clip.”

  “Deal.”

  Baby Joe put five hundred dollars in Atlas Page’s pudgy little hand. A five-hundred-watt smile lit up his pudgy little face.

  “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, son. Say, what you want that there cannon for anyway?”

  Baby Joe pulled out the picture and threw it onto the table. He planted his finger square in Lord Lundi’s face. “Him.”

  The smile faded from Atlas Page’s face. He whistled softly and crossed himself. “Fuck, son. You gonna need more than that to go up against that viper. That man is evil, boy, y’hear? Evil.”

  Baby Joe smiled. “We’ve met before. Know where I can find him? Tonight?”

  “Everywhere and nowhere, man. In the shadows. In the mist. In your dreams. Inside your head. You don’t know what you messin’ with, boy.”

  “So where will I find him?”

  “At his club, the Mama Mambo. At one of his joints. At his place down by the Ox Bow. He ain’t hard to locate. It’s dislocating him that’s the problem.”

  Baby Joe nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Baby Joe walked through the heavy redolent darkness back toward the lights of the main road. Somewhere in a back room someone was wailing a sad blues. This time nobody watched him as he passed. As he got to the intersection, he calculated that the time it had taken him to walk was just about the same time that it would have taken Atlas Page to make up his mind to call Lord Lundi.

  ***

  The guy had good hands. Asia had to admit she was enjoying being touched. He was strong but not too forceful, and he knew when to lay on and when to hold back. It was very pleasant out there in the garden in the shade. She had her drink in an ice bucket beside her, the birds were singing, the bees were buzzing, the sun was warm on her back and shoulders but the breeze was keeping her from being too hot. It was all very soporific, and under different circumstances she could have easily drifted off. But her mind wouldn’t let her. That nagging unease. That inner whispering. The disquiet that she couldn’t put a finger on.

  The man moved his hand down to the small of her back. As he massaged her on either side of her spine her buttocks began to move. She felt a small frisson of excitement but suppressed it. She forced herself to think about Baby Joe. She wished that he was with her—then she wouldn’t be so confused. Or would she? What was happening? Was it possible that she didn’t love him anymore? Was that even conceivable? Or that he didn’t love her?

  She didn’t feel it to be so, but how could you be sure? The only thing they both knew for certain was that it wasn’t the same. But then, how could it be? It never stayed the same. For anyone. It was just a question of whether you grew together, or grew apart. Could you do both at the same time? Sometimes it was as though she didn’t know him, as if a stranger lay next to her or sat across the table from her. But then he would say something, or make a gesture or a facial expression, and all of a sudden the old Baby Joe would be there and the love would come flooding back with all its relentless power. Maybe this separation would be good for them. Perhaps when she got back there would be an answer. Perhaps…

  The man moved his hands down onto her thighs. It felt good as he slid his smooth powerful fingers up and down her legs, up to the bottom of her pelvis and back. As his hand rose slowly toward her pudenda she caught her breath. The hands moved away. What was that? Disappointment? She was getting turned on. What was she going to do about it? And if she did something about it, how was she going to feel about it afterward?

  The hands went away. She waited, tense now. Eager. Waited for the hands to come back. Aware that she wanted them to. And not caring that she did. When they did, they were different. Rougher. Quicker. Suddenly one hand grabbed her vagina. Another stuck a finger into her anus. Hard. She screamed and opened her eyes and squirmed round.

  Lundi was there, smiling down at her. He was wearing a dark hood. She aimed a slap at him but he stepped back easily, still smiling. She slid off the table and stepped toward him, with her fists clenched and her knuckles white.

  “I’m gonna kick your fuckin’ ass, you sick-lookin’ creep.”

  Lord Lundi stuck his face toward her, with his lips pursed, inviting her to take a swing. She did. He stepped out of range. As she waded in to throw another punch, he sprayed a cloud of white powder from his mouth into her face. She gagged and choked and put her fingers to her eyes. Blinded, she stepped backward and tripped. She tried to put her hands out to break her fall, but for some reason she could not. She fell heavily. She opened her mouth to curse him, but nothing came out. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Panic overtook her. She attempted to stand, but her legs wouldn’t work. She fell again, facedown onto the grass. A terrible paralysis gripped her. Terror welled up inside her—a blind, desperate panic. She wanted to scr
eam more than anything in the world, but she could not. She felt Lundi’s weight on top of her. He placed his lips next to her ear. She could feel the hot wetness.

  “La coupe du poudre,” he hissed. “Tetrodotoxin. From the puffer fish. You will see all. You will hear all. You will feel all. But you will not move. You want to know why?”

  Lundi pulled off his dark glasses. He pushed his blind and opaque eye close to hers. It was a repulsive, slimy orb; a ghastly, disgusting veined world, filling her whole field of vision.

  “You boyfriend. Baby Joe Young. He do this to me. He steal my eye. He burn me skin, so I can never feel the sun again. So I take you. For mine. He will come for you. He will die. You will die. But first…”

  Every nerve in Asia’s body screamed in terror and pain and outrage as she felt herself penetrated and brutalized, but she could not make a sound.

  ***

  The Maasai people of Kenya and Tanzania believe that their god, Old Enkai, gave all the cattle in the world to them. They are confirmed cattle raiders, but in their eyes it is not theft, it is merely the recovery of their own property. In a similar vein, Khuy Zalupa, who by this time had added “connoisseur,” “patron of the arts,” and “patriot” to his résumé, had arrived at the conclusion that Russian artifacts should be in Russian hands, and that, ergo, Peter Carl Fabergé’s Easter eggs, which were national cultural icons, should also be in Russian hands. Specifically his. Which is why he had dedicated himself to collecting them—all of them.