It had all looked very different on June 6th, in 1944. Then it had been known as Sword Beach, and the place in front of where Wally stood had been Queen Red sector, and the sand where people strolled and threw balls for their dogs had been a vicious charnel house, a nightmare carnage of belching smoke and burning rubber and flesh, howling shells, shrieking engines, screams and explosions and shouts, and above all the gunfire, the death rattle of thousands upon thousands of guns and cannons, lusting dark swarms of steel and lead shredding young men, turning them to bloody offal, snatching them into the air and hurling them torn and lifeless, limbless, back to earth. Transfixing them. Penetrating them. Violating them. Brutally snatching away their breath and their years on the barges and in the blood red surf and on the sand daubed burgundy by the lifeblood of so many slain and dismembered, gashed and rended, crying out in pain and fear, calling for their mothers as their young lives slipped away in futility and insanity into the soil and sand and sea of France.
And no glory that, nor honor. Only survival, desperate ranks of men, sea-soaked and sand-covered and burdened under weapons and webbing, helmets and packs, crawling, running, falling, digging, shooting, cursing and raging, vomiting, blinded by smoke and deafened by cannonades and explosions, fearful or exhilarated; praying to be delivered by God, or by providence, or by the blind arbitration of impartial fate which alone decides who shall be stricken and who shall come unharmed through the fury; men defiant and undaunted, or weeping for shame in soiled underwear; fighting for the sanctuary that lay only in the deed done and in the silence of the guns that sought them out; striving to avoid the jaws of the great ravening industrial beast that turned young men into soup and wrung tears that would never dry from the eyes of mothers an ocean away.
That was what Bjorn Eggen Christiansson saw that day, and although he walked away from it without a scratch it was written like graffiti on his soul as by some dark gang lord defining his territory, and it could never be erased, or even spoken of except to others who had seen like events and knew the awful truth of the lies that are told to young men to compel them to slaughter. Woolloomooloo Wally was one such man, and Bjorn Eggen had spoken to him of that day, which was why Wally was standing there to see the place where his friend was forever deprived of his innocence.
Wally looked down at that place and tried to imagine Bjorn Eggen battling his way through that deranged killing floor while so many around him died and were chewed up and spat out upon the hot sand or swallowed whole into the stygian darkness of eternity, until he reached the spot where Wally now stood, but he could not, and yet still he wondered if the shade of Bjorn Eggen watched over him as he himself tried to watch over the ghost of Bjorn Eggen and guide him through that sea of anguish and turmoil to safety.
Wally turned and walked away from the tides and remembrances and crossed the road and went into a small bistro, and every head turned to look at him but only the tourists stared, and the fishermen continued about their business as if Wally was indeed strange to behold and yet no stranger to them, because he too was a man among men. He walked up to the bar, and by the time he clambered into the back of the cab that would take him to the station where he would board his train, he was feeling no pain, but only a strange kind of pride that he could neither explain nor define.
He took a seat at a café on the platform by the tracks and drank a succession of soapy beers until his train pulled in, and on the front of it above the driver was written “Paris.”
***
“Do I look scared to you, bitch?”
“You don’t look like you’re scared of much of anything. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be. Very soon I’m going to shoot you, and you’re going to die. Like him.”
Low Roll looked from Fanny to the tiles of the bathroom floor, where Hard D lay, huge and gray and bloody, and kind of surprised, like a manatee chewed up by a speedboat propeller. He looked back at Fanny. She looked into his eyes. It was true. He didn’t look scared at all. What did that mean? He had just watched her shoot down Hard D, so he knew she would and could shoot. Didn’t he care?
“There’s a philosophical way to look at this.”
“Jesus. Fuckin’ dames. Always gotta be flappin’ the fuckin’ lips. If ya gonna shoot me, fuckin’ shoot.”
“How many people do you think you’ve killed?”
“Not enough. I shoulda kilt you.”
“Or not even people. Things. How many deaths have you been responsible for? How many cows, how many pigs, how many chickens? How many spiders and flies?”
“You are one fucked-up broad, lady.”
Fanny was wondering why she was talking instead of shooting. Why didn’t she shoot? She knew what she had to do. Every second she delayed meant another second where something could go wrong. Did she really feel so in control?
“What I mean is, if I catch a barracuda, for example, and eat it, I am taking one life, but I am saving many. I’m saving all the fishes that that barracuda would have eaten, for the rest of its life. So, when I shoot you, I’ll be saving all the lives that you would have taken.”
Who was she talking to? The creep in front of her, or to herself? Was she trying to convince herself? Why didn’t she just shoot? She knew: because the fat guy had been a reflex. She was defending herself. He was going to hurt her and she reacted. It had been instinct. But this, now, was different. This one was unarmed and helpless. It was premeditated. Cold-blooded murder. It was different. Harder.
“You are one seriously crazy bitch. Shoot, why doncha. I ain’t got time for this shit.”
Fanny pointed the gun. She steadied it in both hands and aimed it at Low Roll’s skinny chest. He looked so frail. She imagined the bullet crashing though those skeletal ribs. She started to squeeze the trigger. Low Roll stared at her, unflinching.
Hard D coughed, and wheezed, a harsh sound like wind through a broken window. A great gout of blood spurted out of his gasping mouth and spattered on Fanny’s face. She jumped with fright and horror. She pointed the gun down at Hard D. Low Roll moved like a whippet. His bony hand closed around hers. She couldn’t believe how strong his grip was. He twisted the gun viciously. She couldn’t get her finger out of the trigger guard. It snapped. She screamed.
Hard D lumbered to his feet, a great, vengeful, wounded beast. He bellowed at her. His face was contorted, hideous with rage. A huge meaty hand smacked her on the side of the head. She screamed again as her eardrum ruptured. She kicked out as hard as she could, and tried to squirm away, but Low Roll still had her hand trapped. He leaned close. His breath reeked.
“I told ya to fuckin’ shoot, ya stupid cunt,” he said.
Hard D’s massive fist swept up. Incongruously, she was reminded of sausages. It slammed up under her jaw. She was out before the back of her head hit the wall.
Chapter 18
Crispin was still tipsy when he woke up. It was barely daylight. He hadn’t been able to sleep, despite his luxurious downy king-sized bed, and then when he finally did drift off he had nightmares. He couldn’t remember them, but he kept waking up scared. Asia had been very sympathetic and reassuring when he told her about the man with no lips, but he still had the impression that she didn’t believe him. And why didn’t she want him to say anything to Baby Joe about it? He had no way of knowing that she thought he was just behaving as the doctor in New Orleans had predicted that he would.
He wobbled downstairs and went out onto the terrace. It was chilly but fresh. The garçon came over and asked him if he wanted coffee, and he said fuck coffee and ordered champagne, and the waiter gave him his best here-comes-a-ginormous-tip smile and zipped off at warp speed. The light was in the trees by the time Crispin was halfway down the bottle, and the birds were singing and Paris was coming to life, and the city began to take on a new enchantment, and Crispin began to wonder if he wasn’t being silly and if he hadn’t been imagining the whole thing anyway—and what was the guy with no lips doing, following him halfway across Europe just to scare him?
How ridiculous was that, anyway? It was probably just one of his fans from Vegas who had recognized him from the old days. Everyone knew how many Yanks there were in Paris these days.
He was onto his second bottle when Asia and Baby Joe came out to join them. Baby Joe had said nothing about Agents Black and White or Monsoon Parker and he wasn’t going to. They were leaving in a couple of days. All he had to do was be ready, just in case. But he could feel the dragon, coiling and uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t deny the fact that he liked it, and the edge that it gave to the morning and the brittleness that it lent to the light.
Asia ordered café au lait and croissants, and Baby Joe ordered black coffee and cognac. The tables around them began to fill up.
“I had such a good night’s sleep,” Asia said, “I can’t believe it. That bed was so comfortable.”
“Well, I’m glad somebody did.”
“Eventually, anyway,” Asia said, taking Baby Joe’s hand and smiling at him.
“Puh-luh-ease,” Crispin said, “I’m having breakfast.”
“No, you’re not. You’re getting shitfaced,” she said.
The coffee smelled strong in the cool morning air. Baby Joe was feeling good. About everything. A phrase that he had heard somewhere came to his mind: They have not lived who have not almost died. Life has a flavor unknown to the protected.
Fucking A to that, he thought.
They watched as an enormously fat guy and a scarecrow came out of the hotel and climbed into the cab. Baby Joe grinned as the cab heeled over. There goes your suspension, pal, he thought.
A slender young man and a woman with long red hair tied up in a scarf followed them.
“So, what are we going to do today?” Crispin said. “The tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame?”
“All of the above, but I’d like to see the balloons too,” Asia said. “I read about it. A celebration of the Montgolfier brothers. There are going to be lots of balloons. It’s going to be beautiful.”
“Whatever turns you on. As long as there’s plenty of…hey, where are you going?”
Asia was up and running, across the square and over to the pavement. She was waving her arms and shouting. Baby Joe stood up and started to follow her, but she stopped and came back.
“What’s up?” Baby Joe said.
“That woman I just saw.”
“Which woman?”
“The one getting into the taxi with that fat guy and the others. It was Fanny. Fanny Lemming. The writer. The woman from Moscow who…”
“Shit,” said Baby Joe.
“Is something wrong?” Crispin interjected.
Baby Joe remembered his thoughts from Bar Hemingway the night before. Under his breath, he said, “Not anymore.”
***
“We regret to announce a delay to our departure. Due to a mechanical problem, we kindly ask all passengers to disembark. Please take a seat in the lounge. You will be notified of the new departure time.”
“Shit a fucken brick. Wouldn’t ya fucken know it?” Wally said to the Chinese gentleman next to him. The Chinaman smiled politely and joined the people shuffling back out of the plane. Wally watched the people settling down in the lounge to wait. He looked at the strained faces, the disappointed kids. One man started to shout at the stewardess at the gate.
“Fuck this for a game of soldiers,” he said to the Chinaman. The Chinaman smiled politely, and started to sidle away toward the desk so he could ask about changing his seat.
Wally walked down to the end of the corridor and took the elevator down to the concourse where the bars and restaurants were. He sucked back a couple of tubes, keeping a casual eye on the departure board, but it steadfastly continued to display “Delayed.” He ambled over to the Qantas desk. There was a picture of a koala sitting in a eucalyptus, looking pleased with itself, as if it had just pissed on a tourist. Behind it, the sun was setting over the outback. A sudden sadness came over him. He was ready to be home. It was time.
The girl at the desk looked up. She had freckles and her hair was cut in a bob. The corners of her blue eyes crinkled as she smiled at Wally.
“Strewth,” he said, “I bet you can go the distance, Sheila.”
“And then some, Blue,” she said, her smile even wider.
Wally studied her face. Innocence and mischief. Good on ya, girl, he thought. Enjoy it while ya can.
“How can I help you?” she said.
“Ah, me bladdy flight to Sydney’s been delayed. Reckon ya can tell me ’ow long?”
The girl looked at him. He was Australia personified. She suddenly felt like crying, without knowing why. Maybe it was time for her to be home too. She did a furtive stage glance to left and right, and beckoned him closer.
“Listen,” she said, “you have to promise not to tell anyone, or I could get into trouble, but the plane can’t be fixed. They had to send for a new one. It’s on its way, but it will be at least twelve hours.”
“Shit me bladdy britches,” Wally said.
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, mate.”
“Ah, no worries, Sheila. It’s not your fault. But I ain’t ’angin’ round in this shitpile for twelve ’ours, I can tell yer that fer nothin’. Reckon if I was back ’ere ’round midnight, I’d be right?”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
“Right then. Time to ’it the fucken tiles. Good on ya.”
“Good on you too,” the girl said, smiling as Wally headed for the door, the dark spirit of a vanished world, up to no good in the new one.
Wally took a bus into town, and then the metro to the center. He didn’t know much about Paris, but he knew enough to know that the place where the most people got off would be the place where the action was. The doors opened and Wally allowed himself to be flooded out of the carriage by the press of the crowd. As he did so, Asia, Crispin, and Baby Joe, similarly engulfed, were carried from the platform and through the doors into the carriage right next to the one from which he had just alighted.
***
“You seem to be in a difficult position,” said Hyatt.
There was no seem about it. Fanny was standing, balanced precariously on a chair, naked except for her stilettos, with a belt around her neck, which was in turn fastened to the light fixture. He hands were tied behind her using her own brassiere.
“The bitch put a few slugs into Hard D.”
“Not enough,” Fanny said.
Low Roll went to slap her, but Hyatt stopped him.
“So what happened?” he said.
“She broke into the room while I was in the john and Hard D was in the tub.”
“I thought it was the other way around,” Fanny said.
“You gotta lotta lip for someone in your position.”
“And what position is that?”
“About to get wasted.”
“Carry on,” said Hyatt.
“The bitch starts slinging lead. She plugs Hard D pretty good an’ he goes down. But he ain’t dead, see?”
“Yes, I can see that.”
In truth, Hard D did look remarkably well for someone who had been shot twice, but Beretta .22s were not designed for big game hunting. The bullets had just hit flab and kind of sizzled around. One glanced off his pelvis and one had dinged a rib, but apart from the fact that it was as sore as hell, Hard D got lucky. There wasn’t even that much blood.
“It’s all that blubber,” Fanny said. “I should have brought my harpoon. You can’t kill a pig with a peashooter.”
“Right, that’s it,” Low Roll hissed. “You can kill a cow with a fuckin’ switchblade. Watch.”
“Wait,” Hyatt said, “I need some info. Then you can do what you want. Cut her down.”
“Don’t try nuthin’, bitch,” Low Roll said, “’cos you got no idea how bad I wanna cut you up.”
Fanny was pushed into a chair, still with her hands fastened behind her back.
“So, start talking. Or he starts slicing.”
“You need me,” she s
aid calmly.
“Oh, I do? I already have dog meat.”
“Alphonso Nightingale and Khuy Zalupa.”
Hyatt suddenly looked like he’d stepped on a sea urchin. “Uncle Khuy? What? What about him?” he blurted, his anxious haste not doing his street cred much good.
“Uncle Khuy isn’t dead, sunshine. He knows it was you that set him up. How do you think he feels about that?”
Hyatt looked at Hard D. “You missed?”
“There was a big-ass dog got in the way. What can I tell ya? Technically, it don’t count as a miss. Plus there was lots of other shootin’ goin’ on, and the man was down, so who the fuck knew?”
“Well who else was shooting?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Well, why didn’t you make sure?”
“Lissen, kid, we get paid to off people, from mileage. We don’t get paid to get involved in no fuckin’ firefights in no fuckin’ Moscow with parties that we don’t know who they are. Get the picture?”
“So why didn’t you tell me?”
“Like I said, the man was on the deck, so’s we figured him to be smoked, which was the object of the exercise. The identity of the smoker ain’t the fucken point.”
“The fucking point is that the maniac is still alive, and he’s looking for me, which, coincidentally, boys, means he’s also looking for you.”
Low Roll shrugged and pulled the corners of his mouth down. “So no problem. When he shows up, we wax him.”
Hyatt turned back to Fanny. “And what about Nightingale?”
“Well, Alphonso and I go way back. We were lovers, you might say. Anyway, I can help you.”
“How?”
“Zalupa is coming looking for you, and he will find you, and you know what he’ll do. I can stop him.”
“How?”
The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) Page 36