The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2)

by Norwood, Shane

  “Monsieur Young. Ah appreciate a man ’oo knows ’ow to be on tahm. We must ’urry. Ah bribed ze verger, but we only ’av one ’our. You ’ave it?”

  Baby Joe stepped forward. He avoided looking at Asia, but in his peripheral vision he could see her straighten in her chair. She knew. At least she knew. Baby Joe handed the Fab 13 to Alphonso Nightingale. He reached out and took it, puzzlement and fascination playing across his face in equal measure.

  “Mah, mah. Zis iz incroyable. But what ze fuck is it? Where is ze R3?”

  “That is the R3.”

  “Shoot le nègre.”

  “No. No, wait. It…it fucking did something. It switched, it changed, it…it…what’s the fucking word…it evolved.”

  “Shoot ’im.”

  A man stepped up and put a gun to Monsoon’s head. Baby Joe did nothing. Monsoon closed his eyes. His bladder went. The urine ran down his pants leg. The man smiled and cocked the hammer.

  “He’s right,” a voice said.

  Duncan Ooglas walked across the stone floor. He left bloody footprints.

  “’Oo are you?”

  “I made it. The R3. It’s my invention. It must be destroyed. You can’t control it. It grows stronger all the time.”

  “Ah am beginning to lose patience. Shoot zis one as well.”

  Duncan Ooglas turned into Alphonso Nightingale. Then into Maurice Chevalier. Then he turned into Quasimodo. Everybody stared, dumbfounded. Even Asia and Fanny forgot about their distress. Only Baby Joe concentrated, counting, measuring, calculating. Time enough for parlor tricks later.

  Quasimodo shuffled up to Alphonso Nightingale. Nightingale shrank back in horror and disgust. Quasimodo’s clothes were rank, his breath foul, his deformed face covered in pustules and boils.

  “You see,” he said, his voice a horrid hissing gurgle, a witch’s cauldron bubbling on the fire full of toads, “you cannot control it. You cannot stop it. It will destroy you. It will destroy everybody. Give it to me. Give it to me.”

  As if mesmerized, under the control of a force before his will, Nightingale reached out and handed the Fab 13 to Duncan Ooglas. Before anyone could react, Ooglas reached into his coat and pulled out a tube. There were wires attached to it, wires that disappeared inside his shirt. He slipped the Fab 13 inside it and pressed a button. There was a brilliant flash of multicolored light, a vortex rainbow swirling around his body. For a second he appeared transparent. He cried out, a sad plaintive call, like a sea bird at dusk, and collapsed to the floor.

  Nobody moved. Ooglas slowly and painfully picked himself up. He opened the tube and took out the Fab 13. He limped up to Nightingale and handed it to him.

  “Here,” he said, “you can have it now. It’s just a bauble now. A pretty toy.”

  Nightingale forced himself to speak. “And ze R3?”

  Ooglas smiled sadly. “I am the R3 now. It’s in me. It is me. But I told you. It must be destroyed.”

  Ooglas pulled out his Luger and put it to his head.

  “Non. Arrêtez. Stop, wait. What are you doing, you fool?”

  “It’s the Chameleon Fallacy,” Ooglas said.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The silence was amplified as the gunshot faded away. The men waited for Nightingale to speak. Nightingale sat limp as if stunned. He kept looking from Ooglas’s body to the Fab 13 and back again. He held the Fab 13 up to the light and peered into it as if it could reveal something to him.

  Baby Joe got ready. Now was the moment, when everyone was distracted. He had his own gun. Ooglas’s was within reach. Drop the one next to Asia, and then…

  Khuy Zalupa walked into the room. He held a shotgun. Nightingale suddenly came awake. He shouted in French. Zalupa leveled the scattergun at his face. The man behind Fanny put the blade to her throat, and Zalupa hesitated. Two men came out of the shadows behind him. One put a gun to his head and pressed hard, the barrel digging into his cheek. The other grabbed the shotgun. The man behind Asia took her by the throat. He pointed his knife at her eye.

  “Well. Zis is turning out to be quite an entertaining evening. Now we will ’ave a leetle more fun, n’est-ce pas?”

  Baby Joe would have killed Alphonso Nightingale just for the supercilious expression on his smug face.

  “Ze rules of zis game are very simple. It is a game for lovairs. What better place than Paris, non? ’Ere we ’ave two women. One of zem will live; ze ozair will die. Zere, we ’ave two men. One of zem will live; ze ozair will die. You two will fight, and ze lover of ze one ’oo wins will live. Ze ozair will die. Simple, non?”

  It was sick psycho bullshit. Nightingale wasn’t planning on letting anyone walk away. Baby Joe knew it. Zalupa knew it too. But did he care? It might all come down to that. All Baby Joe could do was play the game out. Play it by ear and improvise. Sooner or later there would be a moment. There had to be. It was all there was. Zalupa was already moving forward.

  The gargoyles of Notre Dame Cathedral are eight hundred years old, give or take a decade or two, so it’s doubtful that the artisans who crafted them had utility as a shooting platform as a major design consideration. Hard D didn’t know shit about gargoyles, but he knew a grade-A firing position when he saw one. The one he was perched on was a kind of bat-faced bastard with a humpty back, and he was sitting astride its neck, cowboy style. The stock of the rifle was braced against one of its bat ears, the stone was smooth and cool, and his chest was protected. It had taken a bit a grunting and groaning to haul his ass up, but now he was there, he was comfortable and relaxed. Low Roll was sitting behind him, on the creature’s back, with his feet resting on its elbows. The problem was those fucking candles. You couldn’t see shit, and if you looked at one directly, you lost your night vision for a few seconds. But Low Roll had a better view, and with the glasses he could call the shots if necessary. Once they decided whom the fuck to shoot, that was.

  “You got any fucking idea at all what’s goin’ on down there?”

  “Nope. I thought I’d seen me some whacked-out extravagant shit before, but this scene takes the fucking biscuit.”

  “So who do we clip?”

  “I dunno. Let’s just hang fire, enjoy the show, and see how it pans out. Then we plug whoever is still on his feet. Only just make sure the Frenchie don’t stop one. We don’t need that shit again.”

  “I hear ya.”

  ***

  To the watching gargoyles it perhaps seemed that Khuy Zalupa was one of their number, made quick and manifest by some ancient spell or curse, an elemental, hideous beyond even their own fearsome countenances, grimacing and leering, bellowing like the minotaur its death throes. He was naked to the waist and barefoot. His shirt had been torn off and he had lost his shoes in the fight—heavy, hairy, squat, and bestial, with monstrous shoulders, immensely powerful, exerting a freak show fascination upon the watchers, a riveting repulsiveness.

  Baby Joe was likewise shirtless, his musculature still defined but the loose skin betraying his age, a parchment on which the testament to a life of blood and violence was written in a litany of scars.

  They stood facing each other in the circle of guttering candlelight. Breathing heavily, weighing each other up. Thinking. It was a lull, the heavy, expectant quietude between the lightning flash and the peal of thunder. Baby Joe was fighting smart, containing and controlling his rage, using it as fuel. He was a better fighter than Zalupa, faster and fitter, despite the difference in age, but Zalupa was much stronger. He was staying out of reach, ducking under the wild swings, swaying out of range, and sending in short chopping blows, drawing blood and raising welts, waiting for Zalupa to slow down. Waiting for the moment.

  But Zalupa wasn’t slowing down. He was getting stronger, his savage fury feeding off itself, a bull bloodied and goaded by the picador’s lance. Baby Joe the matador. The veronica: whirl away and stab with his fists.

  He had to stay on his feet. He had barely been touched, but in the few glancing blows that Zalupa had managed to land, he ha
d felt the strength. He knew that if he went to ground, Zalupa’s weight and power would be too much for him. He could not win the fight at close quarters. And yet he knew he had to bring it down and in close. He had to take the chance. It was the only way.

  The staircase at Notre Dame is a narrow spiral. It has 387 steps. It is designed to be defended, to restrict the right-hand movement of the attackers. Baby Joe edged toward it, and backed up onto the first step. Nightingale’s men started to follow, but Nightingale stopped them. He was intrigued. Amused. There was nowhere to go but back down again.

  There was no room for lateral movement, and Baby Joe was being forced backward up the stairs. The staircase was taking its toll on Zalupa. He was panting and snorting, but still he came on. Baby Joe backed up until they were out of sight of the people below.

  “Listen,” Baby Joe said. “Stop. Listen to me.” His voice sounded loud, ringing off the cold damp stones. He backed off, looking for a reaction in Zalupa’s eyes. There was nothing but a remorseless hatred. Nothing.

  “Listen. He’s going to kill her anyway, and you. Our only chance is to work together.”

  Zalupa plowed in, a wild boar, a mindless animal. Fuck this. He let Zalupa grab his ankle.

  It worked. Zalupa lifted his head trying to pull Baby Joe over, and Baby Joe slammed his boot under Zalupa’s chin. As the head came up he drove his fingers into the eyes. Baby Joe pulled his ankle free and drove his elbow into Zalupa’s throat.

  Zalupa roared and came on; half-blinded and choking, still he came on. Baby Joe moved in. He grabbed Zalupa around his great bull neck and heaved. As the Russian predictably lifted him to slam him against the stone steps, he flung his legs up, as if doing a forward roll. It nearly didn’t come off. Zalupa’s strength was such that he almost managed to counterbalance Baby Joe’s weight. Almost. The fulcrum tipped beyond balancing point, and Zalupa went over backward. He tried to keep his grip on Baby Joe, but Baby Joe twisted away. He landed awkwardly, and fell backward a couple of steps. He felt the rib go again. He rolled to his feet. Zalupa came down like a felled redwood. His head cracked against the edge of the stair, and the blood spurted from his split skull.

  Baby Joe jumped over him and turned. Zalupa was trying to get to his feet. Baby Joe stood off.

  “Listen,” he said. “Listen to me, you fucking stupid bastard. Stop. My fight is not with you. If you want to save Fanny, we have to cooperate. It’s the only way.”

  Zalupa didn’t speak. He continued to try to stand. Baby Joe kicked him in the sternum. Zalupa wheezed—a broken accordion. He went down again. Baby Joe stood over him. He looked into Zalupa’s eyes, for some recognition, some sign that he had made contact. There was nothing. Just the cold, relentless implacability of a serpent.

  “Are you fucking listening? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?

  Zalupa’s foot came up. It caught Baby Joe in the forehead. He went over backward, surprised. He hadn’t expected that. He watched Zalupa surge to his feet, his face barely recognizable as a face, his head dripping blood like some deformed vulture pulling its head from a carcass.

  So, that was his fucking answer? So be it. Baby Joe was below Zalupa now, and he stepped closer. Backward was no good. If Zalupa landed on him, got his hands on him, he was a dead man. It was that simple. He knew what Zalupa wanted to do. He had to make him think he could do it. Zalupa did it. He leapt, bearing down on Baby Joe, a great, crushing, irresistible weight. Baby Joe barreled in. He got it exactly right: the point of momentum in Zalupa’s trajectory where the force of his weight was forward and not downward. Still, the weight was unbelievable. Baby Joe flexed his back and heaved. Zalupa slipped across Baby Joe’s back. He tried to grab Baby Joe but he could not, and he fell face-first. He put his arms out to save himself but his bloodied hands slipped of the edge of the stone. The bridge of his nose cracked on the steps and he went over headfirst. He lay still, on his back, with one arm trapped under him and his head at a weird angle.

  Baby Joe vomited. He steadied himself against the wall, his chest heaving, never taking his eyes off Khuy Zalupa. It was a full two minutes before he felt sufficiently recovered to move. He stepped down toward Zalupa. Slowly. Cautiously. To make sure. A loud scream came from the top of the stairs. Asia. Baby Joe turned and began to race down the steps.

  Chapter 21

  In the end, it came down to the women. It always came down to the women. Baby Joe paused at the bottom of the stairs. Think, man. Catch your breath. No time. He bent over and bobbed his head around the door for an instant. He pulled back and closed his eyes, reviewing the snapshot. Six men. One of them Parker. One man standing by Asia. Two by Fanny, either side. Holding her by the ankles, forcing her legs apart. Two standing back to watch the stairs. But not watching—watching the other, the one standing over Fanny. Leaning in. Close. With a knife. Nightingale. An evil yellow daffodil. No blood. Yet. No guns. But there would be. How many out of sight? Two at least. The Arab lied. No shit? So how many? No way to know. It will be what it will be. Deal with what you can see. How far to Asia? Ten paces. Three seconds from a standing start. What else? A bell. Some statues. Monstrous gargoyles. Guardians? Of what? We’ll see. Wait—the bell. Shoot the bell. The cops will come. But soon enough? No. Enough thinking. Go. What about the other? Triage. Save the one with the best chance of survival. Save the one that can be saved. No. Fuck that. Save the one you love, motherfucker. Go.

  Baby Joe reached into his pocket. A coin. He threw it at the bell. Goooong. Louder than he thought. Go. The two by the stairs turned to look at the bell, then back. Too late. Last call. Baby Joe was on them, cracking their heads together. The blade of his hand across one man’s throat—he fell. Grabbed the other, drove him backward, head crashed into the stone. Nothing else sounded like that. Dead. The others turned. Reached. Fired. Chipping the stones. Thunderous. Pistols like cannons in the dank chamber. Keep moving. A gun in this one’s belt—stupid. Smith and Wesson revolver. Five rounds. Go to the bell, behind the stone. Lead the guns away from Asia. He fired on the run. Bang. Au revoir. Everyone was shooting, but wild. One rushed forward. Bang. Dormez-vous, dormez-vous? He fired as he fell. Gong, gong, gong—the bell again. The gun slid on the stones.

  Nightingale. Shoot Nightingale. It might stop it. Bullets hammered the bell, the noise incredible. Joyous. A savage, syncopated liturgy, summoning the faithful to die. Nightingale bleeding, Nightingale on his hands and knees like he’s looking for something under his deck chair. Ridiculous. Shoot the fucker.

  Five more came running. Running. Stupid, hastening to die. Shapes moved in the candlelight, flitting in and out of the light. Beautiful giant shadows danced on the walls and played on the vaulted ceiling. Shadows, or harpies? Three rounds left. Fuck. The other gun, on the stone. The same as this one. Five shots. How many shots hit the bell? Three. Three and two makes five. Bang-bang. One man went down. One staggered but stayed on his feet. The others pointed—flames. Something punched Baby Joe in the thigh as he jumped. Nothing. Superficial. He reached the gun. Bang. A man put his hands to his face where his nose was. He looked at Baby Joe. Why? He looked at the city, where his life was. He fell, but the others were still shooting. Someone tugged on his sleeve, tapping him on the shoulder. Something slapped him in the face. Lucky. One round left. One shot. Make it count and find another gun. They were everywhere, scattered across the floor, strewn like evil seeds.

  Then the breath left him. He felt himself falling backward, spinning. An eagle gripped his collarbone in its talons and hoisted him from the floor and dropped him. There were sparks next to his face. Chips of granite lacerated his cheek. What the fuck? Another gun. Where? There. Up there. Aim and fire. His one shot. His last? He looked for Asia. Where was she? Smoke, people running; he couldn’t see. A dream unfolded in his mind. A gargoyle had come to life. It stood among the men, and something silver flashed. A reaper of men. A black harvester scything them down with fluid, silent movements. The gargoyle grabbed him and dragged him behind a parapet. It loo
ked down at him and smiled.

  “G’day, mate.”

  “Wally.”

  ***

  Monsoon was cowering on the floor in the fetal position, in a state of paralytic mortification, his eyes tight shut and his hands pressed to his ears, but he couldn’t shut out the noise of the gunfire or the infernal ringing of the bell. Something clubbed him on the head. Not hard, but heavy. He screamed and grabbed his head. Fuck. Dead. The bastards got me at last. Funny, I thought it would hurt more. Wait. He opened one eye. The Fab 13 shone in front of his face, alive in the candlelight. Like an angel, come to protect him. Beckoning him. Guiding him. Showing him the way. Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you, Lord.

  Then he saw a hand—Nightingale’s. Reaching for the Fab 13. The electricity of greed ran through his veins, firing up his neurons and hot-wiring his flaccid muscles. He jumped up and stamped on Nightingale’s fingers. He smirked as he heard a satisfying snap. He grabbed the Fab 13 and ran.

  Carl Lewis wouldn’t have caught him, and yet he seemed to be moving in slow motion. He felt happy. Serene. All around there were flashes of light, and gouts of blood and screaming, and the bells booming like Hawaiian surf, and bullets dinging and whining, and the air was a toxic soup of smoke and sweat and adrenaline, but the angels cast their spell around him and the paths of the bullets bent and turned from him, and he passed impervious and untouched through the battlefield and down the cold dark hallway, clutching his magic wand as if his life depended on it. Which it did.

  ***

  “Okay, drop that guy.”

  “I hate to do it. That motherfucker can shoot.”

  “That’s right. And he’s going to shoot fucking Nightingale.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  Hard D lined up the crosshairs on Baby Joe’s face. The shot was embarrassingly easy. He studied the face: wild and fierce, but not scared. Just focused and mean. He had some kind of weird light around him. Hard D touched the trigger.