by J. M. Parker
“You may yet have another chance,” said the Frenchman, pointing to the pile of bills on the table, “you have made good money this month.”
Bannon looked at the money. “Well, I don’t think this is how he thought I’d go about it.”
“You think he would begrudge you a second chance.”
“I just can’t imagine he’d be too proud about how it played out.”
“There is still time to honor his memory,” said the Frenchman. “Still time to put this behind you.”
Bannon took the bottle of bourbon and poured himself a glass. He took another drag on the joint and chased it with a gulp of whiskey. “Guess so.”
“You know so,” said the Frenchman, grinning as he did. “Besides, you cannot tell me it has been a bad month.”
Bannon felt the warm numbing feeling of the weed and the whiskey run through his body. He looked once more at the money on the table and he smiled, his worry lifting as recalled the past few weeks. On a bygone Tuesday night four boys had bought twenty joints between them, sold them on for half the price. He caught them as they left. “Had to ask,” he said.
“Was never about the money, chief. Just wanted to impress some girls.”
“That works?” said Bannon.
“Chicks dig a bad boy. Love the dude who can deliver.”
“Christ, I’ll have to remember that.”
He worked more night shifts after that, waiting for the rumors to spread around the bar. He got good at scouting girls, watching for the curious glances or the subtle nods in his direction.
He taped little dime bags to the backs of coasters. “A thousand for the weed, keep the coaster too…”
On a Friday night a group of officers had walked in, eyeing Bannon across the bar as he shoved the weed to the back of the shelves. “How much for the beers?” said one.
“A hundred fifty.”
They leaned a little closer. “No. How much for the beers?”
“Oh, right,” said Bannon, “two thousand for an eighth.” the policemen scowled and he quickly changed his offer. “But for you boys, I could probably do fifteen hundred.” they slid their cash across the bar and he sent them back their beers, the weed neatly wrapped inside the bill. They rose and left, never touching their drinks. He split the cash, putting half into the till and half into his pocket. Bob Dylan rang out from the jukebox and Bannon stood and listened. “Damn,” he said, “is this real life?”
The sharp cough of the Frenchman brought Bannon back into the living room. “The month?” said the Frenchman.
“It’s been a good month.”
“I knew you had a flair for it.”
Bannon lifted his glass and took another drink, his confidence building. “Now we just need to settle on that favor.”
The Frenchman nodded. “I have had some thoughts, but, before I can say much more, there are some people you have to meet, some things that must be cleared.”
“Alright,” said Bannon, a little frustrated at the vagueness of the answer. “And where are these folks we have to see?”
The Frenchman reached for the money and slapped it against his palm, his face breaking into an enchanting smile as he looked back at Bannon. “The capital, mon ami, the dark arcadia.”
*
They stood beside a sporty coupe, the midmorning light beaming off the hood of the car. “Sorry to see you go,” said Sullivan.
“It’s been alright,” said Bannon.
The Frenchman reached into his pocket and handed Sullivan a wax-sealed envelope. “Adequate reimbursement, I hope.”
Sullivan gawked as he broke the seal and stared down at the sheaf of bills. “You didn’t…”
The Frenchman waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”
They loaded the luggage and ducked into the car. “See you around,” said Bannon.
Sullivan’s eyes never left the envelope. “Yeah, see you around.”
The car sped away and Bannon glanced into the rearview mirror, watching as Sullivan disappeared into the distance, his head still turned toward the envelope. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“We don’t have to do anything,” said the Frenchman, one hand on the steering wheel, his cream leather driving glove matching the soft interior of the car.
“You know what I mean.”
The Frenchman laughed, guiding the car into a sharp corner and accelerating through its exit. “You never know when you may need a favor.”
“Some days I think the whole damn country’s in your pocket.”
The Frenchman shifted the gear and the engine hummed. “One day,” he said, a big smile exposing two rows of pristine white teeth. “One day.”
They headed north, speeding past the traffic. The Frenchman pushed at the radio and music rang from the speakers, “I caught you knocking, at my cellar door, I love you, baby, can I have some more.” the music cut and the Frenchman cursed as the voice of a radio broadcaster sounded out.
“Can you tell us anything else?” said the broadcaster. A babble of panicked Thai came next, wind distorting the feed, and Bannon heard the crash of waves.
“Did she say shipwreck?” said Bannon.
“Oui, a big one,” said the Frenchman, the voices of the reporter and the broadcaster rising and falling amidst the crackle of the static.
“Where?”
“Ranong”
Cries rang out from the speaker. “Terrible scenes here,” said the reporter.
“Death count?” said Bannon.
The Frenchman upped the volume and turned an ear to the radio. “They’ve not said. Few hundred in the water.”
Bannon gulped as he remembered the boats searching the ocean and the chopper sweeping low over the waves. “Shit.”
The Frenchman opened an armrest, revealing a small ice bucket filled with beers. “Here,” he said, easing his hand away from the gearshift and handing Bannon a beer, “try and enjoy the ride.”
“Got an opener?”
“Glove compartment,” said the Frenchman, killing the feed.
Bannon opened the glove box, stopping in surprise as he spied a magnificent pistol, a Colt Walker, fifteen inches of plated and polished silver finished with a Kachin jade grip. “Fancy.”
“It was a gift,” said the Frenchman, his eyes never leaving the road.
“From who?”
“The boss, The Tiger.”
“The Tiger?”
“Oui.”
Bannon looked at the pistol. “Cowboy fan?”
The Frenchman laughed. “Yes. Yes he is,” and he dropped a gear as the car hurtled into another corner. “And it came from the most peculiar of circumstances.”
“It’s all peculiar with you.”
The Frenchman laughed again. “We were fishing. Not a big craft, nothing extraordinary.”
Bannon looked around the car, its leather interior finished with teak. “That right?”
“I told him that hunting, in its purest of forms, is the most primitive of pastimes, and, as such, we must find the most primitive of crafts. I said anything more than hunting with spears and bows or the most basic of rods is a cheat upon the beast. A cheat upon the very practices that are tied intrinsically to our earliest survival.”
“You say some different shit.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And he bought that?”
“Of course,” continued the Frenchman, “is it not the noblest of sentiments? The leveling of the field. Is the victory not amplified by the toil?”
“And how’d the fishing go?” said Bannon, smiling wryly before he sipped his beer.
“Terrible,” said the Frenchman. “We sat there, nothing biting, inanimate figures against the horizon, like the subject of a still life. You know? Like those horrible paintings, void of action, the work of all those artistes obsessed with life at its most sedentary.”
“And how’d that sit with The Tiger?”
“Not well, mon ami. He was not happy. When we returned t
o shore he bought all the tackle, all the meat he could find. He bought steel-shafted rods, he bought harpoons, harpoons would you believe?” the Frenchman flung an arm toward the roof and his head shook with laughter. “Oh, and to top it all off, the maniac, he put poison in the bait.”
“Well you done it to him,” said Bannon, shaking his head in disbelief. “Say you just about drove him to madness.”
“But, alas, it was late and we could not find a bigger boat. So we loaded back into our craft, the thing brimming with tackle befitting a whaling ship, and we sailed her back to sea, the boss throwing the meat and the bait into the water. The whole sea a frenzy around us, everywhere thrashing and death, thrashing and death, things hooked and poisoned.”
“Now you’re hunting,” said Bannon, a little frown suddenly breaking his smile.
“It was not a hunt, it was a holocaust. Blood in the water, the boss hauling fish until the boards creaked and still he carried on, still heaving meat into the sea. His arms slick with blood, the fish still coming up, and then, as if the whole thing was not crazy enough, la cerise sur le gateau.”
“What?”
“A shark came up, its eyes rolled back, the gills quivering. It caught the meat midflight and it landed in the boat.”
“You got to be shittin’ me.”
“A blue shark,” said the Frenchman, his face straight. “Prionace glauca, panicked and choking, biting at everything.”
“Well what the fuck did you do then?”
“I went for the harpoon, but I was not fast enough. He had already pulled the gun,” and he pointed back to the glove box, “the sound of the thing, like the claps of thunder. He blew holes in the shark. He blew holes in the boat, everywhere guts and blood, intestines snaking in the water, the splinters of the boards, and the boat going under.”
“You sank the thing?”
“Oui. We sank the thing.”
Bannon gawked, “If this is true…”
“You should have seen it, we sank right into it, a bloodbath of our own creation. The shark still twisting and snapping as it disappeared back into the sea.” he accelerated again as the road straightened. “And the fish, they came from everywhere, ripping the flesh from the thing.”
“Christ. You got a flair for close escapes.”
“Long may it continue.”
Bannon let out a long whistle. “Doesn’t wholly explain how you have the piece.”
The Frenchman clapped a hand against his brow. “Of course, I forget myself. The boss, he could swim, but he was not a strong swimmer, for most of the swim I dragged him. Arduous work, you can imagine, and he was grateful for my help.”
“So he gave you the gun?”
“He had the thing completely restored, replated and everything.”
“No cheap thing.”
The Frenchman reached down and twisted a top from a beer bottle. “A token of his gratitude. A memento.”
“Hell of a story to hear.”
“Oui,” said the Frenchman, raising the bottle to his lips and pressing harder on the accelerator.
Bannon fell silent. He looked at the Frenchman, his eyes locked on the road, the beer held loosely against the wheel. He thumbed the radio and scrolled through the stations. Music flooded the car and he reclined in his seat, thinking about the story and grimacing as he imagined the scene.
*
Bannon lay facedown on the table, staring at neatly painted rows of toes as hands worked over his shoulders. “You very tight,” said a voice.
“Long drive.”
Oil splashed across his body and he let out a long sigh as powerful little thumbs stabbed at the knots in his back. Across the hall he heard the patter of feet and the sound of a popped cork echoed out from behind an open door. The door shut and the sound muffled. The masseuse rolled him over, running her hands over his chest and up to his head. “Your friend, he very generous man.”
“Yeah,” said Bannon.
“Rich?”
“Yeah.”
The masseuse slipped her hands beneath his neck and Bannon felt his joints click softly into place. “What he do?”
A door swung open again and Bannon heard the raucous laugh of the Frenchman followed by a rush of little giggles. “What doesn’t he do?” he said, groaning as the masseuse stretched out his arm and laid it back by his side.
“He sell drugs?”
Bannon’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“It’s okay,” said the masseuse, running her hands along his arm and stretching back his fingers. “I no spy. All the rich ones sell drugs.”
“Well you’d have to ask him,” said Bannon, moving into a seated position as the masseuse finished her work.
The lady bowed gracefully and walked to the foot of the bed. “Anything else? Your friend, he pay for everything.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Bannon, looking at the girl, early twenties he thought, her eyes flitting toward his towel. “You been here long?”
“Not long,” said the masseuse, her head dipping a little as she clasped her hands together.
Bannon stood. “It’s alright. Massage will do fine for now.”
*
He gasped as the icy water of the shower splashed against his face. The oil washed from his body and his skin tingled pleasantly. A fresh set of clothes hung from the back of the door and he slipped them on and stepped outside.
In the corridor he saw his masseuse. Muffled sounds crept from behind a parlor door and Bannon turned to the girl. “Tell him I’ll be across the street.” the masseuse swung open the door and a tangle of naked bodies appeared. The Frenchman in the center, stripped completely, his arms stretched out to the side as a head bobbed about his waist. The door slammed shut and Bannon stood waiting, the sounds of the orgy growing louder. He glanced at a clock, watching as the second hand turned around its face, still no sign of the masseuse. “Fuck it. He’ll get the message.”
In the street Bannon wandered beneath a spiderweb of electrical wires. He felt a hand brush against his pocket and he slapped it away. Lines snaked from half-open doors and salesmen waved his way. He felt hot breath brush against his ear, “What you want, man? Drugs? Women?”
Bannon pushed on, crossing by an alleyway where a girl lay prone on a cardboard mat, a stained white halter top hanging loose around her skeletal form, her left breast scarred and flattened with the print of an iron. She spread her legs and flashed her cunt, pointing a bony hand in his direction. “Hey honey, I do anything for you.”
“Close your legs,” he said, taking out a couple of bills and moving over to the girl. He jumped as she seized his wrist, heaving him toward her and grappling furiously at the buckle of his belt. “Just the money,” he said, pushing her back and forcing the bills toward her. She lunged at him again and he stepped back and pulled away the money. The girl let out a horrible wail and he reddened as he heard laughter at the end of the alley. He crouched down, placing the money on top of the cardboard. The girl wrapped herself around his leg and he stood hurriedly, the girl still clinging to him, dragging herself up his thigh and mouthing at the crotch of his pants. He pressed hard against her shoulders and sent her slumping back into the cardboard, the damp of it squelching beneath her. He backed away as the girl curled up and began rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her sallow cheeks. He gestured at the money but the girl wailed again. He stumbled back to the street, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered by the alleyway and rushing on to the nearest bar.
He leaned against the bar and ordered a beer as a giant of a man appeared beside him, his huge thighs squeezing out of a pair of cotton shorts. A T-shirt with the words “Warriors Footy” written on its surface stretched across his broad chest. Across the bar a group of similarly dressed men climbed onto the tables and broke into song,. “You boys are really tying one on,” said Bannon.
“It’s a tour, mate. Come over from Shanghai,” said the man, winking at Bannon, his open eye catching the neon light of the bar. He d
ug an elbow into Bannon’s ribs and sent him bumping along the bar. “Good to be clear of the missus.”
“Well, looks like a hell of a time,” said Bannon, straightening himself up and rubbing a hand across his ribs. “Not your regular kind of drunks.”
The man laughed, grabbing a key and punching a hole in the side of his can. “No such thing as a regular drunk. Just the drunk and his story.” he smiled again before he raised the hole to his mouth, popped the cap, and fired the beer into his gullet. “Alright,” said Bannon. “What is your story?”
“It’s funny,” said the man, smacking the beer from his lips, “you spend your whole life wondering where you fit, but, up there, pissed out of your skull, singing away, it feels like it’s your show, rest of the crap doesn’t matter.”
Bannon smiled. “Philosopher, huh?”
The man lifted his can and crushed it against his forehead. “I wouldn’t say that, mate. But everybody needs something; these trips do it for me.”
The man ordered six more cans and went back to join his friends. Across the street the massage parlor doors swung open and the Frenchman stepped out into the night, stretching backward and turning his face to the light polluted sky.
Bannon ordered two more beers, passing one to the Frenchman as he stepped into the bar. The Frenchman grabbed the bottle and drank. He tapped the bottle on the counter and demanded another beer. “I feel liberated,” he said. “So did you enjoy your massage?”
Bannon looked through the open front of the bar and out into the street. A young boy darted past a group of tourists and picked a wallet from a pocket, concealing it quickly in the folds of his oversized shirt and slinking back into the crowd. Through the people he saw the prostitute wandering aimlessly along the road, his money clutched in her bony hands. “There’s something wrong with this city.”
“Your first time,” said the Frenchman.
“No, I’ve been here before.”
“And?”
“And it just ain’t like other places. I mean, I’ve been through some crazy towns, but here, it’s different; it’s like the black sheep of the family, the place the other places won’t talk about.”
The Frenchman’s laugh boomed out across the bar and Bannon watched as faces turned in his direction. “I could not have put it better myself.”