On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  When he left bathroom he found the Frenchman stretched out on a couch.

  “Sweet womb my ass,” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman laughed. “You did not enjoy?”

  “At first, but man there were some heavy dreams.”

  “Ah, yes, you did seem a little troubled for a while,” said the Frenchman, reaching down to the ground and scooping up a cocktail. “It is amazing, no? The places where our minds can take us.”

  Bannon let out a long whistle. “Guess so,” he said, watching as the Frenchman took a long drink from his glass. “So it ain’t like that for you?”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “At first perhaps, but after a while you learn to live with the terror, enjoy what is there to be enjoyed and, how do you say, ride out the rest.”

  “And how many more times am I gonna go sprinting for the john?”

  The sofa shook a little as the Frenchman laughed. “Oh, Bannon, you have quite the way with words.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Without question, it is an unfortunate side effect. But, think of it as a cleansing experience, an experience that is becoming quite fashionable.”

  “Fashionable?”

  “Yes. The extraction of toxins, the flushing of the pipes. Good for the skin, the health, the waistline. There are people paying hundreds of dollars for the treatment.”

  Bannon shook his head and dropped onto another couch. “The waistline, huh?”

  “It is really growing in popularity in the upper echelons of society.”

  “I’d rather not know.”

  “I heard Hollywood too.”

  “Well, I guess it would be.”

  “Think about it, mon ami, next time you go to the movies, your favorite actor or actress, their cheeks spread and a tube stuck up their…”

  Bannon laughed. “Alright, partner. I got the picture.”

  The Frenchman smiled and reached back for his drink. “It is true, there is no point denying it.”

  “I’m not denying it,” said Bannon, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. “But I had enough grim dreams for the day, I’d rather not have any more.”

  *

  The Frenchman cut into his steak and juice spilled out onto the plate. “So, tell me. Now the mind has cleared. What is it you were dreaming about?”

  Bannon raised his glass of wine, an expensive red, something French and something he couldn’t pronounce. “Well, I was on the boat.”

  “Which boat?”

  “Your fishing boat. Except I wasn’t there fishing…I was the bullet.”

  “What do you mean bullet?” said the Frenchman, a tender piece of steak skewered on the end of his fork.

  “The bullet in the gun, the Colt.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. And I got fired right out, right into the shark, right through the thing and on into the ocean.”

  The Frenchman set his fork down. “That is quite something.”

  “I watched the whole thing, or, I guess, my version of the thing,” said Bannon, still thinking about the dream. “There wasn’t an eel there, was there?”

  The Frenchman jumped in his chair, his knees striking the table, the commotion turning heads in their direction. “There was. A monster of a thing. Bannon, you soothsayer, you.”

  “Lucky guess,” said Bannon, smiling as the Frenchman refilled his glass.

  “Of what else did you dream?”

  Bannon paused again, his smile fading slightly. “Nothing. Least nothing I can remember.”

  The Frenchman cut away another piece of steak. “Bannon, you are a most interesting case, I will be sad when this is over.”

  “Well, it’s been better than I’d expected, but I’ll be awful grateful for that fresh start.”

  “Of course.”

  “Got a lot to put right, sooner I can get started the better,” said Bannon, lifting his glass again. “You want to hear a crazy idea?”

  “Oui.”

  “Thought if I could ever get a dive shop running, well, I’d cut Warner a share, track down Kathy and give her a job. What would you call that? A pipe dream? Fanciful thinking?”

  “It is a nice idea.”

  “Yeah it is.”

  The two men sat silently for a while and it was Bannon who broke the silence. “What’s the plan for the delivery?”

  “I must leave you for a spell.”

  “Leave?” said Bannon, shocked by the answer. “I thought we would be getting this thing done soon.”

  “We are,” said the Frenchman. “A month, to get everything in order, I will arrange the cargo and we will meet here.” he reached into his wallet and removed another business card, ink writing scrolled neatly across its surface.

  “And what do I do till then?”

  The Frenchman smiled. “There are two more blocks of marijuana in the duffel bag upstairs, enough to keep you living well. What you make is yours to keep.”

  “And this is the fastest we can get it done?”

  “One month,” said the Frenchman, raising his glass and draining the contents. “Then you shall have your freedom.”

  *

  In the suite, the two men shook hands before the Frenchman passed across a little business card. “Be at the address one month from today,” said the Frenchman.

  “Alright,” said Bannon, looking at the elegant italic handwriting on the card.

  “You have the suite for one more night, everything is paid for.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Frenchman crossed the room and stopped by the door. “Be careful, my friend.”

  “Sure,” said Bannon. “See you soon.”

  The door closed and Bannon stood alone in the room. He grabbed the duffel bag and removed the two blocks of weed. He stood staring at the drugs and he thought of Kathy and Warner, wondered if he ever could repay them. He thought about the diver and hoped she was recovering okay. Finally, he thought about his father: The two of them stood on the banks of Lake Michigan. Rain clouds covered the horizon and the lake looked gray beneath them. “It’d be nicer water,” said his father, as he reached down and picked up a long, spindly branch.

  Bannon looked at him, deep into another cycle of treatment. His sweatshirt looked baggy on his gaunt frame. His neck was as thin as Bannon had ever seen and his sallow skin seemed tight around his skull. “Of course proximity would be about the same,” said his father. “Got to be able to see the water. Not one of these places were you drive out to the ocean. You have to be able to see it from the front door.” he lowered the branch into the sand and began to trace the outline of a building. “Not a big place. Just enough to store all the gear.”

  Bannon rubbed a tear from his eye as his father completed the sketch and stepped inside the outline. He beckoned for Bannon to join him and the two of them stood side by side, looking out across the lake. “Yep,” said his father, “once I get this crap out of my lungs, this is what’ll I’ll build, just a simple place by the ocean.”

  Bannon didn’t answer.

  “You do believe that?” said his father.

  “Yeah,” said Bannon, still staring at the lake.

  His father reached down and gently grabbed his jaw, turning his son’s face toward his own. “You do believe that, right?”

  Bannon felt his throat lump and he swallowed. “I believe it.”

  His father smiled. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ll need your help with the work…”

  Sadly, Bannon picked up the blocks of weed and placed them back in the duffel bag. “One favor,” he said, trying to shake off the memory. He zipped the duffel bag and headed for the minibar. “One favor and we’re clear.”

  He spent the morning sipping beer in the sun. He ordered seafood for lunch, a giant room service spread, and he ate it ravenously. After lunch he napped, waking to a cool evening breeze, the sounds of the city drifting through the open doors of the balcony. He packed a few rough eighths of weed into plastic bags and he rolled three joints, cutting the last one with a heavy
dose of tobacco. He grabbed another beer from the minibar and lit the joint, the smell of tobacco masking the smell of the weed. On the balcony he sat on a cushioned chair, smoking and drinking as the sun sank behind the city’s skyline.

  *

  In the elevator he watched as a little screen counted down the floors. He jumped as a bell rang and the elevator halted. The doors slid open and a pair of familiar men stepped inside. “Hi,” said Spectre, the suit gone, a burgundy turtleneck wrapped tight around his torso.

  “Howdy,” said Bannon.

  “Where’s your friend?” said Hawkes, removing his glasses and cleaning the lenses as the doors slid shut behind them.

  “Gone.”

  “Really?” said Spectre and both men seemed to glance disappointedly to one another.

  “He really was a hoot,” said Hawkes. “Even if that story about the dig was bullshit.”

  Bannon blushed. “Sorry about that,” he said, feeling a little claustrophobic and wishing they’d hit the ground floor.

  “All good fun,” said Spectre.

  Bannon relaxed a little, watching as his reflection stretched across the gold-plated walls of the elevator. “Some kind of fun.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

  The elevator stopped again and they stepped out into the hotel lobby. Bannon strode on to the exit. “Where you going tonight?” said Hawkes.

  “Not sure, partner.”

  “Maybe catch you for breakfast?”

  “Sure,” said Bannon, waving good-bye as he hurried to the exit. “Hope so.”

  *

  He sold his first eighth to a manic-looking man stooped above the bar. A blood vessel had burst across the white of his eye and Bannon could hear him grinding his teeth together. “Shit,” he said, “it freaked me out. I was drunk off my ass, couldn’t tell what was real.”

  “I got something to take the edge off.”

  “Yeah?” said the man.

  “Two thousand,” said Bannon, and before he could say any more the man reached into a pocket, coming up with a crumpled wad of cash. He counted out two thousand baht and handed it across. Bannon laughed. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “So long as it takes the edge off.”

  Bannon slipped the eighth into the man’s pocket and the man reached to down to feel it, smiling as he realized what it was. He thanked Bannon and started to move for the door, leaning heavily against the bar as he went.

  “Hey,” said Bannon.

  The man pulled out another handful of money. “Did I not pay?”

  Bannon laughed again. “You never told me what freaked you out.”

  “Did I not?”

  “No. You just started with that.”

  “Check it out. Nightwalkers, at the end of the street.”

  “Alright,” said Bannon, watching as the man gripped the bar and continued across the room.

  Behind him the bartender appeared with a beer. “Crazy fuck,” he said, “forgot he ordered it. You want it?”

  “Sure, I’ll take it. You smoke pot by any chance?”

  “You selling?”

  Bannon reached into a pocket and passed across a joint. “Trade you for a second beer.”

  The bartender nodded. “Let me know when you need it.”

  “Will do.”

  The bartender reached for a wet towel and began wiping the countertop. “Where to next?” he said.

  “Gonna go have a look at something. Place called Nightwalkers.”

  The bartender laughed.

  “Something I should know?” said Bannon.

  “It’s a madhouse in there tonight. Passed it on the way to work, it was hopping even then.”

  Bannon finished his beer and the bartender slid him a second. “Well, it got your buddy here all riled up.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Like I said, madhouse.”

  “The whole city’s a madhouse.”

  The bartender laughed, nodding his head in agreement. “Yeah, it’s a real marketplace for the crazy. But, still, check out Nightwalkers.”

  Bannon quickly drained the second bottle and he stood leave. “Alright,” he said. “Been a pleasure.”

  “Good doing business with you,” said the bartender. “Stop by whenever.”

  Bannon left, squeezing through the crowds and spotting a big neon sign. Nightwalkers, it read, the I and the L crackling noisily as they flashed on and off. Bannon descended the stairs, the deep pulse of music thumping against the walls as a set of bouncers pushed past him, carrying a girl, her skin showing through a huge tear in the front of her dress. A shoe slipped from her foot and Bannon reached for it, lifting it back to the bouncers, who carried on without slowing.

  He left the shoe at the base of the stairs and moved into the crowd. Prisms of different colored light swept across their heads as a laser show flashed across the rear wall. On a raised stage a group of bodies danced to the deafening beat of music, their skin covered in lurid painted scales. Through the crowd Bannon saw another girl, her hair dyed cotton candy pink, her naked body colored with a vivid assortment of spots and stripes. He pushed on, searching for the bar. Painted bodies brushed against him, leaving long streaks of color across his clothes. He watched as a huge set of feathered arms wrapped themselves around a girl and a pair of painted faces locked together, the paint smudging around their mouths as the two of them tongued away.

  He pulled a man aside, a huge blue phoenix drawn across his bare chest, his cheeks marked with war paint. “What’s going on?” said Bannon.

  “Disco monsters,” said the man. “You like it?”

  Bannon began to answer when a pair of hands grabbed him and a tongue licked his cheek. He spun to his left, craning his neck and looking up at an enormous man, his eyes blackened with paint, a bushy mane wrapped around his neck, and a pair of horns attached to his head. Bannon shoved him and the man stumbled back. “Get off me,” said Bannon, wrestling free as more hands pulled him away.

  “It’s all good,” said the phoenix-covered man. “Enjoy the party.”

  “Alright, alright,” said Bannon, his temper turning back to bewilderment as he spotted a pair of painted gorgons grinding together, their gray-colored hands jammed into the front of each other’s tights.

  He stayed for a while and drank, standing at the bar and watching as the scene grew weirder still. A poorly painted monkey pissed drunkenly against the wall, clumps of hair hanging from his body as the glue washed away in his sweat. A group of nymphs staggered along the bar, golden suns drawn around their nipples, looks of disdain tattooed on their faces as they eyed his regular appearance.

  He finished another beer and headed for the door as another man clambered onto the stage, chasing away the human lizards with an enormous wooden trident. Giant gills stretched along his side and a massive golden crown sat crooked on his head. His dick dangled from a hole in the front of his seaweed-colored shorts, and he stood wheeling his hips and swinging it about as the crowd hurled ice and booze toward him.

  At the top of the stairs Bannon passed the bouncers, paint stuck to their clothes, and he grimaced in their direction. They seemed to understand.

  *

  A little later he spotted the man from the earlier bar, lumbering drunkenly along, a group of teenagers following behind him. He spotted Bannon and pointed in his direction. “That’s the guy. He’ll sort it.”

  “Shit,” said Bannon, starting to turn as people looked in his direction.

  One of the teenagers dashed to his side and grabbed at his arm. “Is it true man?” he said, spitting as he spoke.

  Bannon stared at him. He looked young. Dark pupils seemed to cover most of his eyes and his hair stuck to the sweat on his face. “Is what true?”

  The boy squeezed his arm a little tighter. “Can you score the weed?”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Bannon as another head turned in their direction.

  “I heard it’s real good shit
, not like the skunk the rest of these guys are selling.”

  Bannon pulled him over to the side of the road and scanned the street. “How much do you want?”

  The teen stood thinking. “How much will it cost?”

  “Three thousand for an eighth,” said Bannon, angrily jacking up the price.

  “Alright, gimme two of them.”

  “Six thousand.”

  The boy thrust a messy handful of bills toward Bannon. Stuck in the middle of them was a crumpled little wrapper, no lettering, just blank foil. Bannon looked from the wrapper to the boy. Sweat was starting to stream down his face and he scratched aggressively at his cheeks. “Where did you get this?” said Bannon.

  “Get what?”

  Bannon held up the foil wrapper. “This.”

  “I dunno,” he said, his patience seeming to snap. “Just give me the weed.”

  “Alright,” said Bannon, tossing the foil aside, “just cool it, partner.”

  The boy shoved him hard in the chest. “I said gimme the weed, man.”

  “Cool it,” said Bannon, his temper rising as he saw another group of people look their way. The boy cocked his fist. “Don’t,” said Bannon, stepping back as the boy threw a big drunken roundhouse in his direction. The punch missed Bannon’s face by a good half yard and the boy groaned as his fist smacked against the side of the building. He tumbled to the ground and Bannon felt his temper snap. “You little fucker,” he said, leveling a kick at his stomach, guilt coming on immediately as the boy folded around the blow.

  Across the street he saw the other teenagers start in his direction. He threw the money at them and started sprinting through the crowd. At the far side of the road he spotted a vacant taxi and he ducked inside. He peered out the window but didn’t see the boys. He pressed the lock and turned back to the driver.

  The driver smiled as he looked at Bannon, his face bright red from the exertion, his clothes still covered in paint. “Bangkok,” said the driver, and Bannon laughed as the man shrugged his shoulders and moved the taxi back into the traffic.

  8

  Bannon waited for the crowd to part before he looked at the girl, her lips wet from the drink in front of her and sparkling in the fluorescent light of the bar. He watched as she raised a hand to the bartender, her slim wrists covered with bracelets. The bartender hurried over with a drink and her tanned cheeks lifted as she smiled toward him. She said something Bannon couldn’t hear and the bartender bowed before he wandered back to another table. She ran a finger around the cool edge of the glass and then she took a drink, her eyes closing for a moment as the first sip passed her lips.