Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  “My God,” he said aloud, “they’re not crow’s feet, they’re fucking emu feet!”

  He considered his eyes, the baby blue irises floating in whites that had turned gray and bloodshot by the excesses of the night before and the night before that, and the heavy darkening bags beneath them that nothing from his comprehensive armory of lotions, potions, powders, preparations, creams, and liniments could keep at bay. His exfoliants and depilatories, mud masks and massages availed him naught. Time had marched on and left its muddy boot prints all over his face.

  Crispin narrowed his eyes and scowled at his reflection, now beginning to fade beneath a fine patina of steam, and pursed his Cupid’s-bow lips.

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall, what the fuck happened, you shiny two-faced bastard?”

  Snatching his lilac silk bathrobe from behind the door, he thrust his wobbling arms violently into the sleeves and flounced from the bathroom.

  He strode into his boudoir, which, with its pastel pinks and purples, strategically placed mirrors, suitably subdued lighting, and the obligatory baroque chaise longue, would have given a postbellum New Orleans cathouse a run for its money. What was required was solace in the form of a stiff gin and a decent bong full of forgetfulness, and he headed purposefully for his polished eighteenth-century French Bavarian drinks cabinet. As he waded through the apple white carpet, the pile so deep it almost required snow shoes, his bare foot encountered something suspiciously warm and squidgy, and he looked down in horror to see his pedicured toes planted squarely in the middle of an elongated yellow dog turd. The ensuing squeal was very impressive.

  “Oberon!” he screeched, his face turning an unbecoming shade of crimson with the effort. Oberon duly appeared, a panting, fluffy white blow-dried fur ball, slightly discolored at one end.

  “Oberon. Come,” said Crispin, pointing at his encrusted foot. The dog stood, head lowered and ears back, staring at Crispin with a deranged look in his unfocused eyes. The smell of the squashed turd was winning its battle for supremacy against the immense bowl of potpourri on the Japanese lacquered coffee table in the center of the room, and Crispin pulled a face and held his nose. He could feel himself gagging.

  “Oberon. Heel,” he said, as firmly as he was able through his tightly pinched nostrils.

  The dog skipped forward with a peculiar twitching gait, looking like a lamb on smack.

  “Bad dog! Bad dog! Just look at this fucking carpet. Come here.”

  The dog scampered behind the sofa and peered over one arm, panting, his tongue lolling and his eyes rolling about in a most unnerving manner. Further enraged by this act of disobedience, Crispin strode toward the animal, his begrimed foot leaving a trail of brown blotches on the otherwise pristine carpet. Oberon ducked under the settee, and Crispin fell to his knees and tried to grab him. The dog scooched back and, as he did so, Crispin noticed something gleaming, and reached for it. His fingers closed around an empty plastic bag. He struggled to his feet, his face blanching as he stared in disbelief at the torn package, empty save for a minuscule residue of fine white dust collected in the bottom.

  “YOU FURRY LITTLE CUNT!” he shrieked.

  Crispin’s rage revolution counter went off the clock. He grabbed the arm of the chaise longue and upended it, flinging it across the room and exposing the trembling Oberon, who cowered as Crispin raised his meaty fist.

  “That was two grand’s worth of Colombian, you little fucker!”

  Crispin’s fist swept toward the dog’s snout, not in a slap but in an actual punch. Oberon easily evaded the cumbersome blow, zipped between Crispin’s legs, and dashed into a corner where he turned and stood at bay. Crispin whirled in pursuit, and, as he did so, something in the dog’s demeanor changed, something Crispin was far too furious to notice. As he advanced, Oberon stiffened and snarled, his fur on end, looking like an enraged carpet slipper. Crispin’s eyes went wide in amazement and then narrowed into a look of unadulterated venom.

  “What the…? How dare you growl at me, you ungrateful little swine?!”

  Like a football player going for the extra point, Crispin swung his foot at the growling dog and, had he connected, Oberon would have been a forty-five yarder at least. But footballs don’t generally bite. The dog ducked under the approaching foot, sprang forward, and sank his teeth to the hilt in Crispin’s beefy calf.

  The Japanese lacquered table had not been constructed with weight support as a major concern, and as Crispin landed squarely upon it all four legs surrendered to gravity simultaneously with the sickening crack of breaking bone. Crispin was too shocked to scream, and he lay stunned, floundering in a state of absolute mortification until the continued snarling and an acute pain in his leg turned his confusion to panic.

  “Eeeeeeeee!” he squealed.

  His adrenaline-fueled stomach muscles overcame their flaccidity and hauled him upright. Over the wobbling folds of his exposed belly he saw Oberon worrying his calf, like a diminutive wolf worrying a small pig. The dog’s pupils had contracted to pinpricks, and the alarmingly exposed whites of his eyes gave him a demonic expression.

  Normally the sight of blood would have been an excuse for a good fainting fit, but something about the sight of his own blood pouring from his leg, staining both animal and carpet alike, put Crispin in touch with his Neanderthal side. A large, expensively bound volume of explicit homoerotic photographs lay on the carpet next to Crispin’s splayed fingers, having been dislodged from the splintered table by his fall. He grabbed it and, raising it above his head in both hands like Moses with the tablets, brought it down onto the back of Oberon’s head with all his might. There was a loud, leaden thud, and Oberon released his grip. He turned his head and looked into his master’s face with blank incomprehension, and then his eyes rolled back in their sockets. With a small whimper he collapsed onto his back, his legs sticking rigidly in the air.

  Sobbing, panting, and perspiring profusely, Crispin rolled onto his stomach and battled to his feet. He limped over to where an old speakeasy-style phone hung against the wall, leaving alternate red and brown prints on the ruined carpet. He managed to compel his trembling hands to grip the receiver and dial the number. A curiously soft, deep voice answered.

  “Hello. Nigel speaking.”

  Crispin began to sob hysterically into the mouthpiece.

  Chapter 2

  Never mind hitting his opponent. Thumper Thyroid was lucky if he could hit the deck. He had chewed more leather than an upholsterer’s puppy, and in a boxing career not noteworthy for its integrity only George Patton had seen more tank jobs. Outside of the ring, of course, it was different. His ability to inflict damage in the ring was limited, more or less, by the rules of the Marquess of Queensbury, but outside of it his tactics were closer to those of the Marquis de Sade. Not that he wasn’t in favor of the odd gouge, elbow, accidentally deliberate head butt, or hook to the groin when the ref was blindsided, but it just wasn’t the same. An artist needs to be unrestricted to do his best work.

  In his other profession, as debt collector, mob enforcer, and occasional hit man, Thumper Thyroid was a skilled and dedicated practitioner of the down-and-dirty and knew more tricks than Siegfried and Roy, not to mention his ability to shoot the balls off a running muskrat at three hundred yards in a blizzard with either hand.

  He was currently hunched in a neutral corner, patiently enduring a maelstrom of uppercuts and hooks, waiting for the moment when he could reasonably fall over without jeopardizing the interests of his sponsor, Don Ignacio Imbroglio, thereby earning his beer money and enabling him to spend the rest of the night in the relative comfort of his North Vegas fleapit, and not as part of the foundation for the extensive repair work taking place on the interstate just north of Primm.

  While waiting, he was speculating on the provenance of the spectacular pair of bosoms on display just below him, priding himself on his ability to be able to distinguish saline from silicone as far back as the fifth row, if the lights were right. At the same time,
he was idly calculating that with the feebleness of the blows being rained upon him, he might actually be able to beat this stiff legitimately. But then, why the fuck would he want to go and do something like that?

  Thumper turned his attention back to the fight. He saw his opponent setting himself for a long straight right that Mr. Magoo could have seen coming. Jesus Christ, he thought, this clown doesn’t telegraph punches, he fucking e-mails them.

  Now was the moment. Being a legitimate bent fighter and a man who had listened to more counts than a Transylvanian heiress, Thumper took pride in his work and was always looking for new and spectacular ways to go down. He was considering, now, the Foreman-Frazier fight, where Big George tagged Smokin’ Joe with a nuclear-powered left that actually lifted him off the canvas. Thumper had always wanted to try that. Judging the distance to perfection, he stepped forward with his jaw jutting out at just the right angle for the incoming punch to connect. The glove thudded into his chin with all the force of butterfly’s fart.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Thumper mumbled through his gum shield, “my fucking fifth-grade teacher used to hit me harder than that.”

  He would have to be really on the ball to make this look good. He snapped his head back, making the sweat fly, and leapt backwards onto the ropes, bending the top rope down with his weight and then allowing it to propel him forward. When going down face first, the trick is to not put your hands out like you’re trying to protect yourself, so Thumper fell to his knees and made an arch of his spine so that he could roll down without smacking his face too hard on the canvas. He lay still and waited patiently for the ref to count him out.

  He was back in the stark, stale, sweat- and liniment-smelling dressing room, having the tapes cut off, when Frankie Merang walked in.

  “Yo, Thump, nice dive, man. Fuckin’ Greg Louganis, or what? That was Foreman-Frazier, right?”

  “You got a good eye, an’ a sound knowledge of the profession. So what’s up?”

  “Don wants to see you right away.”

  “Okay. No sweat. I’ll be out soon as I clean up.”

  “I’ll wait in the bar.”

  Thumper nodded as Frankie turned to leave, flexing his fingers while the trainer finished cutting. He was in his street clothes and heading toward the door when it opened, and his erstwhile opponent walked in.

  “Oh, hello, sweetheart,” Thumper said, pleasantly, “come for anotha kiss?”

  “Fuck youse!”

  “I have to give you credit, pal. That right wudda gave Shirley Temple a nasty jolt.”

  “Hey! What? You ain’t had enough already? You wantin’ some more?”

  Thumper adopted a cowering pose. “Oh, please, kind sir, don’t frighten me. I hate to fucking shit myself when I’ve just had a shower.”

  The other fighter swung a looping left at Thumper’s head. Thumper ducked under it, stepped in, and slammed his shoulder up under the man’s chin, snapping his head back and smacking it into the wall. The lights went out in Georgia, and the pug slid down the wall and sat in a heap in the doorway.

  “It’s guys like you give boxing a bad name,” Thumper said, stepping over him and out into the dingy yellow-lit corridor.

  They sat together on the bed in the doctor’s office, with Nigel holding Crispin’s hand and speaking soothing words to him.

  “Ooh, Crispin. I think you are ever so brave. It must hurt terribly. I would be in absolute hysterics if it was me. And what about poor Oberon? Do you think he will be all right? Shall we call the vet?”

  “Fuck him,” said Crispin. “A fucking taxidermist is what he needs.”

  Crispin watched the part in the handsome young doctor’s hair as he knelt in front of him, examining the wound through a magnifying glass. Crispin looked at Nigel, a tall, slender young man in a tight wetlook T-shirt and a pair of jeans that appeared to have been applied with a trowel. His long blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and he sported a wispy mustache.

  Nigel gave Crispin a conspiratorial nudge. “Just what you’ve always wanted, Crispin. A young doctor on his knees in front of you.”

  The doctor coughed, without looking up, and Crispin shot Nigel a warning glance. “It’s a rather nasty bite, I’m afraid, Mr. Capricorn. Your pet has had all his shots, I presume?”

  “The only shot that little fucker needs is one through the back of the head,” said Crispin bitterly.

  The doctor coughed again. “Er. Yes. Quite. Well, I have to ask, you know. Now, I’m going to have to clean this wound thoroughly before I put in the sutures. It might sting a little.”

  Crispin made a little muffled whimper, and Nigel leaned closer and put his arm around him. Encircling his right bicep was a tattoo of roses impaled upon barbed wire, although his skinny arm was so entirely devoid of muscle that he should have been entitled to a discount, on the grounds that the tattoo artist had not had to use much ink. Nigel gazed back at Crispin with a look of appropriate concern.

  “I’ll have to ask you to move,” said the doctor to Nigel, as he produced an implement that looked like a brush for cleaning rifle barrels and applied a generous smear of antiseptic to it.

  Nigel stood up, and Crispin regarded the implement with horror. “You are not going to stick that thing into me, are you?”

  “You don’t usually object,” said Nigel, with a giggle that was quickly suppressed by Crispin’s Medusa stare.

  “I can give you a local if you’d like,” said the doctor.

  “Trust me. I’d like,” Crispin replied.

  While the doctor busied himself preparing the hypodermic, Crispin addressed Nigel. “Nigel. I don’t think these are the proper circumstances for levity, do you? I’m in enough discomfort without having to listen to your feeble attempts at wit.”

  Nigel’s face fell. “Well, I was only trying to cheer you up, Crispin,” he said, in an offended tone.

  Crispin softened. “I know you were. I’m sorry. This has been such a horrible, terrible experience, and my nerves are in tatters.”

  “I know it has, you poor pudding,” Nigel said, taking hold of Crispin’s fat hand.

  The doctor advanced, bearing the syringe before him like a weapon. “Just a little prick.”

  “Ooh, Crispin hates little pricks,” said Nigel.

  Crispin exploded. “WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU INFANTILE LITTLE PONCE?!”

  Nigel jumped, then released Crispin’s hand and stood up with a bleak expression on his face. There was a pregnant and embittered silence as the doctor administered the injection and waited for the anesthetic to take effect. After a pause of some minutes, the doctor approached again and knelt in front of Crispin’s leg with the rifle barrel implement at the ready. Nigel stepped forward, bending theatrically at the waist, making sure Crispin knew that he was getting a really good look.

  Crispin closed his eyes as the doctor placed the tip of the brush against the lips of the wound and pushed the torn, resisting flesh inward. The edges of the bite had turned blue and, as the doctor drove the implement further in, blood seeped around the brush and began to trickle down the leg. Crispin bit his lip and began to whimper, even though he couldn’t actually feel anything. Nigel’s eyes widened as he stared at the brush boring relentlessly into the lacerated flesh. The blood drained from his face, cold sweat broke out on his brow, and he stood suddenly upright, raising the back of his hand to his forehead. Then with an almost inaudible sigh, his eyelids fluttered, and he swan-dived forward. The doctor looked up from his work in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Nigel’s forehead just before it crunched into the bridge of his nose, breaking it and knocking him spark out.

  Hearing the noise, Crispin opened his eyes and looked in bewildered amazement at the two prostrate men. The doctor lay on his back with blood pouring from his nose, and Nigel was flopped on top him. He looked at the handle of the cleaning brush protruding from his sanguine leg and then back at the two men, lying as if asleep in each other’s embrace. His eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Oh, shit
,” he managed to whine through quivering lips.

  It was an overcast night, and the reflected lights of the Strip on the bottoms of the clouds made it appear as if dawn was imminent, although it was barely three a.m. Monsoon sat in the ancient Buick in front of the garage, waiting for the door to clank open. As always, it seemed to take longer at night. He drove in and waited for the door to close behind him before he killed the engine and the lights. Inside, he went straight to the freezer, pulled out a bottle of bargain basement bourbon, and took a stiff drink straight from the bottle.

  He was fucked! A fucking grand! With the vig, that was twelve hundred by tomorrow night and two grand by the weekend. If he paid the vig from the three hundred he had aced from the Danish pastry, he wouldn’t have stake money to try to win the twelve hundred back. But if he lost the three, and couldn’t pay the vig…

  He was fucked, all right. From asshole to breakfast. He found a glass, wiped it around with his shirttail, poured a stiff one, and sat down in the dark to think it through. Where could he get a stake? Nobody would lend it to him, which is why he had gone to the Don’s man in the first place. How fucking smart did that look now? What did he have to pawn or sell? A fucking ten-dollar dink watch and a shitbox car with a dodgy transmission that wasn’t worth the price of the gas to get it to the lot.

  As he drank and worried, he fiddled idly with his father’s dog tag. A lot of fucking use you are, he thought. I don’t know why I fucking wear you. If you’re so fucking lucky, how come the old man ended up with his entrails splattered over half an acre of rice paddy?

  Wait. That’s it! The old man! The box! The fucking medals!

  Jumping up, he rushed into the bedroom and, springing onto the mass of tangled bedclothes that hadn’t been changed for a week, pulled down an old cardboard suitcase from on top of the dresser. He toted it back into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and set the case on the counter. Mildewed and dusty, it had remained unopened for over a decade, and when Monsoon blew on it the dust made him sneeze. He brushed it with his hand and revealed the faded letters.