Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  “Hey, Frankie. You been to the zoo?”

  “You get smart with me, you little slant fucker, and you be goin’ to the fucking chiropractor,” the orangutan said.

  “Hey, I was jokin’, man. Have a drink. What say? We got time.”

  The orangutan shrugged. “Scotch,” it said. “Rocks.”

  “Me too,” said Frankie. “So how ya bin, pal? Lookin’ forward to your vacation?”

  “Sure,” Monsoon replied. “Got my ticket?”

  “Right here,” Frankie said, handing him a fat envelope. “Dough’s there, too.”

  Monsoon opened the envelope and saw his ticket and two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

  “What’s the deal here, Frankie?” he said. “A little light, ain’t she?”

  Frankie grinned his great prehistoric grin. “Yeah. Well. The Don didn’t want you to get distracted by all that slope pussy they got over there. Don’ worry, you get the rest when we get home.”

  Monsoon said nothing. So. The stakes had just gotten a little higher. He ordered the drinks and then turned to Frankie. “The Don say anything ’bout those characters back at my house?”

  “Nothin’ that concerns you. This here’s Joe, by the way. Belly Joe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joe. No offense meant with the zoo crack.”

  “None taken,” Belly Joe said, looking at Monsoon as if he would just as soon eat him as drink with him.

  Frankie downed his drink, and said, “Okay. Let’s hit it. We got to go and check in.”

  When Frankie started to walk across the airport, with Monsoon next to him, Belly Joe slipped in behind them at just the right distance. This might be even tighter than I figured, Monsoon was thinking, as they approached the gate.

  A scratching noise woke Nigel from a deep and contented sleep. He sat up and stared at the bold ray of light that lay across the baby-blue satin sheets, coming from a gap between the curtains. He looked at his watch. 2:25 p.m. The scratching continued. Fucking Oberon! Nigel sighed and dragged himself out of bed. Outside the bedroom door Oberon was skipping up and down, and as Nigel stepped outside he leaped up and shoved his snout into Nigel’s crotch. Nigel shoved him away irritably.

  “It’s too early for your antics, my furry friend. Come,” he said.

  He let Oberon out through the French doors that led onto the little roof garden so that he could do his business, and then wandered into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. A chirping sound came from the living room, and Nigel went through and removed the hood from a large gilt cage in the corner. A disheveled African gray parrot peered at him with rheumy eyes, stepping from one foot to the other.

  “Morning, Liberace,” Nigel said. “Sleep well, did you?”

  The parrot said nothing.

  Nigel put his lips to the cage, and made coochy-coo noises. Liberace looked at him blankly and continued to say nothing.

  “Useless fucking bird,” said Nigel in disgust, turning back to the kitchen. He made himself a big cup, with three sugars, picked up the Journal from underneath the mail slot, and went into the bathroom. He set his coffee next to the commode, undid the drawstring of his red silk pajamas, sat down, and opened the entertainment section.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, struggling up, “if it’s not dogs, it’s the fucking door. Can’t a man have a minute’s fucking peace around here?”

  Nigel tried to keep the irritation out of his voice as he said, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Delivery for Mr. Capricorn.”

  “Okay. Just leave it by the door, would you?”

  “I need a signature.”

  Nigel peered through the spy hole but couldn’t see anyone. He opened the door anyway.

  Nigel immediately felt as if he had been punched in the mouth, very hard, by a man with an enormous fist, the reason being that he had been punched in the mouth, very hard, by a man with an enormous fist. He flew backwards into the room and landed on top of the recently repaired Japanese lacquered table, whose legs once again gave way with their customary bone-breaking sound. Nigel lay unconscious on the wreckage, with blood streaming from his ruined mouth and his breath making small whistling noises in the gap where his front teeth had been.

  Thumper stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and walked over to the prone Nigel. He lifted one eyelid, examined the pupil, and let go. Perhaps he had overdone it. He hadn’t realized the long fuck was so skinny. Bit too much shoulder. He pulled his piece from under his arm and strode into the bedroom. Empty. Likewise the bathroom. Stepping out onto the roof garden, he saw nothing but a little fluffy white dog who came scampering over to him.

  “Take care of the dog as well,” the Don had said.

  Thumper knelt down and, as Oberon planted his paws on his knees and started to lick his face, grabbed him by his jeweled collar and stuck the muzzle of the .38 against his fuzzy head. Oberon looked up at Thumper with his tongue lolling and his little tail wagging furiously. Thumper thumbed back the hammer. Click! Oberon squirmed round and began licking the barrel of the gun. Thumper increased the pressure on the trigger, hesitated, and then he pulled the gun away, let the hammer drop, and slid it back into its holster.

  “What the fuck,” he said aloud. “‘Take care of’ could mean take care of, not just ‘take care of’, right? Hey, little guy, c’mere.”

  The big man took up the animal, tiny in his huge hands, and began to scratch it behind the ear. Oberon squirmed in delight, and a pale green bubble appeared at the end of his penis. Just then a loud groan came from inside the apartment. Thumper set the dog down, took out his piece again, and went inside with Oberon frisking happily at his heels. Nigel was stirring, but still out. Thumper looked around and spotted Liberace, still stepping from one foot to the other. He walked over, opened the cage, and grabbed the bird, which made no attempt to resist. A single blue feather floated in the air. Thumper carried Liberace into the kitchen, popped the door of the microwave, shoved the bird inside, and slammed it shut. Liberace did not appear unduly alarmed, but peered out through the darkened glass with every appearance of avian equanimity.

  Thumper went to the kitchen drawer and examined its contents, finally deciding upon a shiny steel sushi knife. He tested its edge with his thumb. Leaving the blade next to the microwave he filled a large saucepan, carried it through to the lounge, and poured its contents onto the face of the prostrate Nigel. Nigel spluttered and coughed and opened his eyes, and Thumper grabbed him by the front of his pajamas, dragged him into the kitchen, thrust him into a chair, and stood over him for a moment, staring down at him, watching him begin to dissolve.

  Finally he said, in a voice like dragging chains, “What’s the dog’s name?”

  Nigel’s mouth was swollen, and he had bitten his tongue. He attempted to speak. “Ob…Ober…Oberon,” he managed.

  “Ober what?”

  “Oberon.”

  “What the fuck is an Oberon?”

  “He was…”

  “Can it, fruit. Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “He’s…he’s out. He’s not in. He’s not here. He’s…”

  Thumper stepped forward and slapped Nigel across the face, being careful not to hit him too hard on account of the fact that he now knew the guy had a glass jaw. Nigel’s head jerked back and blood welled again in his cut mouth.

  “Lemme show you sumtin,” Thumper rasped, stepping back and pointing to the imprisoned Liberace. Nigel’s eyes went wide with horror and disbelief as Thumper pressed the button. The microwave illuminated for a couple of seconds, during which time Liberace became more animated than Nigel had ever seen him, and then Thumper clicked it off.

  Nigel, close to hysteria, began to hyperventilate.

  “Okay, sweetheart, I ask one more time. You don’t tell me. The bird here is KFP. Get it?”

  Nigel was in turmoil. Loyalty and abject terror were battling inside him, but right now loyalty wasn’t putting up much of a fight. �
�Tahoe,” he blurted. “He’s in Lake Tahoe. He’ll be there a week.”

  “You ain’t shittin’ me, are ya? ‘Cause if you are…”

  “No. No. I swear. You can call.”

  “That’s okay. I trust you. Come on.”

  “Wh-where?”

  “The big room. You an’ me gonna have a little drink together. A little chat.”

  On trembling legs, Nigel staggered through the door with Thumper right behind him. Liberace, meanwhile, was becoming agitated and was scratching at the glass door of the microwave. The scratching excited Oberon and he began to jump up at the appliance, scrabbling at the glass, which in turn freaked out Liberace, whose scratching became more frantic, which spurred Oberon to even wilder leaping.

  “You got bourbon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy. Gimme.”

  As Nigel went to the drinks cabinet, Thumper shifted his weight. The sushi knife, which he had slipped into his pocket, was threatening to stick him. Nigel came back with two massive slugs of whiskey and set one in front of Thumper. The other he half-drained, gasping for breath when he had finished.

  Thumper took a mouthful of his, wondering whether he could get away with not smoking the pansy. He decided to see how the frighteners worked. Slowly, theatrically, he slid the blade from his pocket and fixed Nigel with his most intimidating stare. Nosferatu would have shit himself, never mind a poor little faggot who got alarmed watching the WWF. Nigel was within a hair’s-breadth of fainting when Thumper said, “There’s nothing that you can do to help fatso. You can only help yourself. There’s nowhere you can hide from us. If you try to leave town, if you talk to anybody, if the fat fuck ain’t there for any reason—if he gets any phone calls, any messages, even if it ain’t you—you gone, baby. Unnerstan’?”

  Nigel buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

  “Got any beer in this perfumed shit pile?”

  “I think there might be one in the fridge,” replied Nigel, in a muffled voice.

  “Fetch.”

  Nigel shuffled off, sniffling. Thumper was weighing the options. He was thinking maybe just to leave the fag be. Maybe he should call the Don. Or maybe off him, just to be safe.

  Then, things got seriously weird.

  Nigel walked into the kitchen just in time to see Liberace explode in a spectacular display of blood and feathers. Oberon, who, in his breathless bounding, had accidentally hit the button on the microwave, was skipping up and down, wagging his tail. Nigel screamed and dropped his glass, and the sound of its shattering was the last mortal sound he ever heard because, hearing the bang and thinking “gun,” Thumper Thyroid rolled forward off the couch instinctively and, with surprising speed, came up onto his knees with the .38 in his hands and put five slugs into Nigel’s back where he stood in the kitchen doorway.

  Walking up to the body Thumper stopped in amazement, and then began to laugh as the scenario replayed itself in his mind’s eye. Nigel lay face down with blood pooling around him like a small, sinister lake. There was smoke coming from the microwave, and the inside of the glass was spattered with parrot à la grenade. The fucking dog! Oh well, at least that saved a phone call to the Don. But he hadn’t intended so much gunplay. One shot you could get away with, but cars don’t backfire five times straight.

  Time to exit stage left. He stepped back into the lounge, drained the bourbon, and hurled the glass out onto the rooftop, shattering it. He hadn’t touched anything else except for the sushi knife, which he pocketed. Then, stepping over Nigel, taking care not to step in the blood, he took up the wiggling Oberon and hit the stairs. As he walked out of the ground floor fire escape, Oberon was licking his face.

  Morris Albright was just an ordinary joe. A poor, working schlub from Asswipe, Kansas, or some place. Nice guy, kind of shy. Lived alone with his two Persian cats. Had a couple of friends, but kept himself to himself most of the time. Heavy-set guy, maybe two-forty, two-fifty. Never hurt anybody, except for perhaps a couple of gerbils. Liked to dress up in stockings and a bra and parade in front of the bathroom mirror some nights, but so what? Liked skiing. Liked it a lot. Wasn’t very good, but really enjoyed it. Had been saving up to buy himself some new gear for the winter. He had bought himself a flamingo-pink Italian ski suit and couldn’t wait to get it back to his hotel and try it on. It was outrageous, hot pink, and he would never dare wear anything like that near home. But in Tahoe, what the hell? Who was going to know?

  He had no way of knowing, when he bought his flamingo-pink Italian ski suit with the money that he had saved up, that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

  Chapter 7.

  Thumper Thyroid hated snow. He hated snow, skiing, and skiers. Anybody who dressed up like some European pansy and thought it was fun to slide down a big, white hill on two pieces of plastic, freezing your balls off, had to have something radically wrong with him. And he hated scenery. To him, “picturesque” was a nice, big ass in a leopard-skin leotard and a massive pair of wobbling jugs. This was just a load of fucking trees and a big fucking duck pond. Big deal. Outdoors was for assholes. And how the fuck could he be expected to shoot straight with fucking gloves on?

  Davy Dupree was a happy man as he leaned on the bar, alternately switching his gaze between the beautiful, coral light of the setting sun on the snow-blanketed upper slopes and the emerald-green sheen of the lycra ski pants stretched tight across the bodacious ass of the waitress as she fixed his drink. It had been a great day and, no mistake, it was showing every promise of becoming a great evening. Yessir-fucking-ree! He had spent a brilliant day at the chairs joshing with his buddies, watching the ski babes, helping folks onto the lifts, and had scored a cool two-twenty in tips, his second best result for the whole season. And best of all, when he had helped that cute little doll from down in the Keys someplace to her feet, something in the way that she looked at him had prompted him to ask her out, and she had said yes! Fucking A!

  The waitress set his piña colada in front of him, and flashing his best sun-tanned ski instructor schoolboy-cute seductive smile, he peeled a ten-spot from his roll and said, “Keep the change, baby.”

  The waitress shone her light on him and rang the big brass bell behind the bar, and Davy picked up his glass and strolled over to a table by the window, where he could look down into the street. Darkness was gathering in the valley, and the lights were coming on, and colorful people were emerging from the hotels and laughing in the streets. And here was ol’ Davy, sitting on two-ten with his first drink of the night, waiting for his bayou babe and looking so cool in the new Wranglers that he had bought to celebrate. This was the fucking gravy, man! Davy smiled to himself as he raised his glass to his lips, anticipating that first sweet taste.

  What he didn’t anticipate was the hand, the size of a polar bear claw and only marginally hairier, that closed around his forearm with a hydraulic grip and caused him to drop his drink, which crashed onto the table and splattered over his new jeans. Davy looked up in shock, into a mug that could have curdled goat’s milk.

  Over the top of his pounding heart, Davy heard a voice like a grating gearbox say, “Aw, jeez. You spilled your drink, miss.”

  By way of a witty retort, Davy made a hard, painful swallow.

  “Ya work the ski lift. I seen ya.”

  Davy managed to compel his neck muscles into an approximation of a nod. A waitress was passing, and Thumper reached out and grabbed her.

  “Hey, baby, we need a bourbon an’ back over here, an’ another milkshake.”

  Davy was encouraged by the fact that they were now apparently drinking buddies and summoned up the vocal resources to ask, “Who are you?”

  “What’s it to ya?”

  “I was just…”

  “Well, don’t. Shut the fuck up an’ lissen. You work the same place every day, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, tha’s real good. You remember seein’ a big, fat guy, kinda wobbly-looking, in a pink suit?”

&n
bsp; Just then the waitress came over with the drinks, and Thumper put his finger to his lips. Davy averted his eyes and massaged his forearm. Thumper leered at the girl as she wiped the spilled piña colada from the table, studiously avoiding eye contact with him.

  “Betcha get plenty, working here, huh?” Thumper said, staring at the retreating waitress’s butt.

  “Yeah, some. In fact, I…”

  “Shut up. Can this fat fuck ski?”

  “Er, not really. I mean, he don’t fall over or nothing, but…”

  “So he uses the easy routes?”

  “Yeah.”

  Thumper chugged his bourbon, swallowed half the beer, belched, and pulled a map from his coat pocket.

  “Show me,” he said, tossing the map to Davy.

  Davy opened the map, and turned it the right way up.

  “Okay. The gondola lets off here. Yesterday, the guy was all afternoon on these slopes here.” Davy pointed to a series of yellow lines radiating from a central hub, like a rudimentary spider’s web.

  Thumper put his chewed thumbnail onto a point at the highest elevation. “So, from here, I can see down all these slopes, right?”

  “The upper slopes, yeah. From there you have a good view of the top sections of all of those.”

  “An’ what’s this?” Thumper indicted a dotted line leading horizontally across the mountain.

  “That’s the cross-country trail. It’s a different discipline. It involves…”

  “Who cares? Can you walk on it?”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to, but if you had to you probably could.”

  Thumper grabbed the map, skulled his beer, leaned over so his brewery breath was right in Davy’s face, and stared hard into his frightened eyes. Davy felt he was looking into the eyes of a rabid dog.

  “I know what you look like. I know where you work. I can find you, anywhere, anytime.”

  Thumper Thyroid strode from the room in which the temperature seemed to have suddenly dropped by several degrees.