“Hey, baby.”
Baby Joe looked down at Bjørn Eggen and Hung and gave them the thumbs up. “Bjørn Eggen, this ladder is not too steady. Can you make it?”
Bjørn Eggen gave him an impatient look and waved him on.
Baby Joe climbed through the window, and it was like climbing through a time portal into another world. He stepped into a chamber decorated with moons and stars and rainbows, reverse swastikas, astrological signs and runic symbols, crudely painted nudes in various acts of copulation, all rendered in psychedelic colors, underneath a painted parachute canopy which was suspended from the ceiling, forming a kind of Bedouin tent. On one wall was daubed a huge peace sign, and next to it a faded life-size poster of Jimi Hendrix and painted slogans adorned the adjacent walls, applied at random in various hands. Make Love Not War. Keep On Truckin’. Here Come the Judge. Burn Baby Burn. An old stereo was set on a low table, surrounded by actual albums scattered on the floor around it and stacked up in uneven piles. The White Album, Electric Ladyland, Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake, Abraxus, Joe’s Garage, Mad Dogs and Englishmen, Goats Head Soup…
Baby Joe recognized the voice of Janis singing “Ball and Chain.” In one corner, a huge brass Buddha glowed in the light from the myriad-colored candles that surrounded it. In front of it, leaning back against it, sat the person Baby Joe had sought out.
Hazy Doyle was busy rolling an enormous joint, carefully crumbling the leaves and spreading them evenly on the paper, and he did not look up from his task when Baby Joe climbed in through his window.
“Hey, man. All right. Park it, baby.”
Baby Joe simply smiled and sat down. Hazy continued with his rolling, concentrating, intently peering through his round wire-rimmed glasses. Nor was he distracted when Bjørn Eggen maneuvered somewhat stiffly over the windowsill and into the room.
“Hazy, this is my friend Bjørn Eggen.”
Hazy paused, and looked over the top of his spectacles at the surprised Bjørn Eggen. He was wearing a green silk sarong, and over his bare and narrow chest a scarlet Sergeant Pepper-looking military dress tunic with braid and silver buttons, at least two sizes too small, so that his thin arms with their protruding veins stuck out up to the elbows. A headband with pictures of the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote contained his long gray tresses, and something shone above it, as if he wore some kind of metallic skullcap, like a Hassidic robot. Hazy smiled at the old man and made the peace sign, but did not speak.
Bjørn Eggen did not know what to say and sat in the window, bemused, looking from Hazy to Baby Joe and back to Hazy.
“So how have you been, man?”
Hazy lit his joint, and disappeared behind a billowing smoke screen. His hand appeared from the midst of the smoke, proffering the joint to Baby Joe, who declined.
“Oh, you know, man. Shinin’ it on and kickin’ back. Keepin’ the faith, man, makin’ sure the flame stays lit.”
Although almost a quarter of a century had elapsed since they had seen each other, Hazy addressed Baby Joe matter-of-factly, as if he had just been out for cigarettes, as if strangers and shades from the past climbing unannounced through his window were an event so commonplace as to not require acknowledgment or comment, as if he lived with such apparitions as a permanent part of his consciousness, so that people coming thus was no surprise, because they were never gone.
“That’s good, man. You feel okay? You need anything?”
“All you need is love, man.”
Baby Joe regarded his friend. It was like addressing a hologram. As if he could wave his hand right through the image that appeared to be Hazy without disturbing it. Reaching out and touching Hazy on the shoulder, Baby Joe removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it by Hazy’s foot. “Here you go, bro. We have to go. I’ll stop by later.”
Hazy looked at the package, and then at Baby Joe. He smiled, looking into Baby Joe’s eyes, but Baby Joe knew he was seeing something else. “Okay. Later, man.”
At the bottom of the ladder, the children maintained their silent vigil. Baby Joe handed Hung a twenty-dollar bill. “Don’t forget your buddies,” he said.
Hung stood to attention and saluted. “Me no forget. Thank you, America.”
The kids formed into a circle with the twenty-dollar bill at its center, regarding it with reverence as Baby Joe and Bjørn Eggen headed for the street at the end of the alley.
“Who the fock is that?” said Bjørn Eggen, wishing to be polite but unable to contain his curiosity further.
“He’s a guy from the war. He lost it. After he got fucked up they shipped him home, but he couldn’t handle the States anymore. He went to Thailand and later, when things changed, he came back here. A few of us send money, to the mission here. To keep him going. He was like our company talisman. A lot of people started dying after he got hit.”
Bjørn Eggen said nothing, and they walked in silence to the junction and flagged a cab.
“He saved my life,” Baby Joe said, opening the door for Bjørn Eggen.
In the absence of the kids, the junk was strangely quiet. Somewhere below a woman was keening a sad song in a high, quavering voice, and from the bow Monsoon heard a rhythmic whacking noise as he clambered up the gangplank. Ducking under a clothesline he saw on the deck below him a row of drying fish glittering in the sun, and next to them a woman who appeared to have an inverted lampshade on her head, repeatedly raising something gelatinous and slimy and smacking it onto the sun-baked wood. He was about to call out to her when he was distracted by a commotion in the shadows between the stacked rows of chicken cages in the stern of the boat. He became aware of a sudden pungent odor, a new ingredient added to the rich olfactory broth emanating from the boat, and an improbably large ginger cat with one ear missing ghosted across the beam in front of him. Something huge flapped into the periphery of his vision, causing him to duck, and he looked up to see a fat goose settling into the complicated tracery of the rigging.
He heard a peculiar snuffling sound and, simultaneously, something resembling a cross between an animated grass skirt and a Rastafarian bear emerged from behind a bale of cloth and began to advance towards him. Monsoon had to assume it was a dog, or possibly a small, ill-kempt buffalo, and stepped back in alarm, at which point he tripped over the large, black and white sow that was standing behind him rooting for insects in the seams between the planks, hitting his head on the deck with a loud crack and momentarily stunning himself. Only his Rasta wig saved him from completely concussing himself. He was immediately brought back to full consciousness by a wet rasping sensation on his face and a forceful intrusion into his groin, as if he were being molested by something large and unpleasant that was trying to decide whether to eat him or fuck him. The creature-presumed-to-be-a-dog had bounded over and was licking his face, wafting him with breath like a skunk’s jockstrap, while the sow rooted happily in his trouser pocket. Grabbing the pig’s ear in one hand, and a clump of the dog’s matted fur in the other, he thrust both animals away and struggled to a sitting position, which was the moment the goose in the rigging chose to void the runny and pungent contents of its bowels down the front of his Hawaiian shirt. The creature-presumed-to-be-a-dog turned its attention to the fallen Rasta wig, which it began to favor sexually with considerable enthusiasm.
Just then an object sailed over his shoulder and smacked the pig on the rump, sending it galloping down the deck, squealing. Monsoon heard soft steps and a stern voice sent the dog retreating back behind the bale.
“See ye’v met me mates.”
Monsoon looked up into a face like a laughing walnut.
“Mr. Woolloomooloo, I guess,” Monsoon said, trying unsuccessfully to muster some dignity.
“Ya guess right, mate,” said Wally, holding out his hand and hauling Monsoon to his feet. “An’ who might you be?”
“I’m Monsoon Parker. Captain Parker’s son.” He took the proffered hand.
“Strewth, the prodigal fucken grandson!” Wally exclaimed, dropping Monsoon back onto the de
ck.
The five faces, averted and unseen under the traffic cone hats, were smiling, and shrill giggles tinkled in the hot air. Monsoon struggled to keep the folds of his skimpy towel together, while Wally’s wife and her four sisters, whichever was which, simultaneously laundered his soiled clothes and attended to the throbbing swelling on the back of his head.
Wally squatted on the deck in front of him nursing a beer, saying, “No worries, mate. They’ve seen bigger shrimps than that on me barbie.”
Wally continued to regard the discomfited Monsoon. “Strewth. ’Ere I ’ave alf me bladdy tribe scourin the city for yer, an’ yer stroll right onta me fucken boat.”
“Yeah. Coincidence, huh?”
“Too right, mate. Wait till Bjørn Eggen gets back.”
“Who?”
“Your bladdy granddad, yer dill. ‘E’ll be as ’appy as a dipshit in a dirt box. ’Ow in the name of Ned Kelly’s mare’s galloping minge did ya end up ‘ere?”
Monsoon was presented with a quandary. He did not know how much Bjørn Eggen had revealed. His decided to do what he did best and lie through his teeth, and so contrived his features into a perfect expression of pathos and sincerity. He considered a slight quiver of the lips, but decided not to go overboard even though it was one of his best effects.
“Mr. Woolloomooloo,” he said, with just the faintest trace of a quaver in his voice, “this has been a very emotional time for me. Things have not been going very well for me just lately, to say the least. I got to the point where I didn’t know what to do. I was fucked. I had nowhere to turn, and nobody to turn to. Then, I got the news about my father. As you know, I never had the chance to know him, but at least it gave me some direction, some purpose. As I was going through his old case, trying to find out anything I could, I found this.”
Monsoon reached down to where the contents of his pockets were piled on the deck next to him, produced the letter from Captain Parker, and handed it to Wally. He watched as the other man read, his lips moving ever so slightly. Then the man gave him a weird, painful-looking smile.
“Scuse me a sec, son,” he said, and rose lightly and walked away.
Monsoon Parker mentally heard the sound of fishing line whizzing off a reel. Hook, line, and fucking sinker, he thought.
After a few moments, the old man came back, carrying a bottle. “Sorry, mate,” he said, “but it ain't true.”
“What's not true?” Monsoon said, too quickly, suddenly not so sure of himself.
“It’s not true that time ’eals all wounds, mate. Some wounds never ’eal. Yer old man was me best mate. A top bladdy bloke in every respect, and I still miss ’im. Yer done right comin ’ere, son. Shit, yer even look like one o’ me tribe. Get yer chops round this.” Wally handed Monsoon the bottle. It had no label. Monsoon could not personally attest to the flavor of wombat piss, but he was fairly convinced that it must be similar to what the bottle contained.
Wally began to talk to Monsoon at length, of his father and of the way it had been. It was clear from Wally’s intonation that Monsoon was not expected to contribute to the conversation in any way other than to listen. The shadows grew long, and Wally’s reminiscences grew longer. Monsoon recognized that he was at a key point in the game and concealed his boredom behind his best display of rapt interest, while simultaneously figuring how quickly he could get away from this senile buffoon and get the fuck off this pestilent, pox-ridden ark full of diseased animals before his grandfather showed up again.
“’E was a top bloke, yer old man, a top bladdy bloke,” Wally was saying, for the fiftieth time. “’Ow d’ya say ya managed to dig ’im up again?”
“Oh, you know, man. DNA. Seems some rebuilding was taking place in Hue, and some American bones were found. The military was called in to investigate. I got a letter from the Pentagon.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. Anyway, lissen, Wally, I’m sorry, but I gotta split. People to see. You know. When’s the old man back?”
“We’re meetin at the bar at six. ’Ere’s me card with the address. You want me to send someone to pick yer up?”
“Er, no. I’d like to surprise him. What’s the best restaurant?”
“Yer mean the poshest, or the one with the best tucker?”
“The best tucker,” said Monsoon, wondering if a tucker was some kind of a burger.
“Ah, yeah, well, apart from me own, a course, that’d be the Perfume River Prawn Palace. Fucken delicious yabbies.”
“Great. Well, do you think maybe we could all go there tonight? On me, of course. Say about ten. I could just walk in and surprise him.”
“Ah, yeah, dinkum idea.”
“Good, then. Oh, lissen, before I split. Do you know anything about Machine Gun Jelly?”
“Yeah, I ’ear it’s real good on shrimp. What the fuck are ya talkin’about?”
“Never mind, it was just a thought. Well, gotta go.” Monsoon retrieved his still-damp clothes and slipped into them as discreetly as he could.
Wally stood upright. “Don’cha wanna finish yer beer before yer go?”
“No thanks. I’m in kind of a rush. I’ll have one with you tonight.”
“Fair enough. See yer, mate.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
Wally watched Monsoon as he walked down the jetty and climbed into a taxi. Something was wrong. Some flaw in the weave, a bum note somewhere. Wally didn’t like him. Wally was a skilled reader of people, able to interpret the aura each carried and to quickly find the essence of a person and establish a rapport. But with this man something was missing, and it disturbed him. He was the son of his old friend, the grandson of his new friend, and Wally would have liked to have been his friend too, but there was something that just wasn’t there. And something else. He was lying through his fucking teeth.
Wally leaned on the boat rail, watching Monsoon’s cab pull out into the traffic. Machine Gun fucken Jelly. There was something queer in the woodpile here, and no mistake. And it must have been a hell of an explosion that killed Captain Philip Parker, if they found his bones in Hue. Phil Parker had been killed in Cambodia.
Chapter 15.
Ten o’clock became eleven, then midnight, and the clock continued its relentless progression, but of Monsoon Parker there was neither hide nor hair to be seen. The old man had lapsed into silence, and his dinner lay cold and untouched before him.
At one o’clock, he said, “I do not think so my grandson vill be to coming this night. I am a little tired-feeling from yesterday. Maybe I vill to sleeping be going, ja.”
Wally summoned one of his kids and instructed him to take Bjørn Eggen home to his room. The old man smiled a sad smile as he bade them goodnight.
“Poor old bastard,” Baby Joe uttered, watching the suddenly frail-looking old man shuffling from the room.
“Something’s up, mate,” Wally said, when he had gone. “I dint wanna say nothin in front a Bjørn Eggen, but that grandson’s a bladdy lying mongrel.”
“How do you figure that out?”
“Well, first off, when I tells ’im ’is granddad’s ’ere, ’e don’t seem surprised. Like ’e already knew. Then, when I asked ’im about ’is dad, ’e tells me some ’orseshit about Phil bein found outside Hue. Which is fucken strange, seein as ’ow ’e was killed in Cambodia. Then ’e asks me about Machine Gun Jelly.”
“About what?”
“Machine Gun Jelly. Only an ’andful of people would ’ave ’eard of it. I was attached to a Lurp unit, as a scout, and we come in from a walk in the bush an’ sucked back a few tubes. Anyway, these blokes decide to break into this compound to piss the army off. They come out with this shitload of something they called Machine Gun Jelly. Nobody knows what the fuck it is. Turns out to be some kinda drug. I never ’ad no use for the stuff meself, though I ’ear it was pretty fucken ’ot shit. Anyway, these Lurp blokes go back a coupla days later, to try an’ get more, and the whole fucken compound’s been torched by an air strike. The Lurps was off on a mi
ssion, so they left the stuff with me. Only, they never came back, see. I gave one to me mate Phil, knowin ’e was partial to the old Bob ’Ope. The bricks were covered in ’eavy duty silver foil, and an ’andy size, so I used the rest of ’em for building me shithouse. Never thought about it again till now, when all of a sudden Phil’s son shows up askin’ about it.”
“This is starting to make sense.”
“You could have bladdy fooled me, mate.”
Baby Joe considered for a second, and came to a decision. “Okay, listen, Wal, I think it’s time you knew the full story.”
Baby Joe carefully explained everything that had happened: Asia, Crispin, the Don, Monsoon, the dead people, the whole shooting match. When he had finished Wally went quiet, staring into space with a solemn expression that made him look even more ancient than he was. Baby Joe studied his face: an old god, fixed in contemplation of the foolishness of man.
“I should’ve said something sooner. The truth is, I’m not really sure what I’m doing. The old man doesn’t know everything, and I’m trying to keep him from knowing the worst of it, but it’s going to come out. There won’t be any way to avoid it.”
“No worries, mate. Yer doin the right thing. Good on yer,” Wally said, looking at him.
It was Baby Joe’s turn to look away. He stared down into his glass.
“I’m struggling to get my brain around it, Wally,” he said. “Phil, Bjørn Eggen, that shithouse, Monsoon, the connection, the coincidence. It’s just too fucking weird for words. I feel fucking haunted, there is no other way to describe it. Haunted and fucking responsible.”
“For what, Blue?”
“I’m just thinking that if, back then, I hadn’t been so gung-ho to go, if I would have said ‘fuck that shit, I ain’t going,’ then maybe Phil Parker wouldn’t have gone either.”
“Now yer talkin out yer fucken arse, ya bludger. It was a fucken war, mate. You can try an’ analyse it till the fucken cows come ’ome, but it don’t make no difference. Some people come ’ome, and some don’t. That’s all it is, mate.”
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 26