Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  For emphasis, Baby Joe tilted the concrete.

  Monsoon let it all hang out. The accumulation of fear and anxiety he had built up while tripping precariously from one near-catastrophe to the next finally burst the bubble, and his words came out in a babbling stream without cohesion and without the slightest attempt at deviousness. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. When he finally ran out of steam, a silence descended as the others looked from one to the other.

  “How much money are you talking about?” Baby Joe asked, flatly.

  Monsoon hesitated. Baby Joe looked at him and eased his foot forward. The concrete block teetered on the brink of the jetty.

  “Ten mill, man, ten big ones. Ten million fuckin’ dollars, in cold blood.”

  Baby Joe stared at Monsoon for a long moment. The foot rocked. Monsoon held his breath, his eyes fixed on the toe of Baby Joe’s boot. Baby Joe lifted his foot, and the concrete thudded back onto the jetty.

  “Mr. Parker. You just got yourself some new partners,” he said.

  Chapter 17.

  Across from Wal’s Outback was a ritzy little poon parlor called The Wild Wild East, replete with buxom little Vietnamese girls wearing cowboy hats and rhinestone gun belts with dildos in the holsters and very little else. Outside was a dejected-looking stuffed horse, minus its ears and deprived of the majority of its hair by some form of mange, which the girls would take turns mounting at night after the neon came on, firing cap pistols in the air and importuning passersby. Behind the horse tables were set on the pavement, and skulking at one of these sat Frankie Merang, glaring at the group sitting outside Wal’s from between the horse’s moth-eaten withers.

  In terms of being bombed, Frankie was on a scale somewhere between Dresden and Hiroshima, but that had not prevented him from consuming three double whiskies as he spied upon the comings and goings across the road. He had seen the little dink come out of the back, together with the old dude, and sit with the guy that had cold-cocked him with the ashtray, and the old dinge. The broad and the lardass had gone through in back someplace. Somewhere among the short-circuiting neurons of Frankie’s alcohol-flooded brain, an old-fashioned flashbulb went off. He suddenly remembered where he had seen that guy before. Back in Vegas, at the fights. Well, ya seen ya last slugfest, pal.

  Like an old steam train building up momentum, a plan slowly hissed and chugged into Frankie’s addled mind. The guy was drinkin’ beer like it was goin’ out of fashion. Sooner or later, he’s gotta take a leak. Nine to five the john is out back. It would have to be, in a fleapit like that. So. Ol’ Frankie would slide around the back, nice n’ easy, an’ find out where the head was, an’ wait. An’ when the sucker came out, Frankie would ventilate him while the dumb fuck still had his pecker in his hand. Frankie produced his very best evil leer and grabbed a passing girl by the cheek of her ass.

  “Hey, baby,” he said, flourishing a ten-dollar bill, “show me the back way outta this joint.”

  When it came to dealing seconds or switching dice, Monsoon was pretty good with his hands. When it came to using them for anything practical, he wasn’t worth shit. Which is why the temporary shithouse that Wally had compelled him to build—under threat of severe genital rearrangement—didn’t have a straight line in it, and didn’t look like it could withstand a decent fart…which was a definite liability, given the clientele.

  Inside, Crispin was trying to perform the almost-impossible feat of taking a crap while preventing his cheeks from touching the seat and holding his Bermudas off the dirt floor with one hand, at the same time. To his credit he was doing a pretty fair job until something large and heavy crashed into the frail structure. Unbalanced, he plopped backwards onto the commode, dropping his shorts, and grabbing at the chain in an effort to steady himself, giving himself an unexpected partial colonic irrigation in the process. His reaction was predictable.

  “ASIA! GET THAT EXCREBLE FUCKING BEAST AWAY FROM ME.”

  A reasonable request, under the circumstances. The only problem was, it was nothing to do with Rodney. Rodney was in seventh heaven. She was in the cool shade of her stall, with Asia’s sweet perfume filling her trunk, being fed ripe mangos and having her ear scratched. She was gazing longingly at Asia while she rumbled her pachyderm love song.

  It was Frankie Merang who, stalking the yard on unsteady pins, had stumbled into the outhouse, spiking his bruised head on a sticking-out nail and contriving to drop his gun.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What did you say?” Crispin asked, desperately looking around for something to dry himself on.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Asia replied. “What are you shouting about?”

  Frankie steadied himself against the fence and, after picking up the Browning and wiping it on his trousers, peered unsteadily in the direction of Asia’s voice. The broad! Somewhere on the other side of this fence. Might as well have a little fun with the bitch while he was waiting.

  Asia had shrugged and gone back to scratching Rodney’s ear when the gate suddenly burst open and she turned in alarm to see the enormous figure of Frankie Merang framed in the doorway, supporting himself with one hand and waving a big cannon in the other.

  “Don’t fuckin’ scream, bitch. C’mere.”

  Crispin’s muffled voice came from inside the outhouse. “Asia. I can’t hear a word you are saying.”

  Asia didn’t move. She was watching the swaying barrel of the gun.

  “I said, fuckin’ c’mere,” Frankie repeated.

  Rodney made a deep growling noise and began to sway her head backwards and forwards.

  Frankie looked at her as if he had just noticed her. “Wha’ the fuck’s tha’? Fuckin’ elephant. I’m gonna shoot the fucker.”

  Frankie raised the Browning and pointed it over the top of Asia’s head, aiming the unsteady barrel in the direction of Rodney’s eye.

  “NO!” Asia screamed, rushing forward. She charged Frankie with her nails clawed like talons, raking towards his face. Frankie let go of the doorpost and punched her in the stomach, dropping her. As he raised his boot to kick her in the face he was frozen by an earsplitting squeal and raised his eyes just in time to see what appeared to be an irate mountain bearing down on him. He focused on a bright red eye as a huge bristly forehead smacked into him, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the outhouse, which collapsed like a house of cards. Frankie landed hard on the packed earth, dropping the gun. If you ever want to sober up in a hurry getting battered to death by an enraged elephant will do it, and Frankie’s mind was stark, daylight clear as he desperately scrabbled towards the Browning. His fingers were inches from the butt when he felt a steel vise close around his ankle and felt himself being whirled aloft.

  Rodney began to play with the 260-pound Frankie as if he were a rag doll, slapping him from side to side, jerking him up and smacking him into the dirt, squealing at an unbelievable volume as she did so. Her squeals were echoed by Asia’s piercing screams from where she sat in the dirt in the corner of the paddock, by Frankie’s agonized bellows, and by the muffled shrieks of Crispin from where he lay trapped under the wreckage of the collapsed outhouse.

  In the corner opposite Asia was a prodigious pile of fresh elephant dung that Rodney had carefully deposited an hour before, and she now flipped Frankie towards it, sending him cartwheeling end-over-end through the air, flailing like an inept oversized gymnast. As Frankie landed face down in the manure with a distinct plop Baby Joe came crashing into the yard, with Wally close on his heels and Bjørn Eggen bringing up the rear. Baby Joe snatched up the Browning and grabbed Asia by the arm, pulling her aside as Rodney charged past to where Frankie was making a feeble attempt to rise. Spinning with surprising agility and grace, Rodney sat down, planting her enormous butt squarely on Frankie Merang’s head. Then, flapping her ears and raising her trunk vertically, she let out a peal so loud that the others had to cover their ears against the blast.

  There followed a moment of stunned silence,
a cameo in which nobody moved, everyone staring in amazement at Rodney, who sat proudly gazing at Asia. A low groan broke the spell, and Wally and Bjørn Eggen lifted the crumpled tin roof of the outhouse to find a splattered and soiled Crispin looking as if he were about to cry, which he was. He had his shorts around his ankles, a bamboo splinter piercing his squashed pompadour, and the toilet seat slung over his shoulder like some bizarre accessory.

  Disconsolate, he hung his head and began to weep, saying in a high feeble voice, “I can’t stand any more of this. Really, I can’t.”

  As they tried to console him, while trying equally hard not to burst out laughing, Rodney stood and lumbered over to Asia and began to nuzzle her face with her trunk.

  Asia stroked the animal’s forehead. “Good girl,” she said softly.

  Rodney rumbled. Baby Joe went over and rolled Frankie over. The shape of his face was neatly imprinted in the dung. Frankie’s besmeared eyes were opened wide in horror, and his open mouth and nostrils were packed with fibrous, vaguely green elephant shit. He was stone dead.

  Asia was having a hard time calming Crispin down, especially as Wally and Bjørn Eggen were pissing themselves laughing. He had been hosed down and was sitting on a bar stool, wrapped in towels, nursing a half a pint of gin.

  “I can’t tolerate much more of this. I shall go quite mad. I’m not used to it. This is pure insanity. I’m a musician, a singer, an artiste, a fucking star. My boyfriend is murdered, I nearly get blown up, my fucking turncoat dog is killed, I’m chased from my home, my career, my fans, I have people shooting at me in some festering swamp while some leering, toothless hag is drooling all over me, and I end up in fucking never-never land, where I can’t even take a decent dump in peace without some fucking circus refugee flattening the shithouse. My nerves are shot to pieces, I can’t sleep worth a shit, and my hands are shaking so much I can’t even wank myself into oblivion.”

  When he said wank, Wally and Bjørn Eggen, who had been struggling heroically to restrain their laughter, exploded once again, rocking back and forth on their stools with tears streaming down their faces.

  “WILL YOU TWO FUCKING GERIATRICS KINDLY ATTEMPT TO ACT YOUR AGE?”

  “Yes, c’mon boys,” Asia added, “you can see that he’s upset.”

  At that moment Baby Joe came in, carrying the things he had dug from Frankie’s pockets, and the gun. “What’s going on?”

  “Crispin vants to haf a vank but it is not possible,” Bjørn Eggen said.

  Wally, who was just taking a mouthful of beer, sprayed it across the room and collapsed. Asia tried to give Bjørn Eggen a dirty look, but had to bite her lip and turn her head away.

  Baby Joe had something that he wanted to say, but he could see that it wasn’t a very good time. Grabbing a beer, he turned and walked back out into the yard.

  “Aah, what?” Asia said, with her eyes still closed. She had just enjoyed the most wonderful meal of delectable spicy dishes done with coconut milk, coriander, lime, and ginger, with exotic names like cha gio, bun ho, and cuon diep, washed down with a couple of bottles of chilled French wine, and she now lay on the deck in the sun, dozing as the boat rocked gently up and down.

  Bjørn Eggen, Asia, and Crispin had gone to meet Mary Rose Muffin for lunch on a floating restaurant that gave them a tour of the harbor while they ate. Baby Joe had been against their coming and had wanted them to lay low but they had all prevailed upon him, arguing that he was being over-cautious now that Merang was dead, and against his better judgment he had relented, and Asia was glad that he had because they were having such a marvelous day.

  Crispin laid next to her, wearing a garish kimono that he had bought to console himself after his ordeal, a pair of massive Elton John sunglasses, and a huge floppy straw hat to protect his delicate complexion from the sun. At the back of the junk, Bjørn Eggen and Mary Rose dozed on a large hammock under the shade of a canopy. They were under sail, and as the skipper idled across the bay the only sounds were the wind and the lapping of water against the hull and the soft clinking sounds of the chef clearing up the galley below. A loud splash went unheeded, but when Asia heard someone say “Aah,” she spoke to Crispin.

  “Hmn?” mumbled Crispin, who was almost asleep. The rocking of the boat was soporific, and the breeze divine, and the meal had just been to die for, especially after that fucking roadkill that he had been forced endure in the bayou.

  “You said ‘aah.’”

  “You’re dreaming, sweetie. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, somebody did.”

  “That would have been the captain,” an unrecognizable voice said.

  Crispin opened his eyes and saw a figure standing over him, featureless because of the glare of the sun immediately behind it. Crispin shaded his eyes.

  “Yes,” the voice continued, “that would have been the captain saying ‘Aah’ as I pushed him overboard.”

  Asia sat up, her feeling of wellbeing instantly dissipated and replaced by a tautness in the pit of her stomach. She saw the figure standing over them, extending an object towards them. It was a gun. With a silencer.

  “Don’t speak. Stand up and move to the back of the boat,” the man said.

  Crispin was already whimpering, and as Asia stood she could see the black-clad figure of the captain, flapping in the green water in their wake. The man herded them to the back, to where Bjørn Eggen still lay on the hammock, fast asleep. Mary Rose Muffin was awake and standing over him. The man shoved Crispin hard in the back, and he stumbled into the hammock, waking Bjørn Eggen.

  “Vhat the fock?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  “Shut up and get up,” the man said.

  The old man struggled to his feet, his mind foggy, still not fully comprehending what was happening. Instinctively, he reached out to put a protective arm around Mary Rose. She avoided his hand and moved away, opting instead to stand next to the man. Expressions flitted across the old man’s face in quick succession. Surprise, confusion, hurt, and finally resignation.

  “Sorry,” Mary Rose said, “nothing personal.”

  “You fucking bitch!” Asia hissed, spitting at her.

  The man slapped her across the face, hard. Crispin flinched, as if he himself had been slapped, and he looked from one face to another, bewildered, still not getting it.

  “What’s going on?” he muttered.

  “Can it, fat boy,” the man said, and then, “Mary Rose, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly, and you must be Horatio, if I am not mistaken.”

  “You are not mistaken, madam, the very same.”

  “Yes, I thought it must be you when I saw you at the park,” Mary Rose said, removing the pin from her hat and shaking her hair loose.

  “You got good peepers for an old dame,” Horatio said.

  Mary Rose gave him a sharp glance. “One question, Horatio. Unless your surname is Nelson, how do you propose to get us back to port now that you have seen fit to throw the captain overboard?”

  “No sweat. I got the other coolie trussed up down below. Now, if we’re through with the chitchat, what say we do what we came here to do? Who wants to be first?”

  “How haf you come on the boat?” Bjørn Eggen said, his expression changing again to one of resolve. Crispin was crying, and Asia had her arm around his shoulder. She was glaring at Mary Rose with absolute malice.

  “Fuckin’ Spock beamed me aboard, what do you think, you old fart? Okay, you’re first.”

  Mary Rose looked at Bjørn Eggen with sadness in her eyes.

  “Where do you want it, pops?” Horatio said, leveling the gun at Bjørn Eggen’s heart.

  “No,” Mary Rose said, quietly, as she carefully placed her hat on the seat next to her.

  “No, what?”

  “He’s not first.”

  “Oh, no?” Horatio said. “Then who is?”

  “You are,” said Mary Rose, stepping forward and driving her hatpin up to the hilt into his eye.

  Horati
o stood for a second, a look of blank incomprehension of his face. His ruined eye began to drip down his cheek like a broken egg, and a trickle of blood appeared. He dropped the gun, the light went out of his remaining eye, and he crumpled to the deck with a dull thud.

  Nobody spoke until Mary Rose said, “Oh, dear. It looks like I’m out of a job.”

  Take a grab bag, stuff it full of conflicting emotions, give it a shake, tip it out, and you will have an approximation of the confused feelings that were running through the group assembled belowdecks on Wally’s junk.

  Mary Rose was crying, dabbing her eyes with a lilac handkerchief, and Bjørn Eggen sat next to her, holding her hand, looking at her with different eyes. Crispin sat by himself, mumbling incoherently and looking stunned, as if he had been bludgeoned over the back of the head with a blunt object. Monsoon was smoking and biting his nails, glancing at the hatch every few seconds as if he feared what might be coming down it. Asia was looking at Mary Rose, vacillating between disgust, gratitude, and forgiveness. Wally was passing out beers from a crate in the center of the cabin and Baby Joe was leaning against the bulkhead and drinking from a bottle of scotch, looking from one face to another, considering the connections between them, the coincidences that had brought them here, and the fragile bonds that bound them all together.