The unknown was how many people Long Suc had on his team, and what kind of hardware were they packing. Given the circumstances, and in the light of recent events, Baby Joe was fairly certain that the Don had not given the help the night off to attend their croquet match.
As a pre-game analysis, the team matchup didn’t look too promising. The home team had—apart from home field advantage—an unknown number of fit, well-trained, fearless martial artists led by a cunning, unscrupulous former general who had survived and won two wars and seen more action than Errol Flynn’s codpiece.
The away team consisted of himself, who was in fact a shadow of his former self, two old warriors who were sterling individuals but forty years past their prime, a homicidal lady pensioner with a heart of gold, a woman who was hell on wheels in the sack but probably not any great shakes in a shootout, a small-time shyster who was as much use as a chocolate condom, and a 250-pound puffball who couldn’t take Winnie-the-Pooh.
All things considered, a full-frontal assault was probably doomed to failure. He couldn’t even count on the element of surprise. Obviously, subterfuge and subtlety were the order of the day. Plus tea—the root of downfall of the British Empire—and the fact that, according to the tourist brochure published by the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha, the Living Buddha bore a remarkable resemblance to Crispin Capricorn.
Chapter 20.
In the private dining room of the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha Long Suc, Booby, and Giuseppe sat around a long, black-lacquered Japanese table, which was a legitimate antique from the Edo period. They were seated on low chairs, which Booby thought were groovy and Giuseppe thought were fucking uncomfortable.
The room was painted, floor to ceiling, entirely in gold leaf. The furniture was likewise gold, as were the carpets, curtains, cutlery, plates, goblets, decanters, candelabras, and mirrors. Lined against each of the longest walls was a row of huge, identical, bronze Buddhas, sitting in smiling judgment upon the proceedings like a jury of benign uncles. At one end of the room was a low dais, on which sat two even bigger Buddhas. Enormous, imponderable, obese, golden, and laughing—laughing open-mouthed at the delicious folly of it all.
In between, in front of a golden filigree screen, on a golden throne, an obese bald-headed man, wearing only a loincloth and painted head to foot in gold paint, sat cross-legged, with a seemingly perpetual benevolent smile attached to his shiny cheeks. In a semicircle around them, seated cross-legged on the bare wooden floor, were thirteen men who would not have looked out of place at Kublai Khan’s stately pleasure dome, except for the incongruity of the AK-47 that each had on his lap. Another incongruity, which did not quite fit the décor but which was at least color-coordinated, was the yellow Hyundai forklift parked in the corner next to the back door.
Long Suc was being a genial host, his geniality generated by the suitcase that lay on the table between them.
“This one of most beautiful and sacred room in all Asia,” he said, smiling like a Burger King trainee on his first day in the job. “Much history, many famous people. Open case and show me money.”
Booby and Giuseppe both leaned forward and fiddled with the combination locks, each having the code to only one end, although Booby had long ago figured out Giuseppe’s code on account of the fact that he silently mouthed the numbers as he turned the dial. As the lid slapped against the table, Long Suc’s lips almost met on the top of his head. He removed a wad and hefted it, as if he could tell from the actual weight that it was all there.
“You are welcome to count it,” said Booby, somewhat unnecessarily.
Long Suc gave a small, disparaging wave. “No my fren, me no need count. He count.”
Long Suc snapped his fingers, and two of his crew hefted the case and took it over to the forklift where one of their colleagues had a counting machine. A soft whirring noise began to purr into the room.
“And the, er, merchandise?” Booby asked.
“Merchandise already here, there, see?” Long Suc pointed to the dais.
Booby’s eyes followed his finger, but he didn’t see. He looked at Long Suc and shrugged.
“Buddha,” he said, “very clever. Have to be Asian be so smart. You take Buddha back USA, no problem.”
Giuseppe had had enough. “Ma che cazzo dice. Whata kinda Mickey-Mouse bullshit you-a talkin’, for fucksa sake. Is oldest trick in fucking book, hide drugs insida statue. Yousa thinka US customs borna yesterday? Che cretino.”
Long Suc smiled pleasantly, thinking of the death of the twelve gay pandas. “No, no, no, my fren. You no understand. Buddha is drug. We melt, put in mold, paint gold, very clever, no? We put in crate, send straightaway USA. Okay, now we drink tea, celebrate.”
“Fuckina tea, fuck that shit,” said Giuseppe, tea apparently not being to his taste. “Whiskey.”
Booby concurred.
“Okay, no problem,” said Long Suc, thinking of the death of the barbed wire underpants.
He motioned to Living Buddha, who rose ponderously and shuffled out of a door behind the dais. After an uncomfortable silence of about ten minutes he returned, carrying a gold-lacquered tray with sixteen large gilded cups on it, fourteen of which contained tea, and two containing an approximation of whiskey. Pointedly serving the foreigners last, the Living Buddha wobbled through the company, smiling relentlessly and dealing out the drinks.
Crispin was feeling better than he had for days. He had never thought of gold as being a particularly becoming color for him, but after admiring himself in the full-length mirror of the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha’s luxuriously appointed restrooms, he had to admit that he looked pretty wonderful. Not that it was surprising, given what he had been through these past few weeks, but he might even have dropped a couple of pounds, and there was the faintest inkling of a cheekbone rising under the gold-painted skin of his pudgy cheek. With his pompadour firmly squashed under a close-fitting gold swimming cap, and the rich sheen of the gold paint on his limbs, and the oriental slant of his eyes where they had been cleverly taped at the corners, and his gilt eyeliner, and his tight-fitting stretch spandex bicycle shorts under his golden loincloth, and his heavy Cupid’s bow lips all golden and inviting, he could almost fancy himself.
At first he had flatly refused to even consider what Baby Joe had suggested. But then Asia had spoken to him of how the others were relying on him, and how without him there could be no money, and he had started to reconsider. When Mary Rose had told him how stunning he would look, and how he was the only one who had the talent to pull it off, the old trooper had started to come out in him. When Baby Joe had called him a whining, sissy sack of shit who had been nothing but trouble from the beginning and that if he didn’t do it Baby Joe was going to kick the shit out of him in front of God and all the world, it had just about tipped the balance.
When he first stepped out onto the dais he had been petrified, certain that he would be discovered immediately. His anxiety was quickly dispelled and replaced by relative calm as it was soon apparent that no one had noticed the switch. The relative calm was gradually replaced by irritation that no one was paying any attention to him. The Living Buddha’s perpetual smile was on the point of becoming a perpetual pout when Long Suc motioned him to go and fetch the drinks.
The real Living Buddha was, meanwhile, struggling with his worldview, his inherent belief in the all-wise beneficence of the universe, and the fifteen yards of duct tape that bound his wrists and ankles.
Living Buddhas have certain expectations. For example, when they are approached by angelic, but dark-looking, teenaged girls bearing garlands and they bow their shaven heads to receive the same—all the while smiling serenely—they expect to be adored, embraced, and perhaps kissed.
They do not expect to be sapped to their knees, rabbit punched, and knee-dropped into unconsciousness. The object of Buddhism being heightened consciousness, not unconsciousness, they furthermore expect to awake to light and enlightenment, not bound and naked in c
omplete darkness with an ominous scratching taking place somewhere in the surrounding obscurity.
Wally, Baby Joe, and Monsoon had staked out the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha, with all entrances covered. Two of Wally’s older kids, a girl and a boy, were acting as runners, delivering acerbic messages between the three.
“Listen. How many guys did the general have with him?”
“That I could see, a fucking football team.”
“American or English?”
“You mean soccer?”
“I mean how fucken many?”
“Ten, twelve, maybe more.”
“Armed?”
“Is a baboon’s ass red? Fucken heavy artillery, man.”
“Showtime!”
“What?”
“Look.”
There was the case. A Black Toyota rolled to a halt and Booby and Giuseppe climbed out. Giuseppe had an embossed leather case attached to his left wrist by handcuffs for security’s sake. Obviously, machetes were not real big in the old country.
“Maybe it’s the money,” said Monsoon.
“Maybe it’s the Don’s laundry,” suggested Baby Joe.
Maybe it was filled with pornographic videos or kitchen appliances. Maybe the general was a closet model railway aficionado, and it was a train set. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was filled with the Don’s money. A very large amount of the Don’s money. Enough of the Don’s money to repay him for the shitstorm that the Don had sent to rain on him, and to put a serious burn on Don Ignacio fucking Imbroglio.
He watched as Giuseppe and Booby proceeded up the long, tree-lined gravel walkway, and under a golden arch into the gilded pagoda that formed the vestibule of the Temple of the Dawn of the Living Buddha.
“Those ratfuck sons of bitches,” Monsoon pointed out.
Baby Joe looked over to where Wally’s son was standing behind a blind streetlight, and gave him the prearranged signal. The boy grinned an exact replica of his father’s grin, and raced off.
Crispin was so far into character Lee Strasberg would have been proud of him. He was doubly concentrating. Concentrating on being the Living Buddha, and concentrating on the instructions he had been given. Serve the general first. Use your left hand, and spin the cup three times counterclockwise before offering it. Do not speak. Do not look into anybody’s eyes. Maintain the smile. If spoken to, put the fingers of your right hand to your forehead and bow slightly. Don’t fart. Serve the foreigners last, and quickly. They are the only ones who will look at you. Leave as soon as possible. As soon as it has taken effect hit the gong three times—twice, then pause, then once more.
His performance was flawless, except that at the end he couldn’t resist giving the cute one with the ponytail a little coy wink. He retired to the dais and assumed position as the general stood, followed by the henchmen. Booby caught on and stood as well, nudging Giuseppe, who gave him the evil eye and creaked to his feet.
“Very good do business with America man,” said the general. “Also no hard feeling for war. Betta luck next time. To my fren, the Don.”
For the sake of good manners he repeated the toast in Vietnamese, smiling at his guests: “I hope these two pederasts contract incurable wasting disease and die in writhing agony while on second last page of very long novel.”
One of the most remarkable features of industrial rhino tranquilizer is the speed with which it becomes effective. No sooner had the assembled company knocked back their drinks than they keeled over in unison, like the soldiers outside Fort Knox in Goldfinger. The choreographed collapse was so fast and hard that Crispin thought he might have overdone it a bit with the syringe. He was unable to restrain himself from performing an impromptu victory Charleston twostep, before rushing across the room and enthusiastically banging the gong. Within seconds Wally, Baby Joe, and Monsoon slid into the room and began gathering the weapons from the unconscious men.
Monsoon’s none-too-subtle sidle towards the case was halted by Baby Joe’s voice. “Leave the fucking case alone and get the weapons, dickhead.”
Wally began tossing the guns out of the window, under which were waiting his two children. Monsoon reached under the general’s tunic and pulled the .44 from the shoulder holster under his arm, and then drew back his foot to give the general a gratuitous kick in the testicles, to give him something to think about when he woke up.
As he did so the general, who was already awake, gave him a gratuitous kick in the testicles. Monsoon’s agonized scream and the general’s shouted order coincided with the sound of thirteen henchmen jumping to their feet. They stood at the ready, waiting for the general to give the signal. The room became a tableau, each participant held in place by the force of the tension that invested the moment.
“You think you more smart than me, America?” the general barked. “You think I no tell revered and divine Living Buddha from fat number-ten perfume pansy? You think we fall for old industrial-rhino-tranquilizer-in-tea ploy? You ignorant. You born ignorant, you live ignorant, and now you die ignorant. And, one more thing…”
Nobody ever found out what the “one more thing” was. In view of the fact that thirteen only-partially-disarmed deadly assassins were about to launch themselves at him, it seemed to Baby Joe an opportune moment to hurl the smoke grenade he had retrieved from one of them. He followed this with simultaneous fire from two AK-47s, one in each hand, set on automatic.
That’s when everything switched to slow motion, and it turned into the Chinese New Year. The Year of the Scapegoat. Lights began to flash as if he had just stepped out of a limo at a Hollywood premier, then a hundred jackhammers started up at once, Beelzebub lit a sulfur cigar and began blowing smoke down the passage, and someone started giving him a marble chip tattoo. He found himself rolling slowly forward like a scuba diver turning turtle, and in front of him someone was making popcorn and throwing firecrackers. The room went suddenly dark as a henchman decided to shoot all the lights out of the ceiling, and then—tired by all the activity—lay down on the stone floor and went to sleep. Forever.
The world fast-forwarded to real time, and Baby Joe rolled to his knees. A thick pall of red smoke hung in the air and a swarm of incensed fireflies zipped through it in all directions. A man fell at his feet, his mouth open to make some final comment about the injustice of it all, but the words died in his throat. Along with him.
A growing pool of blood spread along the smooth stone, insinuating its way into the cracks between the golden tiles. The dead man had two grenades attached to his vest. Baby Joe took one in each hand, pulled the pins with his teeth, threw one baseball-style in the general direction of the general and rolled the other across the floor. Two terrific explosions followed in quick succession, amplified by the closed room. Bizarrely, the gong resonated above the din, with a syncopated rhythm as if Buddy Rich were playing it. Something seared into Baby Joe’s arm, and he glanced at the small smoking holes in his sleeve. He saw shadows moving towards him through the smoke, and looked around frantically for another weapon.
A rhythmic percussive banging came from beside his ear. One two three, one two three. Like a waltz. The last waltz. The shadows fell over.
Wally kneeled beside him, grinning in the smoke like a deranged medusa. “Are ya gonna sit on yer bladdy arse all night, yer nong, or are ya comin to the dance?”
Wally had dived out of the window as soon as the smoke grenade had left Baby Joe’s hand, his first thought being for his children. He had had to give them stiff clout apiece to get them to run to safety. He had sat under the window with three AK-47s and emptied them over the sill in a spray pattern. He had then taken a .45 in each hand and rolled away to the next window and, standing back from the light, began to fire rhythmically at the shadows moving in the clearing smoke. One two three, one two three.
The firing had stopped, and there was an exaggerated silence after the twin explosions of the grenades. Wally handed Baby Joe a gun, and they crept behind a massive bronze Buddha and waited as the smoke slo
wly drifted out of the shattered windows.
Monsoon Parker felt strangely calm, almost euphoric, as if this latest in a series of seriously terrifying, life-threatening situations were just one seriously life-threatening situation too much for his brain to handle. His terror receptors shorted out, his brain switched from reality TV to MTV, and, as the bullets hissed past his ears and snatched at his actual clothes, he walked calmly through the maelstrom singing “Dreadlock Holiday” to himself.
As he strolled towards the forklift he did not break step or rhythm, even when a piece of the shattered gong smoked across his scalp and took out a three-inch strip of hair and his left earlobe. He even found time to say a pleasant “Hi” to an evil henchman, who was frantically struggling with a jammed weapon and was much too busy dying to respond to Monsoon’s greeting. Monsoon climbed into the forklift and started the motor, carefully looking behind him as he began to slowly reverse, exactly as if he had been pulling out of a lot in the local mall. The horrifying scream that came from under the forklift did not affect him one way or the other, and the bullets clattering off the bodywork and forks went unheeded.
He motored leisurely across the room to where the Machine Gun Jelly Buddha sat, smiling implacably. He was not hindered by the smoke and continued unfazed, as if he could see right through it, sliding the forks underneath the Buddha and hoisting it to waist height. He remained oblivious to the death and destruction raging all around him, even when the concussion from an exploding grenade ruptured his right eardrum.
When Long Suc materialized from the turmoil and smoke, snarling like a rabid hyena, and aimed a vicious swipe at his head with an enormous scimitar, he simply swayed his head enough to avoid the blade, and nonchalantly swung the steering wheel so that the vast MGJ Buddha bludgeoned Long Suc to the floor and under the wheels.
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 35