Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  Handyman looked at his watch. Shit. He was late picking the kids up. One lousy beer, that’s all he’d had time for, and he hadn’t even been able to watch the end of the game. He grabbed his pool cue, went rushing out of the door, and ran smack into a preacher, nearly knocking him over.

  “Oh, Father, forgive me. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, my son. No harm done. No harm at all. Goodnight to you.”

  “Goodnight, Father, and sorry again.”

  Handyman dashed across the street and round the corner. It wasn’t until he got to his apartment that he realized his wallet was gone. Would you fucking believe it? A priest! You can’t trust any bastard these days!

  It’s not nice to be ignored. It is especially unpleasant when you feel that you are being ignored for prejudicial reasons. But when the heavyset African-American gentleman had been ignored when he had stopped into the bar for a drink, an hour ago, it had not bothered him at all. It had not even bothered him when people who came in after him had been served before him, something that most people find infuriating. Even when the bartender had been, not exactly rude, but certainly offhand, he had not been offended. In fact he had been pleased. So pleased that when he ordered his second drink, he made a point of smiling at the bartender, and even when this smile was not returned he had not been upset. And when he had had finished his second drink, although he made a point of not leaving a tip, he had smiled courteously before he left.

  Thus, one hour later, he was neither surprised nor offended when the receptionist at Don Imbroglio’s apartment building had made him feel about as welcome as a pork sausage at a Saudi wedding.

  “Yeah?”

  “Good evening. I’m here to see Mr. Harris.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “Listen, I need to know why you want to see him. It’s my job, see.”

  “I see. Well, I spoke to him on the phone, a little earlier. I’m returning something that belongs to him.”

  “Wait.”

  The receptionist walked to the other end of the counter and picked up the phone. He spoke a few words, looked back at the African-American gentleman, and laughed. His good humor had evaporated by the time he hung up and returned.

  “Second floor,” he said, his face a mask.

  The gentleman thanked him, and turned away.

  “Hey.”

  “Yes?”

  “The bag.”

  “My bag?”

  “Yeah. The bag. You got to leave it here. Regulations.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, here you are, then.”

  The receptionist took the brown, doctor-style case from the man without comment. He watched him wait patiently for the elevator, chatting pleasantly with the security guard, and watched the doors close behind him, and then picked up a telephone, a different one than the one he had used before.

  “Yeah. Some shine just went in to see Handyman. How the fuck should I know? I’m just telling ya, like I’m s’posed to. Yeah, yeah, up yours too, asshole.”

  Some people find watching television interesting, others find it boring. Eric found it tedious to an unimaginable degree, but that was only because he had to watch the same program eight hours a day, every day. It was called “People Walking In And Out Of Doors And People Getting In And Out Of Elevators.” What made it even worse, most of the time these were the same people. And you had to watch the program, even if you had seen it many, many times before, because if you didn’t the boss got really angry, and really bad things happened when the boss got really angry. The only diversion was when you got to speak to that dipshit reception guy Klaus and rattle his cage, or the extremely rare occasions when something unexpected or surprising happened.

  Like, for example, when a guy got into the elevator on the tenth floor, who had never even entered the building. The bald guy who kept his head bent, like there was something wrong with his neck.

  Eric picked up the phone. “Hey, dipshit. How come you never rang me ’bout the dude on ten?”

  “What fuckin’ dude?”

  “You s’posed to ring me every time someone we don’t know gets in the elevator. Some turkey just got in on ten. Bald-headed guy.”

  “Listen, asshole. Having you as a camera operator is like having Britney Spears as a singing instructor. The only one been in or out for an hour is the nigger.”

  “Yeah, I seen him. He got off on two. But what about…?”

  A noise, equally puzzling and alarming, cut short the conversation. Eric heard what sounded like an explosion at the other end of the line. He glanced back at the screen just in time to see the intruder fingering the code buttons. He banged on the alarm button, while simultaneously shouting “Fuck” into the receiver. Klaus wasn’t listening. He had been distracted. Small thermite charges in doctor’s bags will do that to you.

  Never open the door to strangers, even if you have a gun in your hand. A wise policy, which Handyman Harris would have done well to heed, because when he opened his door with a .38 in his fist—with which, being fairly convinced he was being scammed, he intended to convince the stranger to give him back his wallet—the stranger karate-chopped him in the neck and knocked him out stone cold.

  Baby Joe had correctly identified the fire escape as the chink in the armor. After he cold-cocked Handyman he pulled off the wig and the false stomach that held the Glock, his Heckler & Koch, and spare clips for both, and which concealed a lightweight bulletproof vest. He prepared himself and pushed through the fire doors at the end of the corridor.

  He did not attempt to run up the staircase, as it is hardly ever a good idea to get involved in a gunfight with the mob when you are out of breath. Even so, he was breathing a little heavily by the time he came through the fire door on the tenth floor. He took deep breaths as he waited for the elevator, and had steadied himself by the time it arrived. Stepping through the opening doors he punched in the code and sat on the floor.

  Baby Joe’s fears about Liberty’s ability as a marksman had been unfounded. He wasn’t a much better shot than he was a pugilist. But even he could hit the back of an elevator at ten feet. But a strange thing was happening. As the bullets spewed from his gun it seemed to be getting heavier, instead of lighter. So heavy, in fact, that Liberty could no longer lift it, and had to drop it onto the carpet.

  And then something even weirder happened. He saw this carnival clown, like a black and white minstrel with a black face and a white shiny bald head sitting on the floor of the elevator, shooting at him. Then he saw something even more disturbing.

  Nothing at all.

  As the slugs from Liberty’s gun rattled into the steel wall above his head, Baby Joe measured three shots. The first one hit the big man in the stomach, the second just left of the heart, and the third went through the bridge of the nose, toppling him forward like a felled redwood.

  Baby Joe was up and running, all light and speed and clarity, every detail as sharp as a razor, every sound a bell. A bespectacled figure came running from a side room, stopped, and tried to run back in. Two angry wasps from the Colt followed him and stung him to death. The barrels of Baby Joe’s guns swung like black eyes and stared at the closed wooden doors, behind which was the Don. Baby Joe’s own eyes stared too.

  Closed. Why hadn’t he expected that? He backed along the wall, away from the doors, towards the side room. He stuck the Glock around the doorframe, pumped three shots into the room at knee, gut, and eye level, and dived past the door, glancing in as he went. By the time he had rolled to his feet he knew that the room contained only a bank of cameras and their dead operator. Stepping over the body, Baby Joe moved up to the monitor, which still displayed the prostrate form of Liberty. It was strange how you could tell that he was dead, and not just lying there, as if somehow dead people reflected light differently.

  Baby Joe took the little joystick and tilted the camera until it focused on the Don’s door, and panned back. It had been a
cute move, but how long could he afford to wait? The phones would be red hot by now, and someone was already on the way and it probably wasn’t the cops, although they might be coming too. Put yourself in the Don’s place. What would a blind man do? He knows you don’t know how many are in there. All he has to do is wait. And what if he’s not blind, what if you were wrong about that? Like you were wrong about figuring the doors would be open. All these what-ifs can get you killed. Your move.

  Quiet again. My people must be down, or they would speak. Maybe him, too. How can I know? Does he watch on the camera? Is he that smart? If he is, then he knows I can wait. Does he know of these, these warhorses who chafe at the bit? These dogs. Shall I release them? Will he call my bluff? And die. He will die anyway. And what of the bomb? Does he have more? He is one man. I must finish this.

  “Pepe, Luigi, go. Carlo and Bruno, stay here.”

  Watching television. Dull program. Nothing happening. Fuck this. Do something, or go. He knew that.

  Baby Joe started to move just as the doors burst open and a short swarthy man leaped out, blasting the empty space with a pump-action shotgun. Behind him another, taller, shooting with an automatic rifle. Behind them, the doors closing again. They ran down the corridor, shooting through the open doorway of the camera room. He was protected by the angle, but the noise was like every thunderstorm that ever raged, like giant waves booming onto the beach. He counted the blasts from the shotgun, one hand protecting his eyes, seeing the door and doorframe splintered, watching the plaster being shredded at chest height, glad it was absorbing the bullets and not letting them ricochet. The men moved out of range of the camera and as the angle narrowed the slugs from the automatic rifle began to hit the back wall of the room, but the shotgun fell silent. Baby Joe stuck the Colt around the door and emptied it in a fan pattern, aiming three feet off the ground. He watched the automatic ripping up the ceiling, meaning the barrel was up, and stepped round the door.

  Luck or skill, it didn’t matter. The short guy fumbling with a cartridge and the other lying on his back, shot through both legs. More ifs. If the man with the automatic had known enough to spread his shots and not shoot in the same place. If the guy with the shotgun had had another weapon. If the stillness of the shotgun had meant something else. Ifs will kill you. The automatic fell from the man’s hand as a bullet from the Glock went through his temple. The cartridge tumbled from the other’s hand as he attempted to aim the empty shotgun, with terror written on his face.

  The Glock took it away.

  Silence again. Ours. His? The story was written in sound. The shotgun stopped. A duet, pistol and rifle. The rifle stopped. The pistol spoke again. Once. And then silence. Do you grow afraid, old man? Are you now afraid of the dark, which has been your house? How long has it been? Others will come. And find what? This is one man. If one man can do this, there will be nothing left anyway. It must be ended before. Does he know this? Carlo and Bruno began to shout. He silenced them with a word. The word of Don Ignacio Imbroglio. He still had that. He would keep it.

  “Carlo.”

  Baby Joe backed into the camera room, working by feel, watching the screen as he dropped the clip from the Heckler & Koch, the click sounding loud as he slipped the new one in. He dropped the half-empty Glock clip into his hand and slid it into his pocket, plugged in the full one, and pumped bullets into the chambers of both guns. The butt of the shotgun lay just outside the door, and he ducked down and grabbed it.

  He heard voices—two men yelling, then a third. The Don. Then quiet again. Two more. At least two. Fuck. From where? He had watched. He had watched and still not seen. Had they already been there? Had he missed them? Had they come in the day, while he watched the nights? What difference did it make? There was there. Make them be not there. He watched the screen. Nothing. The man’s ankle was in reach, and Baby Joe took ahold and hauled him backwards. Heavy. Dead weight. Watching the camera, he fumbled in the man’s pockets. Three cartridges only. One outside on the floor. Too far. Leave it.

  He slotted the three into the chamber, not taking his eyes from the screen. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes since the shooting, three minutes or three seconds, or three years. Too long. A lifetime if he didn’t move. He put the pistols on the floor in the doorway, butts facing outwards. Evil symmetry, like sinister book ends. Checking the screen, checking the corridor with a flick of his head, he took up the shotgun, stepped out, and blasted the three cartridges into the big doors, high, low, and center. Releasing the scattergun and picking up the pistols all in one movement, he ran, following the explosions and smoke down the hall.

  Something came rolling out of the doorway, something small like a toy, as if there should be a dog scampering after it. And then it became the biggest thing in the world. Bigger than the moon. A grenade. A fucking grenade! It was at his feet and he was in a confined space and he was going to die. They used to lie next to them. Impact, up and over. Superficial damage. Too close. Falling backwards, half thinking, half in blind rage, he kicked the grenade like soccer ball. A small bone in his foot snapped, but he did not feel it. A wind arose in the corridor, a sudden wild wind. A typhoon, filled with hot nails and razor blades. A demon lived inside it, a screeching demon with fiery sulfur breath and long bloody talons. The demon took him about the chest in its claws, and slammed him against the wall, and stole the air from his lungs and the sound from his ears. And then the demon and the wind went away and he could see what they had done.

  They had torn away the doors, and scattered wood and plaster and blood, and they had taken away time, so that everything happened in slow motion, and they had spirited away noise, so that the world moved in silence, and a pall of smoke from the demon’s breath still hung in the air. And through these gray wreaths he could see a man trying to stand and he tried to raise his raise his right hand to shoot this man but he could not. Ponderously, as if he were moving underwater, he lifted his left hand and aimed the Heckler & Koch and pulled the trigger. He felt the gun kick, but no sound came from it. The man stopped trying to stand up, and instead lay down and lay still.

  Baby Joe tried to lift himself up, but his right arm would not work. He rolled onto his knees and got his back against the wall. Letting the H & K drop from his left hand he reached across and took up the Glock, which lay beside him. The fingers of his right hand dripped red and his trousers were wet. Pushing his back against the wall, he levered himself up and tried to take a step forward, but his vision blurred and he had to lean back against the wall. He vomited down the front of his vest. He rested there a moment, breathing heavily, trying to stop the room from whirling around, trying to extinguish the flares and fairy lights that danced in his head.

  The demon brought the sound back, sending it roaring down the corridor like a train in a tunnel, shaking him, calling him back. Steadying himself, Baby Joe stepped into the chaos of the room. Here, too, the wind and the demon had played together. Shattered glass sparkled like frost in the deep carpet, broken furniture lay strewn about, and the monster had clawed deep grooves in the walls and ceiling. One man lay in the doorway and another by the Don’s overturned desk.

  The breeze blew through the broken windows, billowing the curtains, and between their shredded veils Baby Joe could see Don Ignacio Imbroglio standing on the balcony, looking out over the city as if in contemplation of some great mystery.

  Chapter 26.

  Stavros had only been partially lying when he had told the members of A.S.S. that the Big Blue Billabong was full on account of all the sheep shearers. He had told them that because he wanted them to think that the place would be full of wild and woolly Aussies, who could deck a camel with either hand and buy it a drink afterwards. Actually, the Big Blue Billabong was going to be full on account of the busload of hookers that were coming up for the Saturday bash, wild and woolly sheilas who could deck a camel with either hand and buy it a drink afterwards. A band from Cairns was flying in, too, a raucous and violent rock-and-roll outfit with a great loca
l following, the appropriately-named Vulture Skull Hangover. All of which meant that the hotel was going to be full to the rafters with every swinging dick within a two hundred mile radius who had the price of a pint and a piece of tail, and many who didn’t.

  Crispin and Asia had decided to return to Blue Billabong with the others and see what happened. What else were they going to do? Crispin had just about given up anyway, and his pompadour was hanging over his forehead in a sorry remnant of the pomp of its glory days, as if it too had wilted under the constant strain. All the shocks and nasty surprises, never knowing from one minute from the next what was going to happen, always something jumping out at you like on one of those hokey old Coney Island ghost trains. Ironically, for all his despair he looked better than he had in years. His trials and tribulations had taken a few pounds off him, and exposure to the southern sun had banished the pallor of his air-conditioned Vegas nightlife existence.

  Asia looked absolutely magnificent, with that special wide-eyed fragile beauty that sadness seems to lend to women. Not having been in a position, especially in recent days, to give the best of attention to her toiletries, she did present a somewhat primitive appearance, but rather than suffer from it, it had bestowed upon her the advantage that the wild rose enjoys over the cultured. Sick with worry about Baby Joe and desperate to hear from him, something inside of her yet sustained her confidence, her belief that everything would be all right and that one day he would walk through a door, or around a corner, and tell her that it was done. That it was over.