Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  “Lissen. I’ll tell ya all about it later. Just stick it behind the bar, and don’t let any barstad touch it, okay?”

  “If you say so, Wal, but I still… ah, rippa. The fucken sheilas are ’ere.”

  As he spoke, a covey of painted harlots sashayed into the room to a rousing cheer and a barrage of flying hats. They were smiling and leering, winking, blowing kisses and sticking out their tongues, the immense Amazon in the vanguard driving a wedge through the packed press by main force. A suffocating bouquet of cheap perfumes bloomed around them as they pushed through to the makeshift stage, where the Amazon took the microphone. She was at least six-four and wearing a pink Basque, fishnet stockings that looked like real fish nets, enough war paint for a Comanche raiding party, and false eyelashes so long they were clearing more smoke than the ceiling fans.

  “G’day, mates,” she said, in a very creditable impression of Isaac Hayes, “are ya ready to root yer fucken socks off?”

  A second salvo of tossed hats greeted her comment, accompanied by a primordial roar of yells, yodels, grunts, and whistles, with a couple of animal noises thrown in. She held up her hand for silence. No one argued with her.

  “Right,” she said, “mosta you blokes been ’ere before, but for those who ’aven’t I’ll go through the rules. Ya get ten minutes. If ya go over, ya pay extra. Short arm inspection and frangers obligatory. No fucken rough stuff. Dirt box engineering by prior permission only. No smoking in the fucken saddle. It’s gonna be a long fucken night, so we’d best get to it. If any a you drongos’ve got any wonga left, you can buy us all a drink later. If we like ya, we might even buy you one, but don’t ’old ya fucken breath. Now, I’m Loretta, and I’ll be in number one. If ya prefer the dark side of the fucken moon, Rita’s in number two. For anyone who likes ’is fruit ripe, Sandra’s in three. For all you ex-navy boys, Jenny’s in four, and, if you think you’ve got enough meat in your sandwich, Marilyn’s in five. Now I know it ain’t romance, boys, but it beats the old five knuckle shuffle. Good on yer.”

  Loretta handed the mike back to Anna and led the ladies around behind the bar and out the back door. The first fight broke out immediately as everyone headed for the doors at once.

  “Strewth, ’ere we go,” said Stavros, reaching for the fowling piece.

  On the dark ridge above the hotel lights were flashing and, drowned out by the band and unheard by the rowdy mob below, small popping sounds like distant fireworks made faint echoes in the hills beyond.

  Magnoon Piastre’s fingers moved ever so lightly, barely touching the trigger, and two Vietnamese heads snapped back, the men dead before they even heard the shots. The other two reacted instantly, instinctively fleeing down the dark side of the hill into the sheltering night, away from the lights. It was a mistake, not that it would have made much difference. One got twenty yards before a measured burst from Dugong Heartache’s semi-automatic trepanned him. The second did little better. He managed to reach the bottom of the hill and secret himself in a pile of leaf litter at the base of a tree. He listened to his quick heartbeat, and to the faint rustle of leaves, and his eyes searched the starlight, and too late he heard that other sound which was Vladimir Pizda’s machete cutting the night air.

  They buried the bodies in a shallow depression and hid them with light covering of leaves and soil.

  “Somsing will dig zeze up before ze morning.”

  “So what? We’ll be long gone by then.”

  “Now what?”

  “Time for a little R and R. Let’s join the party.”

  “Bonne idée. Ah am ready for a drink.”

  “And me. Who gets to take care of the girl?”

  “We cut the deck. Aces high. Lowest card gets to do the fat one.”

  “I wanna fuck her before we waste her.”

  “Ah wish to fuck hair aftair we waste hair.”

  They were laughing as they trudged back up to the ridge, walking slowly on account of Gaspart Descourt’s bum pin.

  Things had quieted down somewhat, both in the bar and in the cabins behind. Most of the punters who had come for the girls were either spent, or else their money was. Loretta was standing outside the cabin with a beach towel stretched around her, enjoying a cigarette and a break when she saw a dark figure approach.

  “Come back in ten minutes, mate. I’m ’avin a break.”

  “It’s me, Wal.”

  “Jesus, Wal. I don’t think I can ’endle that after the night I’ve ’ed.”

  “Nah, Lol. It ain’t that. I need you to ’elp me. It might sound like I’ve lost me fucken apples, but I need ya to do exactly like I say. Come inside while I tell ya.” Wally ushered Loretta into the cabin, looking around carefully before he followed her in, and closed the door behind them.

  Lately, Crispin’s moods had had more swings than Battery Park, but he was definitely on the up tonight. He was letting it all hang out, and even if he didn’t have as much to hang out as he once had it was still pretty spectacular. After a few bottles the Australian sparkling wine that he was guzzling like it was going out of fashion had begun to taste like Bollinger, and when Anna had let him sing a couple it had been just like the sweet remembered days of old, with his adoring public rapt at his every word. The fact that half of them were so far gone that they couldn’t even see him, that most of them couldn’t understand a word he was saying, and that a peculiar-looking group of cripples in the corner kept making sheep noises, did not deter him in the least. He was a fucking star, baby, and fuck ’em if they couldn’t appreciate him.

  Asia was sitting outside on the veranda looking at the brilliant stars, distorted by the tears that were welling uncontrollably in her eyes. Seeing the prostitutes had upset her, and in her present despairing state she couldn’t help herself. That was it, really, wasn’t it? That is what she had really been doing. Five-grand-a-night suites and four-poster beds and room service bubbly didn’t change the fact that what she had been doing was no different to what those girls back there were doing. No different at all. In fact, worse. At least they were honest. At least they weren’t running around making excuses for what they were, pretending to be something else. She might just as well get up and go back there and help them. But she knew she wasn’t that tough. She was out here crying, wondering what was going to happen. Well, fuck it. She was going back inside, and getting drunk. And if those fucking spastics in the corner didn’t stop staring at her and giggling like a bunch of retards, she was going over there and straightening them out.

  He had stiffened when they first walked in, and had nodded to Bruce, who had gone to fetch Jimmy and Wally, and he had counted the locals who were still in any condition to help out if any shit started. But after a couple of hours nothing had happened. They had just sat in the corner, drinking and minding their own. They had seen Asia and Crispin, but so far they had not approached them, nor had they said anything to him. They kept sending the kid with the ponytail to the bar, as if they didn’t want to speak to him. Obviously they were just waiting until the place emptied out. It was already starting to wind down, and the band was packing up. Wally had told him not to worry, but he couldn’t help it. And where were those Asians? Stavros looked around the room. Maybe fifty people left. Some guy asleep on the floor, Bruce sweeping up broken glass, a game of darts at the back, TV flickering with no sound on, light looking too yellow, fans spinning slowly over it all, winding it tighter and tighter. Better change the shells in the scattergun.

  They say time is a great healer. But we’re not all afforded that luxury, and in a pinch a bottle of rotgut scotch and a sense of injustice will help some. Monsoon had roused himself, if not to a fit of righteous anger at least to the point where he was considering how he might escape his current predicament, beginning with how he was going to get the fuck out of this cellar. The whisky had not killed the pain entirely, but it was badly wounded and not expected to survive, and he was at least able to manage a decent hobble without yelping in pain every time he put his foot down.r />
  The cellar in the Big Blue Billabong had been designed to keep things in, with a view to preventing people from the outside taking things out as opposed to preventing people from the inside taking themselves out, and Monsoon quickly spotted the weakness in the system. The doors were locked from the inside, and with the ingenious use of a tin lid folded in quarters and hammered flat he was able to unscrew the two hinges.

  Outside the air was warm compared to the dungeon he had just been in, and he limped over to the shadow of the hotel. Peering round the edge of the building onto the veranda, he saw a fat man lying unconscious on the boards with a full beer beside him. Things were looking up. Monsoon grabbed the beer and sat down with his back to the wall, resting his foot and turning his thoughts to how he was going to retrieve his money and his drugs, steal a car, and head south after setting fire to this fucking shitheap hotel and everyone in it.

  He heard footsteps on the veranda and leaned back into the shadows. A stream of urine arched through the air, glowing in the light, and spattered onto the ground next to him. He was being splashed, but he didn’t dare move for fear of attracting attention. He heard the sound of a zipper and scuffling shoes and risked a peek to see who it had been. What the fuck? The little dipshit with the ponytail. Now what? He needed to get a better vantage point to see what was going on. Helping himself with the wall, he got to his feet and hobbled around the back of the building.

  “Hey, baby. Why’ncha come ’n sit with us? You too, Krispy Kreme.”

  It was starting. Dugong Heartache had ambled over to the bar where Asia and Crispin were sitting. Stavros had been right. They had been waiting. Apart from them, there weren’t more than half a dozen people left in the bar, and they were all out of the game. Stavros quickly strode through to the office, where he found Wally on the phone.

  “Wal.”

  Wally held a hand up, and kept talking. “You sure you got it straight? Yeah. One hour? And don’t forget. Right to the very end. The full version. Yeah, I know that. Lissen, Wayne, this is fucken important, mate. Life an’ fucken death. Don’t fuck it up, all right? Bonza. One hour. Too fucken right, mate. Yeah, you too. Good on yer.”

  As soon as he hung up, Stavros said, “Wal, we got a problem. Those fucken raspberry ripples are startin something.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “One of ’em’s talking to Asia. You should’ve let me tell ’er an Crispin that those were the guys.”

  “Nah, mate. No point in scarin ’em for nothin.”

  “Fuck me, Wal. It ain’t nothin. I betta get Bruce an’ Jimmy.”

  “I told ’em to stand back.”

  “What the fuck d’ya do that for, ya drongo?”

  “I got it covered, Stav.”

  “So what are we gonna do, Wal?”

  “Give em a fucken drink.”

  “Do what? ’Ev you gone fucken loopy, or what?”

  “Nah, mate. Trust me. It’s sorted. Get us a tray, and seven glasses.”

  Back at the bar Asia suddenly understood and looked around, but there was nobody in sight. No Wally, no Stavros, no Jimmy, no Bruce. She looked at Crispin. He shrugged.

  “Okay,” she said.

  They followed Dugong back to the table. The man with one eye stood up, and with exaggerated courtesy offered her a chair. She sat down, with a mocking curtsy.

  “Pull up a chair, Slim,” the one with red hair said to Crispin.

  Crispin sat next to the one with the missing hand and the dark Mongoloid eyes that stared at him over cheekbones like marble. He looked at Crispin like he wanted to eat him, and not in any connotation of the word that Crispin would have been comfortable with.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” the one with the artificial leg said, bowing his head.

  “Vous et français, monsieur?” Asia asked.

  “Mon Dieu, non. Je suis Belgique, mademoiselle. Sacre bleu. Français. Merde.”

  Dugong Heartache was about to speak again when Stavros emerged, bearing a tray with seven beers and seven shot glasses on it.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “since you’ve bin such good customers, an’ since yer the last dogs to die, so to speak, I’d like to offer ya one on the ’ouse.”

  Asia and Crispin looked at Stavros, but he avoided their eyes.

  “What is this shit?” Curtains was curious to know.

  “Ah, local speciality, mate, fucken dingo killer. Rippa stuff. Get it down yer. Good on yer.” Stavros set a shot and a beer in front of everyone except Asia.

  “Don’t I get one?” Asia said, taking the opportunity to catch his eye and give him a meaningful look. Stavros’s easy smile told her nothing.

  “Nah. We don’t give it to sheilas. Too much for ’em. What’ll you ’ave instead?”

  “Is that so?” she said, miffed despite the gravity of the situation. “Some of that sparkly wine stuff, then,”

  “Glass a bubbles comin’ up.”

  The men were all looking at each other as Stavros walked away.

  The one with the red hair picked his glass up and sniffed it. “Smells like brandy to me.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Out here? These fucking primates? Nah.”

  “Gaspart?”

  “Ah doubt zey ’ave ze sophistication. But you nevair know. Give it to zis one.”

  Vladimir took a shot glass and handed it to Booby, who had not spoken the whole evening, and except when dispatched for more drinks had just sat there, withdrawn inside himself, listening to his music in his head. Waiting. Waiting for the whole thing to end, to get away from these insane people. To get home. Expressionless, not really understanding what was going on, he chugged down the drink. The others stared at him.

  “So?” Curtains said.

  “So what?”

  “So what is it, asshole?”

  “Tastes like brandy.”

  “Give the doughnut some.”

  Magnoon handed Crispin a glass. He snatched it rudely. He was getting a bit fed up at the way he was being spoken to by these people, even if they were cripples, and if it didn’t stop they were going to get the sharp end of his tongue. He tossed it back.

  “Brandy. Big deal. I believe the landlord has lemonade available if this is not to your taste.”

  “Ooh, careful boys, the puppy bites,” said Dugong, raising his glass.

  “Fuck it,” Magnoon said, knocking his back.

  The others followed suit.

  “So,” said Dugong, “now that we’re all acquainted, where’s the fucking…”

  “Hi, boys…”

  They all looked round as Loretta led Rita, Sandra, Jenny, and Marilyn across the floor. “Mind if we join you blokes? We’ve ’ad a rough night.”

  “I’ll say,” said Rita. “My minge feels like a fucken welder’s glove.”

  “At least it’s only your minge, luv,” said Marilyn. “I’ll be lucky if I can shit before fucken Wednesday.”

  The girls began to shriek like harpies and set about pulling up chairs. The members of A.S.S. exchanged glances.

  Gaspart shrugged. “Pourquoi pas, mes amis. Life is short, non?”

  “Yeah, it can wait. What can we offer you ladies?” Dugong said.

  “Champagne, a course, ya fucken drongo. Don’t think we’re cheap just ’cos we’re fucken cheap.”

  More squeals of laughter.

  Stavros brought the champagne over, and then more, and there were toasts, and dirty jokes traded, and the girls began bombarding Crispin and Asia with questions about Las Vegas, and they began to relax. But gradually the men from A.S.S. withdrew from the conversation, becoming quieter and quieter, until they were just sitting, staring at the others, and glancing at each other.

  Dugong Heartache said quietly, “Okay.”

  There was a startling crash as the table went over. Vladimir elbowed Crispin in the eye, knocking him backwards off his chair. The peculiarly musical sound of six women screaming simultaneously echoed through the now-almost-empty room, as the five men
each produced guns from behind their backs.

  Thereafter, it was all done quietly and very efficiently. Gaspart herded the terrified girls and the few remaining customers into a corner. The one man who protested was knocked unconscious with a backhand swing of a gun butt. Vladimir took Asia and Crispin, who already had a large swelling above his eye, into the opposite corner and made them kneel on the floor, facing the wall. Curtains and Magnoon vaulted the bar and came back dragging Wally and Stavros by their collars, with guns held to their heads. They were pulled to the same corner as Asia and Crispin and made to kneel beside them, but facing back into the room.

  “Now listen.” Dugong pulled up a chair and spun it round, sitting with his chest resting against the back in his best B-movie gangster style. “These two are gone.”

  Crispin whimpered, and Magnoon hit him on the back of the head with his gun. He raised his hands to his head, and began to sob.

  “As I was saying,” Dugong continued, “these two are history. You, I oughta shoot you for fucking lying to me. But I won’t, if you do the right thing. You, I heard ya on the radio, so I know you know what’s going on. I know about the old dame, and she’s gone too. Now, it don’t matter to me whether I shoot you or not. But if you don’t tell me in five seconds where the money and drugs are, you and your pal are dead meat. Now you know we’re gonna find it anyway, even if we have to demolish this shitpile, so why don’t you be a smart guy, and tell me.”

  Wally took a deep breath. “Sorry, Stav. It’s in the office. Under the floorboards.”

  “Vladimir.”

  There ensued a period of what was, for the captives, unbearable tension, and for the captors light entertainment, the silence broken only by the whimpers and sniffles from Crispin and the girls in the corner, and the sound of furniture being moved.

  Vladimir came back. “Bingo.”

  “Good boy,” Dugong said to Wally. “Now, all we need is for your pal and fat boy here to help us load up, and for you to tell us where the other one is, and we’ll be on our way.”