The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (26 page)

Monsoon was having a little trouble understanding why he wasn’t dead or dismembered, even though Zalupa’s breath had almost snuffed him all by itself. Mr. Zalupa had appeared somewhat dismayed to learn that the golf ball was missing. In fact, Monsoon had never seen anybody get so upset over something so trifling. It made one wonder how he would react if something really serious happened, like he lost his car keys, say. Khuy Zalupa at the height of his rage was the most terrifying spectacle Monsoon had ever witnessed. It was like watching two T-rexes fighting with chainsaws in the middle of a hurricane. Well, perhaps not quite that exciting, but not far off.

Of course he had explained effusively and in detail what had happened to the ball, making sure that Mr. Zalupa understood fully that if he had for one minute known how valuable it was, or if he had been given more explicit information about which particular golf ball he was supposed to deliver, he would never, ever, even at the cost of his life, have let it out of his sight. But, before Monsoon could even get into full begging-and-pleading mode, as suddenly as it began, the storm abated. One second Zalupa was deranged tree-swinging off-his-trolley fruit-loop crazy, and the next minute he was as calm as a librarian with a cup of tea, stroking her cat.

“
You work for me now,” was all Zalupa said, before he walked out of the room.

Someone untied Monsoon, showed him to a room in the house, told him where the kitchen and the bar were, and told him to make himself at home. There was even a TV with a twenty-four-hour porn channel. So as he was sitting on the sofa with a glass of vodka and a sandwich made of something that tasted like bear meat, watching three girls taking turns sticking it to each other with a polo mallet, he was once again left to reflect upon what the fuck was going on.

And, once again, the only conclusion he could come to was that Zalupa needed him for something. Maybe when old Elmo finally showed up, he would be able to shed some light on things. In the meantime…!

***

This time, the old piano player was playing “Begin the Beguine.” They were at the same table, drinking the same drinks. When they had told Baby Joe not to leave town at the end of their last encounter, he knew it wasn’t a figure of speech.

Agent Black was speaking. “We found out that this Monsoon character went to Moscow.”

“
No shit?”

“
Yeah, and that ain’t all. Elmo Yorke was booked on the same flight the following day; only he didn’t make the check-in on account of having some excess baggage wedged in his skull, from a mile away. Outstanding shot. Ex-military for sure.”

“
So why would they take separate flights?”

“
You tell me. How well d’ya know this Monsoon fella?”

“
What’s that supposed to mean?”

“
It means, how do we know you ain’t on the team?”

“
What fucking team?”

“
The Boston fucking Celtics. C’mon, Baby Joe. Cut us some slack here?”

“
Listen. I told you all I know, and I’m not involved. I haven’t seen the creep for years. It’s just a fucking coincidence.”

“
Yeah, well, we’re goin’ to Moscow.”

“
Bon voyage.”

“
You don’t seem to be getting it.
We’re
going to Moscow. You’re comin’ with us.”

“
Like hell I am.”

“
Like hell you ain’t,” said Agent White. “Look, Baby Joe, we hate to do this to you, honest, I mean it. But some serious shit is going down, and we’re only now finding out how serious it is. You can help. This Monsoon jerkoff, he knows you. That might be an angle. We don’t know. It might all be a fart in the wind, but we’re pulling out all the stops on this one.”

“
I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m a different guy now. I have a life. I live in Australia, for fuck’s sake. And I have some serious personal issues I need to take care of. Besides, I’m way too old for this kinda shit.”

“
Baby Joe. We wouldn’t be puttin’ the squeeze on you if it weren’t important. You gotta cooperate, man. Sooner or later they’re gonna find a dead voodoo motherfucker floating in a swamp somewhere. And then there’s still the deal with the Vegas wop we can dig up if you make us. Not to mention a bit of unpleasantness back in Boston a few years back. Plus, certain parties are not entirely convinced that you ain’t in on what’s goin’ down here. So c’mon, man. It’ll be better if you cooperate. A coupla weeks, and you’ll be back on the plane. Courtesy of Uncle Sam. We guarantee it.”

Baby Joe stared into his drink. He listened to the closing refrains of the song. “Well, looks like I don’t have much of a fucking choice. Asia is not gonna like this, that I can tell you for fucking free.”

Baby Joe raised his glass to the two operatives. “Let the beguine begin. God bless America,” he said, slamming back the bourbon.

***

It was the first time Asia had been out by herself since the incident. She had been telling herself that she felt much better than she had been leading people to believe. That she would be okay to be out by herself. Maybe she even believed it.

She had only gone three blocks before she understood that she had lied to herself. The people and the lights and the noise put the zap on her brain. But when you’re in the middle of quicksand, what do you do? Keep going, or try to go back. Back to where? Asia kept going. She walked down a side street. At the end was a small bar. She went in. She was the only customer. The day was fading like an old photograph. A sepia light, the color of nostalgia, came through the high window above the door and illuminated from behind the old man who played the piano. A jazz Rembrandt.

Asia took a seat at the bar. The stools were a little too high, and she had to hitch herself up. The barman was wiping glasses and nodding his head in time to the old man’s playing. When he saw her, he stopped wiping and came over. He was still nodding. He was a guy with slicked-back hair and a beeswaxed mustache.

“
Let me guess,” he said. “Hurricane. Am I right?”

“
Do I look that much like a tourist?”

“
No, ma’am, you look like a woman who’s seen more than she wanted to.”

“
And what’s the remedy for that?”

The barman held up a finger and walked away. The old man began to sing in his beautiful cracked-bell voice.

“
A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces.
”

The barman came back with a tall slender glass. Inside was a liquid the color of a cloud at sunrise. He placed it before Asia and walked away.

“
An airline ticket to romantic places.
”

She took a sip of the drink. It was like taking a mouthful of hot coffee with an ice cube in your mouth. She moved the glass from her lips and looked at it in surprise. It was clear, yet she couldn’t see through it. She swirled the glass. It seemed as if some shadow dwelt within it. She had the weirdest sensation that the drink was alive, that it was observing her. She took another drink. That time it burned, and tasted like smoke.

“
Oh how the ghost of you clings.
”

Am I losing my mind? I feel transparent. I feel weightless and crushed by the weight. I am afraid but I fear nothing. I am hollow. I echo with emptiness and yet I am full to overflowing with a love I do not feel. I have a hunger I cannot feed. A need that can never be fulfilled. Did I die? Really. Am I gone? From myself. From him. Am I lost? Was the string broken, were the breadcrumbs eaten by birds? Am I abandoned? Or do I myself abandon. Is something stolen from me? I feel everything and nothing. If I feel nothing, why do I cry? When they do a Cesarean, they tear the womb, because tears heal quicker than cuts. Is that true? Do they heal? Is a scar a message? That you can never run. Never hide. Never escape. Will I always feel like this? Do I have the strength for this? No. Does he deserve it? No. But I don’t know him anymore. I cannot be with him. I cannot touch him. Heimdall will not open the gate. I cannot pass. I want it, but I cannot will it to be so. The days have passed and so the night, and the storm has raged and turned me inside out and torn from me cries of passion and desperation, but the rope has parted and the chain is broken and the rain has extinguished the fire that burned and was supposed to burn forever, but oh, why did it not? Oh, why did it not? And the loneliness already howls in my soul but I cannot turn back for I am not who I once was, and neither is he, and neither are we, and where in God’s name will I find the strength to tell him, at this, the worst of times, and where will I find the words that I dare not speak and yet I must?

“
These foolish things, remind me of you.
”

Asia stood. The tears streamed down her face and dripped onto her blouse. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “How much do I owe you?”

“
Nothing. It’s on the house.”

The sweet remembered words stooped like a hawk and clutched her heart in their talons. “What’s this called?”

“
A Kiss from a Stranger.”

Asia lifted the glass. She poured it down in one. She looked defiantly at the bartender. “What’s in it?”

The bartender smiled. A car went past and turned the corner. The headlights briefly illuminated the barman’s eyes; they flashed wildfire red. He leaned forward.

“
Fucked if I know,” he said.

Asia walked toward the door. The piano player stopped playing and looked up as she passed. She looked at his milky pupils. He waved. He had two fingers missing from his right hand. She walked out into the young night. It was cool. A light rain had fallen and stopped. She looked around. A man played a saxophone on the corner. A group of young men walked down the street with their arms around each other’s shoulders. A cop watched them, twirling his nightstick. A man got out of a cab. He shouted something at his girlfriend inside. The door slammed shut and the cab drove off. The man stood in the middle of the street watching it go. A cat climbed out of a trashcan. A drunk was passed out in an alley. A big black car sprayed water from a puddle. Somewhere a glass broke. Someone sang. Someone shouted. A breeze picked up and riffled the sleeves on her blouse. The tears in her eyelashes turned the streetlights to diamonds. She turned and walked back toward the apartment.

To tell Baby Joe Young that she was leaving him.

***

“
Strewth. Strike a fucken light, mate. It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” Wally was expressing his opinion of the local meteorological conditions to the postman, who was driving him by sleigh to Bjorn Eggen’s house.

“
Ja
. For sure. You are seeing the big tree yonder. Vhen ve pass this tree, ve vill be inside the Arctic Circle.”

In truth, Wally wasn’t seeing much of anything. He had his parka zipper up as far as it would go, and his ancient dark eyes were peering out at the world through a furry tunnel, like some mythic creature staring out of a cave. There were four reindeer pulling the sled, and Wally was perched in the back like a dusky Father Christmas from some alternate universe, as black against the snow as if he had already climbed down the chimney.

Wally did not appreciate the cold unless it was in the form of a tin with Castlemaine XXXX written on the side of it. Fortunately, he still had his Army issue N-3B snorkel parka, which was good for up to minus fifty C. He needed it. The weather had been bitter all the way from Oslo, as if reflecting his state of mind. Normally, Wally loved a train ride. Sit by the window, suck back a few, watch the world rolling past. Look at the people and wonder about their lives. Think about your own. But this wasn’t normally.

As Wally was carried north, the perpetually somber skies began to weigh upon him. Standing at the small station waiting for his local train to
Gjudbumsenningbjerg
, he watched the rails gleaming dully in the half light, seeming to hint at some lonely desolate destination, and he felt his spirits sinking like the low amber sun that had barely cleared the horizon and was already disappearing behind clouds so heavy and close that he felt he could reach out and touch them.