The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (28 page)

“
Hey, you,” the boss said. “What do you think you are doing? Dogs are not permitted on the course. Clean that filth up, take that animal, and leave at once, before I call security.”

“
I lost my ball,” Oleg said flatly.

“
You what? You are not even a member.”

“
My ball is in the water.”

“
Listen, you fucking serf. If you don’t…”

The boss suddenly found himself unable to speak. People often have trouble articulating when Caucasian sheepdogs are standing on their throats.

“
No, you listen. The ball belongs to Khuy Zalupa. Heard of him?”

The boss nodded as best he could.

“
He wants it back. Today.”

Oleg whistled softly and Bolshoi backed off. He sat, looking at the boss with eyes like a tramp looking through the window of a rotisserie.

“
How will I recognize the ball? There must be thousands in there.”

“
It has red writing on it.”

“
It might have dissolved.”

“
That’s your problem. Bring them all.”

“
But I’ll have to drain the pond. It will take…”

“
Put it this way. I don’t have some balls by five o’clock…neither will you.”

***

It was difficult to conceive that the same blood ran through the veins of Hyatt Breek and Khuy Zalupa. In fact, it was difficult to conceive they were the same species. Hyatt was strikingly good-looking. He had high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, and thick black curly hair that made him look like a gypsy, an effect enhanced by the large gold hoop he wore in his left ear. He had a slight, androgynous body and spoke with a quiet voice. People thought he was shy, but he wasn’t. He just didn’t see the point in talking to anyone unless they had something constructive to say, or could discourse about concepts that interested him personally. That left out ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population.

Hyatt was Khuy’s sister Alyona’s boy, recently graduated with distinction from MIT. If you wanted to discuss the Dirichlet boundary condition, or maybe chew the fat about the Nambu-Goto action, or perhaps shoot the shit about Riemann surfaces, Hyatt was your man. If you wanted to talk about anything other than quantum mechanics and string theory it was like trying to get a conversation out of a vacuum-packed clam.

Hyatt and Khuy were staring out of the grimy window of Khuy’s office, into the grim gray courtyard below. An ugly, discolored sleet fell. It made Hyatt wish he had stayed in Massachusetts. Below them was a battered ZiL truck filled with golf balls.

“
There they are.”

“
We need a Geiger counter,” said Hyatt.

“
No problem. I have one.”

“
There is a problem.”

“
Vhat?”

“
You can’t touch it. When the guy smacked the ball it ruptured the shield. The radiation is deadly. Anyone who touches it will die. It won’t be safe until it’s in the R3. It’s very simple to do, but you need someone ignorant enough to do it.”

“
No problem. I have someone.”

***

It was lucky for Crispin that he had drunk so much, although it could be argued that if he hadn’t drunk so much he wouldn’t have ended up in the slammer in the first place. But he was lucky insofar as he was bailed out before he was sober enough to fully comprehend where he was, or what kind malodorous new-meat-devouring miscreant guttersnipes were casting their predatory eyes upon him. It was actually the owner of the club who bailed him out, after the outraged patrons threatened to pull the joint down around his ears for calling the cops. The owner even went so far as to offer Crispin a gig, to which Crispin, who by that time was starting to recover his wits and his wit, replied by telling him he would not sully his cherub butt cheeks in such a third-rate fleapit and, speaking of ass cheeks, did the owner wish to kiss them both, just the one, or would he prefer right in the crack, before flouncing off to hail a cab.

When he got back to the apartment he found Asia in such a terrible state of distress that all remaining vestiges of inebriation evaporated and he was suddenly as sober as a guest at an Amish wedding.

“
Oh, Asia,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never, ever done anything like that before. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me.”

Asia stood up and ran over to him. She put her arms around him and clung to him hard, as if in fear of falling. “Crispin,” she sobbed. “Crispin. It’s not you. You didn’t do anything. It’s Baby Joe.”

“
What did he do?”

“
Nothing. He didn’t do anything.”

“
Did something happen to him?” Crispin said, suddenly anxious.

“
No. No. It’s not that. It’s…I…Oh, Crispin.” Asia’s shoulders began to heave and she lost control.

Crispin led her to the sofa and sat her down. He bustled off into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of gin and two glasses. He poured a formidable measure into each, handed one to her, and said, “Okay, missy. Now you just drink this, and then tell me what all this sobbing is about, hmn?”

Asia took a huge slug from the glass, and gulped and swallowed some more. When she came up for air she said, “Crispin, I made such a terrible mistake. I’ve been such a fool. I told Baby Joe we were through.”

“
You
what
?”

“
I told him it was over. That I couldn’t love him anymore. You should have seen the look on his face. And now he’s gone. And I love him and I want him back.”

Crispin scooched closer and put his fat hand on top of hers. “Listen. I don’t know what this is all about, but you can sort it out. Everything will be all right. We’ll go home, and you can go to him and make things right again. He’ll understand.”

“
No, you don’t understand. He’s not going home. He’s going to Russia. To Moscow.”

“
To where?”

“
To Moscow. He came and told me that he had to go. That it was something to do with some government agents, and national security, and something that had happened in the past, and that he had no choice. But I didn’t want to listen. And now he’s gone. And what if something happens to him? What if something happens to him before I can tell him how sorry I am?”

“
Nothing can happen to Baby Joe. That’s why he’s Baby Joe.”

“
It can. He’s hurt. He’s angry. He’s not thinking straight. You know how he gets when he’s angry. What if something happens to him because of me?”

“
Asia. He’ll be fine.”

“
But what if he isn’t? Anyway. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.”

“
Going where?”

“
Moscow. I’m going to find him and tell him how sorry I am. To tell him I want him back.”

“
Asia. Are you out of your tiny bayou brain? How will you find him? He could be on his way back already.”

“
I have to try, Crispin. Do you understand? Do you get it? I have to try. I’ll go insane otherwise. I can’t stand this. I really can’t. I’m going, and that’s it.”

Crispin looked at her hard. He tipped his glass back, drained it, and filled it again. “Oh, well. At least I’ll get to wear one of those darling Dr. Zhivago fur hats.”

“
What are you talking about?”

“
Listen, missy. If you think for one minute I’m going to let you go gallivanting around in Russia all by yourself, you’ve got another think coming.”

***

Monsoon had suffered a terrible fall from grace. That was because Grace was almost six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, and Monsoon was only five-eight and a welterweight, so he’d had to stand on a chair to give it to her from behind, and she had bucked him off. Monsoon thought it was because he had hit the spot, and Grace let him think it, but actually it was because she was trying to get the job over with so she could get home in time for her favorite soap.

Monsoon was about to climb back into the saddle when Khuy Zalupa walked into the room and told Grace to blow. And he didn’t mean in any sexual connotation. Grace blew. Monsoon didn’t. His frustration was hard to hide, but he covered it with a towel. However, he soon had that shrinking feeling when Zalupa said, “You no work for me no more.”

The circuits in Monsoon’s brain fried a fuse somewhere in between beg and plead and he just stared in helpless silence.

“
No. Now we partners. Here. We drink to success.”

Zalupa pulled a bottle of Stoli from behind his back and offered it to Monsoon. Monsoon’s brain fired up again and switched itself to obsequious mode.

“
Wow, Mr. Zalupa, I don’t know what to say.”

“
Call me Khuy. I need favor.”

“
Sure. Er, yeah. Anything.”

“
But first have bad news.”

Monsoon’s brainpan went on the blink again.

“
You fren. Elmo. Dead.”

“
Dead?”

“
Da
. Have stroke on golf course. One stroke too many,
da
?
Ha ha ha.”

“
Er, yeah. Er, ha ha.”

“
Da
. Anyway.
Fuck him. Dead is dead. He was partner. Now you. Make much dollar.”

“
Oh, great. So, er, what do I have to do?”

“
Take care of nephew few days. Jus’ come from America. Like speak English.”

“
Yeah. Yeah. No problem. How old is he?”

“
Nineteen. But very shy.”

Zalupa’s phone rang. He said, “Von moments.”

Monsoon reached for the bottle. His mind was racing, and so was his pulse. The pulse was winning. He was trying to figure the odds on this one. Generally news is either good or bad. It seemed like good news, so why did it feel so much like the old stinkeroo?
So I’m a fucking babysitter now? Who is the little shitbird, anyway?

Zalupa hung up.

“
You must to take very good care of Hyatt. Iz very special boy.”

“
Oh, I’m sure. I mean, if he’s your nephew, he must be.”

“
Da
. Hyatt genius. Was millionaire when seventeen years old.”

Hyatt immediately got promoted from little shitbird to fine-human-being-and-honored-guest status.

“
Jesus H fucking Christ. Where did he get the dough? I mean, er, oh, very impressive.”

“
He one smart fuckmother. Invent gay social network site. Sell it for serious shitload before even leave school. Know what he do then? Buy school, shitcan all teachers, and torch joint.”

“
Sounds like my kind of kid. When do I meet him?”

“
Arrive in afternoon. Make sure take good care. Don’t do nothing make me dissolve partner.”

“
Ha ha. I think you mean partnership, Khuy.”

“
No. I mean fucking partner.”

Zalupa stood up and, without another word or a backward glance, lumbered off to leave Monsoon to suck on the vodka and wonder what the fuck the four flushing, double-dealing, dice-shaving, card-palming, bill-rolling bastard fates were trying to pull this time, and what his chances were of coming out not only with his jeans pockets filled, but still in possession of an ass to put in them.