The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (65 page)

Zalupa roared and came on; half-blinded and choking, still he came on. Baby Joe moved in. He grabbed Zalupa around his great bull neck and heaved. As the Russian predictably lifted him to slam him against the stone steps, he flung his legs up, as if doing a forward roll. It nearly didn’t come off. Zalupa’s strength was such that he almost managed to counterbalance Baby Joe’s weight. Almost. The fulcrum tipped beyond balancing point, and Zalupa went over backward. He tried to keep his grip on Baby Joe, but Baby Joe twisted away. He landed awkwardly, and fell backward a couple of steps. He felt the rib go again. He rolled to his feet. Zalupa came down like a felled redwood. His head cracked against the edge of the stair, and the blood spurted from his split skull.

Baby Joe jumped over him and turned. Zalupa was trying to get to his feet. Baby Joe stood off.

“
Listen,” he said. “Listen to me, you fucking stupid bastard. Stop. My fight is not with you. If you want to save Fanny, we have to cooperate. It’s the only way.”

Zalupa didn’t speak. He continued to try to stand. Baby Joe kicked him in the sternum. Zalupa wheezed—a broken accordion. He went down again. Baby Joe stood over him. He looked into Zalupa’s eyes, for some recognition, some sign that he had made contact. There was nothing. Just the cold, relentless implacability of a serpent.

“
Are you fucking listening? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?

Zalupa’s foot came up. It caught Baby Joe in the forehead. He went over backward, surprised. He hadn’t expected that. He watched Zalupa surge to his feet, his face barely recognizable as a face, his head dripping blood like some deformed vulture pulling its head from a carcass.

So, that was his fucking answer? So be it. Baby Joe was below Zalupa now, and he stepped closer. Backward was no good. If Zalupa landed on him, got his hands on him, he was a dead man. It was that simple. He knew what Zalupa wanted to do. He had to make him think he could do it. Zalupa did it. He leapt, bearing down on Baby Joe, a great, crushing, irresistible weight. Baby Joe barreled in. He got it exactly right: the point of momentum in Zalupa’s trajectory where the force of his weight was forward and not downward. Still, the weight was unbelievable. Baby Joe flexed his back and heaved. Zalupa slipped across Baby Joe’s back. He tried to grab Baby Joe but he could not, and he fell face-first. He put his arms out to save himself but his bloodied hands slipped of the edge of the stone. The bridge of his nose cracked on the steps and he went over headfirst. He lay still, on his back, with one arm trapped under him and his head at a weird angle.

Baby Joe vomited. He steadied himself against the wall, his chest heaving, never taking his eyes off Khuy Zalupa. It was a full two minutes before he felt sufficiently recovered to move. He stepped down toward Zalupa. Slowly. Cautiously. To make sure. A loud scream came from the top of the stairs. Asia. Baby Joe turned and began to race down the steps.

Chapter 21

In the end, it came down to the women. It always came down to the women. Baby Joe paused at the bottom of the stairs.
Think, man. Catch your breath. No time.
He bent over and bobbed his head around the door for an instant. He pulled back and closed his eyes, reviewing the snapshot. Six men. One of them Parker. One man standing by Asia. Two by Fanny, either side. Holding her by the ankles, forcing her legs apart. Two standing back to watch the stairs. But not watching—watching the other, the one standing over Fanny. Leaning in. Close. With a knife.
Nightingale.
An evil yellow daffodil. No blood. Yet. No guns. But there would be. How many out of sight? Two at least. The Arab lied.
No shit? So how many?
No way to know.
It will be what it will be. Deal with what you can see
. How far to Asia? Ten paces. Three seconds from a standing start. What else? A bell. Some statues. Monstrous gargoyles. Guardians? Of what?
We’ll see.
Wait—the bell. Shoot the bell. The cops will come. But soon enough? No. Enough thinking. Go. What about the other? Triage. Save the one with the best chance of survival. Save the one that can be saved.
No. Fuck that. Save the one you love, motherfucker. Go.

Baby Joe reached into his pocket. A coin. He threw it at the bell.
Goooong
. Louder than he thought.
Go
. The two by the stairs turned to look at the bell, then back. Too late. Last call. Baby Joe was on them, cracking their heads together. The blade of his hand across one man’s throat—he fell. Grabbed the other, drove him backward, head crashed into the stone. Nothing else sounded like that. Dead. The others turned. Reached. Fired. Chipping the stones. Thunderous. Pistols like cannons in the dank chamber. Keep moving. A gun in this one’s belt—stupid. Smith and Wesson revolver. Five rounds.
Go to the bell, behind the stone. Lead the guns away from Asia.
He fired on the run.
Bang. Au revoir
. Everyone was shooting, but wild. One rushed forward.
Bang. Dormez-vous, dormez-vous?
He fired as he fell.
Gong
,
gong
,
gong
—the bell again. The gun slid on the stones.

Nightingale. Shoot Nightingale. It might stop it.
Bullets hammered the bell, the noise incredible. Joyous. A savage, syncopated liturgy, summoning the faithful to die. Nightingale bleeding, Nightingale on his hands and knees like he’s looking for something under his deck chair.
Ridiculous. Shoot the fucker.

Five more came running. Running. Stupid, hastening to die. Shapes moved in the candlelight, flitting in and out of the light. Beautiful giant shadows danced on the walls and played on the vaulted ceiling. Shadows, or harpies?
Three rounds left. Fuck.
The other gun, on the stone. The same as this one. Five shots. How many shots hit the bell? Three. Three and two makes five.
Bang-bang
. One man went down. One staggered but stayed on his feet. The others pointed—flames. Something punched Baby Joe in the thigh as he jumped. Nothing. Superficial. He reached the gun.
Bang
. A man put his hands to his face where his nose was. He looked at Baby Joe.
Why?
He looked at the city, where his life was. He fell, but the others were still shooting. Someone tugged on his sleeve, tapping him on the shoulder. Something slapped him in the face. Lucky. One round left. One shot.
Make it count and find another gun.
They were everywhere, scattered across the floor, strewn like evil seeds.

Then the breath left him. He felt himself falling backward, spinning. An eagle gripped his collarbone in its talons and hoisted him from the floor and dropped him. There were sparks next to his face. Chips of granite lacerated his cheek. What the fuck?
Another gun
. Where?
There. Up there
. Aim and fire. His one shot. His last? He looked for Asia. Where was she? Smoke, people running; he couldn’t see. A dream unfolded in his mind. A gargoyle had come to life. It stood among the men, and something silver flashed. A reaper of men. A black harvester scything them down with fluid, silent movements. The gargoyle grabbed him and dragged him behind a parapet. It looked down at him and smiled.

“
G’day, mate.”

“
Wally.”

***

Monsoon was cowering on the floor in the fetal position, in a state of paralytic mortification, his eyes tight shut and his hands pressed to his ears, but he couldn’t shut out the noise of the gunfire or the infernal ringing of the bell. Something clubbed him on the head. Not hard, but heavy. He screamed and grabbed his head.
Fuck. Dead. The bastards got me at last. Funny, I thought it would hurt more.
Wait. He opened one eye. The Fab 13 shone in front of his face, alive in the candlelight. Like an angel, come to protect him. Beckoning him. Guiding him. Showing him the way.
Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you, Lord
.

Then he saw a hand—Nightingale’s. Reaching for the Fab 13. The electricity of greed ran through his veins, firing up his neurons and hot-wiring his flaccid muscles. He jumped up and stamped on Nightingale’s fingers. He smirked as he heard a satisfying snap. He grabbed the Fab 13 and ran.

Carl Lewis wouldn’t have caught him, and yet he seemed to be moving in slow motion. He felt happy. Serene. All around there were flashes of light, and gouts of blood and screaming, and the bells booming like Hawaiian surf, and bullets dinging and whining, and the air was a toxic soup of smoke and sweat and adrenaline, but the angels cast their spell around him and the paths of the bullets bent and turned from him, and he passed impervious and untouched through the battlefield and down the cold dark hallway, clutching his magic wand as if his life depended on it. Which it did.

***

“
Okay, drop that guy.”

“
I hate to do it. That motherfucker can shoot.”

“
That’s right. And he’s going to shoot fucking Nightingale.”

“
Oh, yeah. Right.”

Hard D lined up the crosshairs on Baby Joe’s face. The shot was embarrassingly easy. He studied the face: wild and fierce, but not scared. Just focused and mean. He had some kind of weird light around him. Hard D touched the trigger.

“
What the fuck are ya waitin’ for?”

“
It don’t seem right, Roll.”

“
Fuckin’ shoot, asshole.”

“
Fuck it.” Hard D squeezed.

Low Roll turned to him. “You did that on purpose.”

“
Yeah, well.”

Low Roll put the glasses back to his eyes. “Yeah, well, shit. That might come back to bite us in the ass. Finish the job. No, wait.”

“
What?”

“
The nigger. He’s getting away with the dildo. Drop that cocksucker.”

That was going to be different. That was going to be fun. A black guy against a black background—a running target, moving away, on a downward trajectory, in dodgy light. No fucking problem. Hard D aligned the sights on the back of Monsoon’s bobbing head, and let fly. The crack was surprisingly loud.

***

The shooting stopped. The sounds reverberated into silence. The bell stilled, the echoes slowly resonating into nothing. Incredibly, Maurice Chevalier still sang. Thank heaven for little girls. And then a new sound: the sirens.

Wally helped Baby Joe to his feet. Nightingale was still on the floor, nursing his broken hand. The light was feeble. Some of the candles hand been shot out, or knocked over, and those that remained glittered for the souls of the dead who lay twisted and contorted and heavy with the weight of all eternity, appearing in the gloom as strange, doomed beasts stranded on some alien shore.

Low Roll and Hard D lay dead in each other’s prurient embrace, with Low Roll crushed under the weight of Hard D’s bulk. They were surrounded by broken stone, and a hideous, gaping gargoyle head leered at them from the cobbles, mocking the frailty and foolhardiness of man.

“
Ya right there, mate?” Wally said.

Baby Joe grinned at him. “Yeah. Just my shoulder, and a few flesh wounds. I’ve been worse. I thought that might be you, you old bastard.”

“
Ya can’t give ol’ Wal the slip that easy, ya bladdy drongo. Sorry I’m a bit late. Some blokes downstairs didn’t wanna fucken let me in. Din’t like me togs, I reckon. ’Ad ter fucken convince ’em.”

“
Yeah. Well, thanks, brother. Listen, you better split. The cops’ll be here soon.”

“
What about that bludger Monsoon? I reckon ’e’s made off with the goods.”