The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (40 page)

“
People keep saying that,” said Baby Joe.

“
You’re coming with us.”

“
They keep saying that too,” remarked Fanny.

Agent White produced her badge. “BATFE is who we are.”

“
We haven’t done anything,” Momo said.

“
Then you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about,” said Agent Black. He was staring at Endless Lee when he said it.

Endless returned his stare. “This is not America. You have no jurisdiction. You can’t touch us.”

“
No, but he can.”

Oblov walked in. Three officers walked in behind him.

“
Major,” said Agent White, “would you take these men into custody? I’ll clear it in the morning.”

Oblov nodded. He spoke to his men. They took Endless and Momo and Oleg by the arms and led them away. Endless and Momo looked at each other, but said nothing.

“
I’ll go down with them, just in case,” Agent Black said. He followed the Russians.

Agent White went up to Baby Joe at the bar.

“
We done?” Baby Joe said.

“
I guess. Thanks. I owe you one. What’ll it be?”

“
Bourbon.” Baby Joe grinned. “And since it’s on Uncle Sam, make it a triple.”

Agent White smiled. “Sure thing,” she said, and then to Fanny, “What about you, little lady?” She turned to look at Fanny for an answer. “Damn,” she said.

“
What?” Fanny asked.

“
Well, this is sure enough weird.”

“
What is?”

The first shots exploded before Agent White could reply.

***

As Asia stepped out of the taxi, an upstairs window blew out, and a brittle rain sprinkled around her. Crispin was still trying to shuffle his butt out of the cab when Militsiya Major Leonya Oblov landed on the roof and caved it in. Crispin was wedged. He screamed at Asia to help him, but she was already running up the steps into the hotel. She could hear shots and shouting and Russian and English; curses and screams and an ugly sound like nails being hammered into glass. The night porter tried to grab her but she pushed past him and ran toward the staircase, in the direction of the gunfire. As she came out of the stairwell the firing stopped, and she found another policeman down, with a bullet wound in his leg. His gun was lying by his side on the bloodstained carpet. Asia snatched it up as she ran past. On the corner of the second flight, she ran straight into Fanny.

“
Asia,” Fanny said, “we have to get out of here.”

“
I can’t. I can’t until I find Baby Joe. Have you seen him?”

“
He’s in the bar. He’s fighting with Oleg. We have to—”

Asia wasn’t listening; she was already running up the stairs.

***

Agent White moved fast, and with surprising grace. She rolled through the doorway of the bar. The door had a colored panel that depicted St. Basil’s Cathedral. As she came to her feet, a bullet shattered the painted glass. A fragment of the Sanctuary of St. Basil the Blessed sliced her on the cheek, close to her eye. She dropped to the carpet and instinctively put her hand to her face. It came away bloody. Three more shots sounded out, splintering the door. She couldn’t make out where the shooting was coming from. She crawled on her elbows and knees toward the head of the stairs.

That’s when she saw Agent Black. He was lying facedown on the steps. She slid down to the landing below and put her hand on his carotid artery. The pulse was strong. She stood and set her back against the wall. A movement caught her eye, below and to her left, and she spun around, assuming the Weaver stance. Momo Bibbs and Endless Lee were emerging from under the stairwell and heading for the door. Bibbs was limping and favoring his side.

“
Freeze,” she shouted.

Momo froze. Endless kept going. Agent White fired two rounds in quick succession into the marble floor in front of his feet. Chips stung his shins and he stopped.

He looked up at her. “That floor’s expensive.”

“
Tiles can be replaced,” she said. “Heads can’t. Don’t move.”

She stepped down toward them. Something hit her on the back of the head. She pitched forward and landed on the floor.

“
Neither can fucking teeth, bitch,” Endless said, kicking her viciously in the mouth.

***

It was a scene from a Saturday matinee. The barroom was empty, strangely silent after the gunfire, the customers having fled into the street, an overturned glass rolling on the floor. And the two gunslingers face to face. But neither said
This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.
Neither man said anything. They just stared. As if, in that moment of confrontation, they had come to an accord dictated by some bizarre, contorted samurai ethic, both acknowledging the other’s right and need to be there, kindred spirits recognizing that their salvations lay in the act of destruction, and each offering the other the chance of catharsis, and each respecting what they both knew to be true: that before him was an adversary who was at least his equal, and likewise a killer, and that the first mistake would be the last, and that only one of them would walk from that room while the other was carried from it in a shroud.

Oleg wasn’t making the same mistake twice. He came in slow, weaving and sinuous, like a mongoose, all speed and guile, but respecting the cobra’s bite.

He is old. But he will know many things because of it. Look at his scars. He is a survivor, and without fear. But he will be slow. And he will tire.

Baby Joe studied Oleg as he moved forward.
He is young. But he has been here many times before. And he is without doubt. He has taken many beatings, but has never been beaten. Not one-on-one. That will count. If he thinks he is losing, he will panic. He thinks he is in control, but I can change that.

Baby Joe kicked the glass that lay overturned on the floor. It cracked Oleg above his left eye, shattering and gouging out a piece of skin. Blood welled up and dripped into his eye. That was all it took. He lost his composure and charged in. Baby Joe was reminded of a goat, a rank wall-eyed ram. Baby Joe jumped forward as if to meet the rush, and then jinked and sidestepped. Oleg tried to change direction, but Baby Joe slashed down with his elbow, and another gash opened up on Oleg’s cheek. The elbow strike and his momentum were carrying him forward and down, but he lashed out with his heel as he fell. Baby Joe was able to swivel his hips and draw some of the venom from the kick, but it was too fast for him to avoid altogether. He felt a tearing pain as it hammered into his ribs.

Oleg rolled away, out of reach, and back up to his feet.
Stupid. He tricked you, and you let him. The kick was luck.

Baby Joe did not try to follow and catch him coming up. He flexed his shoulders.
Fuck, that was fast. And something’s gone. Felt like costal cartilage. If that would have hit me full on…

Oleg leaped, lashing out with ferocious kicks like a giant demented fighting cock. Baby Joe swiveled under the first two, twisting his torso and head like a running back, and blocked the third. It was delivered at full stretch and was the weakest of the three, but it still carried incredible power. One of those kicks could break his arm if it caught him full on. He backed away, but the bar stopped him. Another vicious kick came whipping up and Baby Joe weaved under it, but Oleg stalled and turned it into a knee. It bludgeoned Baby Joe in the temple and he went down.

Oleg knee-dropped Baby Joe in the back of the ribcage. A rib cracked. He threaded one forearm around Baby Joe’s throat and brought his other hand down, going for the classic rear naked choke. He was too eager. He had his face too close, and unprotected. Before he could close the chokehold, Baby Joe whipped his head backward. It was a blind and instinctive gambit, but lucky, and his skull connected with Oleg’s nose and lips. A broken tooth punctured Oleg’s bottom lip. More blood. Baby Joe reached around and grabbed Oleg’s testicles. Oleg grabbed Baby Joe’s wrist in both hands and turned it, simultaneously straining with his legs, heaving himself upright and pulling Baby Joe halfway to his feet. Oleg’s grip strength was phenomenal, and Baby Joe was compelled to release the scrotum to protect his wrist. He twisted around and sank his teeth into Oleg’s nose. Oleg bellowed and hurled Baby Joe away from him. The tip of his nose came away in Baby Joe’s mouth. They squared off, breathing heavily, and regarded each other. Baby Joe spat the tip of Oleg’s nose onto the carpet, then grinned at him. Oleg grinned back, as if the loss of the end of his nose was of no consequence. An inconvenience.

Oleg’s face looked as if it had been peeled, dark empty eyes peering out of a bloody mask wearing an expression of mild surprise, like a pig’s face hanging in a butcher’s window. But his wounds were superficial. They bled, but were not debilitating, at least for as long as the blood did not affect his vision.

It is blood, and pain and nausea, nothing more. I was right. He knows many tricks. But see how he
breathes. I was right about that too. He tires. I must only avoid being tricked again, and he is mine.

Baby Joe’s wounds were not so apparent, but were much worse. There was a swelling knot on the side of his head, and a flickering in his eye.

Fuck. This bastard is as clever as he is fast. The rib is gone for sure. And the eye. Maybe a detached retina. He’s bleeding, but that’s all. Look at his face. Behind the blood. He thinks he’s winning. That’s because he fucking is. Do something.

Baby Joe took a step forward, with the very slightest indication of discomfort, as if he were trying to conceal the extent of his injury. Oleg smiled and shook his head. Baby Joe shrugged. It had been worth a try. Except, the real trick was the joke. A shared understanding of the way of things. Humanity in a place where none existed. A game of football in no man’s land on Christmas Day.

Do we not share this insanity? Are we therefore not brothers in arms? Is the thing that separates us and sets us against one another not the same thing that unites us?

It was psychological sleight of hand, and it worked. Oleg was still thinking about it when Baby Joe attacked him with feral ferocity, faster than he had thought possible, turning him from aggressor into defender. It wasn’t his way to fight going backward, and Baby Joe caught him with a long jab and a vicious right uppercut that rattled his teeth together. Oleg probably didn’t know what a mandibular condyle was, but if he lived long enough, he was going to find out, because the one on the right side of his jaw was cracked. As his head flew back, Baby Joe chopped him in the trachea with the edge of his hand.

Oleg choked but he didn’t go down, and he swung at Baby Joe’s ribs. Five short swift punches, bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. Like speed bag work. Fast, but sacrificing power for speed.

The ribs. Punish the ribs.
They are broken. He will not support the pain.

It was a good idea, but the mistake was in the execution. One hard shot would have been better. The punches were sharp, knifing into Baby Joe and cutting short his breath, but they didn’t drop him and they didn’t stop him. He grabbed Oleg’s collar and pulled his head down and brought his knee up. One, two, three, like a soccer player juggling a ball. The nose was mushed again and the lips crushed against the jagged teeth. The third one thudded into Oleg’s forehead, heavy and leaden, and he felt the head flop. Still holding the collar, he changed feet and swung his boot up into Oleg’s groin.
Oleg fell forward onto his destroyed face and puked.

Baby Joe stood back and put the boot into Oleg’s ribs. He suddenly felt dizzy. He had to lean on the bar. He bent at the waist and lowered his head and watched Oleg.
Orthostatic hypotension. Blood pooling. It means you’re getting old. Make sure you get older. Stand up straight and finish this thing.

He reached behind the bar and grabbed the nearest bottle without looking. He glanced at it, elegant and elongate, the liqueur yellow and festive. The incongruity made him smile. Galliano. A pre-prandial.
A little something for madame, before you dine?