The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (63 page)

Three of the men got out. They went to the trunk and took out a violin and a guitar. One of them walked into the street. He came back after ten minutes and told the driver to drive around and park the car at the other end of the street, near the entrance. The three men advanced toward the cafés. They made Monsoon walk in front of them. They began to play. The other one sang. Monsoon didn’t know shit about Romany music; otherwise he would have known the guy was singing about love and betrayal. Monsoon could see Asia and Crispin sitting outside. He saw Crispin lean over and whisper something to Asia. She laughed. The man with the guitar looked at Monsoon. He nodded. They were only yards away from the table. A waiter came out of a café with a tray held at eye level, piled with plates of crêpes.

Monsoon suddenly shoved him. He went flying. He fell over a lady in a chair. People stood up to see what was happening. Plates were everywhere. People were splattered with sauce. The lady was covered in flaming Grand Marnier. She shrieked and then started to cry. The waiter stood and tried to wipe her with a serviette. The husband punched him. Monsoon ran for it. The singer turned to follow, but the violin player held him back. The singer shrugged. They sidestepped the chaos and headed straight for Asia and Crispin’s table.

Monsoon dashed out of the street at the opposite end from where the car was parked, stopped a cab, and climbed in. He smiled out of the back window as the cab pulled out into traffic and drove off into the Parisian night.

After looking up and down the street, Monsoon sleazed into the bar opposite La Goulue. It was called The Tropic of Cancer. He hadn’t noticed before. He hoped that one-eyed bitch developed cancer of the cunt. The bar was busy; that was good. It was warm and somehow comforting to be in all that malodorous press of humanity. He squeezed into a spot right at the far end of the bar where there was a shelf that you could put your drink on. After several shots and a few beers, he started to feel better. He looked around. Most of the poor schmucks in there were worse off than him. At least he still had chances. Those poor bastards were born with a stripped deck.

It was time for a congratulatory sip. When it came to giving suckers the slip, Parker was
nonpareil
. Even though he said it himself, he had to admit that he had pulled off some pretty genius moves. He had set Fuckfaceski and Baby Joe on a collision course, and then given Baby Joe the air with considerable panache. Plus, he had also set Young up as the fall guy with Nightingale. It not only got him out of there in one piece, but when that French slimebag tried to put the arm on Baby Joe, that would be all she wrote, and you could subtract one pomaded ponce from the population of Paris.

So that would leave nephew Hyatt and either Baby Joe or Zalupa as the last men standing. Given what he knew as opposed to what he only surmised, the smart money would be on the legendary Mick, but that could go either way. If Baby Joe happened to get himself eighty-sixed, then the husky Russki and Hyatt would be just a simple equation. Two into one won’t go, and sooner or later that would resolve itself into a prime number, and his guess was that Hyatt would be history; but that wasn’t really his concern, because he knew now that there was no doing business with any of these finagling foreign fruits. He needed to get back home, where he could do business with some good, honest, all-American crooks. He was wise to the lady of letters too, now, so he was ready for whatever she might have scalding in her cauldron…which meant that the only other player who hadn’t anted up, kicked in, or folded was that weirdo professor, whatever the fuck he was called. Well, he would worry about him and his Luger later.

For the moment, he was well-hidden where he was, a faceless nobody, just another skid mark on the underpants of life, and the most important thing was that he was still in the game, or even slightly ahead. And something was cooking—when was the last time he’d walked away from the races a winner? Plus he still had enough of Hyatt’s cash left to bust some moves. For sure the Cyclops dwarf did not know the value of what she had. In fact, she probably had it rammed up her minge right at that minute. All he had to do was wait. She was bound to show up sooner or later. She probably figured him to have fucked off back to the States. When he found her, he could round up a couple of local desperados and lay some bread on them to cut out her other eye, and start clipping of her twat lips with gardening shears until she told him what she had done with the Fab 13. It was a solid plan, and the more he drank the more solid it became, until after a while it was as solid as a turd in a constipated ass.

He started to feel the pressure of the beer, and shoved and heaved his way through the mob to the tiny staircase that led down to the toilets. He could smell them from the top of the stairs. There was only one trap, and it was in use, but judging by the sounds that were coming out of it, it wasn’t being used to take a dump. The porcelain was cracked and the urinal was awash with dirty brown urine and filled with unfiltered cigarette butts. The neon light flickered and one whole corner had been broken off the filthy mirror. Monsoon held his breath as he let go and zipped up. Someone was standing behind him, waiting to take a leak. Breathing down his neck. Literally. Too close. Making him feel uncomfortable. Monsoon turned to leave. Baby Joe’s boot caught him square in the balls.

There was only one functioning streetlight in the alley behind The Tropic of Cancer, but it was enough to see the light in Baby Joe’s eyes and the glint of the straight razor.

Baby Joe’s voice was as steely as the blade. “You ever hear of Vincent van Gogh?”

Monsoon shook his head. He was still nauseous and weak from the most recent kick in the nuts.

“
Know who Paul Gauguin was?”

Monsoon shook his head again. He wasn’t sure where the line of questioning was leading, but it sure as hell wasn’t anyplace good. For a second, he didn’t realize what had happened. He couldn’t get his mind to make the correlation between the earlobe that fell to the floor at his feet and the searing pain in the side of his head. When the enormity sunk in, he found himself unable to scream because of the pressure of Baby Joe’s fingers on his windpipe.

“
You tell me everything. You tell me now. First lie, a lip. Second lie, an eye. Third lie, and it’s three strikes you’re out. Start talking, motherfucker, because it’s taking every ounce of self-control to prevent myself from slicing you into rat bait.”

Baby Joe released his grip sufficiently for Monsoon to blurt out everything. He left nothing out. He knew with absolute certainty that his life was on the line, and he was only one dubious statement from eternity.

When he had finished, Baby Joe said, “The only reason you’re still alive is because Asia needs you. You’re coming with me, and staying with me until this thing is over. You try anything—you even think about trying to split, or pulling another move like the last time—and I swear I’ll cut your liver out and eat it in front of you. Do you understand?”

Monsoon nodded.

“
DO YOU? FUCKING SAY IT.”

“
I understand.” It was less than a whisper. Less than a breath. It was a rumor. An insinuation.

Baby Joe punched Monsoon in the kidney. “I SAID FUCKING SAY IT.”

“
I understand. Jesus Christ. I fucking understand.”

“
Good, then,” Baby Joe said pleasantly. “Let’s go.”

They went back into The Tropic of Cancer. Nobody paid them any attention. Guys with a piece of ear sliced off probably went in there all the time. They went to the bar. Baby Joe made Monsoon buy the drinks while he spoke to one of the barmen.

“
Hey, buddy. You speak English?”

“
A leetle.”

Baby Joe pushed a hundred euro note onto the counter.

“
My English just improved. What do you need?”

“
An address and a gun.”

The barman looked noncommittal. “Wait,” he said.

Baby Joe and Monsoon drank in silence as they waited.

The barman came back. “How do I know you are not a cop?”

“
How do I know you’re not fucking Marcel Marceau? Don’t be a dick, man.”

The barman nodded. “Yeah, as if you would tell me, right? A grand?”

Baby Joe nodded.

“
And the address?”

“
Woman works over the road. One eye.”

“
That is easy. She lives next door. You must be desperate.”

“
Pal, you have no fucking idea.”

The barman was a good sport. He let them drink off the house until some Eastern European-looking guy rocked up on a motorcycle outside with a package.

The midget was surprised when her door came flying off its hinges, and Baby Joe grabbed her by the throat where she lay on the bed and put the barrel to her one good eye. She was naked and sweating, and the gooseflesh stood out on her skin. At least they didn’t have to ask her where the Fab 13 was.

“
Don’t just stand there,” Baby Joe said. “Fucking dig it out and let’s go.”

Low Roll was a lowlife, but he was still an American with American sensitivities, which meant that he couldn’t stand the stench in the john at The Tropic of Cancer, and had elected to take a leak in the alley instead. Also, he was self-conscious about the slenderness of his dick, which was why he was standing in the darkness as far away from the one functioning streetlight as he could get. It was far enough from the light to conceal his willowy wiener, but it was close enough for him to hear every word that Monsoon Parker said to Baby Joe Young.

***

Stark, ponderous, and grimly beautiful, Notre Dame stood outlined against the ambient light of the city, a brooding gothic edifice pondering the folly of man and his foolish exhortations to an uncaring deity. There was an air of waiting about the towers, as if the building were not a house of God but a house of war, a castle whose battlements awaited assault at dawn. The silver river flowed silently past the brightly lit boats strung along its length like jewels on a necklace.

Couples walked by the river, and from the other side the lights from the cafés and the distant music spoke of a world forgetful of blood and pain, where wine and dance and love were the order of the day. A man on a bicycle passed them. He was talking to himself. They walked across the square and into the shadows under the flying buttress.

“
I think we’re being followed,” Monsoon said.

“
No shit, Sherlock. He’s been with us since before the bridge.”

“
Who is it?”

“
Fucked if I know,” said Baby Joe.

“
Is he alone?”

“
No.”

“
How do you know?”

“
Because some people are following him.”

“
Well, how many?”

“
I’m not sure. A few.”

“
How can you tell?”

“
Because some other motherfucker is following them.”

“
What are you going to do?”

“
Nothing.”

“
So what do we do now?”

“
We wait.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Two men who looked like Arabs came out of the darkness.

“
Young?”

“
Yeah.”

“
This way.”

One of the Arabs walked in front. The other moved in close behind. He made sure Baby Joe and Monsoon could see the gun. The first one pushed open a heavy door with huge brass studs in it. He had to push hard and it creaked, as if it didn’t get used much. There was a dim corridor lit by candles, and beyond that a staircase. The man behind them pushed Baby Joe in the back.

“
It’s fucking freezing in here,” Monsoon said.

“
Crypts usually are,” Baby Joe said.

“
Shut up and keep walking.”

They came to an antechamber, lit by torches set in sconces.

“
Stop there. Open your coats. Don’t move.”