The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (70 page)

A kind of survivor’s guilt set in, and he began to question what he thought he knew about the nature of the universe and the mechanisms of existence, and found himself prepared for the first time to reconsider his opinion on such matters as fate and destiny, which as a scientist and member of the legal profession he had always dismissed out of hand, and to concede that there might be forces at work for which physics and chemistry offered no satisfactory answer.

He therefore decided to embark upon a journey of self-awareness, and set out on an extended tour of the Far East, where the people were said to know a thing or two about consciousness and karma and all that Tantric jazz, which was how he came to be seated in the lotus position on a reed mat, entranced in deep meditation, in his room in a small and unpretentious hotel on the beach at Khao Lak in Thailand, on Sunday, December 26th, 2004.

***

Endless Lee was philosophical about what had happened. He could even allow himself an ironic grin and a shake of his head occasionally. It would have been a sweet deal, but what the hell. Every now and then a bad one, as they say. And it hadn’t really cost him anything. Not him personally. Sure, Sebastian Type had gotten greased, and Bibbs had quit, but that was more in the nature of an inconvenience. And the stock price had wobbled a bit, but he had preempted that by going short before the news about Type getting knocked off came out; plus all the publicity added some kind of bad boy allure to the brand name, so he actually had come out of it all with another zero to add to his already-astronomical account.

And he knew he was in the clear, legally speaking. Technically, he himself hadn’t done anything, at least not in the States, and certainly nothing that anyone could prove. Momo was the only one who could still testify against him by virtue of still being among the quick and the living, and he wouldn’t. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, not without dropping himself in the shit.

And anyway, people with his kind of bread and influence didn’t get indicted for shit. As Cyndi says, money changes everything. Even the people who knew the score would be prepared to let the Russian take the rap for the whole thing and let it go at that. In a year, it would all be forgotten.

Which was why, as he stepped out of the door of Ciro’s Tavern on Cherry, at one a.m., and sailed on an ever-so-slightly uneven keel across the parking lot to find Lucretia Day leaning on the hood of his turquoise Rolls-Royce Corniche, he was surprised, but not concerned.

“
Well, well, well. Look who’s here. The long arm of the law.”

Lucretia stood up.

“
So what brings you all the way to wonderful Woonsocket, officer? Come to give me a citation? Go ahead, I’ve had six beers.”

“
There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“
Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t want to talk to you. I told you before, bitch. In Russia. You don’t have jurisdiction, and anyway, I haven’t done anything even if you did. You can’t fucking touch me. So blow me, officer.”

“
Oh, no,” Lucretia said pleasantly. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with the agency anymore. I quit.”

“
Yeah? So what the fuck do you want to talk to me for then?”

“
Well, actually, it’s personal. It’s about something you said to me, in Moscow.”

“
What was that?”

“
Well, I said something about heads can’t be replaced, and you said ‘neither can fucking teeth, bitch.’”

Before Endless could absorb the implications of what had been said to him, he absorbed a knuckle sandwich, followed by a knee in the groin. He folded and went down, gasping and holding his nuts.

“
Well, Mr. Heal,” she said, “I just wanted to tell you that you were right.” She drew back her foot, and booted both his maxillary central incisors, both his maxillary lateral incisors, and one of his mandibular first premolars, halfway across the car park.

“
Have a pleasant evening,” she said, walking away, smiling, with the freshening sea breeze in her face.

***

Of the other peripheral characters that the reader may be curious about…

When he got out of traction, Militsiya Major Leonya Oblov, a.k.a. Oblov the Sloth, was given a new office in which to busily occupy himself doing fuck-all, and strenuously avoid all forms of work while continuing to earn unmerited promotions on the back of other people’s efforts.

He was a celebrity, and had the photos to prove it. The important visitors in the hospital, the reception at the Kremlin, the commendation for “Extreme bravery in the line of duty and enhancement of cooperation between the forces law and order of mother Russia and the United States and upholding the reputation of the incorruptible Russian Police.” His superiors stopped calling him a useless fat-ass waste of government money and started being nice to him. He even got some fan mail from one or two
devotchkas
.

The papers called him a hero. A man who had risked his life and suffered grievous injury singlehandedly facing down a vicious mob of Americanski gangsters, and protecting the lives of federal agents. They reported his many injuries and fractures and pointed out how he had stoically borne the pain without complaint. They discreetly neglected to mention that his underpants had been filled with excrement when they lifted him from the roof of the cab, and the official report charitably pointed out that the shit must have been extruded from his bowels by the impact of the fall.

In the comfort of his new accommodations, enjoying the benefits of his newfound status, Oblov often paused to reflect on how lucky he had been. He had been lucky in that, in the darkness and confusion and the panic caused by the gunfire, nobody noticed that he had shat himself at the sound of the first shot, attempted to climb out of the third floor window and escape down the drain pipe, and plummeted screaming onto the top of the taxi when the cheap fittings had given way due to shoddy Soviet workmanship.

***

Edward “Well-Read Ed” Cream took Fanny’s comment that maybe he should join the Moonies to heart. Not that he had any intention of actually joining the Moonies. It was just that, the next time the bitch showed up for a signing, he wanted to be ready with a really cutting, well-rehearsed, off-the-cuff, impromptu remark about the Moonies. So he took a copy of
The Exposition of the Divine Principle
home with him, to study it.

On the bus, a girl, comely but for a rather unnerving tick in her eye, sat next to him. She saw what he was reading.

“
Far out, man,” she said.

Well-Read Ed was intrigued. He didn’t realize that people actually said, “far out, man” anymore, and he was not used to being importuned by lovely ladies on buses, dodgy retinas or no.

“
Er, what is?” he said.

“
Cults, man. They’re really cool. I’m into it, man. You know, God freaks, alternative lifestyles, let it be, shine a light on Mary, let it all hang out, free love, dropping out, shining it on and kicking back, you dig? The counter-culture, the revolution, all you need is love, Hunter S. Thompson, digging old Bull Lee, suicide is painless, purple haze, man, all in my fucking brain, you see what I’m sayin’, baby? Sayin’ yes and no at the same fucking time. It’s beautiful, man.”

“
Er, um, yeah. Well, er. Right on, sister,” Ed said.

“
Cool,” she said. “Where ya goin’?”

“
Er, Indian School Road,” he said.

“
No, man, I mean, where ya
goin’
?”

“
Oh. I see. Er. Nowhere.”

“
I’m everywhere and nowhere baby, that’s where I’m at. I like you, man. Come with me. We can make beautiful music together.”

“
Well, er, where are you going?”

“
Arizona, man. There’s this, like, really cool commune out there.”

It was Saturday. Ed figured he could be back by Monday.

“
Hey, what the heck. Let’s, er, let’s shine a light on it, baby,” he said. “So, er, what do I call you?”

“
Out at the ranch, they call me Number Thirteen,” she said.

Well-Read Ed went with her on the midnight Greyhound to Flagstaff. He was surprised at himself. He had never done anything even remotely so adventurous before. He was rewarded with the greatest sexual experience of his life. He returned to Albuquerque redeemed, righteous, and ready to rock and roll.

Naturally, he had assumed that Thirteen was some kind of nickname. They got him on the Mann Act. By the time he got out, all he could get was a matinee gig, playing Jasper T. Jowls at the Chuck E. Cheese’s franchise in Lubbock, Texas, for $3.25 an hour.

***

Heinrich “Heinie” Peerick married the gal from Rocks Piled On Top of Each Other, known to the palefaces as Elko, Nevada. Her name was Brigitte Parker and her daddy grew sunflowers out on the Llano Estacado. She traced her ancestry back to Quanah Parker. They decided that what they had was the real deal, and they wanted a family, so they both quit. Heinie got himself elected Sherriff of Andrews County, population 14,876, they bought a three-story adobe that dated back to 1876, and pretty soon there were a whole mess of little Peericks, galloping through their grandpappy’s sunflowers.

One night they were out on the porch under a Comanche moon, drinking a bottle of Espolón Reposado and sending the details of their lives skipping at each other like stones in a pond, and Heinie told Brigitte that he had been in Vietnam, and had done things that he now regretted and wished he had not done, but that he could wish upon all the stars that now glittered over the Staked Plains but it would not change or undo what had been done. Brigitte told Heinie that she’d had a second cousin three-times removed who had won a lot of medals in Vietnam and who had been one of the last people killed in the war, and that he had been a captain also, and that his name was Philip Parker.

***

A year after the events described, at Langley, Virginia, a junior-level CIA operative reported to her superior a suspected breach of security in the storage facility. Item A4/273Z was missing and unaccounted for. An investigation was implemented, but no evidence of a break-in was uncovered. The integrity of all security systems was intact, the CCTV revealed nothing, and a close screening of employees with access revealed nothing out of the ordinary, or anything to suggest that anyone had been compromised.

Since it was only a very small crate, and nobody knew what the fuck was in it anyway, the director decided not to draw the heat by making a big deal out of it, so he put it down as an administrative error and let it go at that. Nobody said anything more about it. Case closed!

Six months later, a book was published that became an overnight bestseller. It was called
Womb Raker
. It was about a foxy female thief who breaks into a supposedly impregnable CIA storage facility to swipe a fabulous jeweled dildo that had once been presented to the wife of Czar Nicholas the Second.

***

It was a hot day even for the time of year. Wally was almost invisible as he sat on a bench in the shadows under the eaves of the balcony of the hotel, with his back against the warm planks. All he could see was the vague outlines of the distant eucalyptus as they shimmered in the heat haze. Flies buzzed around his face but he made no effort to shoo them away. He felt ancient and exhausted, and it was almost too much effort to lift his beer can to his lips. Almost.

Over the rim of his tinny he could see something coming. At first he thought it was a roo, but as it neared he saw it was a child. Even his eyes had failed him at last. The boy approached. Bright, moist eyes shone out of a handsome face the color of ebony. On top of his head, a mass of indomitable hair writhed about like a sea urchin resisting arrest. The boy smiled at Wally.

“
G’day, son,” Wally said. “What’s a young billy-lid like you doin’ out there all by yer lonesome? Strewth, kid, ya look so much like me, ya must be one a mine. What are ya? Me grandson, or me great-grandson?”