FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (25 page)

When Hussein arrived we paid our taxi off and got into the Range Rover. As he turned towards the timber yards I told him there’s been a change of plan. A puzzled Hussein drove to the UPS office located between the Six Gun Battery and the State House. I sealed the timber samples and prices into a pouch and sent it to my office in Wyndham Street, Hong Kong.

“Right Hussein, shipping agent,” I said, as I got back in the Range Rover. The shipping agent gave us a quote to send forty-foot containers to Yokohama, Japan. When he asked if we need any help with Customs clearance I said that we’d let him know.

Our next stop is the post office, to collect the American Express traveller’s cheques. After we got the cheques I asked Gerry to take a look around the market across the road from the post office and pick up some souvenirs…so I can have a talk with Hussein.

“Hussein, I know you’ll try to make a little extra on the side for yourself, and that’s to be expected. But we have all the prices, apart from the local costs for moving the timber to the port and packing it in the containers. I guess this will be between fifty and eighty dollars a day for thirty men and two lorries,” I whispered across the front passenger seat.

Hussein just grinned, he didn’t put up any argument. I gave him half the traveller’s cheques and told him to get things rolling this afternoon.

I looked across the road for Gerry. He’s in front of the market holding a large pair of carved female figures in his hands, and he’s surrounded on all sides by a crush of begging kids. For feck’s sake! Darting out of the Range Rover, we ran to his rescue; Hussein threw a fistful of coins to scatter the kids and I grabbed Gerry.

When we were all safely back inside the vehicle, Hussein asked if we want to get something to eat. I’m hungry, but I told him to just drop us back at the hotel.

———

Three days of lounging around the pool is enough for me. I cancelled my last night at the hotel and settled my bill. I gave the rest of the traveller’s cheques to Gerry, so he can give them to Hussein, and I took a taxi to the airport.

Gerry has a few more packaged holiday days to suffer before he can return to England, and then onwards to Hong Kong or Macau. Between the fat Lancashire biddies and the svelte Swedes I know he’ll keep busy and, hopefully, well away from black fellahs with kidney trouble, a painful knee injury, and swollen balls.

Screw them
, I thought. I can’t conjure up any sympathy for the lads I walloped. They tried to intimidate Gerry, and in my book that’s bullying. I don’t like bullies…never have, never will.

THE GAMBIA

When I was
sure that Finn Flynn was on his flight back to Hong Kong, I made a few plans of my own. I saw the way he smashed up those giant African dudes, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of a crazy son of a bitch who can do that shit, but if there’s money to be made….I have to give the rest of the traveller’s cheques to the Lebanese guy anyway, so I called him and asked him to meet me for a drink. Hussein arrived at the hotel an hour later, dressed up and ready to go out on the town, but I have other ideas.

We sat on the veranda of my bungalow, watching the women baking themselves under the African sun and splashing in the pool. I’m concentrating on the toned Scandinavian babes, but Hussein the weirdo is ogling the fat-assed ladies from England. I guess Hussein likes more cushion for the pushin’ – which would definitely be a stroke of luck for these foul-mouthed broads with double and triple spare tyres. He especially has an eye for the snow-white ones, doesn’t matter if they’re fresh off the plane and glow in the dark or are turning bright red like lobsters. Unfortunately for him, these gals aren’t interested in medium-sized, light-skinned Lebanese guys. These
ladies
are in the market for six foot black men –
the bigger an’ blacker the better
– at least that’s what I overheard on the plane.

In three days I’ll be on the plane full of leathery-looking broads going back to England. The ones that get lucky will be worrying in case they’re still young enough to get knocked up. They’ll be shitting themselves, worried about carrying a little black foetus back home to Birmingham, Bradford or Bridlington. Fuck them. These broads aren’t worried about that when they hand out British pounds for young black guys to screw them. Some of the randy ole gals want two studs in the bed with them at a time. Paying to live out their fantasies in poverty-stricken Africa is cheaper than a night of bingo back in Blighty. To me, it’s exploitation, pure and simple. Us Sicilians, we know a thing or two about exploitation – if you know what I mean.

I let Hussein – the good Muslim – have two drinks before I started in with the questions. “So Hussein, tell me, how did you meet my buddy Finn?” I asked kind of offhanded, like I’m just making conversation.

“It’s been a long time you know, years. My brother Mustafa lives in Angola, he trades the blood diamonds with Finn’s friends in Ireland….Hey Gerry, what do you think of that blonde there? Big balloons ha, big balloons! Lots of fun with them bags, eh brother!”

I can’t believe the broad he’s pointing at would interest anyone but a short-sighted hippo. Her jugs are falling out of a teeny weeny bikini that’s struggling to contain so much flesh.

“So, Finn’s friends are into smuggled diamonds, eh? Very interesting…tell me more buddy. Here, have another brandy,” I urged him, while pouring another shot from my duty free litre bottle of Martell cognac.

“There, Gerry, right there…look there. I’m going to jump on her tonight,
insha’Allah
. I’m getting horny just looking at them,” he jawed on.

Hussein is not divulging another thing about Finn Flynn, or their connection. But I’ll give it one last try.

“Hussein, buddy, Finn tells me you’re the kingpin around here in the African bush grass business. Is that right?” 

“Gerry my friend…what can I say?”

Hot damn! His face is lighting up…I hit the jackpot! Hussein’s wariness has gone right out the window with a little ego stroking. He might not say another word about Finn Flynn, but it looks like he’s the man I need to talk to.

“I have the most excellent African bush grass available to mankind,” he claimed.

I think that might be going a little too far, but I sense a lucrative sideline coming from Gambia. It may not come from this bragging hyena, but I’ll find a source before I leave.

“Really? That good?” I asked.

“Every bale is triple-picked by my own women…no stalks, no seeds, no shake…only fresh buds dried in the sun.” Hussein’s voice is rising to a crescendo and the fat-assed Lancashire ladies, who wouldn’t give him the time of day before, are paying attention from across the pool. “The Dutch smokers can’t get enough of it,” he bragged.

I happen to know that the Dutch prefer their home-grown skunk. Still, there’s no profit in bursting the buffoon’s bubble.

“How do you get the shit on a ship to Rotterdam?” I asked, while filling Hussein’s glass with more brandy.

“Five thousand American dollars to my friend in Customs and Excise turns a twenty foot container of vacuum-packed African bush grass into a twenty foot container of ground peanuts destined for a nut roaster in Utrecht. I’m meeting my friend for a drink later. Come along, I’ll introduce you.”

We hopped in a taxi and met the Customs and Excise guy at a bar in Banjul.

“Farhani my friend, I present another friend, this is Gerry. He works for our very dear friend Finn Flynn…the Fearless One.”

Damn! What I’m planning isn’t supposed to include Finn Flynn. And what the hell does Hussein mean the ‘the Fearless One’? I mean, that makes sense and everything with what I’ve seen, but the crazy Irishman is actually known in fucking Africa as ‘the Fearless One’?! Goddamn!

Farhani wasn’t as forthcoming with information as Hussein, but I’d be worried if he was. Of course, Hussein’s typical flowery African introduction didn’t do me any favours either. Anyway, it took very little persuading to get Hussein to agree to drive me up-country tomorrow, to where the marijuana farmers grow their crops.

———

Hussein arrived at the hotel in his Range Rover before eight a.m., and we took off on dusty red roads pitted with potholes. As we leave Banjul far behind I notice the skeletons of trucks every few miles or so – with their engines, shafts and wheels long gone. These expensive rust buckets are an unmistakable testament to the treacherous driving conditions.

When we reached light jungle we transferred to a twenty-ton truck. I guess it can take the eight foot drops in what is laughingly described as a highway.

“Man oh man!” I yelled to no one in particular. “Ain’t this the dry season? This must be impassable when the monsoon rains come!” No one answered, but the driver grinned.

I’m tired of being tossed around every time we hit a pothole, and I asked if we can pull over so I can get a short rest…to give my head a break from banging on the roof of the cab. Hearing me bellyaching just made the driver put his foot down; the jerk seems to be finding more holes in the road to fall down or drive over.

Twenty minutes later, after a couple of nasty glares from Hussein, the driver got the message. We pulled into a Gambian-style roadside service station – a grass hut – to get something to drink. There are three tractor-trailers piled high with teak trees parked beside it.

A wizened old man with thick, sinewy arms is holding a truck’s suspension spring barehanded in a blazing wood fire. He dragged it from the flames while it was white hot and belted it on an anvil with a twelve pound hammer. The old guy makes our iron workers back in the States look kind of lame.

Our driver grabbed a US five dollar bill from me, and he and Hussein disappeared into the grass hut in search of cold drinks. While I was waiting for them to come back I lured a chameleon on to the end of a stick. I moved it from dark green vegetation to in front of the dust-red bodywork of our truck. It’s cool watching him change colour to blend in with the background. But no matter what I try I can’t tempt him to walk up the stick on to my arm.

Hussein and the driver returned with three bottles of ice-cold beer. “Mister, they make a tasty meal when they are cooked over the fire,” said the driver, referring to my new buddy. “Not today pal,” I said, as I returned my little chameleon to the safety of the green vegetation.

Refreshed by the cold beers, and our little rest from the bumps and bangs, we drove through the jungle for another hour until we came to the grassy plains. Away from the shade of the tall trees and overhanging lichen, the heat of the sun on the roof of the truck is unbearable. On the upside, the open trail is less potholed and our speed crept up to twenty miles per hour.

Along the way we passed groups of women carrying bundles of freshly cut green plants on their heads. They waved and cheered our truck, and some of the women made gestures to our grinning, black-toothed driver that leave nothing to the imagination. Every time that happened he turned to us, grabbed his crotch and gave us a leering grin that exposed his rotting teeth. The ladies egging him on is another fine example of the fact that there is no accounting for taste – as if another example is needed!

After a sharp turn to the right, and a short drive through head-high pampas grass, we arrived at a village with ten huts. Small kids are sitting cross-legged on the ground amidst piles of African bush weed. They’re picking through the piles and discarding large leaves and stalks before placing the ‘triple-picked’ marijuana on long folding tables between the huts. Every so often men come out of two of the huts and prepare large bundles from the grass piled high on the tables. They weigh the bundles with ancient spring scales and carry them into the huts they came out of.

Hussein is strutting around like he owns the place…and maybe he does. A fat woman is waddling over to him; she’s dragging an almost-beautiful little girl behind her. The girl is light-skinned, with skinny legs and the early sign of breasts beneath her thin cotton dress. She’s clinging to the big woman, and trying to hide behind her enormous rear end.

“Say hello to Daddy. Go on, go on! Give him a kiss. Tell him you and Mummy love him, go on…go, go!” said the woman as she pushed the girl towards a blushing Hussein.

The Chief arrived moments later and hollered something at the big woman. The little girl ran over to him, and he swept her up in his arms. “Hello there, hello there. Who is this then, who is this then? You have met my granddaughter then….Yes?…Yes?” he said.

Hussein regained his composure and, taking his daughter from the Chief’s arms, he introduced me. The Chief grinned at me with a mouth full of Hollywood-white teeth, and he gave me a high five. One of the young women lurking around him handed him an enormous joint and lit it with a big gold Dunhill lighter. High fives, high-priced dental work and classy gold lighters are the last things I expected to see in a grass-hut village in Africa. I can see the brothers back home claiming this dude as one of their own…he’d be right at home in the ’hood.

My plan to cut Hussein and Flynn out of my little scheme is going up in smoke. Seeing as Hussein’s kid is the Chief’s granddaughter, that definitely puts the kibosh on any plans I had to buy grass behind his back. Anyway, there’s more than one way to make a buck. I can buy at their price, cut Flynn in on this end, and then sell at my price…and there’ll be no one getting any cut but me.