The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (68 page)

The sheer improbability—but somehow, inevitability—of their being there together, in the Parisian night, survivors and victors of another outlandish adventure, and of a fate which had conspired yet again to bring them from the ends of the earth and put them together and set them to violence and redemption and leave them there together to dance on the bones, was not spoken of. Nor did they speak of Monsoon Parker, who by some unknowable hand had seemingly been given the key to their destinies and who, even though he was without dignity or will, was somehow able to summon them to war.

As the first faint light appeared over the trees, Wally downed his beer and stood up. He looked at Baby Joe. Baby Joe stood, and they shook hands. They looked into each other’s eyes.

“
See ya, mate,” Wally said softly.

Baby Joe looked at that great, exuberant, invincible Wally grin, tinged with a sadness he had never seen before. He smiled a solemn smile and nodded.

He watched as Woolloomooloo Wally turned and walked away into the gathering light, as ancient and mysterious as the city itself and, despite his years, as serpentine as the river that flowed through it. Baby Joe sat back down and looked at his hand. He could still feel the pressure of Wally’s steely claw. He took up his drink and smiled. From inside he could hear Crispin’s voice, trouper that he was, still going strong, and he knew that Asia was in there somewhere, laughing and dancing and having fun. Safe.

Baby Joe looked across the street to where darkness still reigned under the trees. He felt privileged. He raised his glass to the new day.

“
Fuckin’ A,” he said.

***

According to some sources, US law enforcement (and in fact probably law enforcement agencies everywhere) doesn’t have much of a history of interdepartmental cooperation. Sometimes rivalries can get fierce, and squabbles over jurisdiction can get out of hand. The County guys don’t like State butting in, and the State boys don’t like the Feds, and the Feds don’t see eye-to-eye with the CIA, the DEA doesn’t like the ATF on their turf, and everybody and their mother thinks that Internal Affairs are a bunch of jerks. It’s probably always been that way. Back in the day in London, the Peelers no doubt thought that the Bow Street Runners were dickheads.

But Heinie Peerick didn’t think that way. Sure, he enjoyed a little banter as much as the next guy, but he would never let it get in the way of good police work. And he would certainly never let it get in the way of his getting himself some trim. Which was how he ended up in the sack with a gal who was with the Feds out in Elko, Nevada, who was in town to catch a show. They dug each other’s company, so the following weekend, Heinie hopped into his reconditioned cherry-red ’59 Chevy Impala and zooted over there to see her. The residents called it the “Best Small Town in America.” The Shoshoni used to call it “Rocks Piled On Top of Each Other.” Take your pick.

After dinner in the Stockmen’s Hotel and Casino, and a quick bounce in the bed during which she didn’t even give Peerick time to get his boots off, they headed down to the bar. Over drinks, the conversation drifted around to his encounter with Agents Black and White. He told her he was curious about the investigation, and if she had heard anything. She said she hadn’t, but if he promised to stop talking about work, she would promise to find out what she could on Monday, and she also promised that when she had finished her margarita she would take him back upstairs and find out what he was made of.

Seems old Peerick was made of the right stuff, because she called him on Monday evening. What she told him surprised him: she couldn’t find out shit about the investigation. It was FYO, need-to-know, top-secret, and people’s lips were sealed tighter than a crab’s ass at fifty fathoms. She did find out a bit about Agent White, however. She was a decorated and respected BATFE agent, with a flawless record, who was being tipped to go far. The surprise, though, was Agent Black. According to his records, he was dead.

***

Baby Joe smiled as he heard Asia singing “La Vie en Rose” in the shower.

He looked at his face in the steamy mirror. Jesus, what a mug. More stitches than a Mexican saddle. And the body. Looking too young and fit for the face, but ragged and torn, the new Prometheus put together from secondhand sinew and old rawhide. Still going strong, but for how long? He lathered his face. He suddenly looked twenty years younger with just the clear blue eyes peering out of the white mask.

He began to shave with slow, even strokes, up against the grain. The mirror steamed up completely and he splashed water on it. He watched as his image shimmered and transformed, a leering water monster gazing from the bottom of a lake. Or a drowned man.

He finished shaving and stuck his head into the sink. The water was almost too hot to stand. It felt good. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded out into the lounge. He could still hear Asia singing, but fainter now. She had a good voice. Clear and tuneful, but earthy. Like her.

He poured himself a scotch, and went to stand by the open window of the balcony. The breeze was cool on his wet skin. He looked at the lights and the cars and the people down in the street. The noise of the engines and the horns drowned out the sound of Asia’s voice. He went back inside.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom, listening to the water running, and to the song. He sipped his whiskey. It felt good, and so did he. They were back. As bad as it had been, it had been worth it. She was right. The pain and the danger, the dark thrill of the adventure, the mystery and confusion. The survival. The defense of each other, the defense of what they had, of who they were, the resurrection of the will to win and to live. It had all brought them back. It had brought him back to be with her. And it was worth any price. To be clear again in his mind how he felt about her, to know that he loved her. Doubt gone. Uncertainty gone. The willful self-destruction, the walking the edge for no good reason, the tearing at the chains as if to get the inevitable over with…gone.

La vie en rose.
Damn straight!
He downed his drink and set the glass down, then walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. When she came out of the shower, wet and beautiful and glowing, he was going to…

The bathroom door flew open, violently smacking into the wall. Baby Joe spun around with his fists raised. Agent Black stood in the doorway with his gun leveled at Baby Joe’s chest. The water shut off. Asia stepped out of the shower, about to speak. She froze. Baby Joe stepped in front of her. He handed her a towel without taking his eyes off the agent.

“
What’s the fucking deal here?” he said.

“
Easy, champ,” Agent Black said. “Never bring a fist to a gunfight. Besides, you ain’t dressed for it. I want the device.”

“
Okay. It’s here. You can take it and go. Leave us the fuck alone.”

“
I’m afraid it ain’t that simple, Cochise,” said Agent Black.

“
What are you talking about?”

“
I’m talking about you gotta go down. Sorry, pal, nothin’ personal.”

“
Fucking Homeland Security. I’m impressed. Good con.”

“
It’s worked up till now, slick.” He stretched out his arm, pointing the gun at Baby Joe’s chest. His sleeve pulled back. There was a tattoo on his wrist. It was a blue and green shield with a lightning bolt.

“
Fuck. Now I remember,” Baby Joe said.

“
Remember what, hoss?”

“
Where I’ve seen you before. That tattoo. 74th Rangers. Vietnam, right?”

“
Yeah. Well spotted. I guess this makes it a little tougher. No hard feelings.”

Agent White walked in. She, too, had her gun drawn. She looked from Baby Joe to Asia, then back at Baby Joe.

“
Black?” she said.

“
I got it covered.”

Baby Joe didn’t take his eyes off Black. He knew that Black was the one who was itching to shoot. There was nothing he could use as a weapon that he could reach without exposing Asia. He might be able to drop Black, but what about White? Maybe if he took a couple of slugs that didn’t put him down, he could do it. That was all there was. He was six feet away. Six feet, two steps. A half-second. How many shots could Black get off? Too many. How quickly would White react? Quick enough?
Go. There is nothing else to do. Move.
And Asia?
You know. Move, now.
Baby Joe moved.

“
No, no, no. Ladies first.”
Black swung the gun. Asia screamed, high and shrill. Baby Joe lunged. White raised her weapon. There were two explosions, loud in the confined space. Blood splattered against the wall. And something else—something viscous and gray. A piece of hair was stuck to it. Baby Joe stopped. A look of incomprehension flickered across his eyes. Then it was gone, and only cold, fathomless ice blue remained. He looked at the gun, and then at the faces looking at him. Baby Joe stepped forward again.

The End.

Epilogue.

Agent White calmly reloaded the empty chambers of her revolver before she holstered her weapon. She looked down at where Agent Black lay against the tiles, his eyes open but sightless, and his mouth agape, as if to ask why. A spreading carmine pool welled up about his head. He had been fast, and it had been close.

“
His name was Huckleberry Sawyer Hicks,” she said. She leaned back against the wall. Blood welled from the hole in her shoulder where Hicks had shot her.

Baby Joe grabbed her, steadied her. “You okay?”

“
Yeah, yeah, thanks. I just feel a little dizzy. I need to sit down.”

Baby Joe helped her to the bed. Asia came over with a glass of whiskey. She was pale but steady.

“
You’re not going to tell me you don’t drink on duty, are you?” she said.

“
Fuck no, sister. Hand it over.”

She looked back at Baby Joe. “I should have figured it out way sooner. Like you said. The tattoo. I knew I’d seen that son of a bitch before. He was in Mogadishu. Well, he had it coming. I never liked the cocksucker anyway. He talked in his sleep. And he snored.”

“
Well. Looks like this is one sleep where he won’t be doing much of either. Who the hell are you?”

Agent White held out her hand. “Lucretia Day. CIA. My friends call me Lucky. Lucky Day.”

“
It fucking was for me,” Baby Joe said. “So what’s the score?”

“
Hicks must have eighty-sixed the real Agent Black and taken his place. He was working for Endless Lee Heal all along. I bet he was the motherfucker who cold-cocked me in the hotel in Moscow so Endless could get away. Langley put me in to replace the real Agent White on this deal. Figured something was up, but they weren’t sure what. Neither was I until a while ago.”

“
Well you sure as hell had me fooled. Damn fine intelligence work.”

Lucky Day let out a deep, infectious chuckle. “Hell, I been so deep undercover, even I didn’t know who the fuck I was.”

“
So what now?”

“
So now you and the little lady get on with your vacation. You were never here, I don’t know you, and I never heard of you. Oh, just one thing—I’ll be needing the item.”

“
Oh, shit. I was kinda hoping we could keep it as a souvenir.”

“
Sorry. Uncle Sam needs it. You already seen how dangerous this thing is.”

“
Asia,” Baby Joe said softly.

Asia walked over to his side. He put his arm around her. She reached into her bag and took out the Fab 13, and handed it to Lucky Day.

“
Goddamn,” Lucky Day said. “This here gadget could give a gal ideas.”

Asia smiled at her. Lucky smiled back.

“
So long cowboy,” she said, turning to walk away.

“
Adiós
,” said Baby Joe.

He turned to Asia and embraced her. She tilted her head up and pressed her lips against his and they kissed, long and hard. It hurt like hell, but neither of them wanted it to stop. When they finally came up for air, Asia looked deep into Baby Joe’s eyes and saw her face reflected there.