How many times has the Yellow Flag been turned into a pile of matchsticks? Whoever the Russians contracted out for the reconstruction this time around stiffed Bao good. A substandard, smelly dive of the worst sort. In other words, it looks exactly the same.
I approve. I like when things stay the same.
Out of caprice I start with a rumpled twenty dollar note and let it fall onto the table, sticky from the spilled beer and humidity
The lowered head twitches and jerks up, the barb-wired scar encircling her neck shows white against the sudden flush. Shadowed eyes go deer in the headlight wide and flicker towards the darkened stairwell leading up to Madam Flora's.
"The usual." I spread out the other four out like a fan before she remembers to be offended. It's always a good policy to keep the ladies guessing... to a point. The hardcore ones are the easiest to play. "Out back in the alley. Be there in 45 minutes, but you may have to wait a bit."
The narrow shoulders relax, the mouth purses for a moment. Maybe she's disappointed, there's no telling as any sign of human emotion drains away. Then an almost imperceptible nod as her spidery hands free themselves of the bottle of absinthe and scuttle over to devour the bills.
It's said she plays with bodyparts when she's done dismembering her "jobs." Maybe she likes the stiffs. I almost feel the onset of a thin smile coming on but keep it behind curtains. Bad joke, I'm not into creepy.
Money or bullets close the deal in Roanapur... not words. I turn away.
Revy's hunched on the usual bar stool, head bent in a devotional cant towards the congregation of empty shot glasses. One would think a gunslinger of such notorious reputation wouldn't tempt each and every Crooked Nose Jack with her back exposed. She's been getting sloppy of late, tempting fate.
"What do you call Russian Roulette when only one person plays?" Revy asks.
"A prescription to die," I reply. She returns a grunt
I settle slowly down, there's a catch in my knee which settles into a dull throb. I spent most of the afternoon in the engine room of the Black Lagoon doing zen and maintenance work all by myself. I dig my knuckles into the tendons above the kneecap with a grimace, I like things to stay the same - but not this.
Bao's listing on the other side of the bar, looks half asleep. He's got one arm trailing under the counter and I can tell he's got his hand on the shotgun. Can't blame him.
"I'm bored." Revy says. "I mean, I'm really bored. I could die."
"It is silliness to live when to live is torment."
"Don't fucking quote shit at me, I can't stand it. I don't get paid enough."
But there's no real spit in Revy's tone. Not even a growl.
"Then leave. I'm not keeping you here." I say.
"I should. You know I could, I'll be gone... like the wind."
She's not going anywhere. Ever. Roanapur's the last swirl in the toilet before it flushes to hell.
"Where's Rock?"
"Playing lapdog to Mr Chang... or Balalaika. I don't know."
I raise an eyebrow. "And you didn't go along to keep him out of trouble?"
"He's a big boy," Revy's index finger navigates the rim of the nearest shotglass. She doesn't say anything for a long while. The Heirekin beer Bao finally remembers to slide my way is warm and and flat. I take a sip and wonder briefly how serious it all is.
Not a big crowd tonight, place is almost deserted. Besides us there's only a ersatz cowboy or two working up liquid courage to make the trip upstairs to Flora's brothel. I look back. The table at the darkened far corner is empty. The ghost girl took the bottle of absinthe. Damn, she's going to drink on the job.
"Gonna use the phone," and make to get up. This brings Revy to life.
"Is Benny coming back?"
"Maybe." I shrug. When did she give a shit about Benny? But it's all about familiarity. Who can tell?
Benny got squirrelly after the business with the Maid. The feeling one gets when one knows they're being watched out of the corner of the eye, the slight hesitation to a reply. Something was said or done offstage. Or maybe Benny's gray matter got overwhelmed by simple lust during the whole non-event with Jane and that Chinese hacker? A case of the little brain winning out? Happens all the time.
"If he brings back the booby, I'll punch her ticket."
I need to get to the phone, but the floodgates of revelation choose to overflow at this moment.
"Who the fuck did she think she was?" Revy clenches a fist and pounds the bar. Her body suddenly coils up tight as a spring.
Bao starts awake and fumbles at the shotgun, doubtless with visions of utter destruction bubbling up in his imagination.
"Jane?"
"No! Fuckin' Four Eyes! Who the fuck did she think she was coming here? Looking for salvation from her creepy little master... Motherfu..."
Bao backs away. He seems to have picked up a nervous twitch as his thin mustache and eyebrows move up and down. I've heard this familial rant too many times of late. I think Revy secretly harbored hope for a blowout finale a la The Wild Bunch, Rock holding her battered and bleeding body at the final moments. The Maid stole her blood and thunder. Sorry, bitch, life isn't tidy and it doesn't follow a script. Hell, The Maid herself missed her expiation... I mean expiration date... and now clutches a crucifix in a prosethetic grip. She really is the Terminator now.
I check the time. I have to make the call.
The shotglasses are Revy's audience and she's center stage. She doesn't stop the monologue for me. God help Bao if he decides to be a critic.
Wouldn't be surprised if the phone is bugged. One hears the clicks and snaps after I drop the coins in the slot and wonder to how many data centers our conversation will be getting dumped to. Voice analysis run to match our voice to some profile. Can't be helped. Still it's better than a cell phone. Won't ever use one of those. I lean against the wall and dial the familiar number using the rotary and wait to hear my old friend pick up.
"There's no more hope," Otis says without preamble or greeting. "I couldn't talk Garcin out of it. He'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes and he's got backup. He's not stupid. Knows he's on your turf."
"Then he gets what's coming to him," I rumble and hang up. I imagine Otis living the good life among the living. Lucky bastard, until my knee twinges again and I wince at the recollection from years gone by. The fat man rolling about on some unnamed dock in a pool of his own blood.
Otis, the poor bastard. Barely gets around using a walker with his fucked up knee. Fuck.
Revy's still at it but she stops when I unholster the Smith & Wesson and take out the HKS speedloaders. I lay them out on the bar and have her attention immediately.
"Overtime," I say. "Want some?"
"Fuck, yeah," says Revy and slides off the bar stool. "So that's why you were talking to Goth Chick. She's got some nerve showing up here - unless she hadda prior invite."
The mirrored back of Bao's barstand. Of course, Revy saw it all. Not as reckless as I thought.
"I don't want any more trouble," Bao bleats. How many times have those words passed his lips before The Yellow Flag has come crashing down around his ears?
"Don't worry," I say. "We'll take it out back."
"What's it all about this time?" Bao asks.
"The old days. 'Nam." I feed him a little, nothing concrete. "Mind your own."
The speedloaders pass my inspection and I put them in the belt pouch. Revy's already done her weapons check and she's ready to go.
Bao almost quivers at the mention of his old post-war home, but I'm done. We go back. Not that far. He should know better than to ask, has the curiosity of a cat. Cats die.
Revy uses the front, the batwing doors clack together and she's gone into the darkness. She knows what to do.
"I'm locking the door," Bao bustles after me with the sawed-off shotgun cradled in his arms. "Not taking any chances the fight could spill into the Yellow Flag again! I have an obligation to those girls upstairs, I can't have them getting hurt."
"Détendes-toi."
"What?"
I shrug Bao off with a slowly raised shoulder and close the back door in his face. Damn, I'm getting careless. There's several drawn out clicks and thuds as Bao secures the door.
Then it's me and the garbage cans in the tight back alley. If I could whip up the enthusiasm I'd say the flickering Exit sign lends a noirish air to my wait, but I'd be full of bullshit if I believed it. Nothing glamorous at all about waiting. I light up a cigarette and lean back against the wall.
I don't dispute Revy's claim that Roanapur is the city of the dead, vertical and the soon to be horizontal. But what I have here is better than what I had. Sure the heat of the tropical sun can''t thaw out a cold heart, the faux enthusiasm in a whore's embrace is a tattered shadow of youth's burning love - but it's enough if one has found a certain detachment with the choices taken and buried the past six feet under.
Garcin. His hour come round at last, slouching his rough way here for some leftovers. A hopped-up gauche caviar journalist of the worst sort; his reputation died long before the helicopters took flight from burning Saigon. Caxton and other such jacked up johnnie boys wouldn't have spared him a glance as they crawled out of the jungle muck after a LRRP, but Garcin took such heroics and in written word smeared them all the way to hell in leftist rags as Ramparts and SLC. For a brief moment he was there in the spotlight with Jong, Kesey and Barthes - and then nothing but crumbs all these long years.
The beams of the headlights dance upon the buildings and turn off. The engine shuts off with a rattle and I hear car doors slam and the sound of voices. The cigarettes a stub and I let it drop and grind out the sparks. Darkness is my friend.
I hear an eloquent curse in French as he stumbles into some crates, it's him.
"Back here," I raise my voice so they know to come in deeper. Closer. "I've been waiting."
"It's me, Garcin, Joe Garcin. What a long time it's been. I thought you were dead..." he stops and pauses.
All I see is his silhouette in front of the following shadows . Good. I don't want to see more than I have to.
"Call me Dutch," I say harshly.
"Ah... is that what you go by these days? Indeed. Well, here we are, two war-deserters without a country. How nothing changes though the years fly by."
"Speak for yourself, motherfucker."
His reedy voice shakes a bit, he's justifiably nervous even with his hired goons. "I guess I'm not surprised you found yourself... here in this detestable rat's nest. What a place! Sauve-qui-pewt and damn the charity."
He's going to keep talking as if this is a social occasion and he's had too much from the punch bowl.
"If you're looking for charity, there's no handout here."
"An offer was made to me, mon ami, by a woman of a spiritual bent," says Garcin. "Though the offer was quite material and quite generous. All I need to do is go to a certain confessional in this very town and I will receive absolution... and five thousand dollars."
So all the juicy details of my story are worth that much to the Nun. Now Revy's out there in the dark waiting for her curtain call, but she's got ears. She won't ever ask questions, but she'll listen and maybe one day let something slip for her own advantage. Loyalty only goes so deep. I need to cut to the chase.
"Don't waste my time. What do you want?"
"So hasty... Dutch. Very well, now I could turn around and leave Roanapur with all your sins forgotten - for double the amount offered me by the Nun," finishes Garcin. "What do you say?"
"Not interested," I say. Blackmail is an addict's game. Garcin will be back again and again till I'm bled dry. "You should never have come here."
Garcin's laugh is strained. "Don't forget, mon ami, I'd some intuition you'd think to put me down. So I hired these three men - who are of a most impatient type - so don't boast you've caught me off my guard. I'm facing the situation, I'm facing it indeed."
The shadow goons stir and spread out. I catch the glint of gunmetal.
"I'll go deal with the Nun," says Garcin and begins to back away with his protectors covering him.
At that moment I get the distraction I need. The beep beep beep of a truck backing up nearby, probably the Cleaner girl showing up right on schedule. As their heads whip about, I draw my gun.
I only shoot once. In the time it takes me to pull the trigger, Revy takes out the other two. She materializes out of the dark with both guns barking and the shadow goons slump to the ground.
Garcin stumbles about shrieking. He's fully and dreadfully aware these are his final moments. He bolts to the side and throws himself at the back door of the Yellow Flag. In a moment of dreadful irony the red neon of the Exit sign fizzles out.
I don't feel like saying anything witty, that shit's for the movies. Too bad he can't turn around and 'face the situation' so I shoot Garcin in the back of the head.
Revy and I walk out the alley, past the car which will be gone by the morning, past the Cleaner going the other way. We don't acknowledge her presence. No one ever does in these situations.
"Dutch, you owe me a drink," says Revy. "Fuck, you owe me an entire bottle... maybe two."
I like when things stay the same.
FIN