Gone Bamboo

  The second Frenchman led Henry down a long, mustard-colored hallway, open on one side to the Great Bay. Wisteria had worked its way up one side of the columns, and there were more lizards, roaming freely across the walls and floors. They passed what had once been the patients' dayroom, now populated only by rusting wheelchairs and some empty cases of Ting. Henry limped after the Frenchman, hurrying to keep up, his sandals making a flip-flop sound that counterpointed the martial sounds of the Frenchman's paratrooper's boots on the mildewed floor.

  An Asian Henry recognized as a Nung, a Thai-speaking ethnic Chinese, guarded Frances's room. The Frenchman put a finger to his forehead, and he jumped back from the door to attention, boots thumping.

  Inside, at least, it was cleaner. Frances was propped up against new white pillowcases, her eyes closed. The color had gone from her lips, had leeched out from her suntanned skin. A mustachioed nurse with a mole on her cheek acknowledged Henry's presence by standing up and leaving the room, her eyes on the floor the whole way.

  An IV rig on a wheeled stand was next to the bed, dripping clear liquid into Frances's arm. There was a thick square of gauze over her right eye, the skin around it yellow and blue. The closed eye under it was golfball-size, but Henry had been assured that the eye itself was essentially undamaged. The dressing on her chest went completely around her back and across one shoulder. The first spots of watery blood and bright orange antiseptic had begun to ooze through.

  "Sweetheart?" said Henry, unsure if she was asleep. "Baby?"

  "Hey," she answered, one eye opening.

  "You okay?"

  Frances nodded her head and closed the eye again, keeping it closed for a moment as if gathering strength. Henry's eyes wandered over to the drip, drip of the hanging IV bottle. When he looked back at her, she was crying, tears running from the corner of her open eye and onto the pillow.

  "Fucked up," said Frances. After a few more seconds, she said, "Cheryl?"

  "No," said Henry, shaking his head. He took her hand in his, gently. "She died on the chopper on the way to Curasao." He didn't tell her his real thoughts on the matter. In Henry's mind, the only question was whether Trung had first pinched Cheryl's nostrils closed and stuffed a rag in her mouth, or had simply kicked her out the open hatch into the ocean. He was practiced, Henry knew well, at both. Either way she was dead, of that he had no doubt at all. She was dead, and there wasn't a damn thing to do about it.

  "We did the best we could," he said instead.

  "Fucked up," said Frances. "So . . . fucked up . . . I feel . . . so . . . guilty."

  Henry just nodded, unable to speak. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a finger across an undamaged section of Frances's brow. An air conditioner, recently jerry-rigged into the window with wood planking and hurricane tape, droned monotonously, struggling with the thick, humid air.

  "So," said Frances. "How bad do I look? Bad as you?"

  "Better," said Henry. "Your face isn't nearly as messed up. One of the doctors, he's a plastic surgeon. He says you were lucky. He doesn't usually work on fresh wounds. Usually they call him in later. He says you'll look fine."

  "Maybe I should get my tits lifted while I'm in here," joked Frances, cutting short a laugh because of the pain.

  "Trung said something like that," said Henry. "He was asking about his wife. Wants the guy to make her look like Dolly Parton."

  "How 'bout you?" she asked. "You ever gonna look better than this? You look like Quasimodo."

  "I'm fine," said Henry. "Couple a' new dings and scratches. Once the swelling goes down, I should look pretty normal."

  "Henry . . . you never looked normal."

  "Well . . . you know what I mean."

  "How about the rest of you?" she said, reaching down and cupping his balls. "Everything in working order?"

  "Still intact," said Henry, smiling.

  "Well," said Frances. "That's something at least. I thought I saw you limping."

  "Just some cuts on my feet."

  "Good . . . How's Charlie?"

  "We'll talk about that later," said Henry. "Don't sweat it. He'll be fine."

  "Oh, Henry," she said, starting to cry again. Stopping suddenly, she squeezed his arm and pulled him closer. "Kiss me, alright? I want to make sure you're still there."

  When he leaned forward to put his mouth on hers, intending a careful kiss, she tugged him violently closer, kissing him so hard his lip split. Breathing fiercely through her nose, she fumbled frantically with his belt buckle.

  "Are you out of your mind}" he said, in a loud whisper.

  "I think," she said, ignoring his protest and throwing back the sheets, "I think we can just manage." She pulled up her hospital gown. Henry started to draw back, but she already had his pants open and was kneading him, guiding him toward her by his penis.

  "How?" he spluttered. "I mean . . . look." He gestured to the IV rig, her chest wound. He could have cited the Nung, just outside the door, the nurse, who could reappear at any moment, not to mention his own wounds, already beginning to spot through his ill-chosen white sailcloth shirt.

  "Just shut up and give me a hand here, okay?" she hissed, unclenching her teeth from his lower lip with a brief lick. "I'm fine below the waist. But this is gonna take some cooperation." She put her knees up, legs apart. "Just watch where you put your hands . . . and try not to pull my plug. Okay?"

  Too far gone by now, excited by the familiar sights and scents of his wife, Henry moved his head down between her thighs and laid the relatively undamaged side of his face against her pubic bone. She was already wet, beginning to move rhythmically against him. "Sorry. You're going to have to do most of the work." She took hold of his hair and pressed his mouth onto herself.

  Henry could feel his sutures straining as he twisted on the narrow hospital bed, trying to get his tongue into her. She spread her legs wider, moaning quietly now, her heels grazing his back, the shirt starting to feel sticky against his skin.

  "Good," she said. "Now . . . get up here."

  He crawled up the middle of the bed, the unchocked wheels beneath them beginning to protest. The whole bed began to move away from the wall with his first thrust, the IV rig rolling after it. But he was inside her now. There was no stopping. "Good," she was saying. "Good. Gently . . . gently . . ."

  She was squeezing him so hard around the neck, he thought for a moment he'd black out. They forgot about any pretense of discretion, the bed bouncing loudly on its squeaking wheels. He saw the clear contents of the IV bottle go suddenly pink, a red flower erupting into its base. Frances's blood, running back through the tube from her hand, which was now wrapped in a choke hold around his neck. He had to keep slapping her arm down to reverse the flow as they hurried to finish.

  "Keep your fucking arm down, you idiot!" he said, wanting to cry.

  "Shut up and fuck!" she yelled back. "I know what I'm doing."

  "Christ," he muttered, seeing the red stain expanding on her chest bandage. More blood, his, hers, he didn't know, made a rain-drop pattern on her gown and bedsheets.

  But he was lost now. Oblivious to the pain, the blood, the approaching footsteps.

  When it was over, the IV had popped completely out of Frances's wrist, the contents of the bottle spewing across the floor. The mustachioed nurse was slapping Henry on the injured side of his face, screaming, "Salaud!" Then she was running about the room, reconnecting a new bottle, taking in the blood, the mess. "Quels affreux!" she barked. "You want she is to die? Animaux!"

  Frances was laughing. Henry's shirt was a connect-the-dots game of red, rapidly becoming a solid color. His facial wounds flowing freely, blood droplets falling from his chin. As he put a hand up to touch his cheek, he realized his pants were still open, his wet prick hanging at half-mast. Frances, still giggling as the nurse fussed with her dressings, wiped some errant spermatozoa off her belly with her fingers, then pulled the sheets up around her chin, a glazed, satisfied expression on her face. This infuriated the nurse, who tore
the sheets off of her with one motion and threw them on the floor so the doctors could get more easily to her dressings.

  Henry stood, duncelike, in the corner, buttoning up his jeans while the nurse took inventory of the damage.

  "He was just taking my temperature," explained Frances through tears of pain and laughter. "Really. We . . . we just couldn't find the thermometer. Feel better now." The nurse, unamused, produced a corpsman's Syrette and jammed it rudely into Frances's arm before tossing it into the corner. Frances's open eye fluttered back into her head, and she fell asleep. The nurse, like a vicious border collie, herded Henry out of the room. The Nung guard, smiling with embarrassment, covered his mouth with his hand and turned away as the two card-playing doctors pushed past Henry without a glance.

  They redressed Frances's wounds and then got to Henry, waiting for them under guard in the former emergency room. He thought they restitched his wounds less gently than they had the first time, pissed off no doubt at how cavalierly he had treated their earlier work.

  When, finally, they let him see Frances again, it was out of the room, under the watchful glare of an even more imposing nurse, this one with the shoulders of a linebacker. They met in the overgrown garden that looked out on the Great Bay, Frances in hospital slippers, pulling the wheeled IV rig with her as they strolled down the flagstone path. In the distance, pelicans groomed themselves atop the pilings and terns flew overhead, racing to meet the incoming cruise ships. Two of the floating cities were already out in the bay, the ever-present chum of Cheez Doodles, soggy pretzels, Fig Newtons, and Pringle's chips attracting birds from all over. Henry could see the big boats disgorging water taxis full of chubby, bargain-hungry tourists who'd soon choke the streets of Philipsburg.

  "So, what happens now?" said Frances, letting out a deep breath.

  "We go on," answered Henry. Not so sure.

  41

  Without Frances, Henry felt disconnected, lost. He wandered, aimless and useless, unable to take pleasure in anything, seeing no light anywhere. What had seemed charming about his island yesterday looked squalid and somehow menacing today. He drove the scooter around for most of the day, unable to stay in one place, unable to relax, stopping at each beach, each bar, only long enough for one drink.

  Leaving the Mariner's Club, he took the mountain route back to the pond, the scooter handling differently without Frances holding on in the rear. On top of the mountain, he cut the engine and just stood there awhile, listening to the crickets and geckos chattering in the dark. A few hundred yards ahead, the road took a steep drop down the other side of the mountain to the sea. The road was ungraded and unbanked; one could easily fly right off the side of the mountain, and Henry considered that option, toyed with the idea as if playing with himself, not serious, just to see how bad things were.

  But Frances would be out in a couple of days. He had the hotel bill to pay. Dinner reservations at Frogs. Bad manners to kill yourself. Realizing how drunk he really was, Henry started up the scooter and drove cautiously home.

  The pitiably empty bed at his hotel put him right back into the hole. He cracked a bottle of tequila and sat out on the balcony, his feet up on the rail. He tried, for an hour, to drink himself to sleep, his head filled with faces: Frances. Jimmy Pazz. Tommy. Cheryl. He considered going over to Cole Bay, scoring some gummy, gasoline-scented, jungle-brewed cocaine, thinking for an ill-considered few seconds that that might make him feel better. But even the memory of that taste in the back of his throat made him gag. No way out. No way to fuck up with honor. No way to forget. Just go forward. He lay back in his chair and drank some more.

  Henry didn't know how long he'd been out when he became aware he was no longer alone on the balcony. A few feet away a dark shape sat studying him, the glow from a cigarette illuminating a patch of pale, unshaven skin. Henry struggled to sit upright, one hand reaching behind his back for the gun that wasn't there.

  "You look like shit," said the voice.

  "I know you," slurred Henry, paralyzed with drink. "You're the marshal dude. From the dock that day. You must like it here. You came back."

  "I know who you are," said Burke. "And I know what you are."

  Burke moved forward in his chair so Henry could see his face in the moonlight. He looked almost as bad as Henry did. Dark circles ringed his eyes, he hadn't shaved in days, and Henry realized that he too had been drinking. In Burke's hand a few ice cubes melted in a water glass of Henry's tequila.

  "War hero. Two fucking tours . . . and you end up selling out to the French. I know what you are. What you do."

  "You don't know shit," said Henry, too drunk to care. "Have another drink. And fuck you."

  "Froggies not have enough work for you? Was that the problem? Havin' a hard time keepin' Dragon Lady in beach towels?" Burke paused and took a long swig of watery tequila. "Don't worry. This isn't official. I'm on my own time."

  Henry said nothing, focusing on a narrow corridor of moonlight on the wave tops and wishing he was sober.

  "I met the wife," said Burke, bitterly. "Made me look like a jerk. Got me all fucked up in the head. They sent me home . . . and look what happened."

  Henry looked over at Burke, wondering where the gun was, expecting one. Burke didn't move, one hand on his drink, the other rubbing his face now.

  "My witness . . . my whole team . . . gone. I . . . I . . . told them . . . I said I told you so. They don't like that. You don't get points for being right when everybody else is wrong, do you? No. I'm an embarrassment. I'll be lucky to be a fucking guard at a convenience store." Burke sat up a bit, making a show of putting aside his drink. "I saw you at the hospital. Visiting the little woman?"

  "Yes," said Henry.

  "I thought it was you, you know. When I came down. But it wasn't you, was it?"

  Henry just shook his head sadly.

  "I had it all figured out. You're the one got Danny . . . gave Charlie a new asshole. I'm right about that part. I should have got that right away. Tall, dark, Spanish speaker. Habla Espahol? Yesss. And a king-hell sharpshooter from what I can tell. Oh. I can't touch you. Officially. Oh no. Too sensitive . . . James fucking Bond over here . . . our man Flint. . . The French pimping you out like a two-dollar whore."

  "So what do you want?"

  "I want Charlie fucking Wagons. He's alive, isn't he?"

  Henry said nothing.

  "He's gotta be. French are saying sweet fuck all on the subject. Say he went up with the house. But that's not what happened, is it?"

  "He's dead. Leave it alone."

  "The fuck I'll leave it alone. Five marshals dead. I trained some a' those kids . . . The case ruined. And they blame me. Of course. They blame me."

  "I tried" was all Henry could say. He felt sympathy for the wreck of a man across from him. He was a danger to no one in his present condition.

  "Have another drink." He poured a large splash of tequila into Burke's water glass.

  "I want him back. I want Fat Jimmy Calabrese frying like a big juicy steak in the electric chair. You know they got the death penalty back now."

  "Yes. I read that."

  "I want my fucking witness back. I want my fucking witness back or things are gonna get real fucking hot for you down here - your little vacation paradise you got for yourself. Maybe . . . maybe I can't, take you back. Maybe Washington don't want to know about you, and maybe the French love you like they love pussy . . . but I can still make things complicated. I been talking to the press. What do you think? You think they'd be innerested in a guy like you?"

  "You're not getting Charlie," said Henry, his voice an affectless monotone. "Ever."

  "What? Are you pals? You shoot him in the ass. You clip his boy Danny . . . now you're blowin' each other? I don't fuckin' get it. What I can tell, Jimmy's pals fucked you real good. And the lovely wife . . . I don't know how bad she is, but I take it she's worse than you."

  "She is."

  "So whassa fucking problem? I mean . . . who are you fucking loyal
to anyway?"

  "I'll give you Jimmy," said Henry. "How about that?"

  42

  He wore a hat. Always taking care to stay out of the sun. He let his beard go in the last days of summer, cutting it down to a neat Vandyke. He watched his skin go from a dark brown to a golden brown to an ashy palomino, then, finally, white.

  The day before he left, he plucked his eyebrows, changing their natural shape entirely. The effect of such a simple adjustment was remarkable, and he had to hide in their rooms so that no one would see him. He made Frances cut his hair.

  "I can't believe you're making me do this," she said, holding his ponytail and hesitating with the scissors.

  "Cut it," said Henry.

  "You look geeky enough. Believe me. No one will recognize you. I hardly recognize you."

  "Cut it."

  She chopped, and Henry's ponytail fell to the tile and lay there, sad looking, like a dead pet.

  It was already getting light when Paulie turned the Olds into the driveway of his Howard Beach home, a modest, two-story, aluminum-sided structure with a birdbath in the front yard and an American flag hanging limply from a pole next to the front door.

  He parked the car, got out, and reached into the back seat for the two bags of groceries he'd picked up at the 7-Eleven on the way home from Brooklyn. Two economy-size bottles of diet cola, four rolls of toilet paper, assorted cold cuts, hermetically sealed in plastic, a box of Count Chocula breakfast cereal, five cans of crab and tuna catfood, a loaf of Wonder bread, a six of lite beer, coffee filters, and a pint of Ben &c Jerry's Cherry Garcia. He hoped he hadn't forgotten anything - he'd lost the shopping list somewhere between Jimmy's office and Eddie's Clam Casino in Sheepshead Bay, where he'd closed the bar, playing rummy with Chickie Scalice.