Maid of the Mist (27 page)

Pongo shrugged him off. 'Are you fucking crazy?' he hissed. 'I just have to click my fingers and you're dead. You had your chance. You're not even a fucking cop any more.'

Corrigan had his back to the waiters. It might have looked as if he was bending to scratch his ankle. But he removed his gun and put half the barrel of it in Pongo's mouth, in thirty minutes,' Corrigan hissed and lied, 'my people will be here to bust this fucking joint; now take me to Lelewala.'

Pongo took him to Lelewala.

They walked along empty corridors hung with platinum discs and framed photographs of Pongo with President Keneally and Oprah Winfrey. 'Are you serious about
your people
?' Pongo asked.

'Partly,' said Corrigan.

'Because if you are, I've a favour to ask.'

Corrigan snorted.

It took them about five minutes to reach Pongo's private quarters. It was one big fucking house. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, inviting Corrigan to enter before him. Corrigan entered sideways. The possibility of Pongo clunking him over the head with the guitar he still carried was not lost on him. Pongo looked at him innocently, but did not comment.

Inside, Lelewala was lying on a bed. She was fully clothed. Her hair was matted and she was shivering. She looked weakly up at him through the tangled strands of hair that hung over her eyes.

Pongo smiled sympathetically at her. 'How're you doing?' he said softly.

'OK,' Lelewala whispered, but she wasn't.

'What the fuck's going on?' Corrigan said, looking at her, but talking to Pongo.

'You tell me. I get her back here, we start working on some songs, then she goes all freaking freaky on me.'

Corrigan knelt and pushed the hair out of her eyes. Her brow was cold and clammy.

'One minute she was up for it, then she's all floppy.' Pongo shook his head. 'Doctor took a look at her, couldn't find nothing. We gotta big show and she's not going to make it.'

'I'll make it,' Lelewala said. 'I promised.'

'You're going to
sing?'
Corrigan asked.

'I'm
going to sing,' Pongo said,
'she's
doing backing vocals.'

Corrigan looked from one to the other. 'Are you
both
on the fucking coke now?'

Pongo laughed. 'Don't knock it, man.' He'd crossed to the far end of the room and disappeared through an open doorway. Corrigan could see guitars and amps and the corner of a mixing desk.

He turned back to Lelewala. 'You're not well,' he said.

She nodded hesitantly. 'The evil . . .
Corrigan
. . . I don't
understand . . .
' She gave a little cry. 'I don't feel so good.'

He looked helplessly at her. If Lelewala had come back to fight evil, she'd finally come to the right place.

'Did he hurt you?'

She shook her head. 'He just wants to make music.'

Pongo reappeared in the doorway with a cassette tape in his hand and a ghetto blaster tucked under his arm. 'I've written a song for Lelewala; we're going to sing it on stage tonight. Do you want to hear it now, sneak preview?'

'She's in no condition to sing.'

'She
has to.'

Corrigan shook his head. There was a curious innocence about Pongo. That despite the fact that he was a cokehead child killer and that there were a hundred and fifty monsters having a party down the hall, he was more interested in getting a positive reaction to his new song.

'There are some songs,' Pongo said, 'that change the way people think. You ever hear Johnny Cash sing "San Quentin"? Bob Dylan's "Hurricane"? Band Aid singing "Feed the World"? I always wanted to write a song like that. Never could. Not until Lelewala came along. Lyrics, melody, everything just gelled, didn't they?' He smiled at Lelewala, who shivered in response and turned hopeful eyes on Corrigan.

Corrigan had supposed he would have to shoot Pongo to get her away from him. And after hearing his soundcheck it seemed the only humane thing to do. But this Pongo was different. He wanted to make a deal.

'What kind of a deal?'

'Let me do the gig, then she's yours.'

Corrigan glanced across at Lelewala. She was starting to drift. Her eyes were becoming unfocused.

'Did you give her something?'

'No way, man, not before a gig.'

Corrigan knelt beside her again. He rubbed her arm. She said something, but it was incoherent. She shivered and snuggled back into the blankets.

'Let her sleep,' Pongo said, 'a rest, she'll be fine. Listen to me . . .' He pulled at Corrigan's shoulder, if I tape this song live, and get out of here with it before your people arrive, I'll make ten million from it. Twenty. It's my "San Quentin". The biggest drug raid in history, plus you can dance to it. They're talking about cancelling my contract, but with this I can write my own. I can go on the road. Play the clubs. Get back to basics. Rock'n'roll, man, rock'n'roll.'

He laughed. There was an accompanying laugh from the doorway behind them.

'Rock'n'roll, man, rock'n'roll,' a familiar voice repeated.

Corrigan turned. It was Thomas Vincenzi, the Barracuda, and six hoods in suits.

The guard who escorted him along hallways and up stairs was more Neanderthal than Praetorian, and didn't have the sense to search him for hidden weapons. The Barracuda marched regally ahead, his only conversation a breezy 'I knew you'd turn up,' followed swiftly by 'I believe your finger is upstairs.'

'I hope it's in a fridge,' Corrigan said dryly, taking comfort from the fact that he still had a pistol in his sock and some cotton wool in his gloves in case the gunfire got really loud.

The longer they walked, the better and richer the decor became. These were parts of the mansion the conventioneers evidently did not have access to. Maybe the Old Cripple was worried about them stealing the Old Masters. When they reached the third floor Corrigan began to notice wheelmarks cutting deep into the luxurious carpet. He thought it reasonable to assume that if they originated with the Old Cripple he was using a wheelchair to move about rather than a hostess trolley.

Where the wheelmarks came to a final halt, so did they. The Barracuda knocked perfunctorily on the door, then pushed it open. Corrigan was ushered inside, the guardsmen still gathered about him. The Barracuda entered last, closing the door behind them.

There was a man sitting by the window, although he was hardly a man at all. He was bald, but not out of choice. One side of his face was hideously burnt; the other side wasn't much better. One arm was black and withered; both legs were in strict metal calipers. He wore a dressing gown that hung open to display folded yellowed flesh and a clouded plastic colostomy bag. He was a crushed shell of a creature, yet when he turned his eyes on Corrigan they burned intensely.

He did not speak. Perhaps he could not. The Barracuda stood, bemused, as Corrigan stepped forward, if I'm going to arrest you,' Corrigan said, 'I'll need your full name.'

He was cracked from behind by one of the hoods and he fell to his knees. When he gathered himself up, his eyes were level with a coffee table on which a small glass dome sat over a plate, on which sat his severed finger, going black like a banana.

The Old Cripple looked where he looked and broke into a smile, although it could just as easily have been a shrapnel wound, revealing as it did bloody gums and shards of heavily filled teeth. The wound opened a little further and inspector,' he said, his voice a harrowing croak, 'you are welcome to my humble abode.'

Corrigan felt the insurance policy of his pistol press against his ankle. He took a deep breath, resisted the temptation to go for his gun and finish it there and then. He was interested. 'Sorry,' he said, 'it's not my style. Although I believe your people have had a look round my place. Made rather a tasty offer.'

From the window came the sound of white doves cooing ungratefully, their fan tails showing above the frame with the suggestion that they were shitting on the sill. The Old Cripple pulled a gnarled hand across his burnt face. The wound narrowed slightly. 'Yes, of course,' he said, 'the indirect approach. We . . .
evaluate
people, Inspector, decide how best to take control of them. Some are more amenable to a direct offer. Your good Chief of Police, for example. I think with you, we decided that a more subtle approach was necessary. You would not be easily bought.'

'No,' Corrigan said, easing back to his feet, 'and refusal can often offend.'

'You have . . .' the Old Cripple began, then paused, and looked at the Barracuda. 'How do you say?'

'Attitude,' said the Barracuda.

'Attitude,'
the Old Cripple repeated carefully. 'Yes. Very good.
Attitude.
It is no bad thing, although in certain situations it might be regarded as unfortunate. Perhaps even reckless. After all, we do, surely, hold all of the shots?'

Less six,
Corrigan thought, but he nodded grimly.

'How old are you, Inspector?' the Old Cripple asked.

'Thirty-two,' Corrigan said.

The Old Cripple nodded. 'You have met my son Pongo. I have another. He lives, I believe, in Ireland. I have not seen him, I do not wish for him to see me like this.'

'I see your point,' Corrigan said.

'Attitude,'
the Old Cripple purred. 'My name, Inspector, is Mohammed Salameh. Does that mean anything to you?'

Corrigan shook his head.

'I was once what you might call a terrorist. The finest of my generation, some said, until the Americans came and bombed our camp in the desert and left me for dead. . .' There was a smile again, but different, sharper, like an axe in a dying tree, as he looked at his pathetic body. 'Today I am a finally tuned athlete compared to what I was then. But I swore, I swore on the life of my wife who died in that attack, that I would avenge her death, that I would destroy America.'

There was a deep chill in his voice suddenly, and for several moments his eyes seemed lost in memory.

'And did you?' Corrigan asked.

The old man pulled his hand slowly across his face. When it dropped to the side of his chair he had half closed his eyes. 'When I was young,' he said, 'I was an idealist. I wanted to change the world. I would lend support to any cause I thought worthy. And I was very good. I trained half of the world's freedom fighters. Destroying America did not seem all that big a deal. I would return to the devil's mouth and wage a war such as they had never dreamed of. I thought, how can a country of this size, of this diversity, have survived without terrorism so long? Hundreds and hundreds of ethnic groups all physically and mentally abused, denied employment, kept in ghettos, used as cannon fodder in any imperial conflict the president could dream up. America had, as far as I could see, no redeeming features.'

'You obviously haven't seen
Frasier.'

There was a flash of impatience in the Old Cripple's eyes. 'Why do you jest all the time?'

'All I'm saying, America isn't that bad. And we're in Canada, just in case you . . .'

'As you grow older,
Inspector,
you will become less flippant. You will be wondering why I'm telling you all of this . . .'

He was. It was becoming a bit like
Jackanory.
'I'm worried about you missing your party.'

'Yes, indeed. The party to end all parties.' He cleared his throat. It sounded like a cappuccino machine. 'I have thrown this party because my plans for America changed. As you grow older . . . well, things become clearer. Religion. Nationalism. The folly of it all. I came to this country to nurture revolution. But in the end it did not work, because for all their protest, for all their professed nationalism, the people I met all actually loved America. And in their own way, they are happy. Who was I to interfere with that?' He gave a painful little shrug. 'Perhaps I have just mellowed with age.'

'Mellowed into a drug dealer.'

'I'm not a drug dealer, Inspector.'

'You do a pretty good impression of one.'

'I remain a revolutionary. I use drugs to achieve my aims.'

Corrigan smiled incredulously round at the Barracuda, who maintained his bemused expression. The hoods in suits were using up all their mental faculties just to maintain their mean look. He looked back to the Old Cripple. 'Destroying the insidious evil that is America by dealing drugs?' He waved his good hand about the room, but meaning more than just the room. 'And all this, is drug money.'

'Yes, it is. But you have to understand, I'm not in this for profit. What money comes back to me is reinvested in the war.'

'What
war?'

'The war against drugs.'

'What
war against drugs?'

The Old Cripple raised his withered hand about the room, but meaning the same epic expanse of house and garden as Corrigan had. 'I could not make the kind of deals I do, I could not meet and entertain the kind of people I have to, if I could not compete on their level of. . .' he took a deep, rattled breath, '. . . ostentatiousness. White doves, Inspector? Do you think that I am really that kind of a man?'

The Old Cripple shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed. His voice was cold as an ancient rock at the bottom of an icy pool. 'Do you really think that I have put all of this convention together in order to facilitate
drug dealers?'

'It would seem like a reasonable assumption, seeeing as how they all seem to be in your front room.'

'My
life,
Inspector, has been about giving the oppressed the means with which to fight back. Training them, inspiring them, leading them. For that I have been called a terrorist and hounded to the ends of the earth. I have fought for forty years. I have had many enemies. America. Russia. The British. I have fought them all. But there is one enemy that is bigger than America, bigger than Russia, one enemy that has grown like a cancer, that has destroyed more lives, oppressed more people than any mere government or dictator. Do you know what that enemy is, Inspector?'

Corrigan nodded. It was suddenly quite obvious. 'Drugs,' he said.

The Old Cripple dropped his fist into his lap. 'It has taken me many years of delicate manoeuvring to get into this position. I had to become a drug dealer. I had to win their trust and then their friendship. Eventually I rose to such a position of respect that when I suggested the concept of the convention, they saw that there was good reason behind it, that it wasn't an attempt to dominate or to steal or to kill. Then I had to bide my time until it was my turn to act as host, and all that time people were dying. Hundreds of thousands, all over the world.'