The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) by Shane Norwood Page A

over.
    “ Good evenin’,” he said, bowing politely. “Where y’at?”
     
    ***
     
    Monsoon was sitting in the anteroom of suite 226 at the Bellagio next to a man who looked uncannily like how Bruce Willis would have looked if he were seventy pounds overweight.
    “ So, what's your next movie, pal? Fucking Fry Hard ?” Monsoon said amiably.
    “ Blow me, spook,” replied the Bruceburger, amiably.
    Before Monsoon could think of a suitably devastating comeback, the door to the suite opened and a man who looked exactly like Tom Jones came out, followed by a pert standard-issue secretary-type girl who said, “Next, please.”
    Bruce stood up and, giving Monsoon a smug leer, stepped through the door.
    “ Fuck me, bro,” Monsoon said. “You look so much like Tom Jones, it ain’t true. You’re even about the same age as the old bastard.”
    “ I am fucking Tom Jones, you twat. I’m here looking for a caddy.”
    “ Shit. I’m sorry. So you play a round of golf now and then, huh?”
    “ It’s not unusual.”
    “ Well, what about me?”
    “ Nah. I want one that looks like Shirley Bassey. Bye now.”
    The door opened and Monsoon heard somebody say, “The answer’s no, you fat prick. How the fuck can you watch anybody’s balls if you can’t even see your own?”
    The Bruce balloon stomped out past Monsoon without a word. Monsoon followed the secretary into the suite. A small man with a disproportionately huge schnozz and thick lenses looked up. Monsoon held out his hand and smiled his best used-car salesman smile.
    “ Hi there, boss,” he said, “my name is—”
    “ I don’t give a fuck what your name is, son. How soon can you start?”
    “ What? Oh, shit, er, well, fucking now if you want.”
    “ Good man. Esmeralda, find this boy some golf kit, and arrange for a limo to take him to the course. And get me Elmo on line three.”
    As a beaming Monsoon was led out, the man with the beezer picked up the phone.
    “ Elmo, baby. Didn’t I tell ya? Don’t I always come through for ya? The guy’ll be there in an hour. What? Sure. I tell ya, this kid could fuck Woods’s old lady and she’d never know the difference. Ciao.”
    The man hung up, pulled out a cigar from inside his checked sports coat pocket, lit up, put his feet up on the desk, and sighed contentedly as the sweet billowing cloud enveloped his features, until only his nose was sticking out.
     
    ***
     
    The moons over Basque country are spectacular. Fortunately for Arantxa, there was none that night. Breathless, she climbed from her own window and crossed the orchard, the earth cool beneath her bare feet. She propped the chair she carried against the wall. In the darkness, she could not tell if the window was still open, but she prayed fervently that it was, at the same time praying for forgiveness for praying for something that she was sure was a sin. Her prayers were answered. Or, the cleaner forgot to close the window. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. After enduring the excruciating screech of the window opening, which sounded to her like the wails of a thousand banshees but which was, in fact, barely audible, she was inside. She stood motionless for minutes, her heart sounding like a Zulu kraal on the eve of battle, every nerve taut, her eyes conning the darkness, a doe paused for flight at the slightest pretext. She was petrified. And then a strange thing happened. She realized that she was enjoying it. That she was shaking not because she was afraid, but because she was thrilled. She relaxed. She inhaled deeply. The rich musky maleness was overwhelming. It was palpable to her unaccustomed nose as a thing of itself. A thing savage and wild. The blackness was absolute. No light came from under the doors. She steeled herself, and drew the candle and matches from her gown, and lit up. She almost fainted.
    Drawn in flickering shadows were the grotesque and seductive images of a world unknown. Runes and symbols from an existence