“Sheeit. With your Joleen?” The cooked crab face of the fat man registered disbelief.
Snowy nodded glumly. “Drugs. He must have her on drugs. And I went and sent the nigger preacher to go and get her, and he never came back. He must be on those drugs too.”
“Elton, I think things started to go bad when that peckerhead asked for that cup of coffee.”
Snowy nodded his head, slowly, thoughtfully. He looked down at the glass of sarsaparilla in his hand.
“We shoulda shot him then,” said the bartender. “Yep,” he agreed with himself. “We shoulda shot him then.”
Snowy, exhausted after a day of rounding up volunteer warriors for the posse to rescue his daughter, said sharply, “But how would that do anything to this little bastard from India?”
“Show him a lesson. Trouble was we let everybody get uppity. First it was niggers, and then it was Putto Rickens, and then it was real Indians, and now it’s these funny Indians who are really niggers. Everybody’s stepping all over us. Next thing you know, Catholics are gonna start getting uppity around here.”
“Pray God it never comes to that,” said Snowy.
“We’d better.’Cause if they come, the Jews will be right behind them.”
The horror of that thought stimulated Snowy’s thirst, and he drained his glass of sarsaparilla and put it on the bar with a clunk.
“Want more, Elton?”
“No. That’s enough. Well?”
“Whatever you want, I’m with you.”
“Good,” said Snowy. “Pack yourself a bag. We’re leaving tonight.”
“We?”
“You and me and Fester and Puling.”
“Eeeeyow,” said the bartender. “All of us going to San Francisco?”
“Yup.”
“Won’t that be one hell of a nut-busting time? No wives, neither. Yahoo.” His voice was so loud that others further down the bar looked at him, and he moved closer to Snowy and said, “I can’t wait, Elton.”
“My house tonight. At six.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Out of Frisco, toward the west, toward Japan, which called itself the land of the rising sun but was really the land of the setting sun from America’s viewpoint, which might have provided a clue about the ending of World War II, over the Golden Gate Bridge, awkwardly red in the daylight sun, the late morning heat having burned off the fog shroud, the ubiquitous workmen giving the bridge its daily dose of ugly red paint, out off the bridge, onto a highway, then into a tunnel, its open mouth painted with arcs of rainbow color, then back out onto the highway.
He drove with an easy discipline, his mind not on the car or the wheel, his finely tuned body and instincts reacting automatically to the swerve of the road, weighing the mass of the car against the centrifugal force, balanced by the coefficient of friction for the tires, all without thought, just through fingertips and palms connected to arms, connected to spinal cord and brain.
Ferdinand De Chef Hunt had never been on this side of San Francisco before. He had visited the city years earlier on business but had no ambition to see the surrounding countryside.
Hunt had learned early of his ability to manipulate objects, and he regarded places as just more objects, only bigger. He was not curious about places he had not seen.
Another tunnel up ahead. On the rock face above it, white paint had been splashed, like a gigantic Tom Sawyeresque attempt to whitewash not just a fence, but the world. Hunt’s sharp eyes picked out an outline under the paint. He slowed the car. Yes, it was the outline of a woman, a forty-foot-high painting of a naked woman, and already the white paint was wearing off, and the woman’s voluptuous outlines showed through the paint, and the woman was sexy.
Hunt gave the white paint two more weeks before the elements made it almost perfectly transparent, and he hoped he would still be in the area because he wanted to see the painting of the naked woman. He could tell, from the harshness of the lines used for the curves of the body, that the artist was a woman. Men painted women in all kinds of soft curves, curves that women never had, but most men never knew because they were afraid to look at women. It took a woman to measure a woman and to know the hardness underneath, and this was a woman’s work.
The discovery of the covered-over painting made his day. It was like one of those fine details sometimes found in a corner of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, one of those details that you might overlook the first hundred times you saw the painting, and then on the 101st you would discover it, and the shout of surprise would rise in your throat, and you would not even care that other men had discovered it first. For you, it was your own discovery, real and personal and immediate. It made you a Columbus, and so Hunt felt as he tromped on the gas pedal and sped on.
On further, off the main highway, down into the working-hard-at-it artsy-craftsy towns that gave the north Bay area its bad name among art lovers, and then he was coming over a hill and then down a long grade and then, in a flash, he went from Marin County countryside into outskirt suburbs that could have been picked up and relocated anywhere in the United States, and then he was past that into a town center that was frontierlike and gallery-perfect.
Mill Valley. He drove into the heart of town, past the modernistic lumber store. Stopped for a light at a corner, he could see an old corner pub. In front were three motorcycles with stickers proclaiming that Jesus Saves, and the savings must have been substantial because the bikes were customized Harley Davidson choppers that went for three thousand dollars each.
Another block and Hunt hung a left and began moving his old 1952 MG up a hill that was like riding along the back of a giant snake that had curled up on the roadway to die. And then he was upon the hidden driveway, almost past it, and he yanked the car down into second gear, spun the front wheels to the right to skid the rear end while he jammed the brake, then turned off the car key and released the brake just as the car lined itself up nose-first to go into the driveway, and the car raced ahead, but then slowed down of its own weight, and Hunt folded his arms and let the car roll, and he was not at all surprised when it stopped precisely one inch from a closed garage door.
Unlike civilized America where the garage is either attached to the house or in close proximity to it, the garage hung out over the edge of a cliff, and Hunt saw steps on the side, leading downward.
As he stepped onto the stairs, he was met by four men, large men with inscrutable brown faces, wearing long pink robes. Arms folded, they stared at him.
“I’m Ferdi…”
“We know who you are,” said one man. “You will follow us.”
Down, two stories below the garage, the house nestled on an outcropping of rock, a gray cedar sprawl surrounded by windows on all sides.
Wordlessly, Hunt was ushered into the house and taken to a small pink room on the second floor of the building. The room resounded with pings. He was pushed inside and saw himself looking at the back of a big metal cabinet that stood in the center of the floor. Jutting out from either side of the cabinet, he could see lightly polished English riding boots and plaid jodhpurs.
“He is here, Blissful Master,” said a voice behind Hunt.
“Get out, for Christ’s sake,” came a voice from behind the machine.
Then Hunt was alone. He felt the door close behind him. He heard another set of pings. Ping, ping, ping, and then, “Oh, shit.”
A fat face peered from around the machine.
“So you’re the button man,” it said.
“I am Ferdinand De Chef Hunt,” said Hunt, who did not know what a button man was and did not know why he was here except that the two owners of his firm had put him on leave of absence with full pay and had paid his way to San Francisco.
“Are you as good as those two Wall Street dingalings say you are?”
Hunt, who did not know, shrugged.
The Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor stood up behind the machine. He had been sitting on a high barstool and, standing, he still was not as tall as the machine. He w
ore brown, red, and white plaid jodhpurs, deep brown boots, and a tan T-shirt with three monkeys—hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil—on it, and the shirt was pulled tight across his soft, almost feminine-breasted chest.
“Grab a stool,” he said. “You know what I want?”
“I don’t even know who you are,” said Hunt, moving to the black leather tufted barstool, matching the one Dor had been sitting on. Dor turned to face him and leaned back against his stool.
“You got a name besides Hunt?”
“Ferdinand De Chef Hunt.”
“Okay. Ferdinand it is. You can call me Maharaji or Blissful Master or God, whatever pleases you.” He looked at Hunt carefully. “There’s trouble in paradise, pal.”
“There’s always trouble in paradise,” said Hunt.
“I’m glad you know that. Then you understand why I need an avenging angel. Is that seraphim or cherubim? I don’t know, I can never keep them straight. Theology was never really my bag; business administration was. Anyway, Ferdinand…” As he talked, Dor turned toward the electronic ping-pong machine, depressed a red button, and a white dot sprung from one side of the machine and moved slowly across the face of the television screen to the other side. Dor put one hand on a knob on the right, another on the knob on the left, and with a sidelong glance at the machine, intercepted the moving dot by turning the knob and repositioning the small vertical line. The dot seemed to rebound from the small line, back to the other side of the screen. Hunt watched, fascinated.
Dor kept speaking, paying only casual attention to the game. “Anyway,” he said, “I got a big number to do here Tuesday night, and two guys are stepping on my skirt. They went to my place in Patna, that’s our Pentagon in India, and laid all kinds of shit on my troops. Scared away some of my bodyguards and yanked back one of my broads.”
“Who are they?” asked Hunt, still wondering why he had been sent here.
“I’m getting to that.” Ping. Ping. Ping. “A week or so ago, one of my defectors was killed. And then one of my troops was killed. And then another one. Right here in the U.S. of A., which is a drag, man.” Ping. Ping. Ping. “Anyway, these guys got killed with crushed necks, and all the old hankie heads with me are moaning and groaning about some kind of curse.”
Ping. Ping. Ping.
“It’s two guys been doing it, and I figure they’re around here somewhere. That’s why I’m hiding out here in the hills instead of being in the city.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I don’t want these two messing up my number at Kezar Stadium, man. This is the big flagpole toot for my American scene, and I don’t need interference.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Hunt.
Dor wheeled on the stool. His hands came off the levers, and there was the ring of a bell as the unintercepted dot hit the far side of the screen and scored a point. Score: 1 to 0, the top of the machine flashed. Dor looked at Hunt.
“Well, I didn’t want you to cook them a meal, shmuck. I want you to off them.”
Hunt watched the machine again as the white dot reappeared and moved from right to left. Unintercepted, it vanished at the left of the screen. The bell rang. The score changed to 2-0. Hunt could smell the heat from the machine.
“Off them?” he said.
“Yeah. Punch their tickets.”
“Punch their tickets?”
“For Jesus’ sake, are you stupid or what? Kill them, dummy.”
Hunt smiled. So that’s what a button man was. As he watched, the score on the untended machine mounted to 3-0, 4-0, 5-0.
“What kind of hit man are you anyway,” Dor asked. “How many notches on your piece?”
“By that, I assume you mean how many men have I killed?”
“Righto, Ferdi. How many?”
“None.”
Dor looked at him with annoyance creasing his smooth, unlined face. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What is this crap?”
Hunt shrugged.
“Goddamit, I asked for a hit man and I get a southern gentleman who sits there like a bump on a log and smirks. What the hell is going on here?”
“I can kill them,” Hunt said, and was surprised to hear his voice say that.
“Sure, pal. Sure. I had ninety-eight bodyguards at Patna, a bigger goddam internal security force than old Crossback in Rome, and you know where they are? All ninety-eight? They’re back in the hills pissing in their pants, all because of these two creeps. And now you’re going to get them? Hah.”
Ping, ping, ping. The score was 11-0, and the vertical lines disappeared. The game was over, and the white dot began to move randomly back and forth with none of the intensity of a ball in play.
“I can kill them,” Hunt said again, calmly, and this time it sounded more natural to him, as if it were something he should have been saying all his life.
Dor turned back to the machine, waving a hand at Hunt in disgust, in a gesture of go on, get out of here, you bum.
Hunt sat and watched as Dor played the game with grim intensity, playing both sides with both knobs. The score seesawed back and forth, 1-0, 1-1, 2-1, 3-1. Each point took a long time to play and gave Hunt time to think. Why not? His family had done it for centuries. The two stockbrokers, Dalton and Harrow, had talked about Hunt’s becoming very wealthy. And why not? Why not? Why not? At that moment, Ferdinand De Chef Hunt returned to the ancestral bosom of his family and decided to become a hit man. And now, goddamit, he was not going to be dissuaded from it by this porky little pig.
“What is that game?” he asked aloud.
“Electronic Ping-Pong,” Dor said. “Ever play it?”
“No. But I can beat you.”
Dor laughed derisively.
“You couldn’t beat me if I wore a blindfold,” he said.
“I could beat you if I wore a blindfold,” said Hunt.
“Get out of here, will you?” said Dor.
“I will play you,” said Hunt.
“Go away.”
“My life against the job. The game decides.”
Dor turned and looked at Hunt’s face. The American rose and walked to the machine.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” said Dor.
“It’s my life,” said Hunt. “I don’t fool with it.”
Dor clapped his hands. The dot went from side to side on the machine. Unhindered, it kept scoring points for the server.
The door opened, and in it stood the four men who had escorted Hunt into the house.
“We’re going to play Ping-Pong,” said Dor. “If he loses, waste him.” He turned to Hunt. “That all right with you?”
“Of course. But what if I win?”
“Then you and I will talk.”
“We will talk in the six-figure kind of talk?” Hunt said.
“Right, but don’t worry about it. In three minutes, you’ll be among the dear departed.” He reached for the red button to cancel out the game and start a new one.
“Don’t do that,” said Hunt.
“What?”
“This game is fine,” said Hunt.
“I knew it. I knew it. I knew there was a hitch. You want a spot. Well, I’m not spotting anybody no seven points. It’s eight to one, make it nine to one, already.”
“I’ll take the one point. Play,” said Hunt, putting his hand on the knob that controlled the left vertical line. The ball pinged gently from the right lower side of the machine toward him.
“It’s your funeral,” said the maharaji. “And I mean that.”
Hunt slowly turned the knob. The vertical line moved up. He reversed the motion of the knob, and the line moved down. He ignored the dot, which moved uninterrupted off his side of the screen.
“Ten to one,” said Dor. “One more point.”
“You’ll never score it,” said Hunt. He had the feel now of the knob. He touched the hard black plastic gently with his hand, his fingers gripping easily into the ridges around the knob, molding into them as if the knob had been desi
gned for his hand alone. He could sense the speed of the vertical line, its motion, the turn necessary to move it top, to move it bottom. Without thought, with his brain divorced from what he did, Hunt knew these things. The next serve came from Dor’s side of the screen, aimed at the bottom. Dor smiled. Hunt moved his vertical paddle slowly downward, and as the dot rebounded upward, his paddle intercepted it, and the white dot went straight back across the bottom of the screen. Dor moved his line downward directly in front of the dot and let it rebound straight back, along its approach line, back toward Hunt.
Hunt’s vertical line had not moved since he had returned the serve. Now it was in the same position to return the ball straight back across the screen, but as the dot approached the electronic paddle, Hunt moved the vertical line and the movement hit the dot, as if off a curved paddle, sending it up toward the top of the screen. Dor moved his paddle up to intercept it right at the top, forming an upside down L between paddle and top of screen, but the dot slid over the top of his paddle and the machine pinged.
“Ten to two,” said Hunt with a smile. He realized there was a dead spot at the top of the machine from which a paddle could not return a ball. Now to see if there was one at the bottom of the screen.
The serve switched to Dor now. The game went on. There was a blind spot in the bottom of the screen too. Ten-three, ten-four, ten-five.
Dor played in growing frustration, shouting at the moving dot. Hunt stood silently alongside the machine, moving his control knob slowly, almost casually.
When the score reached ten-ten, Dor smashed the heel of his pudgy left hand against the base of the machine. On its face, it registered TILT, and the electronic paddles disappeared.
“Okay,” he said to the four men, who stood just inside the doorway. “Okay, okay. Bug off.”
As they left, Hunt said, “That was right-handed. I haven’t shown you left-handed yet.”
“Don’t bother.”
“How about left-handed with a blindfold?”
“You can’t play this with a blindfold. How can you play if you don’t see?”
“You don’t have to see,” said Hunt. “You’ve never noticed. The machine makes a different sound when a ball is coming in low than it does when it’s coming in high. You can hear a siss that tells you fast or slow.”
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