by Wayne Turmel
It wasn’t just a job. Not to me. I slowly stood up and leaned into him. I had him by a good four or five inches. “I’m not a kid.”
He did exactly what I knew he’d do; what bullies always do, he backed up a step. I was beginning to get a feel for him. Some guys just need a firm shove on the carriage. I let myself enjoy the moment when he took another step back.
“Whatever you say, Jumbo. It’s your funeral.”
“So are you going to follow us all the way to St. Louis?”
His voice changed. He was just talking to me, man to man in that cop way they have when they want you to relax and say something stupid. “If that’s what it takes. Look, either I get something on him, or my boss quits paying me. It ain’t personal.”
I thought about the hours de Prorok spent moping over Alice and the babies. I remembered him smiling like a trained chimp at all the meetings with college presidents’ wives and Rotarians. All the miles he traveled through the snow to bring people a little fun and maybe teach them something, the fights with bookers over money, and having to get to the bank before leaving for the next town so I could get paid. Havlicek was wrong. It was very damned personal. I couldn’t tell him all that, though. I just said, “He’s a good guy.”
“You believe that, don’tcha? Look, Willy. It’s Willy, right?” I nodded. Suddenly he was trying the fatherly approach. That was probably the least likely way to win me over, but he couldn’t know that. “He’s a fake. He’s Billy Sunday in a jungle suit. Trust me, get out while the gettin’s good.”
“Thanks for the advice. S-s-see you in St. Louis.” Damn, I’d almost gotten out of it without stuttering.
He shrugged and put his hat on. “Your call. If you can think of anything that’d help us out, Mr. Kenny is a pretty generous guy. He’d probably make it worth your while.”
I wasn’t going to sell the Count out. The very idea was infuriating. First of all, I was no rat. Secondly I didn’t see why everyone hated him so much. Sure he was working angles, but who wasn’t? And who was he really hurting? And really, what choice did I have? Byron de Prorok was my ticket out of… well, just out.
I hated feeling so useless. I couldn’t really do anything to help the Count out of his situation, it was all beyond me. But Havlicek…there had to be a way to get rid of him, at least. I knew somebody smarter would have figured something out by now. De Prorok didn’t have the luxury of someone smarter, he was stuck with me. So much for hiring the best.
That night at Beloit College the Count was as good as I’d ever seen him. From the moment Brad Tyrrell introduced him and he hit the stage in a spotless desert shirt, jodhpurs and pith helmet, he had that audience of professors’ wives and spoiled frat boys eating from his hand. Of course, we’d stacked the deck in his favor, too.
Ordinarily, he didn’t deviate a word or two from his normal lecture. This time, we’d gone through every slide and photograph and made sure every picture of the car—I think it was Lucky Strike—showed the Beloit College banner. It got a rousing cheer every time it appeared on screen.
He spent a lot of time up front, maybe too much time, thanking the Logan Museum, and the College, and President Maurer, and President Maurer’s mother, and Governor Blaine and Calvin Coolidge, and God himself. Even though the big shots weren’t there, plenty of people from the College and Museum were. Normally, these academic guys would beam proudly when they were mentioned. Tonight the faculty that bothered to show up just squirmed like the Father’d called them out during the homily in church.
I clicked one of the slides into place, and showed the whole Expedition. Some frat boy with pomaded hair behind me shouted, “Hey, it’s Lonnie Pond.”
Another one hooted, “Yeah, Little Lonnie!”
Three times the Count’s walking stick banged the platform. “Yes, that’s Alonzo Pond. Beloit College—and all of you—should be very proud of him.” His brow crinkled and he stalked to the front of the stage, pinning the loudmouth to his seat with a fierce glare. “Alonzo Pond rode three days on a camel, risking danger and even death, to save every man on that expedition from starvation and drought. He may be ‘Little Lonnie,’ as you so charmingly put it, but a better man… and a better representative of this institution… you’ll never find.” A hush fell over the room.
Then I saw him silently count to four, and a smile reappeared on his face, and his voice rose. “In fact, he represented all of you so well, that Tuareg and Arab tribes across North Africa know the Beloit yell.” He threw his head back, held out his arms and shouted, “Ole Olson, Yonny Yonson…” Before he was done, the frat boys joined in. “On Beloit. Wisconsin.” Then they started again, and the whole crowd took up the chang. “Ole Olson…” Over and over it went until the chapel’s walls shook.
By the time we were done for the night, the place was in an uproar. The frat boys loved him, the Professors’ wives thought he was adorable, and he was the king of Beloit. Even I got my share of pats on the back and invitations to parties, providing I brought along my “A-rab getup.”
We didn’t, however, get an invitation from the college president. Likewise nothing from the Logan Museum, or even the student body president. On a normal night, there was a whole conga line of people eager to bask in the reflected glow of the famous Count de Prorok. Tonight, not one person of any importance offered anything other than a mild, “good job.” No Faculty Tea, no brandy with the president.
De Prorok was dumbfounded. He’d worked with these people for over a year, and not one person wanted to join him for a friendly chat or an illicit glass of, “the good stuff.” We were left alone in a chapel to pack up and kill an exciting night in beautiful downtown Beloit.
By the time I hauled the stuff back to the room, he was already pouring a glass of Templeton for himself. He paced back and forth, not acknowledging me for a long time, just muttering, “Oh shit. Oh Christ, Oh bloody, bloody hell.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said the worst thing I could have, given the circumstances. “Maybe it’s not that bad.” His lip just curled up in a snarl.
“This is all Bill Kenny’s fault,” he said. “He’s turned Alice against me, and now he’s trying to ruin me with my colleagues. But he won’t. Not for long. You heard them tonight, Brown. I was great. I’m too good at my job to be denied.” He paced and drank, then drank and paced some more.
“They’ve got to sign those digging rights, tomorrow, Willy. Without them, I’m … they must at least agree to them in principle. I know Bill wants the signed agreement, but if we can at least get a verbal commitment... Brad Tyrrell understands, and I know he’s trying. I wish Alonzo were here. He knows exactly how important those sites are to the Logan, but he’s still over in In Salah counting arrowheads and kissing Reygasse’s arse.”
A question had been nagging at me, buzzing and banging against my brain like flies caught in a windowpane. “If he’s already in Algeria, why do they need you?”
De Prorok stopped pacing. I swear the earth stopped spinning for a moment. His eyes slowly widened like camera lenses. “What do you mean?”
I wasn’t sure myself, but now that I started asking, I couldn’t let it go. “Why do they have to go through you to dig there?”
“Because I have the…” He dug the strongbox out and pulled out the papers. “These are the digging rights to all that part of Algeria. Touggart Province. Hoggar. Right here.” He crunched the papers in his fist, then in a panic, laid them on the table and tried to smooth out any creases.
“Where’d you get those rights from?”
“From Maurice Reygasse, on behalf of the Algerian government. No one can legally dig there without legal authority.”
“Couldn’t the college just go right to him?”
“After all I’ve done for them? They wouldn’t. It would be a scandal. And I’m giving them a huge discount—sixty thousand dollars a year instead of seventy-five. They have to.” His voice was getting high again. Then it dropped almost to a whisper. “They just have to
.”
No, I realized. They didn’t. And if they didn’t have to, they wouldn’t. He was… we were…well and truly screwed. Then I could see he realized it as well, as he dropped his head into his hands and sobbed like a baby.
“Alice… I just… Oh Christ, what am I going to do…? That bastard…” I could just make out the occasional word between the blubbering. I stood over him, not knowing what to do. Pat him on the shoulder? What would that do, and who the hell was I to be comforting anyone?
Figuring he needed his privacy, and being completely incapable of offering any real help, I went for a long walk. I didn’t go back upstairs until the light went off in our room.
When we got to the President’s office in the morning, a very nice, older secretary greeted us warmly. “Good morning, Mr. De Prorok. The others are waiting for you, I’ll bring you right in.”
“Who exactly is in there?”
“Well, President Maurer, of course, and Dr. Collie from the Logan. And Bradley Tyrrell, I believe.” Then she stepped smoothly between him and me. “Just take a seat, young man. I’ll bring you out some coffee while you’re waiting.”
“It’s alright, Brown. ‘Tis a far, far better thing I do. This won’t take long.” He followed her into the office, gave me a weak smile and a thumbs up, then closed the door with the marble glass window in it behind him and gave me a motherly smile.
“Cream and sugar?”
I sat there in a heavy upholstered chair, surrounded by dark wood paneling covered in photographs and certificates designed to make you feel unworthy, straining to hear. It was all incoherent mumbling at first, then the voices would get louder and finally someone would remember their manners and it would get quiet again. I did manage to hear some of it.
“But I have legal authority…”
“We will not be allowed into Algerian territory if we have anything to do with…”
“But the New York Times…”
“Alonzo Pond was nearly arrested because of your carelessness…”
“What do you mean embarrassment? We were awarded the Palme d’Or…”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is, final…”
At last, the door opened. President Maurer held the door and offered his hand to the Count. “Byron, I’m truly sorry it’s come to this. We really do wish you the best. Good luck.” He really looked like he meant it, too.
De Prorok stood perfectly straight, and I could hear the strain in his voice, but the smile was nothing short of perfect. “Of course, Irving. I understand. All an unfortunate misunderstanding, of course, but business is business and all that. Perhaps another time.”
Brad Tyrrell emerged from inside, putting on his coat. “Byron, wait. I’ll walk you down.”
“No need, Brad. Brown and I are all ready to go. We have a train to catch.” I was already holding the door for him and he brushed past me with as much dignity as he could muster, which was considerable given the circumstances.
As the door closed behind us, I heard Tyrrell’s drifting down the hall. “Stay in touch. Give my best to Alice.”
Chapter 18
Near Abalessa, Hoggar Province, Algeria
November 13, 1926
Byron de Prorok scratched his itching cheek and studied the northern horizon. Even at twenty nine years old, his facial hair was embarrassingly sparse and he knew he must look an ungodly mess. Certainly, he’d never grow a great professorial beard like his hero Gsell. He desperately wanted to shave, but knew Martini would probably shoot him if he tried to use any of their precious water for such a wasted effort, as well he should.
He squatted in the slim shadow provided by an overhanging rock, at least as well as his long legs would allow. His pants bagged at the waist. He’d lost weight he couldn’t really afford to lose and was glad they’d traded away all the mirrors so he didn’t have to look at himself. Vanity wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to face his own reflection. For the first time, he admitted to himself he may have just killed them all.
The banging and grunting of men working in the burial chamber a few yards away were the only sounds other than the incessant buzzing of flies. Even hungrier than they’d ever been in their lives, everyone continued to work, if only to keep their minds occupied. De Prorok knew how lucky he was to have every man jack on his team, and how badly he’d failed them.
Chapuis and Belaid he knew were proven campaigners. Discovering Martini was pure luck; they’d have been in a lot more trouble if not for the little magician. He looked at the man trudging towards him. Even poor Brad Tyrrell, who was essentially here on holiday, never complained or shirked any of the hard work.
“Byron, you okay?” Tyrrell’s voice ricocheted off the stones.
“Never better.”
“Yeah, me too.” The older man plunked himself down in the dust beside the Count. Once more adjusting his hat to provide a tad of relief, they sat there in companionable silence, sucking on pebbles for the precious saliva it generated.
Byron needed to say it to someone. “Brad, I’m awfully sorry about…”
“Bah, don’t. A little tough slogging, but I’ll be home for Christmas and this will all be a great story to tell the grandkids.” Byron winced. Home by Christmas, the last words of too many men.
Brad Tyrrell looked at him. “You’ve done okay, you know.”
“I’m an ass.”
The American snorted. “Well, I never said I’d hire you. Frankly, you couldn’t organize a gang bang in a whorehouse.”
“Thanks ever so much.”
“Relax. I’m just saying, you’ve got a lot to learn. It’s only natural for Pete’s sake. This is your first time in charge. But you’ve also had the dirtiest luck I’ve ever seen. Completely snake bit.”
“Always been like that, Brad. It’s my fate, I suppose. Just when I think things are going my way, they turn to shit.”
“There’s no such thing as fate, Byron. You’re smart, ambitious… God knows you work hard at the things you work at. It’s all you really need to succeed.”
The younger man shook his head with a sad grin. “That may be the single most American thing I’ve ever heard.”
Tyrrell ignored the barb. “You just need to work smarter. Take fewer chances. No one’s ever taught you that part, I’m guessing.”
De Prorok shrugged in response. “The lesson’s never stuck, at any rate.”
“Well, remember this. You were right. She’s here. We—you—found her. Speaking of which…”
The Count nodded and stood, joints creaking and stomach growling. “Yes, I’m on duty. Thanks, Brad.” He patted Tyrrell on the shoulder at a loss for anything more profound to say.
As he neared the tomb opening and bent down to enter, he heard Louis Chapuis’ voice. “Monsieur, come look. Vite, vite.” He looked to see the guide waving his filthy kepi wildly and shouting, as best his parched throat allowed.
From their perch high on the mound, they could see for miles. In the far northeast, three small objects moved across the desert floor towards them. Byron squinted into the blinding midday sun. “Are those pack camels?”
Trying to tamp down his excitement, he grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the fast moving figures. The lead camel, laden down with jugs and crates, was piloted by a Tuareg he didn’t recognize. The second camel’s jockey was much shorter, and bounced around awkwardly, legs flailing, unable to maintain their place on the animal’s neck. The third camel, tied behind the second, had a roughly made platform balanced atop the cargo, and its rider lay face down across the platform, in danger of being bounced off any time.
“God damn, I think that’s Lonnie Pond.” Byron handed the binoculars to Tyrrell, who grinned broadly.
“Has to be. He’s the only one too short to ride a camel properly. Louis, can you tell who’s on the stretcher?” He handed the binoculars back to Chapuis.
“I’m not sure. Denny, maybe?”
Christ, I’ve killed the Times reporter, he thought. Then he joined the ot
hers in a mad, whooping, scramble down the rocks to meet their rescuers.
They arrived at the desert floor just as the unlikely caravan halted at the campsite. Pond’s camel bent her front knees and the American gingerly stepped off. Byron wrapped him in a dusty bear hug, while Tyrrell slapped him on the back.
“Lonnie, you are a sight for sore eyes,” the other American said, but he was already looking to the injured rider on the third camel. “Denny, my God, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Pond made an attempt at discretion by whispering, “It’s saddle sores. Byron he’ll be…”
“It’s what?” Byron’s voice honked.
“He said it’s saddle sores, you asshole. Now get me down from heah…” Denny moaned, sounding every bit the angry New Yorker. Everyone knew that whether it was a horse or a camel, saddle sores were very serious things. Bloody blisters and exposed raw flesh could be agonizing and became easily infected. They were no laughing matter, although that didn’t stop non-sufferers from having their fun anyway.
Their guide, a toothless, fearsome looking Tuareg, gave a quick “tuk tuk,” and dismounted with ease, jabbering away a mile a minute in Tamasheq. He calmly guided Denny’s camel to a gentle, or as gentle as such a lumbering beast could manage, kneel, while Chapuis peppered him with questions.
Martini and Belaid each grabbed a corner of the blanket Hal Denny laid on to form a sling and helped him to the ground and then gingerly to his feet.
De Prorok asked the reporter, “Any permanent damage, Hal?”
“Just let me get my damned feet under me. Jesus.” Once the journalist was safely on the ground, and able to limp under his own steam, the men began to unload more precious cargo. Cans of water, gasoline and motor oil were piled next to food stuffs. No one had ever been so glad to see chipped beef.
Pond winced and tested his legs with a few tentative steps. Brad Tyrrell offered an arm and helped him to a perch on a nearby rock. “You okay, Lonnie?”