“I sense a certain hostility toward those people.”
“So should you, Thunder Head! They want us in dirt—all of us!… We’ll coordinate through Little Joey. Stay in touch with him.”
“I should tell you, Commander, and I say this in front of Joseph. I really believe he’s been abusing the per diem allocations. The only way you can reach him is when he’s not calling room service, which is most of the time.”
“Shithead!” roared Joey the Shroud.
THE WASHINGTON POST
DIRECTOR OF CIA FEARED LOST AT SEA
Coast Guard Reveals Futile 18-Hour Search in Waters Off Florida Keys. Private Yacht Caught in Storm
Key West, Aug. 24—Vincent F.A. Mangecavallo, director of the Central Intelligence Agency and guest aboard the yacht Gotcha Baby, is believed to have perished at sea along with the captain and crew of the 34-foot craft that left its Key West mooring at 6:00 A.M. yesterday on an ill-fated fishing trip. According to meteorologists, a sudden subtropical storm whipped out of the Muertos Cays at approximately 10:30 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, veering almost instantly north, away from the coastline, but directly in the path of the yacht, which had been heading due east toward the coral reef fishing grounds for nearly five hours. The search by Coast Guard aircraft and patrol boats will resume at daybreak, but there is little hope of survivors, as the yacht is presumed to have crashed into the reefs and been destroyed.
Upon hearing the news, the President issued the following statement. “Good old Vincent, a great patriot and a superb naval officer. If he had to go, I’m sure he’d welcome the briny deep as his final resting place. He’s at one with the fishes.”
The Department of the Navy, however, has no record of Mr. Mangecavallo having been a naval officer or even having served in the navy. When apprised of this, the President had a curt remark. “My old buddies should get their files in order. Vinnie served in the Caribbean theater of operations with Greek partisans aboard patrol boats. Golly, gosh, and zing darn, what’s wrong with those new sailors?” The Navy Department had no response.
THE BOSTON GLOBE
FIVE NUDE CULTISTS ARRESTED
AT RITZ-CARLTON
Four Found Naked on Roof.
Fifth Assaulted Jogger in Public Garden.
All Claim Gov’t. Immunity. Washington Shocked.
Boston, Aug. 24—In a bizarre series of incidents during which numerous guests of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel claimed to have seen naked figures racing through the corridors at various times, the Boston police cornered four nude unarmed men who had made their way to the roof of the building. Unaccountably, they pleaded for clothing without explaining their nakedness, but nevertheless claiming national security immunity for their efforts in rooting out enemies of the U.S. A fifth naked man was subdued by a Boston jogger, the professional wrestler known as “Jaws” Hammerlocker, who told the police that the assailant tried to rip his sweat suit off him. Inquiries to Washington intelligence circles brought only consternation and swift denials of any involvement whatsoever. A highly placed unidentified source at the State Department, however, did suggest the similarity between the Boston five and a Southern California cult who commits crimes solely in the nude while singing “Over the Rainbow” and brandishing small American flags. “They’re perverts,” said the unidentified spokesman, “otherwise they wouldn’t carry those flags. It’s them all right and we don’t even know who they are. So there!”
17
It was night, and the heavyset man of medium height, wearing dark glasses below an outsized red wig that fell over his ears, made his way down a narrow, dark, gaslit street several blocks from the fishing piers in Key West, Florida. It was a street lined with small Victorian houses crowded close to one another, miniaturized versions of their sister mansions on the shore road. The man studied the numbers on the right side, peering in the semidarkness until he found the address he wanted. Although similar in appearance to those flanking and opposing it, the house was decidedly different in one respect. Whereas the others had lights in the various first-floor and second-floor windows, quaintly subdued by fringed shades and Venetian blinds, this home had only a single dim lamp glowing from a downstairs room obviously near the rear of the small structure. It was part of the visual code; this was the clandestine rendezvous.
The red-wigged stranger to the street walked up the narrow three steps to the porch and approached the door. He rapped on the wooden strips between the stained-glass panels, a prearranged signal that avoided the doorbell—a single knock, pause, four rapid ones, followed by another pause and two more quick taps. Shave … and a haircut … two bits, considered the man, wondering what covert operations genius had thought it up. The door opened, and Vincent Mangecavallo instantly had the answer. The huge rinoceronte standing in the tiny hallway was his sometime courier, aptly nicknamed Meat, as usual wearing a white silk tie, a white shirt, and a black suitcoat.
“You the best we can do in this big fuckin’ national emergency?”
“Hey, Vinnie—it is you, ain’t it, Vinnie?… Sure, it’s you, I can smell the garlic and the bay rum.”
“Basta!” said the veteran of the Caribbean theater of operations, walking inside. “Where’s the consigliere? Him I want to see right away.”
“No consigliere,” interrupted a tall, slender man emerging from a side door into the darkened vestibule. “No dons, no Mafia lawyers, no Cosa Nostra guns, is that clear?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m surprised you don’t recognize my voice—”
“Oh … you?”
“Yes,” said the white-jacketed, yellow-ascoted Smythington-Fontini. “We’ve talked several hundred times on the telephone,” continued the elegant Anglo-Italian, “but we’ve never met, Vincenzo. My hand, sir—have you washed yours recently?”
“You got balls for a fruitcake, Fontini, I’ll say that for you,” replied Mangecavallo, exercising the shortest handshake since George Patton met his first Russian general. “How’d you find Meat?”
“Let’s say he was the dimmest star in your constellation, and I’m an expert in celestial navigation.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Then let’s say the dons from Palermo to Brooklyn, New York, want nothing to do with this enterprise. They give us their blessings and will gratefully accept whatever largesse may come their way, but, basically, we’re on our own. They selected your associate here.”
“There are some things I gotta do on the Big Street, a point of personal honor and self-respect considering what has been decided against my physical well-being. I trust that’s understood—from Palermo to Brooklyn.”
“Most definitely, Vincenzo, a point of honor that must be answered, but not in like terms. I repeat, no guns, no graves, no consigliere leaning on the Boeskys in Wall Street. There can’t be any involvement by your familial associates—which are not my associates, although I certainly expect to be apprised of your moves. After all, old boy, I paid for the damn yacht we blew up on the reefs, as well as the unknown, non-English-speaking Venezuelan crew we flew back to Caracas.”
“Meat,” said Mangecavallo, turning to his sometime lower-level colleague. “Go make yourself a sandwich.”
“With what, Vinnie? All this guy’s got in the kitchen is swelled-up crackers that break if you touch ’em and cheese that smells like stinky feet!”
“Just leave us, Meat.”
“Maybe I should call for a pizza—”
“No phones,” interrupted the cosmopolitan industrialist. “Why not keep your eyes on the back courtyard? We wouldn’t want any intruders, and I’m told you’re an expert at preventing such intrusions.”
“Hey, I guess you’re right about that,” said Meat, mollified. “And about the cheese, hell, I don’t even like Parmesan, you know what I mean?”
“Certainly.”
“And don’t you worry about no intertrusions,” added the capo subordinato, heading for the kitchen. “I got eyes like a
bat; they never close.”
“Bat’s eyes don’t see so good, Meat.”
“No kiddin’?”
“No foolin’.”
“Where did you ever find him?” asked Smythington-Fontini as Meat walked into the kitchen. “And why?”
“He gets certain things done for me, and most of the time he’s not sure what he did. That’s the best kind of street gorilla you can have.… But I’m not here to talk about Meat. How’s everything going?”
“Efficiently and on schedule. By early daybreak tomorrow the Coast Guard patrols will find debris, as well as several life jackets and various personal articles, including your floating waterproof cigar case with your initials on it. Naturally, the search will be called off, and you’ll have the unique privilege of reading all those marvelous things people who despise you say after you’re dead.”
“Hey, you know some of those things could be very sincere, did you ever think of that? I mean, I gotta lot of respect in certain areas.”
“Not in our crowd, old boy.”
“Here we go with the ‘old boy’ crap, huh? Well, lemme tell you, chum-chum, you’re lucky you had an aristocratica mama who had more smarts than that dizzy title she picked up in Tea Town ever dreamed of. If it wasn’t for her, the only football team you’d own would be a gang of scrawny hoods kicking a round ball in the streets of Liverlake or Liverpool, or whatever the fuck it is.”
“Without the Smythington banking connections, the Fontinis could never have gone international.”
“Oh, so that’s why she kept the Fontini name permanently attached, so people would know who was picking up the markers, ’cause the fox-trot horsey boy couldn’t.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere—”
“I just want you to know where you sit, Smythie—not stand, but sit! The rest of your silk-underwear crowd are going down the tube!”
“So I’ve been given to understand. Socially, it’s a dreadful loss, of course.”
“Naturalmente, pagliaccio.… So after this big Coast Guard search is over and I’m memorialized, what happens?”
“When the time is right, I foresee that you’ll be found on one of the farthest-out islands of the Dry Tortugas. Two of the Venezuelans will join you and swear, while continually blessing God, themselves, and you, that it was your courage and perseverance that saved all your lives. They’ll be immediately flown back to Caracas and disappear.”
“Not bad, not bad at all. Maybe you’re your mama’s boy after all.”
“Conceptually and artistically, I believe you’re right,” agreed the industrialist, smiling. “Mother always said, ‘The blood of the Caesars will always be there, if only more of our southern cousins had blue eyes and blond hair like me.’ ”
“A real queen, so filled with tolleranza.… Now, what about Thunder Ass? How do we keep him and his crazy Indian lovers above ground? They’re no good to me in dirt.”
“That’s where you come in. Apparently only you can make contact—”
“Correct,” broke in Mangecavallo. “They’re all in place and nobody knows where they are but me, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay.”
“If it stays completely that way, there’ll be no protection. One cannot protect a quarry one cannot find.”
“I’ve got that worked out. You tell me what you’ve got in mind, and if I like it I reach the go-between and we set up the meet. What have you got in mind?”
“On the telephone before you flew down here, you said the general and his associates were in what you called ‘safe shelter,’ which, as a yachtsman, I assume is equivalent to ‘safe harbor,’ which basically means the ship is sheltered from a storm, usually in a deep leeward cove, ergo ‘safe shelter’—”
“You always torture yourself like this?… Yeah, I hope to hell that’s what it means, because the big soldier boy said it, and if it means something else we’ve got a really screwed-up army. What’s your point?”
“Why not keep the status quo?”
“What status quo?”
“The safe shelter,” said Smythington-Fontini slowly, as if clarifying the obvious. “Unless, as you suggest, we have a screwed-up military, which in the upper purchasing ranks of the Pentagon is entirely plausible. However, considering the general’s recent accomplishments, we should take his word that the shelter is safe and well out of the weather.”
“The weather?”
“The term, as I employ it, connotes the negative. They’re all in a deep leeward cove and protected from the elements. Why not have them stay where they are?”
“I don’t know where the hell it is!”
“All the better.… Does your go-between know?”
“He can find out if the reason’s good enough to convince Thunder Ass.”
“You said on the telephone that he wanted—what was it?—oh, yes, ‘support troops.’ Would that be good enough?”
“I would hope to kiss a pig it would. That’s what he needs.… Who did you figure on?”
“Your associate with the unique name of Meat, to begin with—”
“Pass,” negated Mangecavallo. “I got other work for him to do. Who else?”
“Well, we may have a problem then. As I mentioned, our padrones near and far are adamant that there be no traceable connection to any of the families such as might be construed by Mr. Caesar Boccegallupo. I assume Meat is an exception because, as your batman of sorts, he’s not enormously large in the brain department. I believe you said he’s the penultimate ‘street gorilla.’ ”
“Penultimate?”
“Well, the ultimate would be a real gorilla who understood English, wouldn’t it?”
“What the hell does Batman have to do with my street soldier Meat?”
“No, not Batman, Vincenzo, but batm’n, someone who carries out various minor tasks for you.”
“You know, you frost my apricots, I mean, you are weird!”
“I’m doing my best,” said the industrialist, close to verbal exhaustion. “I’m afraid we’re on different wavelengths.”
“Well, get on mine, Smythie! You sound like that baked apple who runs the State Department, chum-chum!”
“That’s why I’m valuable, don’t you see? I understand him; he’s marginally socially acceptable, but your solutions, as degrading as they may be, are infinitely more productive than his where my own interests are concerned. I may prefer his lemon daiquiris to your boilermakers, but I certainly know when to order a shot and a beer. Why do you think the industrial democracies are so blessedly tolerant? I may not care to break bread with you, but I’m more than happy to help you bake the loaf.”
“You know, Candy Balls, I think I hear your mama talking. Underneath your bullshit, you’re up front. So where do we go from here?”
“Since the normal avenues are closed to you, I suggest you recruit several men from an available pool of talent. Namely, mercenaries.”
“Who?”
“Professional soldiers for hire. They’re generally the scum of the earth, but they fight solely for money and care not one whit for causes other than money. In the old days, they were ex-Wehrmacht hoodlums, or murderers on the run, or former disgraced military personnel no army would have in its ranks, and I suppose the last two categories remain the same, since most of the fascists are either dead or too old to carry a drum or blow their damn bugles. Regardless, I believe it’s the wisest course of action.”
“Where do I find these goody two-shoes Boy Scout types? I want protection up there as soon as possible.”
“I took the liberty of bringing you a dozen résumés from a Washington agency named Manpower Plus Plus. The messenger I sent over there, an executive of mine from Milan, actually, informs me that all the candidates are available within twenty-four hours with the possible exception of two who are expected to successfully break out of prison by tomorrow morning.”
“I like your style, Fontini,” said the temporarily deceased director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Where are thes
e résumés?”
“In the kitchen. Come with me. You can tell Meat to watch the front porch.”
Ten minutes later, seated at a thick pine table, the file folders spread across the surface, Mangecavallo made his decision. “These three,” he ordered.
“Vincenzo, you are indeed remarkable,” said Smythington-Fontini. “I would have chosen two out of the three, except that I must tell you that those two are at this moment about to execute their escape from the Attica prison, so they’ll be the most grateful for immediate employment. The third, however, is actually a certified lunatic, an American Nazi who keeps burning swastikas on the grounds of the United Nations.”
“He threw himself in front of a bus—”
“It wasn’t a bus, Vincenzo, it was a patrol wagon carrying his friend, another lunatic who was arrested walking down Broadway wearing a Gestapo uniform.”
“Still, he went the whole nine yards to stop something from happening, and that’s what I’m looking for.”
“Agreed, but it’s debatable whether he really meant to take that action or was punched out by a rabbi on Forty-seventh Street.”
“I’ll gamble.… When can I get ’em to Boston?”
“Well, the first two we’ll know about in the morning, after the prison roll call, and our Nazi is champing at the bit since he’s drawing welfare on a stolen Social Security card of some loan shark he put in the East River.”
“I like him already—not his politics ’cause I don’t go along with that lousy shit, but he can be useful. All those whacko nuts can be useful—like you say, all you gotta do is bang a drum and blow a bugle. And if the other two break out, they’re the Holy Mary’s gift to our cause to right a terrible wrong to a tribe of real losers who would drop fuckin’ dead except for my benevolent intervention. The main thing is that we get this act together as fast as we can and shoot ’em up to Boston and that safe shelter place, wherever the hell it is.… You know, it’s just possible that those Zucchinis in Washington are zeroing in on the general at this moment.”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 29