“I doubt that, old boy. If you don’t know where he is, and your go-between doesn’t know, how could Washington find him?”
“I just don’t trust the silk underwears. They’ll stop at nothing, those lowlifes.”
In a dimly lit booth at the rear of O’Toole’s Bar and Grill barely two blocks west of Aaron Pinkus Associates, the young, elegantly dressed banker pressed his gentle assault against the middle-aged secretary by way of a third martini.
“Oh, I really shouldn’t, Binky,” protested the woman, giggling and running her hand nervously down the left side of her long, graying hair. “It really isn’t right.”
“What isn’t right?” asked the walking advertisement for Brooks Brothers apparel, his mid-Atlantic accent somewhere between Park Avenue and Belgrave Square. “I told you how I feel.”
“So many of our attorneys drop in here after work … and after all, I’ve only known you for an hour or so. People will talk.”
“Let them, dear heart! Who cares? I stated my case quite clearly and with abiding integrity. Those infantile idiots a man like me is expected to go out with simply don’t interest me. I much prefer a mature woman, a woman of experience and insight.… Here, cheers.” Both raised their glasses to their lips; however, only one swallowed, and it was not the Ivy League banker. “Oh, slight business, my love.… When do you think our executive committee can meet with Mr. Pinkus? We’re talking several millions, of course, as his legal advice is very much sought after.”
“Binky, I told you.…” At this point, the suddenly perplexed secretary involuntarily crossed her eyes and hiccuped four times in succession. “… Mr. Plinkus hasn’t been in touch with me all day.”
“Don’t you know where he is, dear heart?”
“Not saxually—actually—but his chauffeur, Paddy Lafferty, called to have me clear the car rental agency for two automobiles.”
“Really? Two?”
“Something about the ski lodge in Hooksett. That’s in Hew Nampshire, across the state border.”
“Oh, well, it’s all irrelevant, just boring business.… Will you excuse me for a mo’, sweet thing? As they say, nature doth call.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“I’m not sure it’s acceptable, you full-blown, very exciting lady, you.”
“Eeyoo!” squealed the secretary, attacking her martini.
Binky the banker got up from the table and walked rapidly to O’Toole’s pay telephone by the entrance. He inserted a coin and dialed; his call was instantly answered. “Uncle Bricky?”
“Who else?” replied the owner of New England’s largest lending institution.
“It’s your nephew, Binky.”
“Trust you earned your keep, young fella. You’re not good for much else.”
“Uncle Bricky. I was really good!”
“I’m not interested in your sexual exploits, Binky. What have you learned?”
“It’s a ski lodge in Hooksett. That’s across the border in New Hampshire.”
Binky the banker never returned to the table, and the understanding O’Toole put the inebriated secretary into a taxi, paying the fare to her residence, and waving goodbye to the confused face in the window with a single word. “Lowlifes,” he said to himself.
“This is Bricky, old boy. It’s a ski lodge in Hooksett, New Hampshire, roughly thirty miles north of the border on Route Ninety-three. I’m told there are only a couple of such places in the area, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find. There’ll be two automobiles with the following license plate numbers.” The ashen-faced New England banker gave the numbers and accepted the accolade accorded him by the Secretary of State.
“Well done, Bricky, it’s like old times, isn’t it, old chum?”
“I hope so, old boy, because if you mess this up, don’t you dare show up for our reunion!”
“Don’t you worry, old sport. They’re called the Filthy Four and they’re positively animals! They’re flying into Logan Airport within the hour.… Do you think Smythie might reconsider mooring my yacht at his club?”
“I suspect that will depend on the results of your efforts, don’t you think?”
“I have every faith in our foursome, old chum. They’re really a despicable quartet. No mercy given, none taken, as it were. You honestly wouldn’t care to get within a mile of them!”
“Good show, old boy. Keep me posted.”
• • •
It was past midnight on the outskirts of Hooksett, New Hampshire, when a black van without headlights coasted silently down the country road and came to a stop in front of the graveled entrance to the former ski lodge. Inside, the driver, the blue outlines of an erupting volcano tattooed on his forehead and seen clearly in the summer moonlight, turned to his three associates in the rear of the vehicle. “Hoods,” he said simply as the three reached into black knapsacks and pulled out black stocking masks, which they promptly squeezed down over their heads. The driver-leader did the same in the front seat, all four adjusting the dark nylon fabric so their eyes peered menacingly out of the lined cut-out holes. “Maximum weapons,” added the tattooed unit superior officer, his lips forming a grim smile beneath the cloth. “I want dead, all dead! I want to see horror, I want to see pain; I want to see blood and grotesque faces, all those good things we were trained to do so well!”
“Like always, Major!” whispered a hulk of a man, his hands, as the others, robotically plunging into his knapsack and retrieving a MAC-10 automatic weapon along with five magazines of ammunition each containing eighty rounds, a total of sixteen hundred rapidly spewed-out bullets.
“Subordinate firepower!” continued the major, glancing around and satisfied that his second command had already been obeyed. Again, hands surged into knapsacks, and looped grenades were affixed to combat belts. “Radios!” came the final order, and it was instantly executed. Miniaturized walkie-talkies were retrieved and shoved into pockets. “Let’s go! North, South, East, and West, according to your numbers, have you got it?”
A unison of affirmatives followed as the four Maximum Incorrigibles slipped out of the van, lay on their stomachs, and then crawled off in their individual directions. Death was their mission and death was their salvation in all things. Death before dishonor!
“Do chu see what I see, amigo?” asked Desi-Two of Desi-One, both standing beneath a full maple tree and studying the descending landscape in the erratic moonlight. “Ees crazy, no?”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on dem, as the gringos say,” replied Desi the First. “They never had to watch the chickens or the goats at night from bad neighbors.”
“I know dat, but why they so stupid? Black cabezas moving up the hill with the moon like big cucarachas ees plain dumb—like also the gringos say.”
“As the Heneral says, we could teach dem better but not right now. Right now, we godda do what he wants us to do.… An’ also, it’s been a dificultoso day for all our nice new friends, so we don’ want to wake dem up. Dey need their sleep, no?”
“Dey ain’t got no chickens or no goats, but only right now bad neighbors, is dat what you mean?”
“Dat’s right. We do dis ourselves, h’okay?”
“Ees easy. I take the two over dere, chu get the two on the other side.”
“H’okay,” said Desi the First as both men crouched in the shadows. “But chu remember, amigo, don’ hurt nobody too bad. The heneral says we godda be civilized to prisoners of war.”
“Hey, man, we h’ain’t no animals! Like the heneral also says, we go bide with the Genevil intentions. Maybe dese bad neighbors had lousy times when dey were liddle kids, like Heneral Mac said we did. Dey probably need lotsa kindness and help.”
“Hey, man,” admonished D-One, whispering, “don’ let all those priests you like make you t’ink you’re a saint! Chu give all dat kindness when dese black-headed cucarachas are laid out in de kitchen sink, h’okay?”
“Hey, man, my favorite padre used to tell me when I went into Old San
Juan, ‘An eye for an eye, niño, but make sure you kick first—right in the testículos.’ ”
“Truly a man of God, amigo. Le’s go!”
“Major Vulcan speaking,” said the black-hooded figure quietly into his radio as he crawled up the southernmost route leading to the former ski lodge. “Come in by the numbers.”
“Two East reporting, Major. No activity, hostile or otherwise.”
“Number Three?”
“Three North, sir. A light’s on in what appears to be a bedroom on the second floor. Can I blow it out?”
“Not yet, soldier, but when I tell you, take out everyone inside. Probably goddamned perverts watching as they exchange bodily fluids. They’re all perverts, savage perverts. Keep your weapon and your grenades at the ready.”
“Yes, sir! I want to blow ’em away first! Can I do that, Major?”
“Good attitude, soldier, but only when I give the word. Keep closing in.”
“What about me, sir?” interrupted Two East. “Three North’s a fucking idiot! Remember when the guards found him chewing the fence with his teeth?… I should have the first kill!”
“And you’ll be mine!” broke in Three North. “Don’t forget, Major, Two East took all those strawberries that were meant for you at last Thursday’s mess!”
“You’ve got a point, Number Three. I really wanted those strawberries.”
“I didn’t do it, Major. It was Four West!… Own up, you son of a bitch!”
“Well, Four West?” said Vulcan. “Did you steal my strawberries?”
Silence.
“Come in, Four West!” continued the major. “Is your lack of response an admission of guilt? Answer me, you prick. Did you steal my strawberries?”
Silence.
“Four West, Four West! Reply!”
Silence.
“His radio’s out,” concluded Vulcan. “Goddamned fairy Pentagon purchasing agents! These fucking ‘talkies’ cost the high brass fourteen thousand apiece when you can buy the same goddamned things at Radio Shack for twenty-seven bucks!… Four West, can you read me?” Silence. “Okay, Three North, how close are you?”
Silence.
“Three North, come in!” A long silence. “Goddamn it, Three North, respond!” Nothing. “Son of a bitch, did any of you clowns check your batteries?” Again there was nothing. “Two East! Give me your report now.”
Silence.
“What the fuck is going on?” fairly shouted Major Vulcan, momentarily forgetting the need for quiet communication. “Will one of you bastards answer me?”
Silence, broken several seconds later by a friendly voice. “Nice to meet chu,” said Desi the First, walking out of the shadows and into the moonlight above the black-hooded intruder. “You are a prisoner of war, amigo sir, and you will be treated fairly.”
“What?” The major slapped his hand down for his weapon, but his movement was far too slow. The heel of D-One’s boot crashed into Vulcan’s forehead, right in the center of the tattooed volcano.
“I didn’t wan’ to do dat, Mr. Prisoner, but chu could’a hurt me an’ dat h’ain’t nice.”
Jennifer Redwing awoke with a start—something had happened; she could feel it, hear it! Of course, she could hear it, she considered. There were muted moans and throated cries from somewhere outside. Wounded dogs? Trapped animals? She lurched out of bed and ran to the window, totally disbelieving what she saw.
Sam Devereaux heard distant noises and pulled the second pillow over his damaged head. For roughly the five hundredth time he swore he would never have a drink after leaving O’Toole’s Bar and Grill. However, the noises continued unabated, and after opening his less-than-white-clear eyes, he understood that they had nothing to do with his physical condition. Unsteadily, he got out of bed and went to the window. Holy shit!
Aaron Pinkus was dreaming of Shirley, albeit an angry Shirley, whose head was coiled in eleven thousand pink curlers, all shrieking at him, each curler possessing its own mouth, incessantly opening and closing with the rapidity of machine gun fire. Was he back on Omaha Beach?… No, he was in his favorite bedroom at the old ski lodge. What was the racket? Slowly he rose from the comfortable bed and limped, as old legs do, to the window. God of Abraham, what have You done?
Eleanor Devereaux’s sleep was maddeningly interrupted by the ruckus, and she instinctively reached for her bedside telephone to instruct Cora to have the neighbors arrested, or whatever one did for such outrageous behavior in Weston, Massachusetts. Unfortunately, there was no telephone. In high dudgeon she swung her feet from under the sheet, planted them on the floor, rose to her full height, and walked to the window. Good heavens, how absolutely unique!
MacKenzie Hawkins flashed open his eyes, still mangling the cigar he had had in his mouth since the early hours of the morning. What the hell was it? Nam? Korea? Pigs squealing on some peasant’s farm protected by Search and Destroy? Jesus! Where were his aides-de-camp? Why hadn’t they alerted him to the enemy’s assault?… No, he realized, as he felt the soft innards of the pillow surrounding his head—there were no pillows in combat bivouacs! So where was he?… Hannibal’s legions, he was in Commander Pinkus’s ski lodge! He sprang out of the comfortable civilian bed, hating himself for its lack of military rigidity, and ran in his skivvies to the window. Genghis Khan forgive me, but even you wouldn’t think of that, Big Fella!
Like pedestrians intent on witnessing the horrible results of a major accident, the temporary residents of the former ski lodge descended from various staircases into the Alpine lobby. They were greeted by Desis One and Two, who flanked a long coffee table on which there were four MAC-10 machine pistols, twenty magazine clips, sixteen grenades, four miniaturized radios, two flamethrowers, four infrared binoculars, and a dismantled egg-shaped bomb that could blow up at least a quarter of the state of New Hampshire—the lesser southeastern part.
“We din’ want to wake chu all up,” said Desi the First, “but the heneral said we should protect the rights of prisoners of war.… We tried to do dat, but I t’ink they were very bad characters. Dese guns ’n t’ings will explain what I mean.… Now, great Heneral, can Sergeant Desi-Two and me get some sleep?”
“Goddamn, boys, you’re lieutenants! But what the hell is out there?”
“Please, señores y señoras, see for yourselves,” said Desi the Second, opening the front door. “We did not t’ink it was too bad for de Genevil intentions, when we saw all dose guns ’n’ everyt’ing.”
Outside, on the repaired ski lift, halfway up the intermediate slope and at least fifteen feet in the air, were four jiggling bodies hanging upside down, their mouths taped, their feet wrapped in ropes.
“We bring dem back every hour and give dem water,” said Desi the First, smiling. “Dat way we treat our prisoners of war real good.”
18
“What?” shrieked the Secretary of State, his bellow causing his security pool stenographer to lurch out of her chair, propelling her shorthand pad directly into the head of her employer, who absently caught it in his left hand, which was in the process of pounding his skull to stop his maniacally pivoting left eye. “They did what?… How? I won’t have it!” The Secretary began slamming the shorthand pad alternately against his temple and the edge of the desk until its pages flew hither and yon off their spiral.
“Please!” pleaded the stenographer, racing around and picking up the flying papers. “These are top-secret notes, sir!”
“Well, there’s no secret about your tops, is there?” cried the wide-eyed, swinging-eyed leader of State crazily. “We live in a walnut world, miss! You’ve got coconuts, but we’re all walnuts!”
Suddenly, the stenographer, standing rigid and staring down at her employer, said calmly but with great strength, “Stop it, Warren. Calm down.”
“Warren? Who’s Warren? I’m Mr. Secretary—always Mr. Secretary!”
“You are Warren Pease, and please cover the telephone, or I’ll tell my sister and she’ll tell Arnold Subagaloo that you�
�ve gone squirrelly.”
“Oh, God—Arnold!” Warren Pease, Secretary of State, instantly covered the mouthpiece. “I forgot, Teresa, honestly, I just forgot for a moment!”
“I’m Regina Trueheart, my younger sister’s Teresa, Subagaloo’s assistant.”
“I’m terrible with names, but I never forget coconuts—I mean faces! Don’t tell your sister.”
“You just tell whoever’s on the line that you’ll call back after you’ve had a chance to collect your thoughts.”
“I can’t! He’s on a pay telephone at the prisoners’ compound in Quantico!”
“Order him to give you the number and to stay there until you call him back.”
“All right, Coconuts—Teresa—Regina—Madame Secretary!”
“Stop it, Warren. Do what I say!”
The Secretary of State did exactly as Regina Trueheart commanded, then fell forward on his desk, his head in his arms, and, as they say, cried his eyes out. “Somebody leaked and I got pissed on!” he gurgled. “They got sent back to the compound in body bags!”
“Who?”
“The Filthy Four. It’s horrible!”
“They’re dead—whoever they are?”
“No, there were air holes in the canvas. It’s worse than dead—they’re embarrassed! We’re all embarrassed!” Pease raised his tear-streaked face as if pleading for a swift execution.
“Warren, sweetie, knock it off. You have a job to do and people like me are here to see that you do it. Remember Fern of the North Mall, our patron saint and inspiration. She wouldn’t permit any of her bosses to fall apart and neither will I.”
“She was a secretary, you’re a security pool stenographer—”
“Far more, Warren, oh, far more,” interrupted Regina. “I’m a roving butterfly with the sting of a bee. I flutter from one top-secret assignment to another, keeping my eyes on all of you, helping you through your days. That’s the God-given assignment for all the Truehearts.”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 30