“How’s that fruitcake Sutton taking all this?” asked Cyrus. “That son of a bitch isn’t my favorite person, but I’ll grant you he’s a hell of an actor.”
“What can I tell you? He says he’ll give the greatest performance of his life!”
“If he lives to read the reviews.… Over and out, General, see you in the morning.”
“What about our Desis and Roman Z?” broke in Hawkins suddenly. “What with my Suicidal Six business, I hadn’t factored them into the scenario.”
“If you think I’m leaving them out, you should be cleaning latrines, General.”
“I like your response, Colonel!”
“Out.”
A shell-shocked R. Cookson Frazier returned to Louisburg Square in his limousine, and at the beachhouse a stunned sextet faced Cyrus, who stood in front of the white antique table. Jennifer Redwing sat between Aaron Pinkus and Sam Devereaux on the couch, while Desis One and Two stood behind them, flanking their new friend, Roman Z. All mouths were agape, all eyes riveted on the field-commissioned colonel.
“That’s the scenario, everybody,” said the imposing black mercenary, “and speaking as the liaison to the general, if any of you wish to back out, you may. However, I should tell you as someone who’s been exposed to a great many infiltration strategies that they don’t come much better than this. General Hawkins didn’t become a legend because of press releases—he’s the real thing and he’s damn good and I don’t say that lightly.”
“Hey, like Miss Erin say, he talk real good for a black brother, yeah, D-One?”
“Shaddup, D-Two.”
“Thank you for the gratulatory comment, Desi.”
“See wad I mean?”
“If I may,” said Aaron Pinkus, inching forward on the couch, “this highly complicated charade, as ingenious as it may be, strikes me as being—well, too complicated, too theatrical, as it were. Is it really necessary?”
“To answer your questions in generic terms, Mr. Pinkus, complicated theatrics are the best diversion.”
“We can understand that, Cyrus,” said Jennifer, her left hand gripping Devereaux’s right. “But, as Mr. Pinkus says, is it really necessary? I think Sam’s idea of simply getting off the plane and taking a taxi to the Supreme Court—no limousine, no calling attention to ourselves—would be quite sufficient.”
“Under normal circumstances it would be, but these are not normal circumstances. You have powerful and very capable enemies. Very capable, the kind your friend Sam wants to expel from the government, even at the risk of his life, as we all witnessed today.”
“He was wonderful!” cried Jennifer, pressing her lips into Devereaux’s left cheek. “Swimming all those miles in a storm—”
“It was nothing,” said Sam. “Only six or seven, maybe eight.… If I understand you, Cyrus, you’re saying this ‘diversion,’ as you call it, is necessary because these very capable enemies of ours intend to physically intercept us before we can get into the building, is that right?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Basically? What else is there?”
“With ramifications,” answered the mercenary curtly.
“I won’t pretend to understand that, but if we have reason to believe a threat exists, we can request police protection. Coupled with you fellas—if you guys are with us—what else could we possibly need?”
“An item or two I haven’t mentioned.”
“What?”
“Look, you three are the lawyers, I’m not, and Washington isn’t Boston, where Mr. Pinkus’s corned beef and cabbage have a positive effect on the police department. In D.C., when you request blue-coat protection, you’d better show justifiable cause. Hell, those jackets can’t handle what they’ve got.”
“And ‘justifiable cause’ would naturally entail naming names in the highest places,” broke in Jenny, “and even if we got another copy of the tape, we wouldn’t dare play it for evidence.”
“Why not?” exclaimed Devereaux furiously. “I’m damn sick and tired of pussyfooting around! Public trusts have been violated, laws broken—why the hell not?”
“The paws of the cat were created for a purpose, Sam,” said Pinkus.
“Oh, that’s all I need. My boss, the Punjabi prophet from the Himalayas! Would you mind coming off the mountain and explaining that, Aaron?”
“You’re upset, my darling—”
“Tell me something I don’t know!… Maybe it was ten miles and that storm was really closer to a hurricane—say force ninety-nine, or whatever they call it.”
“I’m trying to tell you,” said Pinkus, his voice calm, his electric eyes on Devereaux, “that a quiet approach to catch a quarry is usually more effective than setting off alarms.”
“I’ll put it another way,” added Cyrus. “No precinct in Washington—tape or no tape—is going to take on someone like the Secretary of State.”
“He’s in a funny house!”
“All the more reason for State to maintain an equilibrium,” said the mercenary-chemist. “Believe me, I know.”
“It’s all corruption!” roared Sam.
“Only a few,” insisted Jennifer. “The vast majority are overworked, underpaid, dedicated bureaucrats—bureaucrats in the best sense, men and women who try their best to sort out the problems of their myriad departments brought on by politicians waffling for votes. It ain’t easy, darling.”
Devereaux unclasped his hand from Redwing’s, brought it to his forehead, and leaned back on the couch. “All right,” he said wearily. “I’m the dumbest kid on the block. People do terrible things and everybody shuts up; accountability’s out the window!”
“Not true, Sam,” corrected Aaron. “You’d never build a case that way, I know you. You’d cover every escape route before you made either your initial presentation to a jury or whatever subsequent counterarguments. That’s why you’re the finest attorney in my firm—when you’re all together.”
“All right, all right. We’re clowns in a three-ring circus tomorrow!… What were the items you hadn’t mentioned, Cyrus?”
“Bulletproof jackets and steel helmets under your headgear,” replied the mercenary as if he had just enumerated the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
“What?”
“You heard me. We’re talking hardball now, Counselor. There are more billions—yes, billions—riding on your appearance tomorrow afternoon than you can conjure in your out-of-orbit imagination.”
“¡Caramba!” yelled Desi the Second. “Don’ he talk good!”
“Shaddaup! We could be muerto!”
“H’ye don’t care! Ees right!”
“So I agree wid chu, so wad? So we’re loco!”
“Iss in the Romany tarot cards, my frenz!” shouted Roman Z, twirling in place, his flowing blue sash over his orange shirt covering the withdrawal of his long-bladed knife. “The blade of the Romany will cut the throats of any who attack our holy cause—whatever it iss.”
“Hey, come on, Cyrus!” roared Devereaux. “Under these circumstances, I will not permit Jenny or Aaron to be any part of it!”
“You don’t speak for me!” cried the Aphrodite of Sam’s dreams.
“Nor me, young man!” said Pinkus, getting up from the couch. “You forget, I was on Omaha Beach. I may not have been significant, but I’ve still got the shrapnel as proof of my efforts. It was, indeed, a holy cause then, and there’s a distinct parallel here. When men deny by force the rights of others, the only result is tyranny. And I will not tolerate that for this country of ours!”
“Ahchoo, ahchoo, ahchoo!”
30
5:45 A.M. As dawn broke over the Washington skyline, a russet mantle in the making, the silent marble halls of the Supreme Court came quietly alive as teams of cleaning women pushed their maintenance carts from one doorway to another. The tiers of trays held new boxed soap, fresh towels, tissue replacements, and, in front of each dolly, a suspended plastic trash bag for yesterday’s refuse.
On
e cart, however, differed from all the others in the magnificent structure dedicated to laws of God and nation. So did the elderly gray-haired lady pushing it; she was distinctly different from her counterparts throughout the building. Upon closer examination, her gray locks were perfectly coiffed, her blue eye shadow subtly apparent, and by mistake she wore a diamond and emerald bracelet around her wrist that was in value many times the annual salary of the other ladies. She also wore a large plastic label clipped to the pocket of her uniform that read: Temporary. Cleared.
What made her cart different was the suspended plastic bag designed for refuse. It was full before she reached the first office on her assigned route—an office she disdained to enter as her mumbled words confirmed while she passed the door.
“Escremento!… Vincenzo, you pazzo. My best and most loved child of my dearest sister should be in hospital for dementi. I could buy every statue in dissa whole building!… So why do I do?… Because my beloved nephew means my no-good husband don’ have to work. Mannaggia … Oh, here it is, the closet. Bene! I leave everything here, go home, watch a little TV, then with the girls a little shopping. Molto bene!”
8:15 A.M. Four nondescript brown and black automobiles pulled up swiftly on First Street near the corner of Capitol Street. Three dark-suited men got out of each, their brows furrowed, all eyes robotically centered; they were the “gunslingers” hired for a job, and to fail meant going back to the most menial of their former union tasks—a fate worse than death. Twelve dedicated professionals, who had no idea what they were dedicated to, except that the two men in the photographs they carried in their pockets must never enter the Supreme Court across the street. No sweat. Nobody ever found Jimmy Hoffa.
9:12 A.M. Two vehicles with government license plates parked briefly in front of the Supreme Court. Under the instruction of the Attorney General, the eight men who emerged were to take into custody two individuals wanted for outrageous crimes against the country. Each FBI agent had a photograph of the former and thoroughly discredited General MacKenzie Hawkins and his accomplice, an underworld lawyer named Samuel Lansing Devereaux still wanted for treasonous activities during his tour of duty in the last days of the Vietnam action. There was no statute of limitation on his crimes. He had impugned the reputations of his superiors while profiting from their disgrace. Federal agents hated guys like that—how did they do it?
• • •
10:22 A.M. A dark blue van veered into the curb on Capitol at the side of the Supreme Court. Its rear doors opened and seven Ranger Commandos in camouflage green and black combat fatigues leaped out, their weapons concealed in their wide pockets. After all, they did not want to appear conspicuous. Their covert mission had been defined by the diminutive Secretary of Defense himself—orally, not in writing. “Gentlemen, these two scum would cripple the first line of America’s airborne forces, that’s all I can tell you. They must be stopped at all costs. In the words of that great commander, ‘Beam ’em up, Scotty,’—way up, out of sight!” … Commandos hated scum like that! If anyone was going to dump on the sky-jocks, it would be them. The fly-boys grabbed all the headlines and still flew home for a steak while they were in the mud! No! If anybody was going to blitz the “airborne,” they would do it!
12:03 P.M. MacKenzie Hawkins, arms akimbo, studied the figure of Henry Irving Sutton in the hotel room, nodding his approval. “Goddamn, Mr. Actor, you could be me!”
“It wasn’t difficult, mon général,” said Sutton, removing his gold-braided officer’s cap, revealing a head of close-cropped gray hair. “The uniform fits superbly and the ribbons are, indeed, impressive. The rest is merely vocal intonation, which is simple. My voice-over commercials, including one for a rotten cat, sent one of my children through college—damned if I can remember which one.”
“I still want you to wear a combat helmet—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it would spoil the effect and defeat the purpose. My role is to draw men out, not frighten them away. A battle helmet telegraphs impending conflict, and that connotes defense measures such as armed concealed personnel for protection. One’s motivation must be clean and consistent, General, not muddled, you lose your audience that way.”
“You could also lose—well, you could be a target, too, you know.”
“I really don’t think so,” said the actor, his eyes twinkling at the Hawk’s unfinished statement. “Not with what you’ve got going out there. Compared to the sands of North Africa, this is practically offstage. At any rate, it’s a minor risk, for which I’m being well compensated.… Incidentally, how goes it with our Stanislavski warriors of the Suicidal Six?”
“There’s been a change of plans—”
“Oh?” interrupted Sir Henry sharply, suspiciously.
“All to the good for everybody,” said Hawkins quickly, instantly recognizing the quasi-panic of the actor’s expression, a custom of a trade where you got it, sweetheart, you’re teriff! frequently meant the bum’s a loser, get me some class like Sonny Tufts. “They’ll be in Los Angeles by four o’clock this afternoon. My wife, my former wife—one of ’em, that is, the first, actually—wanted them out there so she could keep a motherly eye on all six.”
“How very sweet.” The actor touched the two stars on his collar. “However, to be blunt, nothing’s changed with regard to my appearance in the film?”
“Hell, no. The boys want you, and whatever they want they’re going to get.”
“Are you certain? They have no recognition quotient, you realize.”
“Whatever it is, they don’t need it. They control the ‘hottest boffo-box-office-mega-buster’—whatever that is—anyone in Dizzy City, West, can remember. In any event, everything’s in the hands of the William Morris Agency and—”
“William Morris?”
“Isn’t that the name?”
“It certainly is! I think one of my daughters is an attorney in their legal department—probably got the job because she’s my daughter. What is her name; I see her every Christmas.”
“The deal’s being handled by two men named Robbins and Martin, and my wife, my former—you know what I mean—says they’re the best.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ve read about them in the trades. I believe my daughter—Becky or Betty … whatever—was engaged to that Robbins fellow, or was it Martin? Yes, they really must be splendid, for she’s a very bright girl—Antoinette, that’s her name! She always gives me a sweater three sizes too big, but then I’ve always appeared extremely large on stage—it’s called presence, you know.”
“I guess I do now. The boys are heading out to the Coast, everything first class, my Ginny told me.”
“Naturally. One doesn’t send six quarts of diamonds on a subway unattended. I’m surprised they didn’t hire their own jet.”
“My ex-wife explained that. She said all the studios and the agents out there hire people who do nothing but monitor corporate aircraft, and if anything looks suspicious, they bribe the pilots. She told me a Lear was lost in the Alaskan tundra three weeks ago and was just found yesterday, two hours after a rival studio signed some guy named Warner Batty to a contract.”
The hotel room doorbell rang, startling both men. “Who the hell could that be?” whispered the Hawk. “Henry, did you tell anybody—”
“Absolutely no one!” replied the actor, also whispering, but far more emphatically. “I followed the script, dear boy, not a single variation in the stage directions! I registered quite respectably as a pipe salesman from Akron—proper polyester suit, weary slouch … damn fine performance, if I do say so.”
“Who could it be?”
“Leave it to me, mon général.” Sutton walked to the door and assumed the weaving posture of a drunken man, loosening his tie and partially unbuttoning his tunic. “Hide in the closet, MacKenzie!” he said quietly, then raising his timbre, he spoke in a loud inebriated voice. “Yesh, wassit it? Dish is a personal party, and me and my broad don’ want no extra guests!”
“Hey,
fazool!” came the gruff reply through the door. “If you think you’re playin’ one of your fuckin’ games like you did when we was in Bean Town, ferget it! Lemme in!”
Sir Henry snapped his head around; the closet door opened simultaneously, the face of MacKenzie Hawkins pinched in shock. “Oh, my God, it’s Little Joseph!… Let him in, goddamnit.”
“So?” said Joey, his hands clasped behind him as the door closed and standing as high as his five feet, three inches permitted. “If the head of that fazool peekin’ out of the closet is your broad, soldier boy, you got big troubles in the military.”
“Who is this dwarf who obviously speaks dwarf-talk?” asked the actor, his indignation scathing.
“You’re an easy mark, fazool number two. Once you made contact with the big fazool on F Street and Tenth, what with your right shoulder twitching and your left hand jabbing south like you got the DTs, I knew you was the contact. You couldn’t fool nobody.”
“Are you questioning my technique, sir? I, who have garnered the approbation of a thousand critics across the land!”
“Who’s the hot fudge sundae?” asked Little Joey, as a perplexed Hawk walked out of the clothes closet. “I think maybe Bam-Bam and me should know, y’know what I mean?”
“Joseph, what are you doing here?” roared MacKenzie, his astonishment receding and veering to menace.
“Cool it, fazool. Vinnie has your best interests at heart, you gotta know that. Remember, I’m the Shroud. I can be anywhere, move anywhere, nobody notices me. Like you didn’t notice me when you flew into National Airport from New York this morning and I was right on your ass.”
“So?”
“A couple of things, maybe. Bam-Bam wants to know if he should call in a squad of torpedos from Toronto.”
“Absolutely not!”
“He figured; there’s not time.… Awright, then he wants you to know that his blessed aunt Angelina has done like you wished her to do because her husband, Rocco, is a no good son of a bitch and she loves her nephew, Vincenzo. The stuff you wanted is in the second closet in the hallway on the right.”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 54