Mission Earth 02 - Black Genesis

by Black Genesis [lit]

  So he prays each night unto the Lord his thirst to gratify.

  Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.

  And drown him in a tub of gin, if he has to die!

  Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues!

  With one last shove, he managed to get the rear door closed.

  Heller had been working industriously. He had put the Buick's plates on the Cadillac. Then he had the hood of the Buick open. He piled the gelignite on top of the Buick's motor. He went and got a dead man's revolver and made sure that there was a live cartridge under the pin when it was cocked. He took some of his tape and then taped the weapon, pointed at the gelignite, to the Buick's cowling.

  Heller got in the Cadillac and drove it to the main door, opened it and then drove outside. "Wait in the car," he said to Bang-Bang. And Bang-Bang went out and got in, petting the whisky cartons.

  Heller went back in. He closed the main door and its entry port. He found the bass plug and hooked it into the top inside edge of the door. He ran the fish line over a nail and then unreeled it all the way back to the Buick. Then, very gingerly, he tightened the fish line and tied it to the cocked trigger of the revolver.

  Then he did something very odd. He took two blank pieces of paper and laid them on the seat of the Buick.

  He looked around the garage. He found a heavy iron jimmy.

  Starting near the Buick, he raced down the rows of cartons; smash right, smash left. The crash of glass and the gurgle of whisky followed in his wake.

  Heller climbed out the window, made it secure so it didn't look like it had been touched. Then he gently closed the padlock on its hasp.

  He got in the Cadillac.

  "You booby-trapped it, didn't you?" said Bang-Bang.

  Heller didn't answer.

  Heller drove up the street six blocks. There was a hamburger stand there and an outside pay phone. He got out. He went into the phone booth. From his pocket he took a handful of change. Then from another pocket, he took a card.

  Swindle and Crouch!

  He deposited coins and dialed.

  A telephonist at the other end simply repeated the number for an answer.

  In a high-pitched voice, Heller said, "I got to speak to Mr. Bury."

  The telephonist said, "I am SOR-ree. Mr. Bury left for Moscow this morning to join Mr. Rockecenter. WHOM shall I say CAlled?"

  Heller hung up. "Blast!" he said in Voltarian.

  Bang-Bang was near the phone booth. "You look like the sky fell in."

  "It did," said Heller. "There was a guy made a bar­gain. This is twice he didn't keep it. He doesn't have any sense of honor or decency at all! Won't keep his word."

  "So that's who the booby trap was for," said Bang-Bang.

  "Yes. I was going to tell him some papers had been left in a car. He would have been over here by airbus in ten blinks of an eye." He sighed. Then he said, "Well, I guess I better go back and undo the booby trap."

  "Why?" demanded Bang-Bang.

  "Some innocent person could come along and get killed," said Heller.

  Bang-Bang was looking at him in round-eyed aston­ishment. "What's that got to do with it?"

  And I could certainly agree with Bang-Bang. Heller with his scruples. Far too nice. I scoffed aloud at the viewscreen.

  "I don't just run around killing people, you know," said Heller. "We're not at war!"

  Code break! He'd be telling this gangster about the threatened invasion next.

  "Oh, the hell we aren't!" said Bang-Bang. "It's war flat-out! That Faustino is pushing our backs straight against the wall. Don't go wasting a booby trap!"

  "I suppose you mean we should phone Faustino," said Heller.

  "No, no, no. He'd never cross the river to Jersey. But I got a real candidate! A turncoat!"

  "Somebody who is dishonorable?" said Heller. "Somebody who double-deals?"

  "You said it! I got somebody who really deserves it! A filthy, boozing, two-timing crooked crook!"

  "You sure?" said Heller.

  "Of course I'm sure. There's no crookeder rummy drunk on the whole planet."

  "Ah, a 'drunk,'" said Heller. "What's his name?"

  "Oozopopolis!"

  Heller shrugged, Bang-Bang took it as assent. He got his satchel from the car and sped into the booth closing it.

  Through the glass door, Heller watched Bang-Bang wad a rag around the mouthpiece. Then he took a rubber glove out of his satchel and put the cuff over the rag and mouthpiece. Then he took a small tape recorder out of his satchel and turned it on. Faintly, the sound came out of the telephone booth. It was planes taking off.

  At least this Bang-Bang knew some tradecraft. He was messing up his voice pattern and, with the planes,

  was mislocating the source of the call to some airport.

  Bang-Bang spoke briefly into the phone and then hung up. Yes, he did know some tradecraft. His call had been too short to trace.

  He recovered his gear and went back to the car win­dow. "Like a hamburger?" he said.

  Heller shook his head. Bang-Bang dove into the joint and the girl there began to fry a hamburger in a leisurely fashion.

  My toes curled! Tradecraft be (bleeped)! After you make a sensitive call, you don't hang around the phone booth!

  Then I reviewed the rest of it. The car they'd left in there had motor numbers. It was a different make even! If it blew up, nobody would be fooled!

  Heller's tradecraft might be good in its place-getting into forts and blowing them up. But shortly after, in his profession, he would be out in space and not on the planet!

  They were howling amateurs!

  Six blocks down the street, the garage was in full view!

  Heller said, "There'll be concussion." He turned the Cadillac around so that it faced the blast more squarely.

  Bang-Bang came out with a hamburger and a beer. "You sure you don't want one?" said Bang-Bang. But again, Heller shook his head.

  Bang-Bang settled down and began to eat. "He lapped it up," he said. "I told him in Greek—I was raised in old Hell's Kitchen and that's gone Greek. Otherwise he wouldn't have believed me."

  "What was his name again?" said Heller.

  "Oozopopolis. About a year ago, he stopped taking bribes from us, changed his coat and started taking them from Faustino. And he's been hitting at us ever since."

  He took another bite of hamburger. "I told him a couple of the Atlantic City mob had been seen looting Faustino's liquor right down at that address and they were inside stealing the place blind with the outside door locked. Wouldn't do to get the name Corleone mixed up in it. He sure leaped at it."

  Bang-Bang finished his hamburger and washed it down with beer. He then passed the time by filling Hel­ler in on mob politics.

  After a while there was a roar of cars.

  Three sedans went streaking by. The seats were full. "You can tell they're government men, all right," said Bang-Bang. "The way they carry those riot shotguns. Did you see Oozopopolis? He was the big fat slob in the front seat of the second car."

  The three cars raced the last six blocks and drew to a skidding halt in front of the garage, a reeking bomb of gelignite and alcohol fumes.

  Men bailed out, guns ready and threatening.

  "Come on out of there! We got you covered!" drifted faintly up the street.

  Then a very fat figure raced forward and slammed the flat of his foot against the door.

  There was a tremendous flash!

  Blue flame and red battered the street!

  A fireball bloomed!

  The concussion and sound hit the Cadillac! It recoil­ed and then rocked!

  Through the smoke and falling debris six blocks away one could see the strewn bodies.

  Heller turned the Cadillac around. "Who was this Oozopopolis?"

  "He was the New Jersey district head of BAFT. That's the U.S. Treasury Department Bureau of Alco­hol, Firearms and Tobacco. The Revenooers. The dirty

  turncoats. Aside from changing sides on us, it was Oozo­pop
olis that planted a machine gun on me and got me sent up."

  Bang-Bang was smiling happily. "Oh, my! Babe cer­tainly will be pleased. Not only did we cost Faustino two million bucks, but we also got rid of the Feds! And it's about time she got some breaks, let me tell you!"

  They wended their way through the fire engines now charging toward the sky-leaping conflagration.

  PART SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 1

  Heller drove north. He patted the car's windshield ledge. He said, "Well, you chemical-engined Cadillac Brougham Coupe d'Elegance, we got you out of that free and clear."

  I sneered, Fleet officers and their toys. Fetish wor­ship!

  Bang-Bang Rimbombo said, "Hey, kid. While in this moment of glory I don't want to spoil things, I got to point out you are driving on stolen plates and that's illegal!"

  "I've got another set of plates, registration card and everything," said Heller.

  "Where'd you get them?"

  "Why, from that guy I was going to call."

  "The one you wanted to bump? Listen, kid, there's a lot you got to learn. The fuzz runs on car plates. If they didn't have plates, they couldn't trace nobody. They'd be lost. Their whole system is founded on license numbers. So, if you got dough, I'd advise you to buy a new car. I know a guy..."

  "No, I want this one," said Heller.

  "But it's a gas hog!" said Bang-Bang.

  "I know," said Heller. "I need it."

  Bang-Bang sighed. "All right, I know another guy that can change its motor numbers and get a new license. I owe you. I don't wanta see you get pinched! Turn left

  right up ahead onto Tonnelle Avenue. We're going to Newark!"

  They were soon amongst the roar of trucks and gas fumes and, with Bang-Bang's direction, came to New­ark, drove down numerous side streets amongst numer­ous light and heavy industries but only in heavy polluted air and came at length to the Jiffy-Spiffy Garage. They threaded their way amongst numerous vehicles in vari­ous stages of repair and painting.

  Bang-Bang leaped out and shortly came back with a portly, greasy Italian in a white foreman's coat. Heller got out.

  "Kid," said Bang-Bang, "this is Mike Mutazione, the owner, proprietor and big noise of this joint. I told him you was a friend of the family. So, tell him what you want."

  Heller and the man shook hands. "Maybe he better

  tell me," said Heller.

  Mike looked over the Cadillac. "Well," he said, "the first thing I would do is run it into the river."

  "Oh, no!" said Heller. "It's a good car!"

  "It's a gas hog," said Mike. "A 1968 Cadillac only gets about ten miles to the gallon."

  "That's what I like about it," said Heller.

  Mike turned to Bang-Bang. "Is this kid crazy?"

  "No, no!" said Bang-Bang. "He's a college kid."

  "Oh, that explains it," said Mike.

  Bang-Bang was hastily tearing something inside the car. He came out with a bottle of Scotch.

  "What the hell is this?" said Mike. "Gold Label? I never seen none of this before."

  Bang-Bang wrestled off the top. "It's so good the Scots guzzle the whole supply of it themselves. Have a gulp."

  "You sure it ain't poison?" He cautiously took a lit­tle. He rolled it around on his tongue. "My God, that's smooth! I ain't never tasted anything like that."

  "Just off the boat," said Bang-Bang. "We brung you a whole case of it."

  "Now, as I was saying, kid," said Mike, "let's look over this beautiful car." Gripping the bottle tenaciously, he raised the hood with the other hand. He got out a flashlight. He was looking at the engine block. Then he shook his head sadly. "Kid, I got bad news. That engine number has been changed too often. And the last ones that did it scored it too deep. It can't be done again."

  He stood there. "Aw, don't look so downcast, kid. You must have sentimental attachments for this car. First one you ever stole or something?" He took another sip of Scotch and leaned against the radiator. He was deep in thought. Then he brightened. "Hey, I just remem­bered. You can buy brand-new engines for a 1968 Cadil­lac, this model. They been in stock ever since at General Motors. You got money?"

  "I got money," said Heller.

  "I'll check." Mike went into his office and got on the phone. He came back beaming. "They still got them! You in a hurry or can this job take a few weeks?"

  "I'm in no hurry," said Heller. "That will fit into my plans just fine."

  Suddenly, I was all adrift. I had been so certain he just wanted the car to bash around in New York with, so certain that this was just more Fleet officer fixation on toys that I had not examined the possibility that he had some diabolical plot in mind. I hastily reviewed his actions so far. He was NOT idly drifting as I had thought! He was working! The (bleepard) was plowing straight ahead on his mission! The horrible idea that he

  might succeed rose over me like Lombar's specter. What the Devils was he up to?

  "All right," said Mike. "But what do you want out of this car, really? Speed? If it's speed, I could put new aluminum alloy pistons in the new engine: they get rid of the heat quicker and the engine is less likely to blow up. And you could get a lot more revs out of it."

  "Would that increase or decrease the gas consump­tion?" said Heller.

  "Oh, possibly increase it."

  "Good," said Heller. "Do it."

  "All right. I could put special carburetors on it," said Mike.

  "Good," said Heller.

  "But if she is going to go faster, she better have a new radiator core and maybe an oil radiator for cooling."

  "Good," said Heller.

  "There may be some worn parts like axle spindles and such that would have to be replaced."

  "Good," said Heller.

  "She better have some new tires. Racing ones that'll do a hundred and fifty without blowing out."

  "Good," said Heller.

  "Lighter magnesium wheels?" said Mike.

  "Would it make her look different?"

  "I should say so. Much more modern."

  "No," said Heller.

  Mike had received his first no. He stood back, had a drink, thinking fast.

  Bang-Bang interrupted him. "Ain't that a Corleone pickup truck?" he said, pointing to a newly repainted and now black Ford.

  "Ready to go," said Mike.

  "I'll take it along when I go," said Bang-Bang and

  promptly began to remove his cartons from the Cadillac and load the pickup.

  Mike, refreshed, returned to the fray. He picked at a fender. "There are some small dents that need body beating. She could use a sandblast and a new coat of paint. Hey, listen kid, we got some original Cadillac paint: we can never use it because it is too showy! I'll get a card." He rushed to the office and came back. "Here you are. It's called 'Flameglow Scarlet.' It makes the car shine even in the dark! Real flashy!"

  "Good," said Heller.

  I couldn't track with him. He had originally chosen gray because it was more invisible. Now he was choosing paint that practically burned my viewscreen! What was he up to?

  "But," said Mike, moving to the front seat and pick­ing at it, "this upholstery—yes, and them back curtains —has had it. Now, it just so happens we have some uphol­stery that was bought and never used. It's called 'Snow Leopard,' white with black spots. Sparkles! It'll really show up wild against that red body! We can even get it thick enough for floor rugs, too."

  "Great," said Heller.

  Mike couldn't think of anything else. "Now, was there something special you wanted in addition?"

  "Yes," said Heller. "I want you to fix the hood so it can be locked down all around with keys. And under the car, I want a very light sheet of metal that will seal the engine absolutely."

  "Oh, you're talking about bomb jobs and armor," said Mike. "Now, the reason they built these cars with so much horsepower was so they could carry the weight of armor. I can put you in bulletproof windows, armor plate in the side walls..."

  At last, I understoo
d. He was afraid his car would be rigged for a blitz again!

  "No," said Heller. "Just a light sheet underneath and locks on the hood so nobody can get to the engine."

  "Burglar alarms?" said Mike hopefully.

  "No," said Heller.

  I gave up. The only explanation was that Heller was crazy!

  "That's all?" said Mike.

  "That's about it" said Heller.

  "Well," said Mike, appearing to be a little apprehen­sive, "that whole lot we been over will add up to about twenty G's."

  Bang-Bang had been removing the last of the record­ers. He dropped the box. "Jesus!" He came over. "Look, kid, I can steal and get converted fifteen up-to-date Cadil­lacs for that!"

  "I'll throw in the new license," said Mike. "And hon­est, Bang-Bang, it will cost that to tailor rebuild this car."

  "I'll take it," said Heller. He reached into his pock­ets and pulled out a roll. He counted and held out ten thousand.

  "This kid just knock off Brinks?" Mike demanded of Bang-Bang.

  "It's honest hit money," said Heller.

  "Oh, well, in that case," said Mike, "I'll take it on account." And he went to his office to write out a receipt. "What name?" he called back. "Not that it mat­ters."

  "Jerome Terrance Wister," said Heller.

  Now I knew he was crazy. Bury could find out he was alive and could trace him! And with a flashy, differ­ent car like that...

  Bang-Bang had finished loading the pickup. He presented a grateful Mike with the case of Johnny

  Walker Gold Label. "Get in, kid. Where do I drop you?"

  "I'm going over to Manhattan," said Heller.

  "In that event, I'll take you to the train station. It's quicker."

  He did so and when Heller got out, Bang-Bang said, "Is that your real name, kid? Jerome Terrance Wister?"

  "No," said Heller. "I'm really Pretty Boy Floyd."

  Bang-Bang laughed uproariously and so did Heller. I was offended. Pretty Boy Floyd was a very famous gang­ster, too famous to be joked about. Sacred.

  "What do I owe you?" said Heller.

  "Owe me, kid?" said Bang-Bang. He pointed through the back window at his cargo. "For six months up the river, I been dreaming of a drink of Scotch! Now I'm going to swim in it!" And he drove off singing.