Buried Caesars (15 page)

“I’m with you,” I said to Pintacki as Wylie came back through the door with a plate of food and moved along the table to hand it to me. When he had, Wylie backed away, retrieved his shotgun and went to stand in the corner.

“Mr. Pintacki wants to be king of the United States,” said Hammett. “I think a king should be decisive.”

“King?” I asked, digging into my plate of scrambled eggs, ham and potatoes.

“Not quite,” said Pintacki with a smile. “I have plans for this country. Douglas MacArthur is an ambitious man. With the information supplied to me by Andrew Lansing, I may well convince the General to implement some of my major ideas when he becomes President. If not, I may give the information to a rival, who would be very grateful. The situation in this country is grave. The military has controlled our destiny. It’s time we controlled the military.” Pintacki leaned across the table and whispered, “Frankly, Peters, I am very wealthy. But it don’t mean a doodle and a fart if I can’t do something with it, like save the goddam country, if you know what I mean.”

“Makes sense to me,” I said.

“And to me,” Hammett agreed.

“You’re humoring me, gentlemen,” said Pintacki with a laugh, as he dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “I’m used to that, but I am a determined man. I didn’t want any of this to happen. The world is a mound of trash and tribulation. Anyone with half a mind and a sense of smell knows it. I built this place to get away. Got a five-year supply of water, a generator with two backups, fuel for the rest of my natural or unnatural life, whichever comes first, and no telephone. Let the whole damn world bomb itself to pieces. I didn’t give a lizard’s ass and tail. But I thought about it. I sat here night after night watching the classics of the cinema and I thought about it. Finally decided I’d give the United States one more chance.”

“Decent of you,” I said.

“Maybe so,” said Pintacki. “I like to think God found me like a saint in the desert and singled me out. Want some coffee?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Wylie ambled into the kitchen.

“Where was I?” Pintacki said, looking at Hammett and me.

“God found you,” I said.

“Right,” said Pintacki, playing with a piece of slightly burned and probably cold toast. “Paper today has an article by some kid named Walter Cronkite about the Japs blowing up the
Wakefield
. Just a transport, you say, but it’s not. It’s a damn symbol. It took me years to understand that you can’t run from reality. You can’t run from symbols. You can build a castle in the desert but they’ll come and find you, the way you two did, come and find you and ask you to pay taxes, fill out papers, give money to people you don’t like.”

I considered reminding Pintacki that he had some responsibility for our being there.

“So,” Pintacki said after an enormous sigh, “I figured if I couldn’t be left alone by the country, and God was calling me anyway, I’d have to come out of the desert like Moses, like the saints, and take charge. You following this so far?”

Wylie put his shotgun down and walked down to us with pot of coffee. He poured some for me and Hammett.

“We are fascinated,” said Hammett.

“Maybe so, maybe no,” said Pintacki. “Lost my boy in the first days of this war. Not asking for sympathy. Don’t want it. I lost a boy and that’s that. If I’d have got the word sooner, I might have done something to save him, but that’s the past and past is past and he is in God’s domain.”

Wylie placed the coffee pot out of our reach and returned to his corner.

“Sorry,” I said.

“’Bout what?” asked Pintacki.

“Your son,” I said.

“House boy,” Pintacki shouted. “Not my son. Filipino house boy. Blew him to pieces on some island. Can’t get help anymore. Not out this far.”

“I think you should shoot us or let us go,” said Hammett. “I don’t think I want to listen to any more of this.”

Pintacki’s face went red and he dropped his napkin on his plate.

“I’m still fascinated,” I said.

“I have a plan, a platform, an agenda,” said Pintacki, his eyes fixed on Hammett, who ignored him and drank his coffee. “First, a permanent, big army in new uniforms, yellow uniforms, symbols of the sun and of the everlasting light and power of the one and indivisible God, visible everywhere, patrolling every few feet of our threatened borders—Canada, Mexico. Second, no taxes. Everybody in the whole damn country gets paid fifteen percent less. The fifteen percent goes straight to the government. The people don’t even know it’s gone.”

“It’ll pay for those new yellow uniforms,” I said.

“You mock me again, Peters,” Pintacki said, pointing at me, “and Wylie will take you outside and turn you into rattlesnake bait. Besides that, you’ll miss the show. You wouldn’t want that.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” I said.

“We take over every country we beat in the war. Not just occupy it. Take it over. None of this namby-pamby live-and-let-live crapola. Make every country we take over one of the United States. Make them American. Japs, Germans, Eye-talians. Not the A-rabs though. Not the A-rabs. They’d suck us up like the desert and they don’t change their clothes. The others … give them a vote, representatives, senators, but don’t give them too many choices. Most of the whole damned world will be America. And the people in these new states will love it. Love baseball,” he said, holding up a finger. “Love hamburgers made with lean, red beef, lots of protein,” he went on, holding up a second finger. “Love com, love Kate Smith, love movies, love everything American.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” I said.

“Sounds like bullshit,” Hammett said, standing up. “I don’t listen to bullshit and lunatics, not unless they own movie studios and pay me five hundred dollars a day. Pintacki, you are an extra, unnecessary hole in the rear end of civilization and I just don’t have time for you. I should be having my bridge work done and getting a plane east, not sitting in the middle of the desert with an overgrown ten-year-old who wants to play Nero. We’ve got enough of those in Europe.”

Pintacki’s face had gone red, then purple and was now white. He stood to face Hammett across the table.

“You are abusing my hospitality,” he said evenly. “You are comparing me with Hitler. I hate Hitler. I’d shoot the little paperhanger like a dog if I had him in front of me. I’d tie his dead carcass to a cactus and let his flesh rot and leave his bleached bones to ask God for forgiveness.”

“Then I’ve obviously misjudged you,” Hammett said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and putting the napkin neatly next to his plate. “You are a avenging angel, possibly even a saint. Posterity will have to be the judge. Frankly, I’ve got you fitted for a straitjacket and a red, white and blue padded cell if you live out the season.”

Hammett pushed back his chair and went on: “You can shoot me or beat my head in, either of which would allow me the pleasure of knowing that I wouldn’t have to listen to any more of your ranting, but I am leaving.”

Wylie stepped forward, shotgun now raised and ready.

“It’s show time,” Pintacki announced. “Sit down.”

Conrad, who must have been standing outside the door, came into the room, set up a tripod screen and moved solemnly to the projector.

“Sit down, Mr. Hammett,” Pintacki said again. “No more political talk. You’ve got my word, at least for now. I promised you a show, and by God and the memory of Alexander Hamilton and Saint Sebastian, I’m going to deliver.”

“Hammett,” I said. “Let’s watch a movie.”

Hammett looked at me, his face calm but set, his eyes still angry. He sat and so did our host.

“Better,” said Pintacki. “People get riled, worked up, without knowing the whole story.”

Pintacki pointed to Conrad and sat back. Conrad hurried around closing all the drapes and moved back to his post next to the projector at Pintacki’s end of the table.

“It’s dark,” Pintacki said, “but not too dark for Wylie to see you. You are in for a treat. Whit do we have this morning, Conrad?”

“
Return of Draw Egan
,” Conrad said, hitting the switch. The projector ground into action, a beam of dusty light turned into a rectangle on the wall, and there stood William S. Hart. The cat leaped on the table and went for my plate. I pushed it toward him.

“A favorite of mine,” Pintacki said. “One of my bits of immortality. I’m in the gang, get shot in the saloon by Bill. I’ll point me out when … see that bandana Bill’s wearing? I’ve got it upstairs. Place of honor, framed in my bedroom on the wall where I can see it every morning and remember the values our founding fathers wanted …”

“You were an actor?” I interrupted. The cat had finished eating and was looking up at the picture.

“An actor with ears,” Pintacki said, tugging at his right earlobe. “I listened, picked up information, figured out what property might be hot, saved my money and bought land. Sold it to the studios for big profits. There, right there, that’s Louise Glaum. Went on to be a star on her own. Not my kind, too short, not enough neck, but a decent woman.”

The cat prowled along the table toward the image on the screen and when he reached the edge, cocked his head in curiosity and reached a paw toward the nearby screen.

“I respect animals,” said Pintacki. “All animals from the smallest flea to the goddam biggest whale, but if that cat touches the screen, Wylie, blow him off hell’s hinges.”

The cat’s paw moved forward and Wylie stepped away from the wall and leveled his shotgun down the table. Hammett reached for the cat and got his hands on him just as Wylie pulled the trigger. Buckshot tore across the top of the table, catching the tip of the cat’s tail and tearing into the screen, cutting a character named Arizona Joe into shreds.

“You all right?” I called to Hammett before the echo of the blast and the smell of the shot faded.

“Yes,” he said quietly over the voice of Pintacki, who was now bellowing.

“Open the damn drapes … hell, I’ll do it myself.”

Light came back into the room, almost wiping out the picture on the shredded screen. I could see Hammett clearly now. He held the frightened cat to his chest. Blood trickled between his fingers into the cat’s orange fur. Hammett spoke softly to the animal.

Wylie stood aiming the shotgun at me and then back to Hammett, ready to fire the second barrel. Conrad stared at Pintacki, waiting for orders, and Pintacki surveryed the damage to the table, screen and wall.

“Should I shoot the cat?” Wylie asked.

“No,” said Pintacki. “You had your chance. You missed. Get the Mexican out here this afternoon to work on the wall and table. Hell, let’s see the end of the movie.”

“I’ve seen enough movie,” Hammett said, standing with the cat in his arms.

“You want a comedy?” Pintacki offered. “I was in
Safety Last
. One of the crowd watching Lloyd. You know, he really did his own stunts. I remember …”

“I’m going back to my cell,” Hammett said.

“It’s your doing,” Pintacki said, pointing at Hammett. “We could still have been talking politics. Hell, go to your room. Peters and I will watch the rest.”

“I’ve had enough entertainment for one day,” I said, getting up.

“Well,” sighed Pintacki, moving around the table and back to his place. “You are less than ideal guests.”

“I can’t say you’re the worst host I’ve encountered,” said Hammett. “You kidnap me, lock me in a room, drag me out to watch an old movie in the middle of the night and shoot me. That’s better treatment than I got from the Warner brothers.”

“This day is not turning out the way I wanted it,” sighed Pintacki.

“I can shoot them, Mr. P.,” Wylie offered.

“Can I turn off the projector?” Conrad asked.

“Turn it off,” said Pintacki. “Wylie, take them back to their rooms.”

We moved toward the door behind the torn screen. I could smell the scorched wood of the table. The pellets in the white wall looked like some constellation of stars, but I didn’t, know which.

Hammett paused and turned back. “Pintacki,” he said, “if you’ve got a friend, find him and he’ll tell you the desert has baked your damn brain.”

“How bad is it?” I asked Hammett as we walked into the hallway with Wylie behind us.

Hammett handed me the cat and looked at his hand, turning it around.

“Not bad,” he said. “Pellet cut the skin between my fingers. Took the end of the cat’s tail. We’ll live.”

He held out his hand to show me.

“Don’t bleed on the floor,” said Wylie. “Me and Conrad have to clean it up.”

“Sorry,” said Hammett, and we walked on.

“Did they bring you straight here yesterday?” I whispered.

Hammett nodded yes.

“And” Pintacki was here when you came?”

Another yes.

“Then he lied about not having a phone,” I said softly. “He called Spainy just before they grabbed you.”

“That’s the way I see it,” he agreed. “We’ve got to get to that phone.”

“Don’t talk and don’t bleed,” said Wylie behind us as we moved up the stairs.

“He didn’t reload,” I said, as we neared the first landing and the room I’d spent the night in. “One barrel. Go down low when I move?”

Hammett nodded yes. I stopped, suddenly and put the cat down, hoping Wylie would come up at least another step or two before he stopped. He came up two steps. I stretched, turned my head and grinned back at him. He leveled the gun at my chest. I shook my head and gave him a look suggesting he was the nastiest form of life on the underside of a lizard.

“How can you work for a lunatic like Pintacki?” I asked.

“Lot of people are a little nuts,” said Wylie. “Doesn’t stop them from being presidents or kings.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think you have to be more than a little feebleminded to ride along with a peanut-head like Pintacki.”

He lifted the shotgun toward my face. That’s what I wanted, that and no time to think. I half saw or imagined Hammett going flat on the stairs as I dropped low and threw myself at Wylie’s legs. The shot crackled over me as I hit him and we went down the stairs. At first I was on top. After one roll, he was on top. When we hit the bottom of the stairway, we were side by side and dazed. I could see Hammett coming down the stairway toward us, the cat between his legs slowing him down.