Dancing Aztecs (47 page)

He didn't like it at all. “Cut out that pounding!” he yelled. “I'm
not
driving too slow! You wanna get stopped by a cop, waste half an hour getting a ticket? I'm doing a steady sixty-four!”

The bronze Oldsmobile, filled with Corella and Oscar Russell Green in front and Krassmeier, Bud Beemiss, and Chuck Harwood in back, was not in fact going too slowly. If anything, it was going a bit too fast. Had they being doing a steady sixty-
one
for the last four hours, they would not have zoomed past Jerry and Bobbi's picnic spot before Bobbi reached the side of the highway with her first suitcase. As it was, she'd just been awakening on her hilltop when they'd driven past, and was out of their sight.

Not only that, they'd also seen the station wagon, though they didn't know it. In the first place, “Jerry Spaulding” had put a false license number on that motel registration card to go with his false last name, so Corella and party were now looking for a license plate that probably didn't exist at all on this road. And in the second place, they'd had no reason to pay attention to the dark-green station wagon when they'd seen it, because it had been going hell for leather the other way.

The five men had been cramped together in this car a long long time, and they were all getting irritable. They were also hungry, and every one of them was in increasingly desperate need of a men's room. With the atmosphere also poisoned by the mingled smokes of Corella's cigar, Chuck Harwood's pipe, and Krassmeier's cigarettes, it was not a happy vehicle.

And now Chuck, in the back seat with Krassmeier and Bud Beemiss, twisted around to look out the rear window—elbowing Bud pretty badly in the process—and mildly said, “Here comes somebody who isn't as afraid of the police as you are, Corella.”

Corella glared at the rear-view mirror. A dark automobile was coming lickety-split in the left lane. “Let
him
get picked up,” Corella groused. And he doggedly maintained his sixty-four as the other car rapidly overtook them, passing on their left.

“There she is!” Bud suddenly yelled, and in waving his arms around he gave both Krassmeier and Chuck a mean flurry of elbows.

“Stop that!” Krassmeier slapped at Bud's waving arms.

“There she
is!
” Bud insisted, and now everybody looked to the left, at the dark-green station wagon passing them, and
that was Bobbi in the passenger seat!

“That's her!” Oscar shouted, up front beside Corella, and he thumped his fist onto Corella's leg.

The station wagon was ahead, was moving away. “Stop
hitting
me!” Corella yelled, but everybody else was yelling louder:

“Stop her!”

“Catch them!”

“Run them off the road!”

“Hustle, man, hustle!”

Gotta
hustle.

THE FAST FRIENDS …

Flashback:

Jerry told her the rest of the story as they sat together in the car, parked by the side of the road. “I have a little independent trucking outfit at Kennedy,” he started, and told her about the Spanish alphabet, the box marked
A
, the box marked
E
, the million-dollar statue, the dispersal of the sixteen candidates, the several searchers, the gradual winnowing of the prospects, and the ultimate discovery that hers indeed was The One. She listened, wide-eyed, not interrupting, and at the finish she gazed with awe at the golden behind of the statue on the back seat. “A million dollars,” she said.

“Maybe more.”

She frowned at him. “Then why come back?”

He became immediately uncomfortable. Drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel, looking past her left ear and then her right ear, he said, “Well— I just did, that's all.”

“Why?”

“How do I know? I mean, why not? Can't leave you out here. Somebody come along and sex-crime ya, something.”

“You got away with it,” she pointed out, “and then you turned around and came back. After all, the statue
is
mine.”

“Yeah, I know.” And he looked glum, as though he too realized he'd behaved with less than brilliance.

“Do you expect me just to
give
it to you?”

“I don't know, lady.” Irritation was popping to his surface like bubbles on fudge. “I come back, all right? We'll work it out later. So now we'll go to New York.” And, under her level gaze, he started the engine, jammed it into gear, and kicked the station wagon out onto the highway.

Flash forward:

“I'll give you the statue,” she said.

He showed her a sudden frown. “You'll what?”

“Well, not exactly give,” she said. “I tell you what I'll do. You're supposed to split with your brothers-in-law, right?”

“Right.”

“So you can share your part with me.”

“That's an eighth,” he told her. “You want an eighth, instead of the whole thing? A hundred grand instead of a million?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“They're both unreal. A hundred grand, a million. What difference does it make?”

His look at her this time was keen and unbelieving. “Come on, kid,” he said. “You know better than that.”

“Maybe.”

“So what's the idea? Why you being so good to me?”

“Because I think you're in love with me,” she said.

He laughed, trying to hide how much he was pleased. “In love with you! I don't even know you!”

“Maybe once you get to know me you won't love me any more,” she said, “but right now I think you do.”

“Is that right?
I'm
in love with
you
, huh?” He steered out and around a slowpoke bronze Oldsmobile; he himself was doing ninety-three. “And what about
you?”

“Maybe once I get to know you I won't care for you at all,” she said.

“And in the meantime?”

“I think you're terrific, if you want the truth.”

“Is that love?”

She frowned. “Love is such a big word.”

“You don't mind hitting
me
on the head with it,” he said.

She grinned at him, and he grinned back, and she said, “You know what I'd like to do?”

“Me, too,” he said. “There's some woods over there.” And he put on his right directional, to let that bronze Oldsmobile behind him know he was going to pull off the road and come to a stop.

THE OMNISCIENT VIEWPOINT …

The hawk was looking for a nice plump rabbit, or maybe a good juicy field mouse. Hanging in the middle of the sky, just to the south of route 80 in eastern Union County, Pennsylvania, the hawk held its wings outspread, catching the updrafts, watching the ground for movement.

Movement ensued. A dark-green Ford station wagon slowed and left the concrete of the highway and came to a stop off the road, just at the edge of the field the hawk was studying. The front doors opened and Jerry and Bobbi emerged, just as a bronze Oldsmobile squealed to an angry shuddering stop, angled across the front of the Ford, the two vehicles almost touching. All four of the Oldsmobile's doors opened; Corella leaped out of the left front, Oscar leaped out of the right front, Krassmeier lunged out of the left rear, and nobody emerged from the right rear because, after opening a mere three inches, that door of the Oldsmobile stuck the left corner of the Ford's front bumper. Therefore, as Oscar and Krassmeier and Corella all ran toward Jerry and Bobbi and the Ford, first Bud and then Chuck crawled out the left rear doorway of the Oldsmobile.

Meantime, Bobbi shrieked and Jerry jumped back into the Ford, yelling, “In the car! In the car!” But Bobbi didn't get into the car; she stood gaping instead. Not that it made any difference, since Jerry had taken the key from the ignition and didn't have time to reinsert it before Corella and Krassmeier were all over him, grabbing at him, trying to pull him out of the car. He punched Corella on the nose and kicked Krassmeier in the belly, but by then Bud and Chuck had arrived, and he couldn't fight off all four of them.

The hawk watched all this with fascination.

Oscar tried to grab Bobbi in a bear hug, but she didn't
want
to be grabbed in a bear hug, so she kicked him hard on the shin. “Ow–” Oscar said, and clutched his shin, and went hopping around in an off-balance circle, grimacing and saying several more Ows. And Bobbi yanked open the rear door of the Ford, grabbed the Dancing Aztec Priest by the upraised leg, and went running out across the field, waving the golden statue in the air over her head.

The hawk didn't know
what
to make of that.

The four men who'd been struggling with Jerry all noticed the saffron flash of the departing Priest, and at once gave off from kicking and punching and butting and pulling and pushing, to run instead, shouting Hi and Stop and Come
back!
Jerry himself ran after them all, yelling, “Bobbi, keep running!”

The hawk moved its wings, circled to a higher plateau, and went on watching.

Jerry tripped Krassmeier, who fell down in a muddy place.

Chuck caught up with Bobbi, but she ducked away from his flailing arms, kicked him on the kneecap, called him a couple of unladylike things, and found herself tackled by Corella, who had run into her like a charging bull. “Yi!” she cried, flinging her arms up, and the Dancing Aztec Priest sailed up into the air, head over heels, ass over teakettle, glinting aureate in the sunshine, arcing through the lazy air, and landing in the outstretched arms of Bud Beemiss, who clutched the creature to his chest, reversed direction, and ran smack into the left fist of Jerry.

Bobbi, in separating herself from Corella, inadvertently kneed him in the nose and he began to bleed all over his off-white sports jacket and his powder-blue tie with tiny white windmills all over it. He already had grass stains and mud smears all over his powder-blue slacks and his white patent-leather shoes.

Jerry had the statue, in the middle of the field. To his left, Krassmeier was attempting to get back on his feet. Behind him, Bud was sitting on the ground, holding his nose with both hands, while farther back Corella was sitting on the ground holding his nose with one hand and his side with the other, and Bobbi was trying to find her other shoe. Chuck was limping hurriedly after Jerry from the rear, and Oscar was limping hurriedly after him from the front.

Jerry ran at Oscar, dodged to Oscar's left, ran around Oscar on Oscar's right, and was tripped up by Krassmeier's straining outflung arm. Jerry did a somersault on the ground, wound up on his back, and Oscar fell on him. Bobbi found her other shoe and hit Corella on the top of the head with it.

The hawk closed one eye, cocked its head to one side, and viewed the action one-eyed. It made no better sense that way.

Jerry and Oscar rolled over and over, tripping up Chuck, who fell on both of them. Krassmeier made another attempt to get to his feet Bud got to
his
feet and ran over to fall on the pile of Oscar and Chuck and Jerry and the statue. Bobbi rapped Corella once more on the head with her other shoe, and ran over to rap Krassmeier on
his
head with her other shoe. Corella sat on the ground and tried to hold five of his parts simultaneously. Krassmeier tripped up Bobbi, whose skirt wound up around her waist, which enraged her so much she jumped up and kicked him in the side with her shod foot.

Jerry and Oscar and Chuck and Bud rolled around and around in the field, and all at once the statue squirted out from the middle of them. Bobbi grabbed it, threw her other shoe at Krassmeier, and ran for the cars. Jerry tripped
everybody
.

Bobbi was getting away. Corella and Krassmeier were both staggering around at the far end of the field, and Jerry was trying to hold onto Bud
and
Chuck
and
Oscar.

Bobbi was almost to the cars. The six men straggled out behind her, puffing after her but not getting anywhere. Then her shoeless foot landed on a sharp rock, she let out a shriek, her forward momentum threw her off-balance, she flung her arms out to break her fall, and once again the Dancing Aztec Priest was airborne.

The hawk slid diagonally down the sky, watching the progress of this unlikely flying creature. The statue rose, it rose, on a long gradual trajectory. It soared out over the hood of the Ford station wagon, it angled swiftly down, it suddenly rushed, it crashed to the concrete directly in the path of a giant tractor-trailer coming along at seventy-seven miles an hour, and eight rushing huge tires sequentially smashed it down into a million jaundiced pieces on the highway.

The seven bedraggled, panting people lined up on the verge, gazing at the golden shards. White plaster dust dimmed the gilt. Another hightailing truck roared by, and the remains became less visible. Already the pieces were hard to see.

“After all that,” Bobbie said.

“It's the wrong one,” Krassmeier said.

“The wrong one,” Chuck said.

“It isn't gold,” Oscar said.

“Back to New York,” Jerry said.

“Back to New York!” Bud and Corella said.

“Back to New York!” Krassmeier and Chuck and Oscar said.

“Back to New York! Hustle!”

Into the cars they clambered and peeled away, Jerry and Bobbi first in the Ford station wagon, the other five immediately after. The wind of their passage raised a bit of plaster dust, which soon dispersed.

The hawk rested on the air currents a minute longer, but nothing else occurred. As for that field, all those people had pretty well loused it up as a hunting spot Any rabbit or mouse that
might
have been in that territory would be miles from here by now.

“Caw!”
said the hawk, which translates as “Assholes!” His wings beating, he headed south.

THE RABBLE …

Everybody
was there.

Well, not exactly everybody. Swimming pool salesman Wally Hintzlebel wasn't there, because he hadn't been invited; in fact, he was at home right now, in his kitchen, playing canasta with his mother. And nobody had been able to find Jenny Kendall or Eddie Ross, who at this moment were sharing hamburgers over a wood fire beside a New Hampshire stream. And neither Felicity Tower nor Pedro Ninni was present; both were uptown, exhausted, but gradually rebuilding their strength and beginning once again to eye one another. And José Caracha and Edwardo Brazzo were seated at a wooden table in an underfurnished room downtown, filling out forms for the State Department, Customs, Immigration & Naturalization, FBI, CIA, the Public Health Service, the Foreign Assets Control division of the Treasury Department, Secret Service, the New York City Police Department, and the New York State Parole Board. (They had writer's cramp.)