Exploits (11 page)

“All right,” he said, holding me off the ground by my shoulders and shaking me. “Who are you?”

“The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones.”

“You're from Guido Scarducci, right?” he said, finally putting me down.

“I ain't never heard of him,” I said, brushing myself off.

“Then why did you shoot at me?” he demanded.

“I thunk you was the Yeti.”

“What's a Yeti?” he asked.

“Well, as near as I can tell, a Yeti is you,” I said. “Except it sure sounds to me like you're speaking one hundred percent pure American.”

“Of course I am,” he said. “I was raised in Butte, Montana.”

“What's a fellow American doing on a mountain in Tibet?” I asked.

“It's a long and tragic story, Doctor Jones,” he said, sitting down on a big rock. “My name is Sam Hightower. By the time I was fifteen years old I was seven feet tall and still growing, so I figured that playing basketball was my calling in life, and as soon as I got out of high school I latched onto a semi-pro team called the Butte Buccaneers. About a week before we were scheduled to play the Great Falls Geldings for the championship, for which we were a real big favorite, a gambler called Guido Scarducci came up and offered me five thousand dollars to make sure we didn't win by more than ten points.”

“No sense embarrassing the other team,” I said sympathetically.

“Those were my feelings precisely,” said Hightower. “The problem is that the next night, another gambler named Vinnie Bastino offered me twenty thousand to make sure we won by fifteen points or more.”

“I can see where that might present a serious moral and economic dilemma,” I said.

“Well, I was young and innocent and didn't view it as such,” said Hightower. “I just figured I'd pay Mr. Scarducci his five thousand back out of my earnings and we'd be all square and there'd be no hard feelings and we might even have a laugh about it over a drink or two.”

“I take it he didn't quite see it that way?” I said.

“I realized he and I had a little communications problem when he blew up my car and set fire to my apartment that night,” said Hightower. “And when he missed me and shot six of my teammates during the victory parade the next day, I figured it was probably time to take my leave of the fair city of my birth, so I hopped the first train heading east, and wound up in New York.” He paused. “Problem is, he found me there, too. And in London. And in Rome. I finally decided that it's not all that easy to disappear in a crowd when you're eight foot two inches tall, so after he found me again in Athens, I made up my mind to go where there weren't any crowds at all, and I've been living on this damned mountain for six years now, waiting for Guido Scarducci to hunt me down.”

“You hang around here much longer and you're gonna get yourself hunted by a lot more people than Guido Scarducci,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked. “Surely borrowing a little coffee and tea isn't a capital offense even in Tibet.”

“This ain't got nothing to do with coffee or tea,” I said. “You ever hear of the Abominable Snowman?”

“I heard legends when I was growing up, just like I heard about Bigfoot and Paul Bunyon.”

“Well, most folks in these parts think you're him.”

“Why on earth should they think that?” he asked, kind of bewildered.

“Well, the notion of an eight-foot basketball player hiding out from gamblers on top of a mountain in Tibet probably ain't had time to take root yet,” I explained.

“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Now that I come to consider it, I can see your point. I assume that's why you were shooting at me?”

I nodded. “After all, you did go for my bait.”

“You know how hard it is to find food up here?” he replied. He rubbed his jaw. “And I damned near broke a tooth on that frozen meat you put out yesterday.”

“I didn't put it out,” I said. “Which reminds me—we'd better get back to my cave so I can tell Capturing Clyde not to shoot you.”

“Capturing Clyde
Calhoun
?” he said excitedly.

“You've heard of him?”

“I've seen all his movies and read all his books,” said Hightower. “He's one of my boyhood heroes.”

“I'm sure he'll be mighty glad to hear it,” I said.

“But surely I'm not in any danger from him,” continued Hightower. “I mean, doesn't Capturing Clyde always bring ’em back alive?”

“Well, now, that's subject to various delicate shades of interpretation,” I said. “But I think it's fair to say that them what he brings back without eating or skinning first is generally alive. Still,” I added, “if I was you, I'd introduce myself to him right quick, and preferably when he wasn't carrying his gun.”

He stood up and looked up the mountain.

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Doctor Jones,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because when you fired your rifle you started an avalanche that seems to have brought down half the mountain. We could be days or even weeks getting back to your cave.”

“What are we going to do in the meantime?” I asked.

“I've got shelters hidden all over the mountain,” answered Hightower. “We'll find one that hasn't been covered by the avalanche and use it for a headquarters while we try to clear the trail to your cave.”

Well, I couldn't think of no better alternative, and so I followed him to one of his shelters, where he had a fire going and an old hand-cranked Victrola and lots of Rudy Vallee records, which weren't really to my taste but were a lot better than just sitting there listening to the wind whistle by.

He was real interested in finding out what events of Earth-shaking import had transpired since he'd left the States in rather a hurry, so I told him about how the Red Sox had traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees, and how Clara Bow had encouraged the Southern California football team to win the Rose Bowl, and that one of our Presidents had died but I couldn't remember which one. He was especially glad to hear that Morvich had won the 1922 Kentucky Derby.

“I put all my money on him just before I took off,” he explained.

“Well, you ought to have a tidy nest egg waiting for you when you finally go home,” I said.

“I doubt it,” he replied with a sigh. “My bookie was Guido Scarducci.”

“Maybe there's some subtle little nuance I'm missing here,” I said, “but ain't Guido Scarducci the fellow that's out to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why on earth did you bet your money at his particular establishment?”

Hightower shrugged. “He was the only bookie in Montana.”

I suddenly found myself silently agreeing that Tibet was probably just the place for him to hang out while his survival skills were catching up with the rest of his growth, but I kept these sentiments to myself since I make it a practice never to offend anyone over eight feet tall unless it ain't avoidable.

The nightly blizzard came and went, and we were out at sunrise the next morning, digging a path up to Clyde's cave. It wasn't all that hard to dig through the snow, but every half hour or so we'd come to a boulder that we couldn't climb over or walk around, and as you might imagine it kind of slowed our progress. Hightower was afraid Clyde might be trapped in his cave, but I figured that Clyde was used to taking care of himself in strange lands and ticklish situations, and in truth the one thing that kept me going through all them days of digging and shoving boulders down the mountainside was the thought of all that jade sitting there in my picnic basket.

After a week we ran out of food and had to change shelters, and after two more weeks
all
the shelters were plumb out of food, and we figured if we didn't reach Clyde in another day or two we were going to have to climb down the mountain and borrow a little food from some of the locals. Hightower assured me that it wouldn't be no problem, since whenever they saw him they started screaming and running the other way, which up to now had made him think he should maybe have packed some deodorant when he left Athens, but which he finally realized was just their reaction to him being the Abominable Snowman.

Anyway, we finally cleared the way to Clyde's cave on the twenty-second day, and much to our surprise we found that it was deserted, except for a note and some kind of printed ticket that he'd stuck onto the wall right near the entrance, and which I picked up and read as follows:

Dear Lucifer:
I went out looking for you after I heard the shot, but I soon saw that you were probably buried under half the mountain. If that is true and you are dead, then read no further, but if you are alive and manage to make your way back here, I should tell you that after waiting a week for you to show up I have figgered that you and the Yeti are both dead, and have therefore decided to make tracks for Australia, where I got me a commission to hunt down a few hundred koala bears. At least they figure to make better eating than panda meat. (Ho ho.)
It seems a shame to leave all your jade doodads to rot here in the cave, so I am taking them with me back to civilization and will buy a drink to your sainted memory with some of the profits when I sell them. And just in case you ain't dead, I want you to know that I am a honorable man what would never rob a friend, and I am leaving you a lifetime pass to Capturing Clyde's Circus and Wild Animal Show in exchange for taking the trinkets with me.
Your Pal (or Rest in Peace,
whichever is applicable),
Clyde Calhoun

I crumpled up both the letter and the lifetime pass and threw them to the floor of the cave.

“The son of a bitch ran off with my jade!” I said.

“You can't eat jade,” said Hightower unhappily. “He might at least have left us some food.”

“Well, we got no money and we got no food,” I said. “I reckon it's time we took our leave of this here mountain.”

“Where will we go?” asked Hightower. “I'm still a wanted man, you know.”

“Well, there's no sense going back north into China,” I said. “They'd probably just ask a bunch of bothersome questions about General Chang's knick-knacks. I figure our best bet is to head south.”

“If we go south we'll run into the Himalayas,” said Hightower.

“Religious sects don't bother me none,” I replied confidently. “I'll convert ’em in no time flat.”

I walked out of the cave and started heading south, having wasted the better part of three months and a modest fortune in jade while wandering around the countryside with Clyde, and I promised my Silent Partner that the next time I took charge of a wall or an army or anything big like that, I was setting up shop and finally building my Tabernacle.

But as you will soon see, it wasn't quite as easy as it sounds.

6. The Land of Eternal Youth

It took Hightower and me another month before we hit anything resembling civilization, at which time we found ourselves in Katmandu, which has a real exotic name but truth to tell ain't a lot different from Boise or Dubuque, except that it's a hell of a lot colder in the summers, and hardly any of the locals speak English.

Still, mathematics is a universal language, and I soon replenished our coffers in a series of friendly little contests involving pasteboards and various combinations of the number Twenty-One. It was only after a couple of disgruntled losers started complaining that
my
deck added up to a lot more Twenty-Ones than
their
decks did that I decided it was time to hit the road again.

“Where are you heading?” asked Hightower.

“Someplace warm,” I said. “What's south of here?”

“India.”

“Then that's where I'm heading.”

“I can't go with you,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“From everything I hear, India's a pretty crowded place,” he answered. “And the bigger the crowd, the more I stand out. I'll be much safer finding a nice little village in Nepal and settling down here.”

“Guido Scarducci's probably forgot all about you by now,” I said.

“Have you ever known a bookie to forget a debt?” he asked.

Well, I didn't have no quick and ready comforting answer to that, so I bid him good-bye, packed enough food for a month, and lit out of Katmandu just in time to avoid a tedious discussion about the laws of statistical averages with some of the locals. I made pretty good progress for a week or so, but then a major league blizzard came up, and by the time it ended two days later all the roads and trails were covered, and within another week I was forced to admit that I was about as lost as people ever get to be.

Then one day I came to a pass that led to a winding trail down a mountainside, and suddenly it wasn't so cold anymore, and before long the snow vanished and I was walking on grass. I could see a great big green valley stuck smack in the middle of the mountains, and I decided to head on over to it to see if I could rustle up a hot meal and maybe a friendly game of chance or two.

Just before I reached the valley I came to a rickety wooden bridge leading over a stream, and on the other side of it were a bunch of guys who looked kind of Chinese lining a path that led up to this enormous white temple, which in turn was surrounded by a batch of little white houses.

Well, they just stared at me without saying nothing, so I put on my friendliest smile and crossed the bridge and was about to introduce myself when the strangest damned thing happened: the second I got to their side of the creek, they all got to their knees and bowed their heads, which could have meant anything from them all being ready for a friendly game of craps to this being the quickest mass conversion in my experience as a man of the cloth.

Then a tall thin man came out of one of the houses and walked up to me.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Tard.”

“Me, too,” I said. “This place take a heap of getting to.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “Tard is my name.”

“And I'm the Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said. “Group weddings and funerals done cheap.”

“We have been waiting for you, Doctor Jones,” said Tard.

“You have?” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “Welcome to the kingdom of Shali-Mar.”

“I don't recall seeing anyplace called Shali-Mar on any of the maps of the area,” I said.