The Road to Omaha (29 page)

“That’s always the bellwether for later serious consideration,” broke in Redwing.

“You’ve got it. Either way, the money boys and their political hacks will mount a counterattack.”

“Wait a minute, Sam,” pleaded Redwing, one hand on Eleanor’s head, the other on Devereaux’s shoulder. “A counterattack in congressional terms would mean spokesmen, or advocates, making their case in the House and the Senate, not hit men!”

“Granted, but Congress isn’t in session, and I submit our current situation as Article A for evidence.”

“I see what you mean. The hit men are here. So one way or the other, word
has
been leaked.… Oh, my God, they’ve got to silence all of us!”

Paddy Lafferty snapped out the cellular phone from its cradle, and with practiced fingers punched the numbers with his thumb. “The O’Brien Post, you are?” he shouted, and after less than a second, he spoke firmly. “Is Billy Gilligan there?… All right, all
right
, I’m glad for the fact that our telephone relays are workin’, now listen to me. When Billy G. gets there, have him lead a column of armed vehicles to the Four Asses Hotel on Boylston and pipe up every entrance! You got it, lad? It’s the
great
man we’re talkin’ about, and I’ll brook no mistakes. G’bye to ya, and get hoppin’!”

“Paddy, what have you
done
?”

“There are times, Sam boyo, when you charge ahead and look back afterwards. It’s a lesson we learned during ten glorious days in France.”

“We’re not
in
France and this
isn’t
World War Two, and if there’s any suggestion of immediate danger down at the hotel, Aaron will call in the police. Everything’s too murky, too unclear, but Mac and our very quick-thinking employer are in touch with each other.… I repeat, Aaron is not a gung-ho mutant, nor is he indecisive. If he feels the police are necessary, they’ll be there.”

“I dunno, boyo. The police have certain restraints placed upon them—ask Billy Gilligan, he’ll tell you.”

“He’s already
told
me, Paddy, but we don’t know what Mac and Aaron are doing, and not knowing, we could be lousing them up. Now call off the hounds of Killarney!”

“He’s right, Mr. Lafferty,” interjected Jennifer from the backseat. “Mind you, I’m not opposed to protection in any form, and I’d be grateful if your friends were, shall we say, available. However, Sam has a point; we’re in the dark and perhaps we shouldn’t do anything until we reach the Ritz-Carlton and talk to Mr. Pinkus.… I believe you said pretty much the same thing to Mr. Gilligan back at Nanny’s.”

“Well, you put it better than the lad here—”

“I simply used your own words, your own wisdom, Mr. Lafferty.”

“Cheap tactics,” mumbled Devereaux.

“All
right,
” said Paddy. “I’ll call ’em off,” he added, touching the car-phone buttons. “For a moment I guess I got too excited.… Hello, Post O’Brien?… Who’s this now?… Rafferty, it’s Lafferty, boyo. Is Gilligan there yet?… He
what
? Holy Mary … how bad was it?… Small favors are still a blessing, Rafferty. Now, listen to me, lad—about the members headin’ off to the Four Seasons on Boylston, I want you to tell ’em—” Suddenly, the limousine swerved dangerously—involuntarily—close to a huge truck on the highway. “They
what
, Rafferty? What the hell are you
sayin’
, boyo?… Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Aaron Pinkus’s chauffeur swallowed; in silence he replaced the phone.

“What’s the matter, Paddy?” asked Sam, looking at Lafferty as though he did not care to hear the answer.

“The lads have just taken off for the hotel, Mr. Devereaux. However, it’s
not
a full column, which is usually
four automobiles—only three—and maybe a couple of the boys are pissed to the eyeballs.”

“Oh, my God!”

“But the good news is that Billy Gilligan wasn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hurt?”

“He got piled up on the highway, his car pretty much totaled. One of the police on the scene is a member of the Post and called to let the members know what hospital.”

“Hospital …?”

“He’s okay. He’s yellin’ and screamin’ to get out of there and join the others.”

“For Christ’s sake, let him! Maybe he can stop them!”

“Well, there’s a formality or two—”

“If he can yell and he can scream, he can get
out
of there!” Furiously, Sam yanked at the phone. “What
hospital
?” he demanded angrily.

“Won’t do any good, boyo. There’s a mite bit of confusion over the accident report. Y’see, it wasn’t exactly
his
car on the highway. It was your mother’s yellow Jaguar.”

“
Yellooow birrd
 …,” came the lilting, high-pitched words and music from the tremulous throat of Eleanor Devereaux in the backseat.

“Hey,
Comandante
, wad chu tink?” asked Desi the Second, standing resplendently in cutaway tails and admiring himself in the mirror of a successful formal-wear store Aaron Pinkus Associates had virtually put in business.

“Positively striking,” replied Aaron, sitting in a velvet padded chair he could not move due to the heavy tuft of the shiny black carpet. “Where is your associate, the other Corporal Arnaz?”

“We are
sergeants
now,
Comandante
!”

“My deepest apologies, but where is he? We must move quickly.”

“Well, you see, the lady who measured his
pantalones
ees from
Puerrtoo Reekoh
an’ I t’ink they got a—”

“We have no
time
—”

“Desi
Uno
!” yelled Sergeant D-Two. “
¡Venga! Vámanos! Ahorita
! Right away like, man!”

Somewhat sheepishly, Desi the First emerged from a slatted dressing room door, followed by a generously endowed dark-haired girl who made it a point to stretch and check her measuring tape while adjusting her blouse. “
Comandante,
” said D-One, smiling broadly, his absent teeth all too apparent. “The pants we had to stitch closer. My hips are like a
toreador’s
! What can I say?” He, too, was in tails and there was no question about it, Desi the First also cut a striking figure.

“You look splendid, Sergeant Arnaz,” observed Pinkus. “Now to my orthodontist, who says he has forty or fifty plastic devices, one or two of which he claims he can glue into your mouth for an hour or so.”

“Dad’s nice. Wad does he do for a living?”

“Joseph, I’m tired of your evasions, little fella,” said the Hawk, sitting in the hotel’s desk chair as Joey the Shroud reclined on the bed, his arms above his head on the pillow. “I could break your wrists one by one and force you to tell me who you are and where you come from, but I’ve always figured that sort of thing was barbaric, as well as against the Geneva conventions. But if push comes to shove, Joseph, you’ll leave me no option, will you?”

“I seen you
fazools
all my life, Mickey Ha Ha,” answered Little Joey, unimpressed. “I can tell who will and who won’t.… Oh, you tough
soldatos
will smash heads like they were pizza pans in a Brooklyn riot, but one on one, if there ain’t no big advantage, you don’t want it on your soul.”

“
Goddamn
!” roared Hawkins, getting up from the chair menacingly. “I don’t
have
any soul like that!”

“If you didn’t, I’d be scared shitless, and I’m not scared shitless.… You’re like the
fascisti
from Salerno up the boot into Rome itself. I was a punk kid then, but I always knew the difference.… If they found me out, they’d scream
esecuzione
! Then we’d talk and they’d say
non me ne importa un bel niente
—who cares, the war’s over—and let me go. And some of those guys were the best donkeys in the Italian army.”

“The … 
army
? Soldiers?
Salerno? You
were—”

“Fifth Army, Mark Clark,
fazool
. I guess we’re about the same age, except maybe you look better. As I say, I was punk private until they found out I could speak Italian better than the interpreters, so they put me in civilian clothes, raised me to a temporary first lieutenant ’cause they figured I’d last a day and a half, and sent me north to radio back info on installations. No big deal. I had lotsa
lire
, all the broads and
vino
I wanted, and only got caught three times—the like of which I already explained.”

“
Joseph
!” shouted the Hawk. “We’re
comrades
!”

“If you’re a fuckin’ homo, get away from me, Mickey!”

“No, Joseph, I’m a
general
!”

“I know that,
fazool.
”

“And you’re a first lieutenant!”

“That don’t count no more. When the brass found me in Rome, livin’ a pretty good life a few miles north in the Villa d’Este, they busted me back to a private. I got no use for you shitheads.”

The hotel telephone rang. MacKenzie glared at it between repeated glances at Private Little Joseph, and then picked it up. “Temporary headquarters!” he roared.

“I’d suggest a different, less strident announcement,” said Aaron Pinkus on the line. “Your adjutants are prepared. Have you learned what we have to know?”

“I’m afraid not, Commander. He’s one fine old soldier.”

“I will not presume to understand that statement. Shall we proceed, then?”

“Proceed, sir!”

The three automobiles from the Pat O’Brien Commemorative Legion Post raced down Clarendon Street, careening around the corner into Boylston, and, as prearranged, sped to within a block of the Four Seasons Hotel, each vehicle parking in an available space. Swiftly, they rendezvoused at the car nearest the hotel’s entrance, their
d’avant-guerre
conference somewhat held up by the Duffy brothers, who had not been reached by the phone relay insofar as they had been at the Legion Hall’s bar since early morning due to a medium-sized dispute with their wives, who happened to be sisters.

“I’m damn sure there’s somethin’ in the Church that says we shouldn’t have done what we did, Petey!” cried a gray-haired Duffy brother as he was led to the rendezvous.

“But we did it thirty years ago, Bobby!”

“But they’re sisters, Petey. And we’re brothers—”

“They’re not
our
sisters, Bobby—”

“Still, brothers and sisters—I’m sure there’s somethin’, boyo!”

“Will you two shut yer faces!” ordered a leather-lined Harry Milligan, put in charge of the small brigade by the injured Billy Gilligan. “Yer too pissed for combat, so I’m orderin’ you to stand watch.”

“What are we watchin’?” asked a weaving Bobby Duffy, running his hand through the imagined hair on his bald head. “Where are the Krauts comin’ from?”

“Not
Krauts
, Bobbo! The dirty bastards who want to shoot the heart out of the great general!”

“What do they look like, Harry boy?” inquired a wide, red-eyed Peter Duffy, gripping the side-view mirror and, quite by the accident of his bulk, bending it out of shape—downward.

“How the hell do
I
know, Petey?” replied the CO of the Milligan-Gilligan brigade. “My guess is that they’ll be runnin’ like a Donegal wind out of there once we find ’em.”

“How will we do that, Harry boy?” asked Bobby Duffy, his words interspersed with one hiccup and two belches.

“Come to think of it, I’m not sure.” Milligan squinted, the leathered lines in his face like crevices on a rhino skin. “Gilligan never actually told me.”

“You got it wrong, Harry,” protested the erratically unstable Peter Duffy. “You yourself are Gilligan.”

“I’m not himself at all, you slotted asshole! I’m
Milligan
!”

“Very nice to make your acquaintance,” said Bobby Duffy, sinking down to the curb like an overripe, overdone baked potato punctured by a fork.

“M’ brother has been afflicted by the evil anti-Christ
demons
!” cried Peter, falling down against the car door, his leg over his brother’s face. “It’s the curse of the witch-sisters!”

“Good lad,” agreed Harry Milligan, kneeling and patting Petey’s head. “You stay here and ward off those terrible demons.” Harry rose to his feet and addressed the seven remaining troops of the Milligan-Gilligan brigade. “Come on now, boyos, we know what we have to do!”

“What exactly is that, lad?” asked a gaunt septuagenarian, wearing an ill-fitting World War II field jacket replete with a dozen patches representing duty in the European theater of operations.

“Billy Gilligan gave me the two names—the first, of course, the great General Hawkins and, the second, his employer, a gentleman of the law of which we’ve all heard of not unkindly. The Jewish fella who’s a big shillelagh in Boston and who has a number of fine Catholic lawyers in his firm.”

“Smart, they’re always so
smart,
” intoned an elderly unidentified voice in the magnificent seven. “
They
hire Micks, but how many of
us
hire the skullcaps?
Smart.
”

“So this is what we do, boyos. I myself will go to the front desk and make the inquiry. I’ll be tellin ’em I have to reach either the great general or his friend, the grand lawyer named Pinkus, because I got an urgent confidential message that concerns both of ’em, and the dear Lord knows I’m not lyin’ about that! Now, with such highfalutin fellas, they got no choice but to put me in touch with one or the other, right?”

A chorus of affirmatives followed, marred by the dissenting voice of the oldest combatant in the field jacket. “I dunno, Gilligan—”

“I’m Milligan!”

“Wish you were Gilligan, he was on the force, y’know.”

“I’m
not
 … so what don’t you know, ya old fart?”

“Suppose you get a secretary on the telephone, what are you goin’ to say?… ‘My apologies, lass, but somebody or other is about to blow away the great general and his friend, the Jewish shillelagh.’ … Somehow, lad, I think they’d call for the boys who drive those little white trucks with thick rubber walls and bars in the windows.”

“I don’t hafta talk to
nobody
, you walkin’ object of a wake! Paddy Lafferty has told us all about the grand
suit
his employer keeps at the Four Asses, only we don’t know
where it is. Now the clerks got to tell me on account of the urgent confidential message I’m carryin’,
right
?”