The Road to Omaha (40 page)

“You always torture yourself like this?… Yeah, I hope to hell that’s what it means, because the big soldier boy said it, and if it means something else we’ve got a really screwed-up army. What’s your point?”

“Why not keep the status quo?”

“What status quo?”

“The safe shelter,” said Smythington-Fontini slowly, as if clarifying the obvious. “Unless, as you suggest, we have a screwed-up military, which in the upper purchasing ranks of the Pentagon is entirely plausible. However, considering the general’s recent accomplishments, we should take his word that the shelter
is
safe and well out of the weather.”

“The weather?”

“The term, as I employ it, connotes the negative. They’re all in a deep leeward cove and protected from the elements. Why not have them stay where they are?”

“I don’t know where the hell it is!”

“All the better.… Does your go-between know?”

“He can find out if the reason’s good enough to convince Thunder Ass.”

“You said on the telephone that he wanted—what was it?—oh, yes, ‘support troops.’ Would that be good enough?”

“I would hope to kiss a pig it would. That’s what he needs.… Who did you figure on?”

“Your associate with the unique name of Meat, to begin with—”

“Pass,” negated Mangecavallo. “I got other work for him to do. Who else?”

“Well, we may have a problem then. As I mentioned, our
padrones
near and far are adamant that there be no traceable connection to any of the families such as might be construed by Mr. Caesar Boccegallupo. I assume Meat is an exception because, as your batman of sorts, he’s not enormously large in the brain department. I believe you said he’s the penultimate ‘street gorilla.’ ”

“
Penultimate
?”

“Well, the ultimate would be a real gorilla who understood English, wouldn’t it?”

“What the hell does Batman have to do with my street soldier Meat?”

“No, not
Bat
man, Vincenzo, but
batm’n
, someone who carries out various minor tasks for you.”

“You know, you frost my apricots, I mean, you are
weird
!”

“I’m doing my best,” said the industrialist, close to verbal exhaustion. “I’m afraid we’re on different wavelengths.”

“Well, get on mine,
Smythie
! You sound like that baked apple who runs the State Department,
chum-chum
!”

“That’s why I’m valuable, don’t you see? I understand him; he’s marginally socially acceptable, but your solutions, as degrading as they may be, are infinitely more productive than
his
where my own interests are concerned. I may prefer his lemon daiquiris to your boilermakers, but I certainly know when to order a shot and a beer. Why do you think the industrial democracies are so blessedly tolerant? I may not care to break bread with you, but I’m more than happy to help you bake the loaf.”

“You know, Candy Balls, I think I hear your mama talking. Underneath your bullshit, you’re up front. So where do we go from here?”

“Since the normal avenues are closed to you, I suggest you recruit several men from an available pool of talent. Namely, mercenaries.”

“
Who
?”

“Professional soldiers for hire. They’re generally the scum of the earth, but they fight solely for money and care not one whit for causes
other
than money. In the old days, they were ex-Wehrmacht hoodlums, or murderers on the run, or former disgraced military personnel no army would have in its ranks, and I suppose the last two categories remain the same, since most of the fascists are either dead or too old to carry a drum or blow their damn bugles. Regardless, I believe it’s the wisest course of action.”

“Where do I find these goody two-shoes Boy Scout types? I want protection up there as soon as possible.”

“I took the liberty of bringing you a dozen résumés from a Washington agency named Manpower Plus Plus. The messenger I sent over there, an executive of mine from Milan, actually, informs me that all the candidates are available within twenty-four hours with the possible exception of two who are expected to successfully break out of prison by tomorrow morning.”

“I like your style, Fontini,” said the temporarily deceased director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Where are these résumés?”

“In the kitchen. Come with me. You can tell Meat to watch the front porch.”

Ten minutes later, seated at a thick pine table, the file folders spread across the surface, Mangecavallo made his decision. “These three,” he ordered.

“Vincenzo, you are indeed remarkable,” said Smythington-Fontini. “I would have chosen two out of the three, except that I must tell you that those two are at this moment about to execute their escape from the Attica prison, so they’ll be the most grateful for immediate employment. The third, however, is actually a certified lunatic, an American Nazi who keeps burning swastikas on the grounds of the United Nations.”

“He threw himself in front of a bus—”

“It wasn’t a bus, Vincenzo, it was a patrol wagon carrying his friend, another lunatic who was arrested walking down Broadway wearing a Gestapo uniform.”

“Still, he went the whole nine yards to stop something from happening, and that’s what I’m looking for.”

“Agreed, but it’s debatable whether he really meant to take that action or was punched out by a rabbi on Forty-seventh Street.”

“I’ll gamble.… When can I get ’em to Boston?”

“Well, the first two we’ll know about in the morning, after the prison roll call, and our Nazi is champing at the bit since he’s drawing welfare on a stolen Social Security card of some loan shark he put in the East River.”

“I like him already—not his politics ’cause I don’t go along with that lousy shit, but he can be useful. All those whacko nuts can be useful—like you say, all you gotta do is bang a drum and blow a bugle. And if the other two break out, they’re the Holy Mary’s gift to our cause to right a terrible wrong to a tribe of real losers who would drop fuckin’ dead except for my benevolent intervention. The main thing is that we get this act together as fast as we can and shoot ’em up to Boston and that safe shelter place, wherever the hell it is.… You know, it’s just possible that those Zucchinis in Washington are zeroing in on the general at this moment.”

“I doubt that, old boy. If you don’t know where he is, and your go-between doesn’t know, how could Washington find him?”

“I just don’t trust the silk underwears. They’ll stop at nothing, those lowlifes.”

In a dimly lit booth at the rear of O’Toole’s Bar and Grill barely two blocks west of Aaron Pinkus Associates, the young, elegantly dressed banker pressed his gentle assault against the middle-aged secretary by way of a third martini.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t, Binky,” protested the woman, giggling and running her hand nervously down the left side of her long, graying hair. “It really isn’t right.”

“What isn’t
right
?” asked the walking advertisement for Brooks Brothers apparel, his mid-Atlantic accent somewhere between Park Avenue and Belgrave Square. “I told you how I
feel
.”

“So many of our attorneys drop in here after work … and after all, I’ve only known you for an hour or so. People will talk.”

“Let them, dear heart! Who
cares
? I stated my case quite clearly and with abiding integrity. Those infantile idiots a man like me is expected to go out with simply don’t
interest
me. I much prefer a mature woman, a woman of experience and insight.… Here, cheers.” Both raised their glasses to their lips; however, only one swallowed, and it was not the Ivy League banker. “Oh, slight business, my love.… When do you think our executive committee can meet with Mr. Pinkus? We’re talking several millions, of course, as his legal advice is very much sought after.”

“Binky, I told you.…” At this point, the suddenly perplexed secretary involuntarily crossed her eyes and hiccuped four times in succession. “… Mr. Plinkus hasn’t been in touch with me all day.”

“Don’t you know where he is, dear heart?”

“Not saxually—actually—but his chauffeur, Paddy Lafferty, called to have me clear the car rental agency for two automobiles.”

“
Really
? Two?”

“Something about the ski lodge in Hooksett. That’s in Hew Nampshire, across the state border.”

“Oh, well, it’s all irrelevant, just boring business.… Will you excuse me for a mo’, sweet thing? As they say, nature doth call.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“I’m not sure it’s acceptable, you full-blown,
very
exciting lady, you.”

“
Eeyoo
!” squealed the secretary, attacking her martini.

Binky the banker got up from the table and walked rapidly to O’Toole’s pay telephone by the entrance. He inserted a coin and dialed; his call was instantly answered. “Uncle Bricky?”

“Who else?” replied the owner of New England’s largest lending institution.

“It’s your nephew, Binky.”

“Trust you earned your keep, young fella. You’re not good for much else.”

“Uncle Bricky. I was
really
good!”

“I’m not interested in your sexual exploits, Binky. What have you learned?”

“It’s a ski lodge in Hooksett. That’s across the border in New Hampshire.”

Binky the banker never returned to the table, and the understanding O’Toole put the inebriated secretary into a taxi, paying the fare to her residence, and waving goodbye to the confused face in the window with a single word. “Lowlifes,” he said to himself.

“This is Bricky, old boy. It’s a ski lodge in Hooksett, New Hampshire, roughly thirty miles north of the border on Route Ninety-three. I’m told there are only a couple of such places in the area, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find. There’ll be two automobiles with the following license plate numbers.” The ashen-faced New England banker gave the numbers and accepted the accolade accorded him by the Secretary of State.

“Well done, Bricky, it’s like old times, isn’t it, old chum?”

“I hope so, old boy, because if you mess this up, don’t you dare show up for our reunion!”

“Don’t you worry, old sport. They’re called the Filthy Four and they’re positively
animals
! They’re flying into Logan Airport within the hour.… Do you think Smythie might reconsider mooring my yacht at his club?”

“I suspect that will depend on the results of your efforts, don’t you think?”

“I have every faith in our foursome, old chum. They’re really a
despicable
quartet. No mercy given, none taken, as it were. You honestly wouldn’t care to get within a
mile
of them!”

“Good show, old boy. Keep me posted.”

•  •  •

It was past midnight on the outskirts of Hooksett, New Hampshire, when a black van without headlights coasted silently down the country road and came to a stop in front of the graveled entrance to the former ski lodge. Inside, the driver, the blue outlines of an erupting volcano tattooed on his forehead and seen clearly in the summer moonlight, turned to his three associates in the rear of the vehicle. “Hoods,” he said simply as the three reached into black knapsacks and pulled out black stocking masks, which they promptly squeezed down over their heads. The driver-leader did the same in the front seat, all four adjusting the dark nylon fabric so their eyes peered menacingly out of the lined cut-out holes. “Maximum weapons,” added the tattooed unit superior officer, his lips forming a grim smile beneath the cloth. “I want dead,
all
dead! I want to see horror, I want to see pain; I want to see blood and grotesque faces, all those good things we were trained to do so well!”

“Like always, Major!” whispered a hulk of a man, his hands, as the others, robotically plunging into his knapsack and retrieving a MAC-10 automatic weapon along with five magazines of ammunition each containing eighty rounds, a total of sixteen hundred rapidly spewed-out bullets.

“Subordinate firepower!” continued the major, glancing around and satisfied that his second command had already been obeyed. Again, hands surged into knapsacks, and looped grenades were affixed to combat belts. “
Radios
!” came the final order, and it was instantly executed. Miniaturized walkie-talkies were retrieved and shoved into pockets. “Let’s go! North, South, East, and West, according to your numbers, have you got it?”

A unison of affirmatives followed as the four Maximum Incorrigibles slipped out of the van, lay on their stomachs, and then crawled off in their individual directions. Death was their mission and death was their salvation in all things.
Death before dishonor
!

“Do chu see what I see,
amigo
?” asked Desi-Two of Desi-One, both standing beneath a full maple tree and studying
the descending landscape in the erratic moonlight. “Ees crazy, no?”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on dem, as the gringos say,” replied Desi the First. “They never had to watch the chickens or the goats at night from bad neighbors.”

“I
know
dat, but why they so stupid? Black
cabezas
moving up the hill with the moon like big
cucarachas
ees plain dumb—like also the gringos say.”

“As the Heneral says, we could teach dem better but not right now. Right now, we godda do what he wants us to do.… An’ also, it’s been a
dificultoso
day for all our nice new friends, so we don’ want to wake dem up. Dey need their sleep, no?”

“Dey ain’t got no chickens or no goats, but only right now bad neighbors, is dat what you mean?”

“Dat’s right. We do dis ourselves, h’okay?”

“Ees easy. I take the two over dere, chu get the two on the other side.”

“H’okay,” said Desi the First as both men crouched in the shadows. “But chu remember,
amigo
, don’ hurt nobody too bad. The heneral says we godda be civilized to prisoners of war.”

“Hey, man, we h’ain’t no animals! Like the heneral also says, we go bide with the Genevil intentions. Maybe dese bad neighbors had lousy times when dey were liddle kids, like Heneral Mac said
we
did. Dey probably need lotsa kindness and help.”