The Road to Omaha (64 page)

“Sub-
who
to
what
?”

“Did he ever use the word ‘red’ to you—use it more than once?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. The whole
deal’s
about
Indians—redskins, you know what I mean? Maybe he said ‘redskins,’ y’know? But I never saw him, only talked on the phone.”

“That’s it! He used his voice as the subconsciously motivating force of conviction. Stanislavski wrote extensively about that.”

“He’s a Commie?”

“No,
Stanislavski
, a god of the theater.”

“Oh, Polish, huh? Well, you gotta make allowances.”

“What
deal
?” asked Brokey the Deuce suddenly, snapping his head down at the red-wigged stranger. “What ‘deal’ are you talking about?”

“That Wop tribe’s suit that’s in the Supreme Court, what else?”

“In the military, sir,” said Brokemichael firmly and standing tall, “we do not permit code words that connote ethnic slurs. This nation’s outstanding Italian-American citizenry, the sons and daughters of Leonardo Michelangelo and Rocco Machiavelli, are to be treated with the greatest respect for their contributions. The Capones and the Valachis were aberrations.”

“I’ll go to Mass tomorrow and light a candle on your behalf for your survival should you meet the sons and daughters of the last two mentioned. In the meantime, what do we do right
now
?”

“I think we should have a conversation with our redheaded priest.”

“Good point. Let’s go.”

“Not
yet
!” came the deep, harsh voice behind them. “Glad you could make it, gentlemen,” continued the Hawk, coming around the trunk of the maple tree, his trimmed red wig catching the filtered light from the leaves. “Good to see you again, Brokey … and you, sir, I assume, are Commander Y. It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, whoever you are.”

As much as his fear would permit, Warren Pease, Secretary of State, was pleased with himself, even impressed. When he had seen that priest swearing at a cabdriver over a fare outside the Hay-Adams hotel, he was struck with an
inspiration—he would go to the rendezvous as a man of the cloth! If he did not like what he saw or heard, he could walk away with impunity. After all, nobody gets rough with a priest or a minister in public, it simply was not proper, and more to the point, drew attention.

And, of course, not to go to the rendezvous would be crazy in spite of what he told that dreadful admiral who was forever submitting expense vouchers for places he never went, to see people he never saw on State Department business that did not exist. Pease had soundly berated him over the phone, not to rectify the admiral’s abuses, but to learn how much he really knew … and how he knew it. The answers to both questions were minimal, confused, and disturbing enough to convince Warren to clear the evening’s calendar and procure a clerical collar and
rabat
. He had a black suit for state funerals and the inspired reddish toupee completed his outfit.

As he now walked among the crowds at the Lincoln Memorial, the admiral’s words rang in his ears.

“Mr. Secretary, I’ve been asked by an old comrade of many years to relay a message to you, a message that could lead to the solution of your most pressing problem—a crisis was the way he described it.”

“What are you talking about? The Department of State has scores of crises every day, and as my time is the most valuable in Washington, I’ll thank you to be specific.”

“I’m afraid I can’t
be
specific. My old comrade made it clear that it was beyond my clearance, way beyond.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. Be clearer, sailor.”

“He said it had something to do with a group of original Americans—whatever that means—and certain military installations, whatever
they
are.”

“Oh, my God! What
else
did he say?”

“He was very top-max, but he said there was a solution that could weather-wax your skis.”

“Could weather my
who
?”

“Skis.… Frankly, Mr. Secretary, I’m not into winter sports, but militarily speaking, I must assume that the code reference means you can reach your objective far more quickly by meeting with him as soon as possible, which is basically his message.”

“What’s his name, Admiral?”

“To reveal that would implicate me in a situation I have nothing to do with. I’m only a conduit, Mr. Secretary, nothing more. He could have chosen a dozen other ex-militaries, and I wish he had.”

“And
I
could choose to question a large percentage of your expense vouchers and the propriety of those cozy trips you take on diplomatic aircraft! How does that grab you, sailor?”

“I’m only delivering a message, Mr. Secretary, I’m not
involved
!”

“Not involved, huh? That’s what you say, but why should I believe you? Maybe you’re a part of this evil, malicious conspiracy.”

“
What
conspiracy, for Christ’s sake?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like nothing better than for me to spell out the whole horrible mess so you can write a book, like all those fine, selfless public servants who were unjustly indicted for doing nothing more than anyone else would do while giving up their stock options by coming down here.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re
talking
about!”

“The name, sailor, the
name
!”

“So
you
can write a book and put
me
in it? No way!”

“Well, since you’ve wasted my time this long, you might as well deliver the rest of your rotten message. Where and when does this unnamed monster think I’ll meet him?” The admiral had told him. “Good,
fine
! I’ve already forgotten whatever you said. Now, shove it, sailor, and never call me again unless it’s to tell me you’re resigning from your consultant’s contract!”

“Hey, come on, Mr. Secretary, I don’t want any trouble, honest to God!… Look, I’ll talk to the Prez’s buddy, Subagaloo, and he’ll tell you—”

“To
Arnold
! No, don’t talk to Arnold,
never
talk to Arnold! He’ll put you on a list, he’ll have you on a list—a list, a list, a horrible, intolerable
list
!”

“Are you all right, Mr. Secretary?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I really will be fine, but do not do and never do call Arnold Subagaloo. He’ll get you on his
list, his list, a fretful, dreadful, executionary
list
!… Over and out, sailor, or whatever you stupid soldiers say!”

He had told off that awful leech, all right, mused Pease, smiling sweetly at an overly made-up little old lady who looked adoringly at him as he approached the maple tree. The rendezvous had to be the tree up ahead, he thought. It was hardly an inspired location, and Warren wondered why MacKenzie Hawkins, a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head of the nefarious Wopotamis, had chosen it. The light was poor, but perhaps that was good, and there were crowds barely a hundred feet away … that wasn’t bad either; there was protection in numbers. Of course, the maniac Hawkins was taking these precautions for his
own
safekeeping, not for the benefit of the Secretary of State. He undoubtedly thought the government would have troops throughout the area hoping to capture him, but that kind of show of force was the last thing all the President’s men wanted. It would be terrible PR if the media found out they had set a trap for a two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Pease squinted in the dim light under the tree and looked at his watch; he was nearly thirty minutes early. Good, fine; he would walk off to the side and wait—and watch. He rounded the trunk, then stopped, annoyed to see that the little old lady with the garishly rouged cheeks was waiting for him.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said in a high-pitched, tremulous voice, standing in front of him under the overhanging maple blocking his way.

“Yes, well … 
vox populi
and all that sort of thing. Some of you aren’t perfect, but that’s the way it goes—”

“I’d like to confess, Father. I
must
confess!”

“That’s probably very commendable, but I don’t think this is the place for it. Besides, I’m in a hurry.”

“The Bible says that in the eyes of the Lord a desert can be the House of God if a sinner’s spirit wills it.”

“Hogwash aside, I told you I’m in a hurry.”

“And
I’m
telling you to get your ass behind the tree.”

“Oh, very well, you’re forgiven whatever you’re capable of doing—
what
did you say?”

“You heard me, Angel Puss!” whispered the now grotesque harridan, her voice abruptly lower, harsher, as she
withdrew a straight razor from the folds of her dress and whipped it open. “Now get behind the tree, or the last thing you’ll worry about is your vow of chastity.”

“Oh, my
God
—you’re not a woman, you’re a
man
!”

“It’s debatable on both counts, but what I am is a cutter—I love to
cut
. Now, move!”

“Please,
please
don’t hurt me, don’t … oh, my God … don’t
cut
me!” His whole body trembling, the Secretary of State stepped awkwardly back into the shadows of the tree. “You really shouldn’t, you know. Cutting a priest is a very,
very
big sin.”

“I had you marked fifteen minutes ago, Angel Puss,” hissed the man/woman, his or her wrinkled scarlet lips and swollen purple eyelids revolting in the dim light. “You and that ugly rug on your head, you’re a disgrace to honest deviants everywhere!”

“What …?”

“How
dare
you walk around like that? Looking for little boys, you
creep
? And dressed like a priest? That’s
disgusting
!”

“Now, really, madam—mister, whatever you are—”

“What was that? You insulting me, Snake Face?”

“On my word,
never
!” Pease’s left eye was in pivotal-orbit. “I’m only telling you that you don’t understand—”

“
I
understand, all right! Creeps like you carry lots of bread in case somebody blows a whistle. Up with it, you
pervert
!”

“Money, you mean
money
? For God’s sake, take everything I’ve got!” The Secretary dug into his pockets and pulled out a number of folded bills. “Here,
here
, take it!”

“Take what? That’s
chickenshit
. I’ll have to slash your pockets before I start the
real
cutting!” The androgynous monster forced Pease behind the tree. “You make a sound, your lips are on the ground, you dirty,
dirty
boy!”

“
Please
!” begged the Secretary of State. “You don’t know who I
am
—”

“But
we
do!” interrupted the strange, deep voice from the shadows beyond. “All right, Brokey … you, too, Commander Y, disarm the assault!
Now
!” As one, the elderly West Pointer and the portly middle-aged
capo supremo
from Brooklyn attacked, the former wrenching
the razor away from the hand that clutched it, the latter tackling the legs encased in a wide, flowery skirt.

“It’s a fuckin’
broad
!” yelled Mangecavallo.

“The
hell
he is!” shouted Brokemichael, yanking the gray-haired wig off the wrinkle-faced, rough-faced mugger.

Vinnie the Bam-Bam saw his error instantly, and began pummeling the ugly cosmeticized figure that was falling to the ground. “You no-good piece of rotten mozzarell!” he roared.

“Let him go, Commander!” ordered the Hawk.

“
Why
?” asked Brokey the Deuce. “The scumbag should be behind bars!”

“With his fuckin’ legs broken!” added the presumably deceased director of the CIA.

“Are
we
going to press charges, gentlemen?”

“What …?” Brokemichael stepped back as Mangecavallo snapped his head up, his red wig once more askew, a sideburn now partially covering his nose, his eyes barely seen. “He’s got a point, Commander whoever-you-are,” said the Deuce.

“Yeah, well, maybe he does,” agreed Vincent, administering a last knee into the rib cage of the mugger. “Pound sand and get outta here, you lowlife!”

“Hey,
fellas
!” shrieked the perpetrator, grinning exuberantly as he grabbed his wig and got to his feet. “You wanna come to my place? We could
really
have a ball!”

“Get
outta
here.”

“I’m going, I’m
going.
” Skirt flying, the mugger ran across the lawn and disappeared into the crowds.

“Oh, my God, oh, my
God
 …!” came the quivering sounds from the prone figure on the ground beside Hawkins, his head facedown in the grass, his hands gripped above his head. “Thank you,
thank
you! I might have been
killed
!”

“Why don’t you turn over and get up and see if you want to live?” said the Hawk gently, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a tape recorder.

“What?… What are you talking about?” Slowly, Warren Pease pushed himself off the ground, pivoted painfully on his buttocks, and, from his sitting position, saw first the
resplendent uniform on his right, then the face. “
Brokemichael
! What are
you
doing here?”

MacKenzie activated his recorder, and the sound of Brokemichaers voice filled the enclave. “
The Secretary of State. He’s the one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for!… That wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case against you
!”

“Only it wasn’t a legitimate case, was it, Mr. Secretary?” said General Brokemichael as the Hawk turned off the machine. “It was a sacrifice. One exonerated old soldier who could never get out from under that cloud of suspicion and his unit of fine young men. We were as expendable as Mac here, not my closest old buddy, but he doesn’t deserve to be dropped into an arctic ice flow, either.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“Perhaps I didn’t introduce him. This is the former General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, who you first tried to have … let’s say ‘neutralized’… and then ordered my unit to kidnap, destination TBDL, ‘to be determined later,’ but definitely north, way far north.”