The Road to Omaha (8 page)

“Redundancy aside,
‘Per cento anno, signore
’ ” said Goldfarb. “We’ll be in touch.” The CIA consultant replaced the telephone, leaned back in his swivel chair, and sighed audibly as he addressed the attractive couple in front of his desk. “Why me, oh Lord, why me?” he asked, shaking his head. “You’re positive you’re right?”

“I wouldn’t put it so strongly, Hyman,” replied the woman in a clipped British accent that bespoke several generations of expensive breeding. “No, we’re not
positive
, I don’t think anybody could be, but if there
is
a Thunder Head, he’s simply nowhere to be found, as you so clearly explained to the gentleman on the phone.”

“I used your words, of course,” added Goldfarb. “And I question the title of ‘gentleman.’ ”

“With good reason, I suspect,” said the woman’s male companion, also obviously British. “We employed Plan C. We were Cambridge-based anthropologists studying a great if diminished tribe whose ancestors were brought over to the Crown by Walter Raleigh in the early seventeenth century. If there really
is
a Thunder Head, by all logic he should have rushed forth to claim the Crown’s recognition, as well as the long-buried remittance, which at the time was no doubt minor, but by any standard an
enormous sum today. He didn’t; therefore, our conclusion: he doesn’t exist.”

“But the brief to the Supreme Court
does
,” insisted the consultant. “It’s
crazy
.”

“Simply incredible,” agreed the Englishman. “Where do we go from here, Hyman? I gather you’re ‘under the gun,’ as we used to say in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, although I always thought it was a rather banal expression conveying more melodrama than was necessary.”

“It both is and it isn’t,” said Goldfarb. “We’re dealing with an off-the-wall megillah, but it’s still an extremely dangerous situation.… What are those judges
thinking
of?”

“Justice and the law, I daresay,” offered the woman. “At a cost we all recognize as beyond the extraordinary. Regardless, dear Hy, and forgive me for saying it, but the man on the phone you say is no gentleman is basically correct. Whoever’s hiding behind the mantle of this Thunder Head—or whoever
they
are—that’s the key.”

“But Daphne, by your own admission, you can’t
find
him.”

“Then perhaps we didn’t look hard enough, Hyman. Eh, Reggie?”

“Dear girl! We trekked all over that blasted backwater bog with horrible lodgings and
no
civilized facilities, I remind you, and got absolutely nowhere. No one made any sense at all!”

“Yes, I know, dear, but there was
one
who didn’t
want
to make sense, do you recall my mentioning it?”

“Oh, him,” replied the Englishman, his tone dismissing the memory. “Nasty young fellow, quite sullen, really.”

“
Who
?” Goldfarb instantly sat forward.

“Not sullen, Reggie, simply uncommunicative, incoherent, actually, but he understood everything we were saying. It was in his eyes.”

“Who
was
he?” pressed the CIA consultant.

“An Indian brave—that’s the word, I think—in his early twenties, I’d judge. He claimed not to understand English very well and just shrugged and shook his head when we asked him several questions. I didn’t think much about it
at the time—the young are so hostile these days, aren’t they?”

“He was indecently dressed, if I do say,” interrupted Reginald. “Hardly more than a loincloth, really. Rather disgusting. And when he leaped up on that horse, I can tell you he betrayed a definite lack of equestrian skill.”

“What
are
you talking about?” asked a bewildered Goldfarb.

“He fell off,” answered Daphne. “Dressage is hardly his strong suit.”

“Wait a minute,
wait
a minute!” Goldfarb’s broad chest was halfway across the desk. “You say you didn’t think much about this, this young Indian at the time, but you’re thinking about him now. Why?”

“Well, in light of the circumstances, dear Hy, I’m trying to think of
everything
.”

“What you mean is he may know something he didn’t want to tell you?”

“It’s only a possibility—”

“Do you think you could find him again?”

“Oh, yes. I saw which tepee he came out of, which one belonged to him.”

“Tepee? They live in
tepees
?”

“Well, naturally, Hyman,” replied Reginald. “They’re Indians, chap. Redskins, as you say in your cinema.”

“There’s also a rotten whitefish somewhere,” said Goldfarb, picking up the telephone and dialing. “
Tepees
! Nobody sleeps in tepees anymore!… Don’t unpack,” he added to the couple, instantly shifting his attention back to the phone. “Manny?… Reach ‘The Shovel’ and get over to the field. You’re taking the Lear out to the state of Nebraska.”

The young Indian brave, naked but for an odd-looking short leather skirt, stood outside the large decorated tepee and shouted. “I want my clothes back,
Mac
! You can’t
do
this. I’m sick of it—we’re
all
sick of it! We
don’t
sleep on dirt in these dumb tents and we
don’t
burn our hands trying to cook over campfires and we
do
use toilets, not the goddamn woods! And while I’m at it, you can take that
miserable, distempered nag and ship him back to Geronimo! I
hate
horses and I don’t ride—none of us do, for God’s sake. We drive Chevys and Fords and a couple of old Cadillacs, but
not horses
!… Mac, are you
listening
to me? Come on, Mac,
answer
me!… Look, we appreciate the money and your good intentions—even the nutty clothes from that costume factory in Hollywood, but it’s all gone too far, can’t you
see
that?”

“Did
you
ever see the movie they made about me?” came the bellowing roar from within the closed tepee. “The son of a bitch playing me had the biggest lisp I ever heard! Embarrassing,
real
embarrassing!”

“Mac, that’s what I’m talking about! This crazy
charade
you’re putting us through is embarrassing to
us
. We’re going to get shot down and be the laughingstock of all the reservations!”

“Not yet you’re not—
we’re
not! Although the term ‘shot down’ is kinda interesting.”

“No it isn’t, you lotus brain! It’s been over three months now and we haven’t heard a
word
. Three months of insanity, running around half-naked or in costumes with beads that scratch our asses like hell, and burning our fingers and getting poison ivy in places
also
embarrassing whenever we have to run into the woods—”

“Slit trenches have always been an acceptable part of military life, boy. And you can’t argue with the separation of the sexes—the army wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“This
isn’t
the army and I’m
not
a soldier and I want my
clothes
back—”

“Any day now, son!” interrupted the harsh, gravelly voice inside the tepee. “
You’ll
see!”

“No, you lunatic, not any
day
or any month or any
year
! Those old farts on the Supreme Court are probably sitting around in chambers laughing their heads off, and I won’t be able to practice in the loosest court in American Samoa.… Come on,
Mac
! Admit it, it’s over—it was a hell of an idea and I’ve got to say there was maybe a grain, a
grain
, maybe, of substance, but now it’s become ridiculous.”

“Our good people have suffered for a hundred and
twelve years, boy. Suffered at the hands of the brutal, avaricious white man, and we shall be justly recompensed and
set free
!… What’s a few more days?”

“Mac, you’re not remotely related!”

“In this old soldier’s heart we’re
bonded
, son, and I won’t let you down.”

“
Let
us down,
please
? Let
me
down, and give me my clothes back and tell those two idiots who follow me around to leave me alone!”

“You’re too impatient, young fella, and I can’t let you turn on our tribal brothers—”

“
Our
…? Mac, you’re certifiable, so let me lay one on you, brother
brave
. It’s a little matter of a
pro forma
judicial statute of which you may not be aware, but you damn well should be. Four months ago, when this whole whack-a-doo war dance started, you asked me if I’d passed my bar exam, and I told you that I was sure I had. Well, I’m still sure I passed the damn thing, but if you asked me to provide you with certification, I couldn’t do it. You see, I haven’t received formal notification from the Nebraska bar, and I may not for another two months, which is perfectly normal for the bar and perfectly impermissible where your legal powwow with the Supreme Court is concerned.”

“
What
…?” came the prolonged, disemboweling roar from behind the closed front flap of the tepee.

“That joint’s a busy place,
brother
, and except under extraordinary circumstances, which must be spelled out and approved, no unaccredited attorney may petition the Supreme Court, even as temporary counsel. I
told
you that. You’re dead by default even if you were awarded a positive decision, which is about as likely as this Indian brave learning to ride a goddamned horse!”

The harrowing scream from within the cone of painted ersatz animal skins was longer than before and infinitely more heartrending. “How could you
do
this?”

“
I
didn’t do it, Mac,
you
did! I told you to officially list your attorney-of-record, but you said you couldn’t because he was dead and you’d figure something out later, and in the meantime we’d use the
non nomen
precedent from 1826.”

“
You
dug that one up!” cried the faceless roar.

“Yes, I did, and you were grateful, and now I suggest you dig up your late attorney of research-and-record.”

“I can’t.” The roar suddenly became the whimper of a bewildered kitten.

“Why not?”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“I would hope to hell not! Christ, I don’t mean his corpse, I mean his papers, his findings, interrogatories—his
research
. They’re all acceptable.”

“He wouldn’t like that.” The kitten was now a piping mouse.

“He wouldn’t
know
!… Mac, listen to me. Sooner or later, one of those judges’ law clerks in D.C. will learn that I’m a kid barely out of law school with hardly six months of clerking myself, and he’ll blow a shrill whistle. Even if you had a prayer, the lord god of the Court, Chief Justice Reebock, would throw a lightning bolt into it for defrauding his holy institution. Worse, for making fools of them, if even one or two corkscrews were leaning in your favor, which, as I say, is totally impossible.
Forget
it, Mac! It’s
over
. Give me my clothes back
okay
, and let me get out of here—”

“Where would you go, son?” The unseen piping mouse was getting out of the vocal cellar and climbing back up to a crescendo. “I mean
where
, boy?”

“Maybe American Samoa with a forwarded certification from the Nebraska bar, who the hell knows?”

“I never thought I’d
say
this, son,” cried the faceless, once more shouting voice from the tepee, “because I really thought you had the right stuff, but I can see now that I can’t bring you up to snuff!”

“Thanks for the rhyme, Mac. Now, how about my clothes?”

“You
got
’em, you yellow-skinned coyote!” The fake animal skin flap opened and an assortment of Ivy League garments was hurled out of the dark space.

“That’s redskin, Mac. Not yellow-skinned, remember?” The young loinclothed brave lurched for the flying shorts, shirts, gray flannel trousers, and navy blue blazer. “Thank you, Mac, I really
thank
you.”

“Not yet, boy, but you
will
. A good officer never forgets the grunts, no matter how unworthy they might appear in the heat of battle.… You were a help, I’ll say that, in the GHQ strategy sessions. Leave your forwarding address with that drunken flake you call Eagle Ass!”

“Eagle
Eyes
,” corrected the brave, discarding his loincloth and putting on his shorts. He reached for his blue oxford shirt. “And
you
gave him the booze—you gave everyone
cases
of booze—I never allowed so much.”

“Beware the sanctimonious Indian who turns on his tribe!” yelled the unseen manipulator of the Wopotamis.

“Fuck off, Mac!” cried the brave, shoving his feet into his Bally loafers and his striped tie into his pocket, and getting into his blazer. “Where the hell’s my Camaro?”

“Camouflaged beyond the east pasture, sixty running deer strides to the right of the August owl’s tall pine.”

“Sixty
what? What
goddamned owl?”

“You never were too sharp in the field; Eagle Ass told me that himself.”

“Eagle
Eyes
, and he’s my uncle, and he hasn’t inhaled a sober breath or seen straight since you got here!… East pasture? Where is it?”

“Check the sun, boy. It’s the compass that never fails you, but make damn sure you ash up your weapons, so the glares don’t give you away.”

“
Certifiable
!” screamed the young brave of the Wopotamis as he fled due west.

At that moment, accompanied by a primordial roar of defiance, a tall figure strode out of the tepee, the flap whipping up and sticking to the exterior wall of animal hides. This giant of a man, gloriously resplendent in full, flowing Indian headdress and beaded buckskins, all signifying his highest tribal office, squinted in the sunlight as he shoved a mutilated cigar into his mouth and began chewing on it furiously. His bronzed, leather-lined face and narrowed eyes betrayed an expression of consummate frustration—also perhaps a degree of fear.

“
Goddamn
!” swore MacKenzie Hawkins to himself. “I never thought I’d ever have to do this.” The Hawk
reached inside his painted buckskin doublet with the beaded yellow bolts of lightning across the chest and pulled out a cellular telephone. “Boston area information? I want the number of the Devereaux residence, first name Sam—”