Then came the audibles, initially the slow, bass-toned boom-booms of at least a dozen drums. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom—boom-boom, boom-boom! “Hai-ya, hai-ya, hai-ya!” The fanatical chorus built to a hysterical crescendo as the driver’s head shot back and forth over the wheel like a rooster in heat in time with the beat. Relief had suddenly come as the drums and the chanting abruptly stopped, apparently by command.
“I think we got that one wrong, guys and girls!” shouted the terrorist named Calfnose. “Isn’t that the wedding night celebration?”
“Beats the hell out of Ravel’s Bolero!” replied a male voice at the rear of the crowded bus.
“Who’d know the difference?” yelled another, now a woman.
“I don’t know,” answered Calfnose, “but Thunder Head said Indian Affairs might send down a couple of experts ’cause nobody expects us or knows why we’re there.”
“If they’re Mohawks, they’ll crap on us!” shouted yet another, by his voice an elderly member of the tribe. “Legend has it that they threw us out of our wigwams whenever it snowed!”
“Well, just in case, let’s rehearse the one that greets the sunrise; that’d be applicable.”
“Which one is that, Johnny?” Another woman.
“The one that sounds like a tarantella—”
“Only when sung vivace, Calfy,” corrected a painted brave in front. “When it’s adagio, it could be a dirge out of Sibelius.”
“So we go with the balachy bit. All right, girls, into the aisle and rehearse your thing. And remember, Thunder Head wants some legs for the TV cameras but no garter belt stuff. We gotta be squeaky clean.”
“Aw, aw, aw … shit!” came the male voices.
“Here we go—now!”
The drums and the vocal chorus had begun again, compounded by the beating of female feet in the aisle, as the driver tried to concentrate on the growing traffic in the District of Columbia. Unfortunately, a Sterno can under a boiling pot of bright red Crayolas overturned, setting fire to the beaded skirt of a dancer. Several braves were quick to extinguish the flames.
“Get your hands out of there!” screamed the offended Indian lass.
The driver’s head had whipped around as the bus skidded into a fire hydrant, snapping off the top and sending a gusher of water into Independence Avenue, drenching all the cars and pedestrians in the vicinity. Company regulations required that the operator of any vehicle involved in such an incident stop immediately, radio his dispatcher, and await the police. It was a corporate policy that absolutely, positively did not apply to him! concluded the driver of the bus filled with savage terrorists who wore dripping waxed paint on their faces. He was five blocks from his destination, and the moment his load of Sterno-burning, foot-stomping barbarians in their leather and their beads got off his vehicle with their duffel bags and their cardboard signs, he would race back to the depot, hand in a hastily scribbled resignation, drive home, grab his wife, and together they would take the next plane to as far away as possible. Fortunately, their only son was a lawyer; the hotshot lawyer could take care of the aftereffects. What the hell, he had put the snotty little bastard through law school!… Thirty-six years behind a wheel driving the pigs of humanity, a man had to know when the critical sign of acceptance stopped. It was like when he was in France in World War II, and they were taking a pounding from the Krauts, and that great man, General Hawkins, took over the division and shouted the words out: “There comes a time, soldiers, when we either cut bait or go after the big ones! I say we go on! I say we attack!”
And by God, they did. The great man had been right then, but here and now there was nothing to attack, no armed enemy intent on killing you, just armies of lunatics wanting to climb into your bus and drive you crazy! Thirty-six years; a good life, a productive life—outside the bus. But now, at this critical moment, there was nothing left, nothing to attack. It was time to cut bait.… He wondered what the great General Hawkins would say. He thought he knew.
“If the enemy isn’t worth it, find another!”
The driver would cut bait. The enemy was not worth it.
The last terrorist off the bus was the one they called Calfnose, the maniac with the grotesque waxed streaks of bright colors dripping down his face. “Here, man,” said the savage, handing the driver a small metal coin of no discernable value. “Chief Thunder Head wanted this to be presented to the one who took us to our ‘point of destiny.’ Damned if I know what he meant, but it’s yours, buddy.” Calfnose leaped down the steps to the pavement, his cardboard placard, which was nailed to a tree branch, balanced over his right shoulder.
“… our point of destiny. Nothing will be the same after the action we take. We attack!” General MacKenzie Hawkins in France forty years ago.
The driver stared at the metal coin in his hand and gasped. It was a replica of their division’s insignia of forty years ago. With the face of their great commander! A sign from heaven? Hardly likely, as he and his wife had long ago managed to avoid church. Sunday mornings were for all those television programs where politicians fueled his anger and his wife reduced it by a pitcher of Tabasco-laced Bloody Marys. Good woman, his wife.… But this! His old division, and the words of the finest commanding officer that ever lived! Christ, he had to get out of there. It was weird!
The driver restarted the engine, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and sped down First Street, only to see in his rearview mirror a crowd of painted faces racing after him. “Fuck you!” he cried out loud. “I’m out, finished! Me and my girl are heading west—maybe so far west it’s east, maybe someplace like that American Samoa!”
What the driver had overlooked was that there were thirty-seven duffel bags strapped to his roof.
31
1:06 P.M. The doorbell of the suite rang, and as Aaron and Sam slipped into a bedroom to avoid any possible recognition, Jennifer walked across the room, glanced behind her, then said: “Yes, who is it?”
“Pliss, Miss Janey!” replied the unmistakable voice of Roman Z. “Thiss thing iss havvy!”
Redwing opened the door, to be greeted by Roman standing in front of the two Desis, who held the handles of an enormous steamer trunk, perspiration forming on their foreheads. “Good heavens, why didn’t you have the bell captain send it up?”
“My dearest fren who now happens to be a brutal and deranged ‘colonel’ said we had to bring it up ourselves.” The Gypsy walked into the room. “Otherwise, in case it fell open, I should slit the throats of any who saw its contents.… Come, my second and third dearest frens. In here!”
“I can’t believe Cyrus would give such an order,” protested Jennifer as Desis One and Two struggled with the outsized trunk, carrying it into the suite and setting it upright. “At least you could have used a dolly.”
“Was dat?” asked Desi the Second, wiping his brow.
“A small platform with wheels but large enough for heavy luggage.”
“Chu said we shouldn’t use one of dem!” yelled D-One at Roman.
“ ’Cause the magnificent colonel was talkin’ to the crazy peoples on the truck an’ all he said was ‘take it up an’ hurry!’ He didn’t say Hake it up on thiss machine an’ hurry.” My dearest fren iss smart; you never know when one of those things iss a trap. You ever try to run out of a big supermarket pushing a cart without paying? Zee bells go off, right, Miss Janey?”
“Well, there are codes on merchandise that are neutralized by passing over the paycheck grids—”
“See! My dearest fren saved our lives!”
“You will be well compensated for your labors,” said Aaron Pinkus, rushing out of the bedroom, Devereaux behind him. “Somebody open it,” he added, staring at the trunk.
“There iss no key,” said Roman. “Only leetle numbers on zee locks.”
“I have the numbers,” announced the impeccably, expensively dressed Cyrus, walking through the open door and immediately closing it. “I’m afraid I had to sign an additional bill of delivery with
my firm, Mr. Pinkus.”
“You gave them my name?”
“Hell, no, but the original contractor may go after you if this whole thing comes out in the wash.”
“I’ll handle that!” exclaimed Sam. “Hiring escaped prisoners and wanted mercenaries to do their dirty work. Hah! A piece of cake!”
“Darling, we’re doing the same,” said Jennifer.
“Oh?”
“For heaven’s sake, open the trunk! I can feel Shirley breathing down my spine, a not altogether pleasant sensation. I haven’t called her since yesterday morning.”
“Giff me her number,” said Roman Z, twirling his blue silk sash around his right arm in front of his silk orange shirt. “There iss women and then there iss women, and very few can resist my charms. Iss so, my dearest frens?”
“Shirley would have you committed,” replied Pinkus. “I doubt your Dun and Bradstreet would meet her standards.”
“There!” said Cyrus, having manipulated the locks and pulling apart the trunk.
“My God!” cried Sunrise Jennifer Redwing. “All that metal!”
“I told you, Jenny,” said Cyrus, looking at the profusion of steel breastplates and skullcaps on hangers in front of receding racks of odd clothing. “This is hardball.”
1:32 P.M. The contents of the huge steamer trunk were distributed and the process of infiltration-camouflage began. According to the Hawk’s orders (several points added or refined by his now senior military aide, Cyrus), the initial objective was to deceive the enemy scouts searching for them in the crowds outside and, by deceiving them, gain entrance to the great hall of the Supreme Court. Once inside, the second goal was to pass through security without Sam, Aaron, the Hawk, or Jenny revealing their identities. MacKenzie was convinced the guards had been given ident-alerts, certainly specifying Devereaux and himself, and, as Sam was Pinkus’s employee, probably Aaron; and, since S. J. Redwing had previously argued before the Court, and if someone had done his homework and learned she was a member of the Wopotami tribe, she, too, could be on the list. Granted, Jenny’s inclusion was farfetched, but so were the untold billions of dollars owed by the greedy enemies of the “deceased” Vincent Mangecavallo.
The third hurdle depended solely on Sam, Aaron, and Hawkins finding a men’s room and Jennifer locating a ladies’ room prior to being admitted into the august chambers. According to the detailed building plans secured somehow by “relatives” of Vinnie the Bam-Bam and confirmed by his favorite aunt, Angelina the Go-Go, the hallway on the second floor, where the chambers were, had two such conveniences—at opposite ends of the marble hall. The reason for the necessity of the restrooms takes us back to the initial objective of deceiving the Supreme Court guards and gaining entry into the chambers. The contents of the steamer trunk, however, caused Jenny to scream from her bedroom.
“Sam, this is impossible!”
“What is?” said Devereaux, walking awkwardly out of the second bedroom dressed in a bulky checkered suit with puffed trousers, altogether adding the appearance of seventy pounds to his slender frame. What was even more bizarre was his head. His skull was covered by a knotted brown wig, the free-flowing ringlets falling below a hat best described as a porkpie, the favored headpiece of the raccoon-coated collegiates of the twenties. He pushed Redwing’s partially open door and stood in the frame. “Can I help?”
“Yahhh!”
“You’re screaming. Is that a yes or a no?”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“According to the driver’s license and the voter’s registration card provided with the clothes, my name is Alby-Joe Scrubb, and I run a chicken-breeding farm somewhere.… Who the hell are you?”
“An ex-chorus girl!” replied Jenny, trying once more to clamp the steel breastplate over her generous chest. “There! Never mind, I’ve got it!… Now for this stupid kelly-green peasant blouse that wouldn’t excite a sex-starved gorilla.”
“It excites me,” said Sam.
“You’re one step below a gorilla and more easily aroused.”
“Hey, come on, we’re on the same side. No kidding, who are you supposed to be?”
“Let’s say a loose woman whose bulging topside under this bulletproof corset will hopefully take the guards’ attention away from the admission procedures.”
“The Hawk thinks of everything.”
“Right down to the libido,” agreed Redwing, slipping the bright green blouse over her head and tugging it into shape above her yellow miniskirt. She bent partially forward, glancing at the swell of her breasts within the loose-hanging blouse. “That’s the best I can do,” she said with a sigh.
“Let’s work on it—”
“Down, Rover.… Now comes the worst part. The ‘headgear,’ as a friend of mine on the Forty-niners calls it.”
“That’s what’s different,” observed Devereaux. “Your hair looks funny; it’s all pinned back or something.”
“In preparation for your Neanderthal’s pluperfect revenge.” Jenny reached for a large square box on the bed and pulled out a platinum blond wig that rested on a steel helmet. “That bulletproof skullcap is so heavy I’ll have a stiff neck for the rest of the year, if I see the year through.”
“Yeah, I’ve got one, too,” said Sam as Redwing placed the helmeted wig over her hair. “Shaking your head’s okay, but if you nod, you could break your nose.”
“Shaking my head doesn’t go with this image.”
“I see what you mean. If this is Mac’s pluperfect revenge, what’s perfect?”
“I should think it would be obvious. He’ll set me up with a vice squad ‘john’ and I’ll be arrested as a hooker.”
“Sam!” cried Aaron Pinkus from the living room. “I need help!”
“I’m in demand.” Devereaux rushed out of the bedroom, Jenny at his heels. What they saw was as improbable a sight as either could hope to see, with the possible exception of looking at themselves in a mirror. Gone was the slight but nevertheless distinguished figure of Boston’s foremost attorney. In his place, dressed in a long black frock coat and wearing a flat black hat below which hung two strands of braided black hair, was a Hasidic rabbi. “Are you soliciting confessions or don’t you people do that sort of thing?” said Sam.
“You’re not remotely amusing,” replied Aaron, taking several tentative steps forward. Growing unsteady, he grabbed the fringe of a table lamp, which naturally crashed to the floor. “My whole body is encased in iron!” he cried angrily.
“It’s for your own protection, Mr. Pinkus,” said Jennifer, dashing around Devereaux and holding the old man’s arms. “Cyrus made it clear, you have to protect yourself.”
“The protection will kill me, my child. On Omaha Beach I carried a forty-pound pack on my back that nearly caused me to drown in four feet of water, and I was much younger then. This metal underwear is much heavier and I’m much, much older.”
“The only really difficult time for you will be the steps outside the Court, and since we have to separate, I’ll have Johnny Calfnose find someone to help you.”
“Calfnose? I seem to recall that name; it’s not a name one easily forgets.”
“He’s Mac’s honcho at the tribe,” said Sam.
“Oh, yes, he called Sidney’s house, and Jennifer and our general had a shouting match, as I recall.”
“Johnny Calfnose and MacKenzie Hawkins make a perfect team. Slime and Sludge. Calfnose still owes me bail money, and Hawkins owes me my soul as well as my career.… Regardless, Johnny will get someone to help you. He’d better, or I’ll have him indicted for skimming thousands from General Thunder Nuts’ bribe money to the Council.”
“He did that?” asked Devereaux.
“Actually, I have no idea, but it would be perfectly natural for him to try.”
There was a rapid knocking at the door. Sam walked over and opened it, again mildly startled by the huge elegance of Cyrus. “Come on in, Colonel, although frankly you look more like a darker version of Daddy Warbucks.
”
“That’s the idea, Sam, and to broaden your horizons even further, I’d like you to meet two friends of mine, or I should say of ‘Judge Oldsmobile.’ ” Cyrus stepped inside and gestured for Desis One and Two to do the same. However, they were not the Desi Amazes anyone in the room had seen before. D-One, his false teeth in place, was dressed in a conservative gray suit and an oxford blue shirt that emphasized his white clerical collar. D-Two, a religious kin but of a different faith, wore the black suit and collar of a priest, along with a gold cross that fell over his rabat. “May I present Reverend Elmer Pristin, an Episcopalian minister, and his comrade-in-protest, Monsignor Hector Alizongo of some Catholic diocese in the Rocky Mountains.”
“Good heavens!” said Aaron, clanking down in the chair.
“My God!” added the platinum-haired hooker, who was Jenny.
“He hears chu,” said D-Two, blessing himself, then correcting his benediction and blessing all those in the room—backwards.
“Don’t be a blasfemo,” mumbled Desi the First.
“Chu loco. I include chu an’ chu are a dumb protestante!”
“It’s okay, fellas,” said Devereaux. “We get the message.… Cyrus, what’s this all about?”
“First, let me ask if each of you found everything. There was a check list for your items.” Jennifer, Sam, and Aaron nodded, considerable doubt in each face. “Good,” continued the mercenary. “Is there any trouble with the camo-ex equipment?”
“What’s that?” asked Pinkus from the chair.
“Short for camouflage externals—our disguises. We want you to be as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Any problems?”
“To be honest, Colonel,” answered Aaron, “perhaps you should lease a derrick to move me around.”
“It’s not a problem, Cyrus,” said Redwing. “I’ll get a member of the tribe to help Mr. Pinkus.”
“Sorry, Jenny, there can’t be any communication whatsoever with the Wopotamis. Also, it’s not necessary.”