Two guys he had never seen before in his life were sitting in the chairs by the windows, each wit h a drink, the older of the two smoking a cigarette.
The younger one, with the hair, grinning.
"Jesus Christ, I think somebody's got the wrong room. Huh? What is this?"
Standing there naked--not at the athletic club, where it was all right--in a hotel room. Wanting t o show some poise, but wanting to cover himself.
"No, we got the right room," the older one said.
"We've come to visit you."
"You've come to visit. You walk right in--I d on't even know you." He was looking around fo r something. The clothes he had taken off were o n the floor by his open suitcase.
"You know me," the older guy said. He waited, seeing Mel bending over the suitcase, aiming hi s white ass at them. "Gene Valenzuela, Mel." It wa s as though the name goosed him, the way Me l Bandy came up straight and hurried to get into hi s pants.
"Three years ago . . ." Valenzuela was saying.
Turning, zipping up, Mel began to get himself together and effect a smile.
". . . at the Federal Building in Detroit. I was down there with Harry Manza."
"Sure, I know your name, of course," Mel said.
"But I don't believe we ever really met."
"No, as I recall your friend had somebody else representing him with the grand jury," Valenzuel a said, "and I guess you handle his business lega l work. Is that it?"
The man was being nice, soft-spoken. He knew all about Mel and Mel could feel it. He hoped th e man continued to be polite. He hoped the man ha d a good ear and could sense when someone wa s telling the truth. He had never imagined himself being alone in an eighth-floor hotel room in this kind of situation. He didn't want to appear nervous. He wanted to calmly get right to the point, show the m he wasn't hiding anything. Fortunately, at the moment, he didn't have anything to hide. He didn't have the answer to what they were going to as k him. But they had to realize he was telling the truth.
He didn't know whether to sit down or keep standing. On the dresser there was another roomservice glass by the bottle of J&B and the ice. He fixed himself a drink, telling Gene Valenzuela yes , he'd been handling most of the company's lega l work for the past several years.
"But the reason you're here," Mel said--after swallowing a good ounce of Scotch and warmin g up--"you saw the picture in the paper, the fire. If I s aw it, I assume you saw it too. So there's no sens e in kidding around, is there? You believe I'm in contact with him, since I'm here and I'm his corporate lawyer. But I'll tell you the absolute God's truth , gentlemen--I have no idea where he is."
There. Like making a confession without telling anything. Mel took his drink over to the bed an d sat down on the edge of it.
Valenzuela sipped his Scotch. He said, "You come over to visit the Holy City, Mel? See the Wailing Wall?"
"No-no, I'm here on business. At least I came for business reasons. I'm not gonna try and tell you I'm a tourist. But I haven't heard from him and I h aven't been able to contact him. So--I don't know--I'll probably be going back in a couple o f days."
"Unless you hear from him."
"That's possible."
"I think you already did," Valenzuela said, "or you wouldn't be here."
"No, I swear I haven't."
"I mean since he almost got run over by a car.
What was that? Four days ago."
"Well, yeah, we heard from him at that time. I d idn't personally. He called his office."
"And they sent you?"
"Actually I was coming anyway. See if we could locate him and get some papers signed."
"See if you could locate him," Valenzuela said.
"Come on, Mel. You didn't have a phone number?"
"Honest to God. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows where he lives."
"What name's he using?"
Mel had known it was coming. He saw no choice but to tell them. As he said, "Rosen," both Valenzuela and the younger guy were looking up, away from him.
Tali came in through the connecting doors. She stopped and said, "Oh, excuse me," seeing the tw o visitors and Mr. Bandy sitting on the bed with hi s shirt off and his hair uncombed. And smiling at her.
The first time she had seen him in a good mood since he'd arrived.
"Tali," Mel said, "you want to call room service? Get some more ice and some peanuts and shit, you know, something to nibble on. Use the phon e in the other room."
"Not for us," Valenzuela said, looking at the girl. "Tali, you go sit over there by the desk."
She looked at Mel.
"Yeah, if you don't want anything," Mel said, "that's fine."
The desk was built into the row of dressers, at the end nearer the windows. The younger gu y reached with his foot to pull the chair out an d stared at Tali as she sat down, half-turned fro m him, to face Mr. Bandy.
Valenzuela said, "What was the name again?"
Mel hesitated. "Rosen."
"Just Rosen?"
"Al Rosen. I think it's Albert."
"It's funny the names they take," Valenzuela said. "Al Rosen. Changes it from Ross to Rosen , like he doesn't want to change it too much and forget who he is. . . . What's he doing now?"
"I really don't have any idea," Mel said. "I h aven't been in contact with him at all. In fact, thi s is the first time the company's asked me to do anything connected with him. I didn't even know where he was."
Tali watched Mr. Bandy, knowing he was lying.
Why? She had no idea who these men were. She jumped as she felt her chair jiggled.
Teddy Cass, his foot still on the rung, said, "How about Tali here? Hey, you ever hear of a ma n name of Rosen?"
"Do I know him?"
"I asked if you ever heard his name."
She was looking at Mr. Bandy and saw his eyes shift away, offering no help.
"I've heard the name, yes, from Mr. Bandy, but I d on't know him."
"Tali's working for me while I'm here," Mel said. "She's called a few hotels asking for a Mr.
Rosen. That's about it."
"What I'm wondering," Valenzuela said, "is what he's been living on. He bring some mone y with him?"
"He must've," Mel said. "Unless he's working."
Valenzuela shook his head. "That doesn't seem likely. There isn't any kind of work over here coul d support him. I was thinking his company must b e sending him money."
"That might be," Mel said.
"But if that's the case," Valenzuela said, "I'd think they'd get tired of carrying him. Thre e years--what's he done for the company?"
"So maybe they're not carrying him," Mel said.
Valenzuela stared at him for a moment. "For a lawyer you're very agreeable, aren't you?"
Mel shrugged. "Why not? What you say makes sense."
"You look like a pile of white dog shit," Valenzuela said, "but you're agreeable." He got up out of the chair and walked over to the dresser to pu t his glass on the room-service tray.
Mel sat with his shoulders drooping, tired. He seemed to shrug. "What can I say? I'm on th e wrong side. Guilt by association."
Tali felt the hand of the younger one move over her back as he got up to walk past her. His touc h was frightening. The way they stood over Mr.
Bandy was frightening. As though they might pick him up and hurt him and he'd do nothing to defend himself. She watched the younger one walk toward the door, hoping he was leaving. But h e stooped to pick up a green canvas bag and droppe d it on the bed.
Teddy Cass looked at Valenzuela. "Guy comes up with a bag and a package. Leaves withou t them."
Valenzuela said, "Mel, who's the guy? He work for you?"
"He's a friend of mine," Tali said. "Tell them, please, Mr. Bandy, he's a friend that came to see us.
He left, he forgot his bag."
"Jesus Christ," Valenzuela said, "what is this?
She winking at you? You keep your fingers crossed it's all right. Where's the package the gu y bro
ught?" Valenzuela turned, looking around th e room.
"Yes, he brought something for us," Tali said.
She got up and went to the dresser, Mr. Bandy and the older man watching her. The younger one wa s zipping open the canvas bag. "This," Tali said , picking up the J&B.
"He brought you a bottle of booze," Valenzuela said.
Tali nodded. "Yes, as a present for Mr. Bandy coming here. Because I work for him. He was bein g nice."
"Nothing much in here," Teddy Cass said.
"Some dirty clothes." He held up a uniform shirt that had been worn. "Guy's a sergeant in th e Marines. What's he doing in Tel Aviv?"
"He works at the embassy," Tali said. "I know him for a little while. We're friends. So he bring u s this when my boss comes."
"It was wrapped like a package that'd been mailed," Valenzuela said.
"There was some paper on it." Tali shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know."
"You want the wrapping paper?" Mel said. "I t hink the room-service guy took it. Gene," he sai d then. "You mind if I call you Gene? You mind if I s uggest you're getting this all out of proportion?
You want Ross. Okay. Looking at it from your standpoint I accept that, I understand. But I cam e here, I planned to come here, hoping to see him o n business, on the chance of getting a few paper s signed. Then this thing happens, he gets his pictur e in the paper and it's a whole different ball gam e that I don't know anything about. I think the man's hiding and I don't blame him, do you? He's not a dummy. If he knows people are looking for him he's gonna stay out of sight. Or he might've already lef t the country. I don't know. Unless I hear from him--w hich I admit is a possibility--there's no way I ca n contact him. So the chances are I'm gonna go hom e with my papers unsigned."
"Well, it sounds like you're giving me some shit," Valenzuela said. "Except you know the position you're in, so I don't think you'd lie to me."
"Listen, I've always been realistic," Mel said.
"I'm not gonna hit my head against a wall if I know a situation is beyond my control."
"Or hit it on the pavement down there, eight floors," Valenzuela said. "You hear from him, Mel , give me the papers. I'll get them signed for you."
When Mr. Bandy poured another Scotch Tali thought he might get drunk now because he wa s afraid and didn't know what to do. But he didn't get drunk. He sat in a chair sipping the drink, th e cold glass dripping on his stomach, and smoked a cigar. After looking so helpless, almost pathetic, h e was composed now and didn't seem worried. Sh e wanted to ask him all the questions that were jumping in her mind.
But they were interrupted. The men came with the furniture and Mr. Bandy went into 824 to tel l them where to place the couch and refrigerator an d extra chair. When the men left, Mr. Bandy told he r what he wanted stocked in the refrigerator: different kinds of cheeses, olives, soda, smoked oysters.
She was to make sure there was always ice.
"Mr. Bandy please," Tali said. "Would you tell me what they want?"
"What do you think?" He went over to the couch and sat very low and relaxed, his hea d against the cushion, looking up at her.
"I don't know. I'm asking you."
"They want to kill him," Mel said. "You understand that much?"
She didn't understand that or anything. Why?
Who are they? What is Mr. Rosen, or Mr. Ross? After doing things for him for three years--being paid one thousand pounds a week as his "assistant," a s he called her--she realized that she knew nothin g about the man. He wasn't a retired American businessman. He was hiding. And these people wanted to kill him. Why?
But Mr. Bandy avoided questions. He said, "You did all right. I liked that about the Scotch being a present. See, they've been watching, we know tha t now, and they're going to keep watching. So wha t do we do about it?"
"You told them he might have left Israel," Tali said.
"It's possible. But I don't think he'd go right away, knowing his money was due on the twentysixth."
"But why do they want to kill him? Who are they?"
"I'm gonna give him five days. If I don't hear from him by then I'm gonna pack up and g o home."
"Why are they watching us?"
"But if he does call, then we're gonna have to be ready with a pretty cute idea. You hungry?"
"What?"
"Call room service and get me . . . I think some roast chicken, baked potato, something they can't fuck up. Bottle of chilled wine. Ask them what kin d of pastries they've got. Torte or a Napoleon, yo u know, something like that."
She didn't understand Mr. Bandy at all. He should be afraid or worried, or at least show som e anxiety. But he wasn't worried. He was hungry.
THE MAN SEEMED TO DISAPPEAR. He was walking along, up ahead on the wide sidewalk between th e buildings and the trees that were spaced along th e street, and then he was gone.
It was Dizengoff Street, but ten blocks from the Dizengoff that was the heart of Tel Aviv--a carnival midway of cafes with sidewalk tables, pizza joints, ice-cream stands, and the movie theaters o n the Circle. Up at this end, Dizengoff had a few cafe s and small stores, but it was quiet and apartmenthouse residential, without the stream of people on the sidewalk. That's why Rashad couldn't figur e out how he'd lost the man. There were only a fe w other people on the street; it was five-thirty in th e afternoon.
He came to about where the man had been: a storefront, a place that looked like it had gone ou t of business, boarded up and the boards painted red.
Except the metal street numbers looked new. 275.
Rashad heard the music before he opened the door. Something familiar--yeah, Barry Manilo w trying to get that feeling. Rashad knew he was going to be surprised. But stepping from a near-empty street into a crowded pub, into a hum of voices an d music, also brought him a good feeling, a feeling o f pleasure. All the people sitting in booths and at a long row of tables and two deep at the bar--wher e the guy he'd been following was reaching over a shoulder to take a drink from the barmaid-Rashad liked it right away. A place where everybody was friendly and talked and where the new guy in town could ask dumb questions. A sign ove r the bar--tacked up over some of the snapshots tha t were on display and notes that had been pinne d there--said happy hour--drinks 1/2 price. A n eighborhood saloon in a city where you coul d count the no-shit beer-and-whiskey establishment s on one hand without using the thumb. But no nam e outside.
He'd save asking it. He made his way through the Happy Hour crowd toward the bar. Mostl y Americans, it looked like. Young dudes in spor t shirts or work clothes. American-looking girls, too , dressed for the office, and a few Israeli groupies i n tank tops and jeans. There was an English accent, a friendly Limey sound coming from a gutty-lookin g little guy wearing a hard-hat. He seemed popular , everybody saying things to him. There was a blac k guy at the corner where the tight little bar made a turn. Rashad kept moving--he didn't need a brother today--finally getting next to the guy he'd been following and saying, "How's a man supposed to get a drink in here?"
Davis glanced at him. "What do you want?"
"Scotch'd be fine."
Davis raised his voice a couple of levels. "Chris, a Scotch here."
The girl behind the bar said, "You changing, Dave?"
"For this gentleman here."
"Oh, right."
Another Limey accent, Rashad thought. Man, a real barmaid, showing her goodies in the blouse a s she bent over to pop the tops off some beers.
But talking to the guy named Dave he found out Chris was Australian. The other barmaid, Lillian--w ho was also very friendly and knew everybody's name--was Israeli. The gutty little guy in the hardhat was Norman, who was from London and owned the place that had no name outside but inside was Norman's Bar, The Tavern. Dave was Sergeant Dave Davis, on Marine security guar d duty at the U. S. Embassy. There were a dart boar d and a slot machine in the next room, where th e cases of Maccabee and Gold Star were stacked up.
During Happy Hour there were free hors d'oeuvres and new p
otatoes baked in their skins. The barmaids also fixed beans and franks and pizza in a closet kitchen off the bar. And in the toilet, after hi s third Scotch, Rashad stared at an inscriptio n scrawled on the wall that said, "Fuck Kilroy. The cobrahookie's been here." Yes sir, it was a serviceman'sworking man's bar. Loud but very friendly.
"Kamal Rashad," Davis said. "Like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, huh?"
"Yeah, you hear of the famous ones," Rashad said. "Maybe Elijah Muhammad, the Messenger.
But how about Wallace Muhammad? I belong to the Wali Muhammad Mosque Number One in Detroit."
"I guess I don't know anything about the Moslem religion," Davis said. He wasn't sure h e wanted to stand here talking about it, either.
"What I believe, mainly, is one thing," Rashad said. "If you take one step toward Allah, he'll tak e two steps toward you." He sipped his Scotch. "It's a good arrangement and can keep you from fucking up on your way to heaven. How long you say you been in, sixteen years?"
"April twentieth," Davis said.
"And now you don't know whether to stay in or get out."
"I'm getting out," Davis said. "What I don't know is what I'm gonna do."
Rashad tried an approach; see if the redneck United States Marine sipping his glass of Jim Bea m would follow along. "I don't imagine you able t o put much money aside, being in the service."
"Not at two bucks a drink most places."
"Or have a chance to moonlight at some job, make a little extra."
"I guess I never looked at money as a problem,"
Davis said.
"Some guys, I understand, they get into deals where they take stuff out of a country with them t o make some bread. You understand what I'm saying?"
"What've you got," Davis said, "hash? You want me to put a few kilos in my footlocker?"
"Yeah, I understand they get next to a man going home, pack it in with his personal shit. Man goin g home from the U. S. Embassy look even better."
"What've you got?" Davis said.
"Excuse me, my man, but have I said I was dealing anything?"
Davis waited, leaning against the bar, the two girls behind him busy, chattering away with customers.
"But say a person did want to ship something,"
Rashad said. "How would he know if this United States Marine could handle it? Tell if he had the experience or not?"
The Hunted Page 5
