I went down like a rocket! A chute!
Unsteadily, I came to rest at the bottom and found myself looking into the rather large muzzle of a Bernadelli Model 80 .380 ACP, seven-shot automatic pistol. The face above it was very thin and Sicilian.
Somebody behind me plucked my Colt Python out of my shoulder holster and jammed it into my spine. Another Sicilian came running up and lifted out my wallet and I.D.
"Oh, (bleep)," he said. "It's only a Fed."
"A pretty (bleeped) dumb Fed," said the Sicilian with the Bernadelli. "Walking up to a metal detector with a rod on him!" He waved the others away. "You new or something? You coulda got yourself shot! Didn't you see the cloakroom? You check your God (bleeped) gun there."
They gave me back my I.D. and wallet after removing the $400 that was in it to pay them for their trouble.
"Now whatcha want?" said the Sicilian with the gun. "Scarin' Angelina half to death. Ain't you got no sense of decency? Fed appointment time is over! Two o'clock. You want to see some executive, it's gotta be before two o'clock. Green," he said to the other two.
"I want to see Mr. Narcotici," I said politely. "I'm sure you don't classify him as an 'executive.'"
"(Bleep) no. He's the capo di tutti capi and don't you forget it. Whatcha want to see him about?"
"Mr. Bury sent me," I said.
He turned to a computer, pushed it and it came up blank.
"Oh, (bleep)," said the one who had taken my gun.
"And this is a good rod. Brand-new." He gave it back to me.
The man who had taken the $400 gave it back to me.
"Well, excuse me for callin' you green," said the man with the Bernadelli, putting it nervously away.
He went to an internal red phone. He picked it up. He said, "Would you tell Mr. Narcotici we got a Bury messenger here under cover as a Federal agent?"
They took me over to another elevator door and I was shortly rocketing upward.
A young man who looked like an Executive Magazine clothing ad was at the elevator to meet me. He escorted me courteously through a huge banquet hall decorated with baskets of money and naked brunettes holding them. So this was the place the officials of New York got paid off every Saturday night! Beyond it was a big door. He gently pushed me in.
It was a huge office with murals of Sicily. Warm, artificial sunlight filled the room. Sitting in a shady cupola was a very fat man whose fingers were solidly metal with rings.
He got up and bowed. It was obviously Faustino. He was so fat you could hardly see his eyes. "And how is my good friend, Mr. Bury?" he said.
"Very fine," I replied. "He's particularly happy today."
"Must be a lot of dead bodies around then," said Faustino. "Me, I'm just small time. Bury, he deals in whole countries! Whole populations. Sit down. Would you like a cigar?"
There wasn't any place to sit but it was nice of him to ask. I cut through all the Italian preliminaries. I shifted to Italian to make him feel more at home. "I just need a couple of snipers. For one day only."
"What date?" he said, shifting easily in language.
I told him.
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "That's a crowded date. But you didn't have to come to see me about it. All you had to do was call in at the Personnel Department on the 50th floor."
"I think Mr. Bury wanted someone to look into your health," I said. "He commented you seemed very carefree lately."
He went sort of white. He hastily scribbled something on a card. He seemed very glad to see me leave.
At the Personnel Department a charming young man heard my request.
"That date," he said in a cultured accent. "It's crowded. Isn't that the date of the Spreeport Demolition Endurance Derby? Yes, it is. Well, I don't see..."
I gave him Faustino's card. He instantly started punching personnel computers like he was trying to put holes in them.
Really upset, he said, "I can't get two hit men for that date!"
"I'm only asking for snipers," I said. "Just plain snipers that are good shots."
He went back at it again. With relief he came up with two. I told him where they were to report and how. For I had all my plans exactly made.
He promised they would be there.
I went back to the lobby. I stopped by the Information Desk. "I am very sorry, Angelina," I said to the girl. "I didn't mean to frighten you." It was unlike me but I wanted good relations here. She was quite pretty.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but please get the hell out of the lobby. You've got every gun detector going again!"
I left. Reminded of the gun and being both Apparatus trained and of a cautious nature, I stepped into the facsimile of an old-time Bowery Bar, kept there for tourists, I supposed. In a booth I checked the Colt Python. Sure enough, that (bleepard) behind my back had slipped an explosive plug in the barrel just ahead of the cylinder. I withdrew it gingerly and threw it in a spittoon. Right then I knew you shouldn't trust the Mafia too far, even if it did run a lot of the country. If I had tried to assassinate Faustino, the gun would have blown my hand off. They weren't honest.
But I had accomplished what I had come for.
If Heller won that race, he'd do it on wings!
Even if the carburetor failed, it was no longer a factor. I was going to post two snipers with silenced rifles to blow out his tires one by one until he didn't have a single tire left! Providing he hadn't already wound up in the hospital.
Be certain of the result, my professors used to say.
Madison and Bury might both be crazy. But I still had a grip on my wits.
The very thought of Heller succeeding on top of all this publicity was gall upon my soul.
A plane towing a huge sign above the Battery told everybody to see the Whiz Kid race on Saturday just ten days away.
This riffraff wasn't going to see him win. I was making very certain of that!
Chapter 7
Smugly, I watched the pre-race comings and goings of Heller. He was finished as far as I was concerned. The only small worry was that he might get totally killed, for there would go my platen. However, a nice trip to the hospital, maybe with several broken bones and his handsome face smashed in, would do very well. And the wreckage of his reputation on Earth forever was infinitely acceptable.
As one watches the condemned man in his cell, so I viewed his attendance of Babe Corleone's birthday party the Sunday before the Saturday. I hoped I would pick up more data to compound his ruin.
It irked me that he would go and attend a birthday party when he ought to be gnawing at his fingernails with worry, hunched in a room, thinking about his coming doom. But there he was, the perfect fleet officer, courteous and urbane, attending the modest celebration in Babe's Bayonne condo. She probably held it there so as not to advertise that she was a year older. Just a few intimate family members and friends.
He had accompanied them to Mass, probably on the theory that when you are on a primitive planet you include its Gods in your acquaintances. But I noticed that instead of responding to prayers in Latin, he was answering up with Voltarian forms of prayer. I hoped these Earth Gods in their niches didn't speak Voltarian. I didn't want him to get any help at all!
The birthday party itself was quite mild. A little musical group—a violin, a mandolin and an accordion-played quietly over in the corner of the large living room. Babe sat in a big chair, dressed in white. Staff were handing her presents people had sent—most of them envelopes with money in them.
Heller was over to the side by a big punch bowl, talking with this one or that. He seemed to be wearing a blue suit, made possibly of silk, and he had big cuff links—blue six-pointed stars with a diamond in the center. His fleet rank symbol! Well, (bleep) him! Code break! I made a note of it.
Babe was not busy now. She was just idly chatting with some wives. Heller suddenly made a signal toward the hall. Geovani came in carrying a huge, flat package. Heller went over to Babe.
"Mrs. Corleone," he said with a formal
bow. "I would like to celebrate this occasion with a small memento." He indicated the package with a graceful gesture and said, "Happy Birthday to a great lady."
I don't know how he does it. When he talks to people they pay attention and get pleased. Babe beamed and wriggled. She took the package with Geovani's help and began to rip off the paper. Then her eyes got round. She said, "Oooooooo!"
She jumped up and turned the item. "Look! Look, everybody!"
It was a painting taken from that photo of Joe Corleone Heller had found in Connecticut! There was dapper young "Holy Joe"! And Heller had had it framed in a gold frame in the shape of a heart with a lion's head at the top V. I suddenly realized that "Corleone" was not just a town in Sicily, it also meant "Heart of a Lion."
Babe was ecstatic! She was waltzing around showing it to everyone, telling them that even though it was decades before she had met Joe, wasn't it just like him!
Look at that expression! A true empire builder! Even the sub-Thompson looked real! Dear Joe!
The musicians took their cue and began to play "The March of the Lion," the family's anthem, complete with machine-gun bursts in rhythm.
What a stir! That (bleeper) Heller was always creating these stirs! He had gone and made Babe's birthday for her! Well, he'd soon be finished.
It took a long time to quiet down. And then Heller was about to take his leave.
Babe was suddenly very serious. "Jerome, you be very careful in that racing. Drive very slow and safely." She thought for a moment. "There's something I don't understand about all this publicity. You just don't look the same in those photos they are taking of you. Now, it isn't your fault, of course. A lot of stage stars have that trouble. They just aren't photogenic. So I think that must be what is wrong, Jerome. You'll just have to reconcile yourself to not being photogenic. You don't have to wear those awful glasses they show you in. Just turn your head away from the camera. I was a star and I can give you such tips. It's not your eyes. The camera does something extraordinary to your teeth. Maybe they should use a soft-focus lens. And possibly no lights. But even if you're not photogenic, Jerome, the family will be betting on you."
"No, no!" said Heller quickly.
She looked at him very oddly. "But Jerome, we control almost all the gambling in New York and New Jersey except for those slobs in Atlantic City. We have been making book on the race ever since it was announced."
"Make book if you like," said Heller, "but don't let any family member place any bets on me to win."
She looked at him very strangely.
"You know something," she said.
"Mrs. Corleone, please promise."
She just went on looking at him oddly. And shortly he took his leave.
I was troubled. Heller suspected something. Had my hiring of snipers leaked? Oh, I better double-check everything to make sure he didn't somehow turn the tables on me. The man just couldn't be trusted!
Chapter 8
Heller spent Monday morning calling tire stores and distributors, asking questions I couldn't make heads nor tails of. He was using engineering terms that several times must have been very close to a Code break. Slippage and friction coefficients and something he called "residual resistance to side thrust."
About eleven, Bang-Bang, apparently having ROTCed enough for that day, picked him up in the old cab and they went whizzing out to Spreeport.
The garages and shops Heller had been using were quite isolated. They were beyond Spreeport and stood on a rise closer to the beach. Beyond it was all recreation area and public beaches. Of course, at this late season, the whole sector was deserted. Even other racing teams were gone—moved south to warmer circuits. Loose sand and dead leaves were spinning about. It must be quite cold, particularly in the wind from the sea.
The doors of the garages and shops were metal, the kind you lift up on counterbalances. Only one tiny window was in each door.
The trailer truck was stored in two halves: the cab, a big diesel, was in one garage all by itself. In the next one to it was its trailer. The Caddy was sitting on the trailer.
Heller unlocked and pulled up the counterbalanced door to the larger garage that held the trailer. He went in and punched with his fist at a tire.
"They just don't make tires, Bang-Bang."
Bang-Bang had the collar of a military greatcoat up around his ears. "Sure they do. You ain't had any real trouble."
"I have so. I skidded her one day and bang, there went a tire. If every time I put her in a real skid, I lose a tire, I couldn't win a race against a cat with its feet tied."
"Is that what makes you so (bleeped) pessimistic about winning?" said Bang-Bang.
"It certainly is," said Heller, and he punched another tire. "They buckle on lateral stresses. That's the only way I can figure it."
Suddenly, in a flash, I understood. That (bleeped) Madison! That first day he had had a sniper posted somewhere so he could get a shot of Heller having a near accident! I knew it, just like that.
I verified it. I got the strip of it. I turned the sound volume way, way up. I played it through. What a roar! Screaming rubber. Aha! A distant bang! It was a second after the blowout itself. Must mean that sniper had been three hundred yards or so away!
That (bleeped) Madison might use snipers in the race itself. If so, how many snipers would Heller have on him in addition to my two? Or was that Madison's plan? One couldn't tell.
In a way, it was a relief. Heller didn't suspect that was what was wrong. But in another way, it might make
Heller dream up something to prevent blowouts. The whole thing made me quite nervous.
Heller was out now, standing in the wind. He was looking to the northeast, up the beach. "There's a cold front," he said.
"I know I'm cold, front and behind," said Bang-Bang.
"I think it's going to snow," said Heller. He was looking at some high, thin clouds. "Yes, in a couple of days. And then it will be followed by another cold front right out of the Arctic. Bang-Bang, that race is going to be run in frozen slush. Now, I tell you what you do, Bang-Bang. You grab a plane this afternoon...."
"Yes," said Bang-Bang, very alert.
"And you fly up to Hudson's Bay in Canada and you buy the very best dog team you can find and we'll just tow the car around...."
"Oh, (bleeps), Jet. You had me taken in for a minute." He began to laugh.
"I think it's a great idea!" said Heller, dead serious. "We hitch the dog team to the car. You could stand on the two rear fenders with a whip and yell 'gee' and 'haw' at the dogs to steer and I could run along in front on snowshoes to break trail. And we'll put an igloo where the pit is.... But no. I don't think NASCAR rules include pemmican."
"What's 'pemercam'?" said Bang-Bang.
"That's the fuel you feed the dogs."
"Jet, you'd find something funny if you were a corpse."
"Sometimes, things are so bad that all you can do is laugh," said Heller. "We're in trouble. All this (bleeped) storm of publicity that's roaring around. I can't back out. If I go on with it, I'm sunk."
"Izzy bought you a ticket for South America," said Bang-Bang.
"I have a feeling," said Heller, "that there will come a day, not too distant, when I'll be asking you to kick me for not using it. But it's against my creed."
I was intent at once. Another Code break? For I remembered clearly that day in the Personnel Office at fleet, the creed of the combat engineers, "Whatever the odds, the Hells with it. Get the job done."
But Heller said, "Come on. Let's go in the shop and get the heat on before you freeze to death. I've got to think of something."
And that was exactly what I was afraid of. Now I had two unknowns. What was Madison really going to do? And what was Heller going to do?
I only knew what I was going to do—stop the Hells out of him!
Chapter 9
On Wednesday it started snowing.
There was a battle of forecasters played up heavily on TV. Was it going to be snowing at
race time or was it going to be bright sunlight?
The flood of publicity carried on. Snow or sun, it was never even mentioned that somebody might call the race off.
It didn't matter what the weather was. I had solved all that. I had rented a little van with an independent heater in the back. It had lug tires, being designed for the suburban trade. So let it snow! I also bought a pair of the highest-powered binoculars I could find in a hock shop. I had to acquire them because my efforts with a hacksaw to cut off a tourist telescope from the observation platform of Fort Tryon got interrupted by some schoolkids who couldn't read my Federal identification.
With the snow came new information about the race. The spot ads and talk shows began to talk about "bombers."
I had no idea what a "bomber" was. The hotel TV had a teletext system cable and after rejecting several definitions I found one that fitted. A "bomber" was an ordinary car with no added armor except roll bars. It had all its glass removed. Its object was to ram other vehicles to make them unable to move. They backed, mainly, to protect their own radiator and engine. They were used in demolition derbies. A winner of one of these was defined as a vehicle that could still move under its own power.
Now the controversy made sense. Would only bombers be allowed or also standard stock cars? The racing commission solved it by including both. It said that as this was a demolition derby that would test laps and hours of endurance, both bombers and stock cars could participate. It was a wise decision. The public would have lynched them if they had arrived at any decision that tended to exclude the Whiz Kid's car. It, strictly speaking, was not a bomber but a hopped-up stock car.
The bogus Whiz Kid, Heller's "double," Was muchly seen on talk shows and in the news. He was being very pugnacious about the oil companies, bragging about his cheap fuel and generally making an ass of himself.
Then, that very Wednesday afternoon—following through all day Thursday—the other drivers began to be announced. They were the toughest, meanest bomber drivers that existed on any circuit! There would be eighteen starting cars and the list of names sounded like a horror movie. "Slammer," "Mayhem," "Killer," "Morgue," followed by some last name, seemed to be the order of the day.
Mission: Earth The Enemy Within Page 34
