Dancing Aztecs

by Donald E. Westlake

  Meantime, Bobbi shrieked and Jerry jumped back into the Ford, yelling, “In the car! In the car!” But Bobbi didn’t get into the car; she stood gaping instead. Not that it made any difference, since Jerry had taken the key from the ignition and didn’t have time to reinsert it before Corella and Krassmeier were all over him, grabbing at him, trying to pull him out of the car. He punched Corella on the nose and kicked Krassmeier in the belly, but by then Bud and Chuck had arrived, and he couldn’t fight off all four of them.

  The hawk watched all this with fascination.

  Oscar tried to grab Bobbi in a bear hug, but she didn’t want to be grabbed in a bear hug, so she kicked him hard on the shin. “Ow–” Oscar said, and clutched his shin, and went hopping around in an off-balance circle, grimacing and saying several more Ows. And Bobbi yanked open the rear door of the Ford, grabbed the Dancing Aztec Priest by the upraised leg, and went running out across the field, waving the golden statue in the air over her head.

  The hawk didn’t know what to make of that.

  The four men who’d been struggling with Jerry all noticed the saffron flash of the departing Priest, and at once gave off from kicking and punching and butting and pulling and pushing, to run instead, shouting Hi and Stop and Come back! Jerry himself ran after them all, yelling, “Bobbi, keep running!”

  The hawk moved its wings, circled to a higher plateau, and went on watching.

  Jerry tripped Krassmeier, who fell down in a muddy place.

  Chuck caught up with Bobbi, but she ducked away from his flailing arms, kicked him on the kneecap, called him a couple of unladylike things, and found herself tackled by Corella, who had run into her like a charging bull. “Yi!” she cried, flinging her arms up, and the Dancing Aztec Priest sailed up into the air, head over heels, ass over teakettle, glinting aureate in the sunshine, arcing through the lazy air, and landing in the outstretched arms of Bud Beemiss, who clutched the creature to his chest, reversed direction, and ran smack into the left fist of Jerry.

  Bobbi, in separating herself from Corella, inadvertently kneed him in the nose and he began to bleed all over his off-white sports jacket and his powder-blue tie with tiny white windmills all over it. He already had grass stains and mud smears all over his powder-blue slacks and his white patent-leather shoes.

  Jerry had the statue, in the middle of the field. To his left, Krassmeier was attempting to get back on his feet. Behind him, Bud was sitting on the ground, holding his nose with both hands, while farther back Corella was sitting on the ground holding his nose with one hand and his side with the other, and Bobbi was trying to find her other shoe. Chuck was limping hurriedly after Jerry from the rear, and Oscar was limping hurriedly after him from the front.

  Jerry ran at Oscar, dodged to Oscar’s left, ran around Oscar on Oscar’s right, and was tripped up by Krassmeier’s straining outflung arm. Jerry did a somersault on the ground, wound up on his back, and Oscar fell on him. Bobbi found her other shoe and hit Corella on the top of the head with it.

  The hawk closed one eye, cocked its head to one side, and viewed the action one-eyed. It made no better sense that way.

  Jerry and Oscar rolled over and over, tripping up Chuck, who fell on both of them. Krassmeier made another attempt to get to his feet Bud got to his feet and ran over to fall on the pile of Oscar and Chuck and Jerry and the statue. Bobbi rapped Corella once more on the head with her other shoe, and ran over to rap Krassmeier on his head with her other shoe. Corella sat on the ground and tried to hold five of his parts simultaneously. Krassmeier tripped up Bobbi, whose skirt wound up around her waist, which enraged her so much she jumped up and kicked him in the side with her shod foot.

  Jerry and Oscar and Chuck and Bud rolled around and around in the field, and all at once the statue squirted out from the middle of them. Bobbi grabbed it, threw her other shoe at Krassmeier, and ran for the cars. Jerry tripped everybody.

  Bobbi was getting away. Corella and Krassmeier were both staggering around at the far end of the field, and Jerry was trying to hold onto Bud and Chuck and Oscar.

  Bobbi was almost to the cars. The six men straggled out behind her, puffing after her but not getting anywhere. Then her shoeless foot landed on a sharp rock, she let out a shriek, her forward momentum threw her off-balance, she flung her arms out to break her fall, and once again the Dancing Aztec Priest was airborne.

  The hawk slid diagonally down the sky, watching the progress of this unlikely flying creature. The statue rose, it rose, on a long gradual trajectory. It soared out over the hood of the Ford station wagon, it angled swiftly down, it suddenly rushed, it crashed to the concrete directly in the path of a giant tractor-trailer coming along at seventy-seven miles an hour, and eight rushing huge tires sequentially smashed it down into a million jaundiced pieces on the highway.

  The seven bedraggled, panting people lined up on the verge, gazing at the golden shards. White plaster dust dimmed the gilt. Another hightailing truck roared by, and the remains became less visible. Already the pieces were hard to see.

  “After all that,” Bobbie said.

  “It’s the wrong one,” Krassmeier said.

  “The wrong one,” Chuck said.

  “It isn’t gold,” Oscar said.

  “Back to New York,” Jerry said.

  “Back to New York!” Bud and Corella said.

  “Back to New York!” Krassmeier and Chuck and Oscar said.

  “Back to New York! Hustle!”

  Into the cars they clambered and peeled away, Jerry and Bobbi first in the Ford station wagon, the other five immediately after. The wind of their passage raised a bit of plaster dust, which soon dispersed.

  The hawk rested on the air currents a minute longer, but nothing else occurred. As for that field, all those people had pretty well loused it up as a hunting spot Any rabbit or mouse that might have been in that territory would be miles from here by now.

  “Caw!” said the hawk, which translates as “Assholes!” His wings beating, he headed south.

  THE RABBLE …

  Everybody was there.

  Well, not exactly everybody. Swimming pool salesman Wally Hintzlebel wasn’t there, because he hadn’t been invited; in fact, he was at home right now, in his kitchen, playing canasta with his mother. And nobody had been able to find Jenny Kendall or Eddie Ross, who at this moment were sharing hamburgers over a wood fire beside a New Hampshire stream. And neither Felicity Tower nor Pedro Ninni was present; both were uptown, exhausted, but gradually rebuilding their strength and beginning once again to eye one another. And José Caracha and Edwardo Brazzo were seated at a wooden table in an underfurnished room downtown, filling out forms for the State Department, Customs, Immigration & Naturalization, FBI, CIA, the Public Health Service, the Foreign Assets Control division of the Treasury Department, Secret Service, the New York City Police Department, and the New York State Parole Board. (They had writer’s cramp.)

  Which is seven people who weren’t there. But nineteen people were there, and that’s a lot of people. Particularly to all be crowded into David and Kenny’s living room, which wasn’t that big to begin with.

  Here’s who was there: Victor Krassmeier, and his associate August Corella. Jerry Manelli and the other three members of Inter-Air Forwarding, being Mel Bernstein, Frank McCann, and Floyd McCann. And thirteen members of the Open Sports Committee: F. Xavier White, Mandy Addleford, Ben Cohen, Mrs. Dorothy Moorwood, Oscar Russell Green, Chuck and Bobbi Harwood, Bud Beemiss, Wylie Cheshire, David Fayley, Kenny Spang, Leroy Pinkham, and Marshall “Buhbuh” Thumble.

  It was nine o’clock at night, and they’d all been here for nearly an hour, and so far nothing had been accomplished except a lot of belated discoveries and realizations, some of them positive and some of them less so. Members of the Open Sports Committee kept pointing at members of the Inter-Air Forwarding group and saying, “You!” Ben Cohen and Wylie Cheshire, for instance, both pointed like that at Mel, and both seemed prepared to settle personal grudges with Mel r
ight here and now. Leroy and Buhbuh, they had the same feeling about Frank and Floyd, but F. Xavier remembered Frank and Floyd with fond humor. And David Fayley and Kenny Spang were absolutely ecstatic when they recognized Jerry and realized what they meant. “You little goose,” Kenny said to David, “did you really think I’d—” “Oh, Kenny!” David cried. “I was so afraid!”

  The main problem in getting the meeting under way was that everybody wanted to run it. Oscar wanted to run it, but so did football lineman Wylie Cheshire. So did Bud Beemiss, and so did Chuck Harwood. Krassmeier took it for granted he’d run the meeting, and Corella tried to take over by intimidation.

  Corella finally won. What he did, he went to the kitchen and found a package of four light bulbs. He brought these back to the living room, stood on a chair, and threw one of the light bulbs against the wall. It made that satisfactory HO gauge explosion that light bulbs do, and there was a shocked and bewildered silence. Into it, Corella attempted to insert himself, saying loudly, “Okay now, let’s get organized!”

  Which resulted in eleven people all simultaneously having something to say. So Corella threw another light bulb against the wall, was rewarded with another pop, and silence returned. Except that this time it was Kenny Spang who inserted himself into it, crying, “Jee-ziz Christ! What are you doing?”

  Corella glowered. If you asked him, that bird was a fruit. “Getting a little peace and quiet,” he said, and held up a third light bulb. “And this one,” he said, “I throw at the next big mouth that opens up. Now let’s get organized.”

  There was some mutinous rumbling, and much shuffling of feet, but no big mouths opened up, and Corella went on: “The situation is,” he said, “there was sixteen statues. Definitely one of them is real, but we all missed it the first time through. Now, a lot of them are for sure not it, because they’ve been busted up, so it’s gotta be one of the ones left over. Any of you people got a list of the Open Sports Committee?”

  Bud Beemiss did. He handed it to Corella, who used it to run down the fate of every statue, and when he was done the mystery was deeper than ever:

  Oscar Russell Green—broken in three places.

  Chuck and Bobbi Harwood—both smashed.

  Bud Beemiss—smashed.

  Wylie Cheshire—smashed (Wylie winced, and touched his head).

  F. Xavier White—head broken off.

  Mandy Addleford—finger broken off.

  Ben Cohen—chipped, and then paint rubbed off.

  Mrs. Dorothy Moorwood—smashed.

  David Fayley and Kenny Spang—both heads broken off.

  Jenny Kendall and Eddie Ross—both smashed.

  Leroy Pinkham—head broken off.

  Marshall Thumble—head broken off.

  Felicity Tower—finger broken off.

  “Well, goddam it,” Corella said.

  And Krassmeier snapped. “Goddam you!” he screamed at Corella. “It’s another of your failures, Corella, the statue never left South America! You’ve cost me thousands, you’ve ruined my clothing and my digestion, you BAAASTAARRRD!!” And he flung himself at Corella, knocking him off the chair, knocking them both off their feet, punching and kicking and biting and gouging while Corella thrashed around and yelled, “Help! Help! Help!”

  The others finally did get them separated and quieted down, and in the depressed silence that followed Mel Bernstein suddenly said, “Hey! Where’s Jerry? Jerry?”

  Which caused everyone else to look around, which caused Chuck Harwood to say, “Where’s Bobbi? Where’s my wife?”

  People called, “Bobbi? Bobbi?” Other people called, “Jerry? Jerry?” Other people walked through the Fayley-Spang apartment, opening doors and rucking up the rugs, but they didn’t find anybody. Jerry and Bobbi were both gone.

  THE WINNERS …

  The old man was on his hands and knees on the front lawn, a mixing bowl beside him, a tablespoon in his left hand, and a flashlight in his right. Jerry said, “What’s up, Pop?”

  “Looking for worms.”

  “You’re collecting worms?”

  “Thought I’d take up fishing,” the old man said. He looked up, and shined an appreciative flashlight on Bobbi. “Well, look at that.”

  “Bobbi Harwood,” Jerry said, and explained to her, “This is my father.”

  “Hello,” Bobbi said. “Don’t get up.”

  Gratefully, the old man sank back to his knees. “Your mother’s inside.”

  “Right Have fun with the worms, Pop.”

  “Fish,” said the old man.

  “Nice to meet you,” Bobbi said, and Jerry took her around the house and in through the back door to the kitchen, where his mother was tasting the latest spaghetti sauce. “Hiya, Mom,” Jerry said. “How is it?”

  “Not so hot,” she said, and dropped the ladle back in the pot.

  Not so hot? Since there were about fourteen ways to take that—so-so, heat, spicy—Jerry dropped the subject and said, “Mom, this is Bobbi Harwood, a new friend of mine.”

  His mother frowned at the girl. “Bobbi?”

  “Barbara,” she said. “It’s a nickname.”

  “How are you, Barbara?”

  “Wonderful,” Bobbi said, “This has been the most different day of my life.”

  Mrs. Manelli looked keenly at their faces. “Oh ho,” she said. “So this one’s special.”

  Jerry laughed and said, “The perfect spaghetti sauce, Mom.”

  Bobbi said, “What?”

  Mrs. Manelli said, “You’re hungry?”

  “Starving,” Jerry told her. “The last thing we had was lunch, way out in Pennsylvania.”

  “Go wash,” she said. “Dinner in fifteen minutes.”

  So they went up the outside staircase to Jerry’s apartment, and he let her use the bathroom first. Waiting, he stood by his front room window, whistling as he looked down at the dot of flashlight on the lawn below.

  What a day. First he had a statue worth a million dollars, and then it wasn’t worth anything. First he was ditching this girl, and now he was bringing her home. Everything was changing, inside and out.

  Back at the Fayley-Spang apartment, while Corella was leading the recap of what had happened to all the statues (and Jerry already knew they’d all been dealt with), he had walked over to Bobbi, sitting there alone on one of the delicate chairs against the wall, and he’d said, “You know, I just worked it out. There’s nineteen of us here, plus three more in your committee, so that’s a twenty-two way split even if we do find the damn thing.”

  That had made her laugh. “What’s one twenty-second of a million dollars?”

  He’d already worked it out: “Forty-five thousand. And I’ll tell you, Bobbi, I don’t know if that statue ever came up from South America or not, but I do know I don’t need to run around with twenty chowderheads to hustle forty-five grand. That much I can pick up on the street.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going home,” he’d told her. “Wanna come along?”

  And she had said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.” But then she had grinned and said, “But I’ll let you drive me to California.”

  He had hesitated. “Leave New York?”

  “We can always come back. But right now you owe me a trip to California.”

  “Then I better pay off,” he’d said.

  So here they were, and tomorrow they’d call Beacon and get another car, and who knew what would happen after that? Something different, that’s all. Let the hustles run without him for a while. A guy was crazy to spend all his life hustling a dollar, anyway. Where’d it get you? What you wanted was a person, and something to laugh about.

  It was a weird thing, but the search for the Dancing Aztec Priest was what had changed him around like this, starting with the revelation he’d had when he’d first seen the fags’ living room. There were other ways to live. You could do something else, if you wanted. And if you had a reason. Like Bobbi Harwood, for i
nstance, that was a reason.

  When Bobbi came out, shiny-faced, he grinned at her and kissed her and then went into the bathroom while Bobbi went back downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Jerry’s mother dropping a fistful of spaghettini into boiling water. Shutting the door behind herself, Bobbi said, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “One thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Never, as long as you live, call me Mother Manelli. In the meantime, sit down at the table there, tell me about yourself. You Catholic?”

  “No, I’m not,” Bobbi said. “Does it matter?”

  “Barbara,” Mrs. Manelli said, “from what I can see the last few years, the Church isn’t Catholic any more. You a New Yorker?”

  Bobbi hesitated, and felt a sudden rush of elation and discovery. “Yes,” she said, and grinned broadly, and said, “Originally from Maryland.” And went on to give her life history to this round red woman who smelled like a tomato, while at the same time she was still trying inwardly to explain her recent history to herself.

  What a day. When it had started she’d been on her way to California, alone, in a snazzy Jaguar, running away from her husband. Now she was in New York, without the snazzy Jaguar but with some sort of strange new man, who had at first stolen from her and then returned to her a statue that had at first been worthless, then worth a million dollars, then worthless again. And then she’d seen her husband Chuck in a roomful of strangers, and he had become a stranger. A shabby seedy down-at-the-heels stranger whose shoes didn’t match, and whose haircut was too long and uneven, and whose facial expression was too wishy-washy and self-centered.

  Things were shifting very fast. All her life Bobbi had thought about what would happen ultimately, would things work out in the long run, would everything be all right from now on. She and Chuck had spent ten years battling unsuccessfully for a permanent truce. And suddenly none of that mattered. She wasn’t sure whether the run would be long or short, and she didn’t care. She knew what was happening today, and she knew what would happen tomorrow, and she could make some guesses for maybe a week into the future. Who needed more than that?