by Paul Gallico
During a part of that night Julian was asleep, his head on Marshall’s lap. The truck driver said, “Your old lady’s took sick bad, eh?”
Marshall was drowsy and momentarily off guard. He said “What? Whose old lady?”
The truck driver never took his eyes off the road through which his blazing headlamps were boring a tunnel but his voice had an edge as he said, “Yours—and the kid’s, too, if he’s your brother.”
Marshall tried to cover. He said, “Oh, sure, sure. I’m afraid she don’t have much longer to go. She’s gettin’ on.”
The driver said, “Look here, feller, this isn’t any kind of a caper, is it?”
Marshall said, “No, it isn’t.”
The truck driver regarded the handsome profile for a moment in the dim lighting from the dashboard and said, “Okay then. We ought to be in Albuquerque in the morning and if it’s any kind of a racket I’m gonna turn you in.”
The big truck was on schedule and at 8 a.m. drew up at an intersection in the heart of the business area of Albuquerque. A policeman was directing traffic, passers-by were stopping at a corner news-stand to reduce piles of morning papers with black, blazing headlines and pictures.
The driver said, “Albuquerque. All out.”
Marshall reached over a hand and said, “Thanks, friend.”
The driver ignored the gesture and said, “Okay, bud, and watch out for the cops.”
“What cops?”
The driver snorted. “While you were sacked out last night I heard it on the radio. There’s a five-state alarm out for your kid brother. You said this wasn’t a caper.”
Marshall said, “I swear it isn’t.”
The driver said, “You’re a great kidder, ain’t you? You better give. You know I’m not supposed to pick anybody up. I could lose my job. You see that cop over there? I bet he’d like to know.”
Marshall said, “Okay, pal, but just hang on to that kid a sec.” He jumped down from the cab, grabbed a copy of the morning paper, left two bits and was back in again handing it to the driver. “Here, read this.”
The man stared at the hijacking headlines and photographs and took in the opening text with bulging eyes and then said, “Well, for Pete’s sake. This the kid?”
Marshall said to Julian, “Show him.”
Julian produced the Bubble Gun and squeezed the trigger. It was on its machine-gun kick releasing first a whole flight of coloured bubbles and then one large juicy one which changed magnificently into every shade of the rainbow before bursting upon the edge of the cab window.
The driver goggled and managed to say, “Well, whaddaya know? Brother!” but then said swiftly to Marshall, “So, where do you come in?”
It was Julian who filled in the gap. “He’s my friend. He’s helping me. I’m g-g-going to Washington to patent it and m-m-make a lot of money. They’re t-t-trying to stop me.”
Marshall said, “I’m giving the kid a hand. Wouldn’t you?”
The driver’s face broke into a grin. He said, “Okay then, good luck. Beat it, and keep your eyes peeled. Get out on this side and the cop won’t notice.”
They shook hands and Marshall and Julian slipped from the offside of the cab. The driver crashed into gear, wheeled his truck around the corner and left the two standing on the busy intersection feeling naked.
Marshall had to take a chance. He said to the news-vendor, “Excuse me, Mac, where’s the bus station?”
The man was busy making change and didn’t even look up. He said, “Straight ahead, four blocks. You can’t miss it.”
Marshall looked in the direction indicated. There was the traffic cop at the intersection and two blocks down a prowl car was parked at the curb. Marshall cursed himself. There were now several reasons why he wanted to finish what he had started. If they picked up the kid, he would, of course, be sent home immediately but Marshall was uncertain as to what charges would be brought against himself. He took Julian by the hand keeping him on the inside away from the curb and when the lights and the wave of the traffic cop’s arm were with them, they crossed the intersection. The cop was too busy keeping the early morning business bustle moving to pay them any mind. But the prowl car with its radio! And passers-by too, one out of every three of whom must have heard the alarm on the morning news for the red-haired kid with the gig-lamps and the stammer. Oh Christ! Was there any way around to get to the bus station another way? There they were, Julian still carrying his small case, Marshall’s belongings in one slightly larger. They were as conspicuous as though they had been bearing placards announcing their identity.
Marshall noticed suddenly that they had halted opposite a façade and entrance to one of the larger branches of the J. C. Penney chain of stores a half block in length. Marshall gave vent to an exclamation, “Hey, wait a minute!” and inspected the display window. He then said, “C’mon, kid,” and instead of going on, turned and with Julian entered the store.
The two CIA men had managed to elude the guards and officials at the gate leading to the tarmacs and runways of Mexico City’s International airport not far from where the Russian giant four-engine Tupelov jet aircraft was waiting. All the passengers had been herded inside, but the boarding steps had not yet been removed. The two men were watching the entrance anxiously.
The first said, “You sure he wasn’t among the passengers?”
The other consulting a photograph said, “They wouldn’t be that dumb.”
“Disguised maybe?”
“That isn’t how they operate.”
“They’re obviously waiting for him.”
“Uh huh.”
The first CIA man sighed and said, “Well, here we are. There’s the guy. That’s the little bastard who stole the shot.”
Nikolas Allon emerged from the departure building. He was surrounded fore and aft and on both sides by six large, tough-looking and obviously well-armed Russian bodyguards.
The second CIA man groaned, “And his pals.”
The first operative said, “Jesus, there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t stop him. They’re going crazy in Washington.”
“They go crazy. We’re the patsies. What do we do?”
They both had their hands inside their jackets fingering the butts of their shoulder-holstered guns only to find themselves hypnotized by the slow methodical march of the group striding across the tarmac in the direction of the plane. The bodyguards were looking about them and in every direction. If they noted the two CIA men when they came within range of the standing pair, they gave no sign. The hands of the two emerged from their jackets—empty.
The second CIA man put it succinctly, saying, “Kamikazes we ain’t.”
Allon climbed the stairs and entered the aircraft. The bodyguard remained grouped below until he had vanished inside the ship and the heavy door slid shut. Attendants pulled away the boarding stairs, others removed the chocks from the wheels. The four jet engines breathed heavily setting up miniature whirlwinds of dust and papers. The plane moved away and soon was heading down the runway for the takeoff point. Thereafter the two men watched the great tin bird heave itself into the deep blue Mexican sky where for an instant its glittering silver was framed against the white of the snow on the peak of Popocatepetl.
The second CIA man murmured softly, “Next stop, Moscow.”
His partner spat in disgust, “Operation Balls!”
The second CIA man supplied the coda. “You can’t win ’em all, chum.”
Marshall and Julian emerged from the glass portal of J. C. Penney. Marshall was clad in a different shirt, his stripped-down battle jacket had been stowed away and was replaced by a brown and white leather windbreaker of unborn calfskin. On the back of his head he wore a tan cowpuncher’s ten-gallon hat.
But the greatest transformation had been worked upon Julian, for he was now wearing a shirt with BUFFALO BILL lettered across the chest, fringe buckskin trousers and coat. His glasses had been removed and in addition he was wearing a Buffalo Bill stetson. To co
mplete the illusion, glued to his upper lip and chin was a Buffalo Bill moustache and goatee. He was carrying a toy rifle, and around his middle was a leather belt containing dummy cartridges and a pistol holster into which the Bubble Gun had been thrust. Minus his glasses, his carroty hair covered by the stetson, plus the costume, the goatee and moustache, he was practically unrecognizable.
Marshall no longer felt nude. He looked down upon Julian with a wide grin and said, “How’s that?”
Julian replied, “G-g-great. Is this what Buffalo B-B-Bill really looked like?”
“He sure did. You’re the spittin’ image. Okay, let’s go.” For he was now prepared to make the test.
They moved off. The cop at the intersection was still directing traffic, the patrol car containing two police was still there. Squatting on the sidewalk opposite the car was an old and wrinkled Indian man surrounded by articles of Indianware, rugs, beads and phony turquoise jewellery. Marshall leaned down and whispered something into Julian’s ear.
They approached the corner. Marshall said to Julian, “Get ’im, Buffalo.”
Julian pointed the wooden rifle at the Indian and said, “B-b-bang, you’re dead.”
The Indian looked up, smiled a cheerful, toothless smile and held out a colourful woven basket. “Indian basket. Fi” dolla. Very cheap.”
Julian drew another bead. “B-b-bang!”
They were level now with the prowl car. One of the cops leaned out of the window grinning and said, “Hey, there, don’t you shoot old Pete. Him once great big Indian chief Thunder Face, eh, Pete?”
The Indian offered the basket again. “Four dolla.”
Marshall winked at the policeman. “Old Buffalo Bill here, he just naturally shoots them pizen varmints on sight. C’mon Bill, you got ’im.” They moved on.
The policemen in the car smiled as they went and said, “Kids.” Marshall was satisfied.
They continued on threading their way through pedestrians. Julian said, “Say, they r-r-really thought I was B-B-Buffalo Bill, didn’t they?”
Marshall stopped dead so abruptly that Julian who was still holding his hand was almost yanked off his feet. “Listen kid, that goddamn stammer of yours.”
The sudden change in Marshall’s voice and expression was so startling that Julian looked up at him in alarm.
Marshall continued, “If anybody got suspicious of us that’s the first thing they’d nail you on. Do you have to do it?”
Julian said, “I d-d-don’t know.”
“It’s really a lot of crap, isn’t it?”
Julian said, “I g-g-guess—I guess so—if you say.” He was already half hypnotized by his worship and love for Marshall.
Marshall said, “Right. So, from now on we cut out the stammer. Let’s hear you say Bubble Gun.”
“Bubble Gun.”
“That’s great. Now say ding-dong-dell, pussy’s in the goddamn well.”
Julian repeated, “Ding-dong-dell, pussy’s in . . .”
Marshall stopped him with a wave of his hand, “See, there you are. Who needs it?
Julian said, “Okay,” and then with the casualness of the child who is utterly finished with a subject that is not likely ever to come up again, went on to the next. “Where do we go now?”
“You still want to go to Washington, don’t you?”
“Sure, what do we do?”
Marshall said, “Find the bus station. You’ve got your through ticket, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
Marshall said, “Okay. They’re good from anywhere. Let’s go.”
C H A P T E R
1 0
Innovation in crime, as both police and media know, invariably sparks imitators and as one grey head in a Los Angeles city room remarked in disgust, “Christ, a bus hijacked! Can you beat it? I suppose we’ll have one a week now.”
He did not have long to wait, for the next alarm in the headquarters of the bus company at Oklahoma City came in exactly twenty-four hours later concerning Bus 150, Los Angeles to New York via Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago and Cleveland, aboard which the Coote sisters were travelling on their first package tour of the United States. It was this alert pair that made the discovery that there was a hijacker aboard.
The Coote sisters, Vera and Prudence, were British, unmistakably so. Spinster sisters, habitat Vine Cottage, Birdsfeather Lane, little Eggham, Dorset, they had been the first to notice the resemblance of the man slouched across the aisle from them to the hijacker of the bus whose portrait and the story of whose crime graced the front page of their copy of the Los Angeles Times and which they had been studying with delighted horror. They had been warned by both the vicar and the colonel back home of the dangers of travel, let alone life, in the colonies, and here was breathtaking evil that in a way had touched them. Hijacking of a bus. They were on a bus.
The Coote sisters had devoured the story in the newspaper, the horrible menace to the passengers of death by gunfire, bomb, or both, the brave boy who have saved them all, the villainous perpetrator shown both shackled to the police and later arraigned. He looked every bit as bad as he was, dirty denim trousers, open shirt, curious leather jacket, stetson, his face smudged with a growth of beard, eyes bleary. He looked, in fact, just as wicked as did the fellow sitting opposite them in worn denims, open shirt, odd jacket patterned in brown and white fur, cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes, face bristling with two days’ growth. In fact, Vera and Prudence admitted to one another with the first frisson of horror, the men looked very much alike. Perhaps all hijackers in the Americas wore a standard kind of uniform. Whatever, the sisters decided that the man would bear watching.
Prudence whispered, “Where did he get on?”
Vera replied, “I don’t remember. He wasn’t there last night.”
“Do you think that the boy is with him?”
Vera said, “I don’t know.”
The child was dressed in some kind of a playsuit and most of the time had been looking out the window. Neither he nor the potential hijacker had addressed each other.
The two nervous sisters gave themselves the thrill of reading the story all over again but rather ignored the brief short which appeared at the end under the heading “Police Seek Missing Boy. Young Hero Vanishes,” and datelined El Paso, reading to the effect that the police had sent out a general alarm for Julian West, the young hero who had foiled the San Diego bus hijack and who had apparently vanished from the scene shortly after the incident. The squib did not, of course, hint at the complete bafflement of the police. One moment, according to every officer interrogated, the boy had been sitting by the side of the road waiting for the troopers to clear the traffic jam before driving him to El Paso and a plane for home, and the next he wasn’t there or anywhere else and since his disappearance no trace of him had been reported.
The bus was tooling along U.S. Highway One east of Albuquerque and entering the red and sand-coloured rocky wilderness of the Manzano Badlands.
Vera, in the window seat, looking out, observed, “What terrifying country! It’s so different from Little Eggham, sometimes I wonder if we really should have come.”
Prudence said, “Of course it’s different, but that’s why one travels.”
“Supposing there are Indians? The vicar said . . .”
“Don’t be silly. The vicar’s a fool. They killed off all the Indians. And after that, the bootleggers. Though, I suppose the colonies have never really been civilized.”
Vera said, “Now, it’s hijackers.”
Prudence said, “I’m watching him,” and stole another glance at the man slouched in his seat a few feet away from them.
In a bus that seemed filled with innocent enough and typical Americans on the move, businessmen, a few blacks, salesmen, ranchers, farmers, a family of mother, father, small son and daughter, an elderly woman going to visit her married children, he was the only really desperate-looking character.
The vicar, of course, the Coote sister
s were aware, was hopelessly behind the times, but their friend, the colonel, a relic of World War One, the sisters had taken more seriously. The colonel had read up and was something of an expert on American lawlessness, and when the two had come by a windfall inheritance and decided to see something of the world beginning with Britain’s first colony to be given its independence, the colonel had briefed them thoroughly on what might be expected, bringing them up to date on the various types of crime rampant in the States with the exception of that extra-added bonus which they might now encounter, the hijacking of a transcontinental bus.
Though there were five years between them, Prudence being the elder, there was not much to tell them apart. They had the same angularity, washed-out eyes, colourless hair and prominent teeth. They were both swathed in sensible tweeds of similar patterns and wore cloth hats.
“Oh,” said Vera, “We’re stopping. What do you suppose it is . . . ?”
Prudence looked to her right at a sign and said, “HUMBLE. What a funny name! Goodness, it’s a petrol station. We’re stopping for petrol.”
Across the aisle, Julian asked, “Where’s Humble?”
Marshall said, “Nowhere. It’s a gas station.” He barely glanced out of the window as the bus drew up to one of the big Western Oil Company’s pumps; they seemed to be just outside a hamlet called Adamana. They had left Arizona and now had crossed into Texas and the bus driver, fat, cheerful, perspiring, his shirt dark at the armpits, got out and walked over to the diesel pump and talked to the uniformed attendant. Although conversation could not be heard due to the thick windows required by the air conditioning system, a clattering from without did penetrate as a Texas state trooper on a motor-cycle drew up, stopped, remained sitting on his bike, but engaged the driver and the attendant in conversation. Then, all three looked over in the direction of the bus.
