“And us guys,” said Bang-Bang, “will wind up in the jailhouse as enemy agents.”
“And,” Izzy continued, “although I filed their 13D form with Securities and Exchange Commission, saying we were going to acquire more than five percent of a lot of oil companies, they claim they never saw the paper and we’ll be facing Federal warrants. Oy, Mr. Jet, I have never seen such trouble!”
“Well, I can solve part of it,” said Heller. “Have a sandwich and some hot coffee.” And he hefted the lunch case onto a desk.
“Oy, Mr. Jet. I wish I had your nerve!” said Izzy. “My ulcers are killing me.”
“What are you doing here?” said Heller to Delbert John Rockecenter II.
“I’m a conscientious defector,” said Twoey. “Tuesday a bunch of men with guns shot the land yacht all to pieces. Me and the staff were down at the barns feeding pigs. They set fire to the barns, too, and shot a lot of helpless swine. We barely got away with our lives. I had just got here when they closed this place down. Let me tell you, Jerome, this being a Rockecenter son is dangerous. I think I better warn you: they don’t even respect pigs! All I did was phone our father and ask him to do a commercial telling people not to eat ham. . . .”
“You phoned him?” said Heller.
“Yeah, Miss Joy left the number in the land yacht. I talk good English now and everything. There wasn’t any reason for him to blow up. Any self-respecting boar treats his kids better.”
“Mr. Jet,” said Izzy. “That’s another thing. Bleedum, our attorney, was looking up the Rockecenter wills, and did you know that there’s a ten-billion-dollar trust standing by if Rockecenter has a son? The boy would get it when he was eighteen and up to then Delbert Senior is the trustee. I don’t think it’s safe for either you or Twoey to be seen around. If you can get us out of here, I’ve got airline tickets for Brazil.”
“Eat your sandwiches,” said Heller. “The only flying that’s going to be done right now is by me.”
They had been pouring out hot coffee for themselves but they stopped and watched what Heller was doing.
Jet was assembling the spacetrooper sled. Its antigravity lifts hummed as he checked them. He verified the connections and drive power with the meter on one of its rods.
“You didn’t see this,” he said.
He gave the cat satchel and the other bag a hitch to get them around toward his back. He laid the two poles at the sled front on the windowsill. He opened the window and lay on the sled, belly down.
The three stared at him in astonishment.
“You guys just sit tight and stay alive,” said Jet. “I’m going to see what I can do to rescue you. Bye-bye.”
He wrapped his hand around the button control at the front of the right-hand pole.
The sled soared out the window and into the mist and night.
PART SEVENTY
Chapter 1
Heller launched himself into the first gray of the dawn. Unseen, flying at a thousand feet like a javelin through the whistling air, he headed southwest. The blackness and the lights of the Hudson lay below. A very faint pink strand of cloud heralded the eastern sun.
Quite unlike him, his mind was filled with misgivings and doubt. But like a gambler who stakes all on one last throw, he had to take the chance.
As he flew, he told himself his prospects did not look good. His plan was good enough, providing he could surmount one huge obstacle.
He knew he had to fight a war. It was not the war which Congress would declare on Monday. Heller’s war had to be over and done with, victorious, in just slightly more than forty-eight hours.
He didn’t have any troops. Rockecenter obviously owned the Army and told it what to do, and additionally Heller knew that the War Department was not likely to approve the battle he must fight. And win.
He knew where the troops were to be had but it was a very iffy thing: Babe Corleone!
Half a year before, due to the false publicity of J. Walter Madison, Babe Corleone had believed him to be a turncoat and traitor and a supporter of Faustino “The Noose” Narcotici. She thought Faustino had paid him to throw a race.
Faustino styled himself the capo di tutti capi. But Babe Corleone, who had guided the Corleone family since the death of her aged husband, “Holy Joe,” despised drugs and would not deal with the Faustino mob.
She had regarded Heller as a son until the fatal rift. He wondered if he were not sticking his head into a hornet’s nest now even thinking of approaching her. The wrath of the six-foot-six, statuesque, ex-Roxy chorus girl was legendary, her thirst for vengeance proverbial. When he had last seen her, she had washed her hands of him and, in sackcloth and ashes, had ordered him to get out. It had made him very sad, for he was fond of Babe. He had obeyed and had not gone near her since.
But she had soldati and, in his extremity, Heller thought just possibly he might be listened to. He was taking a long chance.
He skirted along the New Jersey shore of the Hudson, whistling lower now, barely above the height of cranes along the wharves. If defense radar picked him up they would think he was a patrol helicopter, common on this run.
The sky was growing pinker. By its light ahead he saw Bayonne. The New Jersey Turnpike, oddly empty of cars, unreeled below. Newark Bay, a pool of growing crimson now, came to view. He banked along the western edge of Bayonne Park. He spotted Babe’s high-rise. She lived in the whole top floor. It was defended like a fort, but nobody expected an approach from the roof.
Heller pressed the controls and the wind went out of his hair. He settled to a gentle, silent landing on the flat asphalt top.
It was quite light now. Daylight saving time made it 6:35. The sun would be completely over the horizon in five minutes. He had not been too soon. But what an awful hour to make a call!
He rapidly folded up the spacetrooper sled. He went to the access door, pressed his ear to it and listened. No sounds. He got out a picklock and opened the door.
Silently, he crept down the steps. He had to be very careful: he was likely to be shot, no matter who he was, coming in this way. But he could not take any chance by using the front door. It would, he thought, just get slammed in his face. He had to have a chance to state his offer.
A man was sitting in a chair by the elevator! Giovanni! Babe’s bodyguard!
He had his back to Heller. He was dozing. Heller did not want him to draw. He made a pistol out of his index finger and put it into the middle of Giovanni’s back. “Freeze,” he said, “it’s a friend.”
Giovanni whirled so fast he almost snapped his neck off. He stared. “Sacro scimmie!” he said. “Sacred monkeys, it’s the kid! Mother of God! You almost scared me to death! Where . . . ? How . . . ?” He was looking wildly around, unable to comprehend how Heller had gotten in.
Heller put down the spacetrooper sled and took off his satchels and hung them on it. He unbuttoned his jacket and opened it. “See, I’m not heeled. Not even a knife. I’ve got to talk to Babe.”
Giovanni looked uncertain and bewildered.
A call came from behind the closed door at the end of the hall. “I hear voices. Who is there?”
The hall door opened. Babe Corleone, holding a lingerie robe about her, looked out. She had a Heckler & Koch .45 in her other hand.
She peered. “Jerome? It can’t be. Jerome, is that really you?”
And then she dropped her pistol on the floor and bowed her head and began to cry. She swabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She said, brokenly, “Oh, Jerome, I am . . . I am so glad you got over being mad and came to me.”
Heller had advanced up the hall to her. “Mad at you? I thought you were mad at ME!”
“Oh, I don’t blame you for walking out,” wept Babe. “I was so awful nasty. I didn’t understand you were just setting up Faustino by getting him to confess he got you to throw the race. And then when I saw how it weakened him . . .”
“Weakened him?” said Heller.
“Ruined him in the gambling racket. He
had to pay back all the bets and nobody would trust him anymore. The numbers rackets and everything came over to us. I don’t blame you for not forgiving me and moving out and never calling again. It was just a straight Italian double-cross and I didn’t understand. I have been such a stupid mother. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I didn’t call because I thought you were still mad. I was never angry with you, even once,” said Heller.
She suddenly threw her arms around him. “You DO forgive me then! Oh, Jerome, I’ve missed you so!” She put her head down on his shoulder and cried without restraint, gripping him convulsively.
After a time they sat down upon the couch but Babe still held his hand, gazing at him with a glad smile that every now and then again dissolved into tears.
Finally she turned and yelled, “Giovanni, don’t stand around like a (bleeped) fool. Get Gregorio up and tell the (bleepard) to look alive and get Jerome some milk and cookies! And then get him some breakfast!” She turned to Jet. “You look starved. Tired, too. Nobody has been looking after you.”
“I’ve been pretty busy,” said Heller. “Been up without sleep for quite a while. How are things going with the family?”
She made a tipping motion, back and forth, with her hand. “So-so. But things weren’t the same after you left.”
“I’ve come back with a peace offering,” said Heller. “I thought even if you were still cross, you might care to listen.”
“But I’m not cross with you, dear boy. And I promise never to be so awful again. You don’t need any peace offering.”
“Well, I think you’ll be interested anyway,” said Heller. “Although I’ve not seen him in all these months, I think I can deliver Faustino into your hands.”
“You already gave us all his gambling connections. What else?”
“Faustino and the whole empire,” said Heller. “The lot.”
Babe’s gray eyes kindled with interest. “How?”
“War,” said Heller. “But I need soldati, all you’ve got. It’s no trap. I’ll do the risky part. And if all goes well, Faustino will be no more.”
“A total wipeout? A rub of the whole Rockecenter—IG Barben drug empire, too?”
“Yes, I want you to be the capa di tutti capi. The chieftainess of all chiefs!”
Babe suddenly caught her breath. “Oh, sangue di Cristo, would THAT put the mayor’s wife in her place!” She turned to Heller eagerly.
He rapidly sketched out the part of his plan she had to know.
Babe balked. “I won’t let you do it. It’s too risky for you!”
“Less risk than you think,” said Heller.
“No,” said Babe. “I didn’t get you back just to lose you! We have to remember that you’re the only son I’ve got!”
Heller took a shot in the dark. “Well,” he said, hoping it would awaken her nostalgia for her dead husband and hoping she would supply something he only thought existed, “You know what ‘Holy Joe’ used to say.”
Babe nodded thoughtfully. “‘The only good enemy is a dead enemy.’ You’ve got a point, Jerome.”
“Then that settles it,” said Heller.
She surged up, eyes glowing. “I’ll make the calls.” Then, on her feet, she checked. “But if you’re going to do something like that, you need to eat your breakfast and get some sleep. No, I won’t hear any argument. You sorely show all the signs of my awful neglect. Now do what your mother tells you. Where IS that (bleepard) Gregorio!”
She pushed Jerome into “Holy Joe’s” still-maintained bedroom. “Now take a shower. You’ve got ink all over your hands.” She rushed out to hurry up Gregorio and a tray.
Heller obediently showered. It was true that he still had some fingerprint ink on his fingers.
He heard Gregorio wheel in a trolley and leave.
Then Babe’s voice sounded somewhere, “Giovanni, you lazy son of a (bleepch), take in his baggage and help him get to bed. And then go out and get him some decent clothes. MOVE!”
Giovanni handed Heller a bathrobe over the top of the shower stall, an old, ornate robe, probably the late “Holy Joe’s.”
Heller came out. A breakfast sat under silver warming covers. He opened the satchel and let the cat out. The action did not seem to surprise Giovanni: he was oversaturated with surprises.
Jet sat down and began to eat scrambled eggs, feeding some to the cat.
“Cristo,” said Giovanni, “you sure turned the lights on. I’m glad you came back, kid. She’s been moping around for half a year. It’s good to see her at high roar. She’s out there talking on three phones at once! From what she’s saying, it sounds like a full-fledged gang war. What are we going to attack?”
Heller smiled. “You’ll find out tonight.”
PART SEVENTY
Chapter 2
Heller awoke, much refreshed, feeling he had caught up with what they call on that planet “jet lag.” Of course, a spacer seldom cares what time he sleeps, for all his days in flight are apt to be out of phase with the planets he visits.
The cat was nowhere to be seen. Jet pushed a bell to tell people he was awake.
Giovanni came in. He was holding up a tuxedo on a hanger. It was a summer-weight suit of the blackest black with an indigo velvet-flared collar. “She told me to get you some clothes, but they didn’t have much that I liked. Now, this little article will fit you like a glove, tailor-made for one of the executives. He never picked it up: He got shot. It’s got a black silk shirt, black bow tie, black cummerbund and black pearl studs. Ain’t it a beauty?”
“It would be the first time I ever went to war in a tuxedo,” said Heller.
“Yeah, but I know you,” said Giovanni. “You got class. You slept the clock around almost. You musta been shooting a lot of guys to get that tired. It’s 6:00 PM and Babe had Gregorio fix you a dinner that’ll make the table legs crack. Real Italian food, the kind you like.”
Heller got up, did a fast shave and shower. He got into the tuxedo: it did fit well, airy and cool.
“Now, that’s what I call tradition,” said Giovanni, handing him a black Homburg hat. “Give you a Tommy gun and you couldn’t tell the difference between you and “Holy Joe’s” old rumrunner mob. Except for the modern cut, of course. Babe will love it.”
Heller went out. Babe was at the table already, waiting for him. She was dressed in a beige silk safari suit with a wide collar and ruby buttons, suitably attired for a war. She looked at him with a glad smile, admired his appearance and got him seated. She was quivering with excitement, practically radiating it. She stacked his plate with antipasto.
The cat had apparently made friends. He was sitting at the table behaving himself, though he had already emptied his silver bowl of cream.
“Are all the arrangements made?” said Heller.
“Of course,” said Babe. “Now, eat a good dinner. You look thin.”
Heller was talking around a mouthful of antipasto. “And they’ll all be there?”
“I know those (bleepards),” said Babe. “Every Saturday night around 11:00 PM, they been meeting for an after-show dinner and their payoff—for the last ten years. And they’re meeting tonight. I verified.”
“And they’re never armed?”
“In the presence of Faustino? You must be kidding, Jerome. Of course, bodyguards will be outside the door and the building will be full of soldati. They’re the ones you have to be careful of. They’re always on the alert on Saturday night. Faustino himself will be heeled, of course. You wouldn’t think he could shoot the way his fat overlaps his eyes but he can, so you watch it. If it comes to him or you, make sure it’s him. Gregorio! Bring in some more antipasto!”
Heller didn’t know if he could get around what he had.
“Eat your dinner,” said Babe. “You’re thin as a rail! Listen, I got good news for you. Con Edison has had to shut down all its oil-generating plants. The only power they’re able to get into the Big Apple now is coal and hydroelectric. There’ll be no floods on the bu
ildings and no street lights. How’s that for a break! Now, enjoy your dinner, you’ve got plenty of time. ‘Holy Joe’ always used to say there was nothing like going to war on a full stomach unless it was getting stuffed at Sardine’s afterwards.”
Gregorio brought in a steaming side dish of spaghetti but Heller knew better than to eat much of that. Immediately came the entrees of lasagna and ravioli. And then Heller was inundated with fettuccini, rigatoni, chicken cacciatore, manicotti, veal parmigiana and finally linguine with both red and white clam sauce. All these were special Italian dishes served on that planet. When he was served vast blocks of spumoni, an Italian ice cream, he could hardly open his mouth.
Mission Earth Volume 8: Disaster Page 29
