“Good thinking,” said Mac. “The Geneva Convention calls for humane treatment for prisoners of war.… Where the hell’s D-One?”
“Right here, loco man,” answered Desi the First, coming around the trunk of the Chevrolet while counting a roll of bills. “Deze amigos should find better yobs or better women. If it wasn’t for your man in dee photograph, they h’ain’t worth the trouble.”
“We don’t strip prisoners of nonhostile personal possessions,” said the Hawk firmly. “Put it back in their wallets.”
“Hey, man,” protested D-One, “what’s personal about dinero? I buy somet’ing from you, I pay. You buy somet’ing from me, you pay. A personal possession is somet’ing you keep, right? No one keeps dinero, so it’s not personal.”
“They didn’t buy anything from you.”
“What about deze?” said D-One, holding up a pair of trousers. “And doze,” he continued quickly, pointing at the shoes.
“You stole ’em all!”
“Dat’s life, loco man. Or, as you say, dat’s ‘strategy,’ right?”
“We’re wasting time, but I’ll say this now. You’ve both shown exemplary initiative, one might even say extraordinary inventiveness under fire. You’re a credit to this outfit and I’ll recommend you for commendation.”
“Dat’s beautifool!”
“Is dat more dinero, huh?”
“We’ll get to that later; the objective comes first. Where’s the target?”
“Dee skinny man in d’photograph?”
“Right on, soldier.”
“He’s inside, and dot is a joint my mama and my priest would spit on me for ever goin’ into!” exclaimed D-Two, blessing himself. “H’oh boy!”
“Bad whisky, eh, son?”
“Bad entretenimiento. Like you say here, repugnante!”
“I don’t think we say that, boy. You mean disgusting?”
“Well … one half, not the other half.”
“I don’t follow you, Corporal.”
“Everything jiggles. Top and bottom.”
“Top and …? Holy hordes of Genghis Khan! You mean—”
“Daz wot I mean, loco man! I sneaked in to find the gringo you don’ like.… He was hangin’ up the teléfono and went to dee big round bar where all these crazy people were dancin’—desnudo, señor!”
“And?”
“He’s h’okay. He watched the mujeres, not the hombres.”
“Christ spinning a yo-yo! We don’t just have to take the son of a bitch, we have to rescue him. Roll troops!”
Suddenly, without warning, a small green Buick sped out of the line of cars in the Nanny’s Et Cetera parking lot, screeching to a stop only yards in front of the Hawk and his advancing aides-de-camp. A frail figure emerged, his gaunt face impassive, but his dark eyes alive with electricity. “I think this is as far as you should go,” he said.
“Who the hell are you, little man?” cried MacKenzie Hawkins.
“Little in stature, but not necessarily in stature, if you can follow a dual application of terms.”
“I break the liddle old gringo in half, but I don’ hurt him too bad, h’okay, loco man,” said D-One, walking forward.
“I come to you in peace, not violence,” said the driver of the Buick rapidly. “Simply to confer on a civilized basis.”
“Hold it!” ordered the Hawk, stopping D-One. “I repeat, who are you and what’s the nature of this conference?”
“My name is Aaron Pinkus—”
“You’re Pinkus?”
“One and the same, sir, and I assume that under that rather foolish-looking wig, you’re the celebrated General MacKenzie Hawkins?”
“One and the same, sir,” replied Mac, dramatically ripping the inadequate toupee away from his bristling, gray military brushcut and standing erect, the very breadth of his shoulders threatening. “What have we to say to each other, sir?”
“I’d estimate a great deal, General. I’d like to think of myself, with your permission, General, as your counterpart, the commander of the opposition for this small skirmish we find ourselves in. Is that acceptable?”
“I’ll say this for you, Commander Pinkus. I thought I had superb support adjutants, but you outflanked ’em, I’ll not deny it.”
“Then you must reevaluate that judgment, General. I didn’t outflank: them, I outflanked you. You see, you remained on that busy street for over an hour, so I had my Buick brought down and stayed behind you when you followed Shirley’s limousine.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Your two men were brilliant, positively brilliant. In fact, I would happily employ either of them. The business in the fish market, the reconvening in the shadows of the doorways across the street—and, wondrously, without a car key, but by simply raising the hood of this car in front of us, turning on the engine! All my purported wisdom deserts me. How did they do it?”
“Ee’s simple, Comandante,” said a bright-eyed D-Two. “You see, there are three wires that have to be pried loose and den you cross—”
“Halt!” yelled the Hawk, staring at Aaron Pinkus. “You said you outflanked me, you old bastard—”
“I suspect we’re the same age,” interrupted the renowned Boston attorney.
“Not where I come from!”
“Nor perhaps myself, except for the shrapnel in my spine from Normandy,” said Pinkus quietly.
“You were—”
“Third Army, General. But let’s not get off the track. I did outflank you, because I’ve recently become familiar with your military record, your unorthodox but marvelously successful tactics. I had to be, for Sam’s sake.”
“Sam? Sam’s the man I’ve got to see!”
“You will do that, General. And I shall be in attendance for every word you say.”
Without warning or even a hint of sound until it swung off the highway and into the parking lot, the thunderous engine of the Pinkus limousine announced the vehicle’s Wagnerian presence to the area. Obviously spotting his employer’s Buick, Paddy Lafferty swerved to the left and sped across the pavement, tires howling as he skidded to a stop ten feet in front of the small gathering at the side of the building. The chauffeur leaped out of the car, his sixty-three-year-old bulk prepared for all manner of brutal assaults.
“Stand aside, Mr. Pinkus!” he roared. “I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, sir, but these scum won’t touch you!”
“Your concern is very gratifying, Paddy, but no show of force is required. Our conference proceeds peacefully.”
“Conference …?”
“A council of commanders, you could say.… Mr. Lafferty, may I introduce you to the great General MacKenzie Hawkins, of whom you may have heard.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” whispered the chauffeur, dumbstruck.
“Dee loco man is really a heneral grande?” said Desi-One, equally impressed.
“El soldado magnífico!” added Desi-Two softly, staring in wonder at the Hawk.
“You won’t believe this,” choked Paddy, finding a small part of his voice. “I was thinkin’ about you only moments ago, sir, your great name having passed the lips of a reverent former young soldier.” Suddenly the chauffeur stood at attention, whipping his right arm up in a snapping salute. “Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Lafferty at your service and your command, sir!… This is a privilege beyond me wildest dreams—”
Then the screaming began, muted at first by the distant highway traffic, but growing louder by the moment as the racing feet approached them. “Paddy, Paddy! I saw the limo! Where are you, Paddy?… For Christ’s sake, Lafferty, answer me!”
“Over here, Sam. Quick march, soldier!”
“What?” Devereaux raced around the corner of the building gasping for breath. Before he could adjust his eyes to the shadows, Patrick Lafferty barked his authoritative sergeant’s bark. “ ’Tenhut, boyo! I present you to one of the great men of our time, General MacKenzie Hawkins!”
“Hi, Sam.”
Devere
aux was momentarily paralyzed, capable only of deep-throated moans that emerged from his gaping mouth, his eyes wild in panic. Abruptly, with the speed of a terrified egret, he whipped around and started racing across the parking lot, waving his arms helter-skelter and raging at the descending sun.
“After him, adjutants!”
“For God’s sake, stop him, Paddy!”
The Hawk’s aides-de-camp were swifter than Aaron Pinkus’s older chauffeur. Desi the First tackled Sam perilously close to the lowered tailgate of a pickup truck, while Desi the Second held Devereaux’s head and, ripping off his tie, stuffed it into his mouth.
“Boyo,” shouted the revisited Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Lafferty, “it’s a disgrace, you are! is that any way to show respect to one of the finest men who ever wore the uniform?”
“Mmmfff!” protested Samuel Lansing Devereaux, pinching his eyes shut in defeat.
8
“Nice quarters, Commander Pinkus, very nice, indeed,” announced MacKenzie Hawkins, striding out of a bedroom in the hotel suite to which the conference had repaired. The former general’s gray gabardine suit had been replaced by his Indian buckskins and his beaded Wopotami jacket—without, however, his tribal headdress. “It’s obvious you’re high-strategy staff.”
“I keep the place for business purposes and also because Shirley likes the address,” said Aaron absently, his concentration on the voluminous pages scattered over the desk in front of him, his eyes behind his thick glasses wide with anticipation. “This is incredible!” he added quietly.
“Well, sir, having been with Winston at Chequers,” interjected the Hawk, “I wouldn’t go that far. I simply said it was very nice. The ceilings aren’t nearly so high, and the historical prints on the walls are definitely third-rate and actually clash with the decor, as well as with accuracy.”
“We in Boston do our best to introduce the tourists to our past, General,” mumbled Pinkus, his concentration on the papers uninterrupted. “Accuracy has little to do with environmental authenticity.”
“Dante crossing the river—”
“Try Boston Harbor,” broke in Aaron, turning over a page. “Where did you get this?” he suddenly cried, taking off his glasses and staring at MacKenzie. “What extraordinary scholar of both law and history put it all together? Who’s responsible?”
“Him,” replied the Hawk, pointing at the shell-shocked Devereaux, sitting on the couch ten feet away. He was squashed between his two guards, Stosh and Knute, his arms and legs free to move but not his mouth, which was bound with three-inch-wide adhesive tape. Of course, General Hawkins had insisted that Sam’s lips be layered with Vaseline so as not to violate the Geneva accords for prisoners of war. In truth, no one could stand listening to Devereaux’s diatribes any longer, including the general’s aides-de-camp, Desi-One and Desi-Two, who stood behind the couch, their postures erect and their arms militarily akimbo.
“Samuel did this?” asked Aaron Pinkus in disbelief.
“Well, not actually himself, but he certainly was the spirit behind it, so you could say that in a very real sense he’s responsible.”
“Mmmfff!” came the muted but still howling protest from the couch as Devereaux lunged forward, tripping over his feet and landing facedown on the floor. Grimacing in fury at the Hawk, he scrambled up as the general gave his command.
“Adjutants, assault positions!” As a trained commando unit, Desis One and Two leaped over the couch, the former using the rim of the sofa, the latter the head of Knute to vault over the couch and instantly close the distance between themselves and Sam. Pinning him back on the floor, they looked up at the Hawk for instructions.
“Well done, gentlemen.”
“No wonder you recruited from your own personnel, General,” said Pinkus admiringly, standing up behind the desk. “Are they Rangers?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replied MacKenzie. “They’re specialists in airport security.… Let him up, men. Put him in the chair in front of the desk and flank him.”
“You two,” said Aaron, looking over at Sam’s bewildered Boston guards and speaking gently but not without a mild rebuke. “I don’t mean to criticize, yet it appears to me that you might benefit from some of this military instruction, as it obviously pertains to your work. These soldiers are inordinately quick to perceive the necessity for action, and their nonviolent tactics—such as stripping you of your trousers—is most impressive.”
“Hey, Comandante!” offered D-Two, grinning widely. “You rip off a gringo and take his pants, he h’ain’t goin’ run into d’street yellin’ his head off, h’okay?”
“That’ll do, Corporal. Barracks humor doesn’t carry well with passive combatants.”
“Beautifool!” cried D-One.
“General,” said Pinkus, “if you think it’s feasible, I believe it’s time we now restrict this conference to you, Samuel, and me.”
“I quite agree, sir,” agreed the Hawk. “The sequestered discussions between us should be opened up to include the young fellow.”
“Perhaps you might consider tying him—loosely, to be sure—to the chair, as Mr. Lafferty—excuse me, Sergeant Lafferty did previously.”
“Then you must have dismissed the gunny when you talked to Sam.”
“The gunny?… Oh, yes, the gunnery sergeant—yes, I did.”
“No need for that, now. I’m here.… Adjutants, stand to! You’re dismissed for mess call.”
“Hey, loco man, we’re real pretty.”
“Grub, Corporal. Get some food in your bellies and report back here in one hour.” MacKenzie reached into his buckskin pocket and withdrew his money clip, peeling off several bills and handing them to D-One. “I’m adding this to your per diem due to your outstanding efficiency.”
“Ee’s our dinero?” said D-Two, scowling at the money.
“Supplemental pay, Corporal. It’s in addition to your dinero, which will come later. Take the word of a general officer.”
“H’okay, grande Heneral,” responded D-One. “We take a lot, but when do you give?”
“Let’s have no hint of insubordination, young fella. Despite the fact that our close association on this mission permits a degree of camaraderie, others might not understand.”
“Beautifool! I don’t understand, neither.”
“Get something to eat and come back in an hour. Dismissed!” Desis One and Two shrugged and went to the door, the former checking the time on the three watches strapped to his left wrist as they let themselves out. The Hawk then nodded to Aaron Pinkus. “As my captive and, somewhat contrary to tradition, also my host, you may address your troops, Commander.”
“You’re what and I’m who?… Oh, yes, I understand.” Pinkus turned to the perplexed Stosh and Knute on the couch. “Gentlemen,” he began hesitantly, searching for the appropriate words, “you are relieved of your current duties, and if you would be so kind as to come to our office tomorrow—at your convenience, of course—you will be reimbursed by our accounts department, naturally including the rest of the evening.”
“I’d put ’em in the stockade!” shouted the Hawk, shoving his cigar into his mouth. “They’re assholes! Dereliction, incompetence, and freezing under fire—damn near court-martial material.”
“We do things differently in civilian life, General. Dereliction and incompetence are necessary components in the lower ranks of the work force. Otherwise, their superiors, who are frequently less competent but speak better, could never justify their salaries.… Off you go, gentlemen, and I’m quite sincere in my suggestion that you seek the training so well inculcated in your counterparts on the general’s staff.” Stosh and Knute, their sad expressions conveying their genuinely hurt feelings, left quickly. “There, General,” said Aaron. “We’re alone.”
“Mmmfff!” cried Devereaux.
“I included you, Samuel. As much as I might prefer to overlook you, it’s not very easy to do so.”
“Mmmgfff?”
“Cut your whining, son,” o
rdered the Hawk. “As long as you don’t shout your goddamned head off, your hands are free and you can remove the security strip.… No sweat, your mouth will still be there, I’m sincerely sorry to say.” Slowly at first, then in a burst of machismo, Sam yanked the tape off, yelped, then proceeded to purse his lips about in various contortions as if to make sure they were functional. “You look like a skinny piglet in heat,” added MacKenzie.
“You look like a cigar-store Indian who just escaped from a quarantined wigwam!” yelled Devereaux, leaping up from the chair. “What the hell are you supposed to be, Tonto with a lobotomy?… And what the hell do you mean—I’m responsible for whatever that crap is on Aaron’s desk? I haven’t seen you or heard from you in years, you low-life worm of worms!”
“You still have a tendency to get a mite excitable under pressure, don’t you, boy?”
“In his defense, General,” interrupted Pinkus, “in the courtroom he’s ice-cold, a veritable laid-back James Stewart, the stutter itself pure calculation.”
“In a courtroom,” exploded Sam, “I know what the hell I’m doing! When I’m around this subterranean son of a bitch, I never knew, because he either didn’t tell me, or the gung-ho maggot lied to me!”
“Wrong terminology, young fella. It’s called disinformation for your own protection—”
“It’s called bullshit, ensuring my own self-destruction! Now answer my question: Why am I responsible—no, wait a minute—What am I responsible for? How can I be responsible for whatever dumb thing you’ve done when we haven’t spoken to each other in years?”
“Again, in fairness,” Pinkus broke in, gently but firmly. “General Hawkins stated that you were responsible only in the sense that you were the spirit behind the project, said spiritual influence subject to the widest possible interpretation or misinterpretation thus limiting or conceivably eliminating any liability or even association with the endeavor.”
“Stop playing lawyer with this overgrown mutant, Aaron. The only law he knows makes jungle justice look like high tea in an English rose garden. He’s pure savage without one iota of redeeming morality!”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 12
