“We elders strongly disapprove of such language from our squaws.”
“I’m not a … oh, forget it!… Five hundred—I can’t even think about it! We’ll be ruined, devastated, our land condemned and bought from us for nothing, taxpayers outraged, editorials in all the media denouncing us as ignorant savages and thieves—”
“Miss Redwing,” Aaron interrupted, his use of the title, her last name, and his stern voice causing Jenny to look questioningly at the renowned attorney who had become so friendly to her.
“Yes … Mr. Pinkus?”
“I shall prepare a memorandum of intent, stating quite clearly that you will, on a supreme best-efforts basis, initiate the negotiations—if and when such negotiations take place—according to the wishes of Chief Thunder Head, also known as General MacKenzie Hawkins. Do you accept this heavy responsibility?”
“Hell—” Jennifer was about to say Hell, yes! but the glint in Aaron’s eyes stopped her. “Very well, sir, no more off-color language. I know when I’ve been beaten by superior litigiousness. I’ll sign both documents.”
“That’s better, little lady,” said the Hawk, lighting a frayed cigar by lifting his leg and pulling a safety match against the right thigh of his buckskins. “You’ll see, Miss Red, the responsibility of command doesn’t stop with a single victory. We go on and on and on, always looking after the fine troops who follow us!”
“That’s very encouraging, General,” said Jennifer, smiling sweetly.
“You’re both all hearts and smarts,” said Sam. “Especially you, Pocahontas.”
Aaron Pinkus went into his brother-in-law’s office at the beach house and called his personal secretary, telling her to have Paddy Lafferty drive her out to Swampscott and to bring her notary seal. The gray-haired lady arrived, her eyes red and heavy-lidded, no doubt the results of some rampant flu, and proceeded to type out the two documents. They were ceremoniously signed, and as Aaron courteously led his obviously ill secretary to the front door, thanking her for her acceding to his needs despite her condition, the slightly unfocused woman asked, “Do you know someone named Bricky, Mr. Pinkus? He’s been asking for you.”
“Bricky?… Is there a last name?”
“I’m not sure I got it—it seemed to change.”
“You’re not well, my dear. I want you to take several days off, and I’ll have my doctor look in on you. Abraham forgive me, I do overwork you.”
“He was a very handsome young man. Shining dark hair, impeccably dressed—”
“Be careful now, watch your step.”
“He kept wanting to know where you were—”
“Easy now, there are two steps down to the flagstones.… Paddy, are you there?”
“Right here, boss!” came Lafferty’s reply from the circular drive as the chauffeur emerged from the shadows and ran up the path to the porch. “Y’know, I think she’s a bit under the weather, Mr. Pinkus.”
“It’s the flu, Paddy.”
“If you say so, sir.” Lafferty took the secretary, pulling her left arm around his shoulders as he helped her down toward the car.
“Bricky is my darling, my darling, my darling …!” The words floated up in song, fading into the tall pines that bordered the circular drive. “… he’s the only boy for me—only boy for me!”
Relieved, Aaron turned back to the front door, prepared to go inside, when he stopped, his head cocked in bewilderment.… Bricky?… Binky?… Binghamton Aldershot, otherwise known as Binky on the Cape, the nearest thing Boston had to an international financier, hiding behind the iron gates of his Beacon Hill bank?… Wasn’t there a nephew somewhere? A youngish womanizer with a similar nickname, whom the Aldershots kept on a tenuous financial tether, if only to keep the idiot from embarrassing the family.… No, it was impossible. His personal secretary of fifteen years was a mature woman, previously a novitiate who had turned away from her vows, opting for a more worldly world, but withal a woman deeply committed to her faith. Ridiculous. A coincidence. Pinkus opened the door and stepped into the foyer only to hear the telephone ring.
“Okay, Cyrus!” Sam Devereaux yelled into the phone. “Remember, he’s an actor, so don’t lose your temper, okay? Just bring him out here.… What? He wants a contract stipulating that he has star billing!… With who—what? His name in print … above and in equal size in type to that of the title? Holy shit!… What about money, has he made any demands there?… Nothing, just his billing? Christ, write out whatever he wants and get him here!… A ‘run-of-the-play,’ no dismissal during rehearsals without full compensation? What the fuck does that mean?… I don’t know, either, but put it into his contract.”
An hour and twenty-two minutes later, the front door opened and the orange-shirted Gypsy with the long blue sash around his waist lunged into the foyer, balletically spinning until he reached the entrance to the huge living room, where the three attorneys and General MacKenzie Hawkins sat in a semicircle. All heads turned as Roman Z made his announcement.
“Beautiful, beautiful lady, and you gentlemen of—well, adequate appearance. I now present to you Colonel Cypress, a man with the strength of a Mediterranean tree, who has an announcement.”
“Enough about him!” came the whisper, hissed from the dark foyer. “It’s me, you bounder!”
The enormous and embarrassed figure of the black mercenary appeared. “Hi, there, folks,” said Cyrus, as tongue-tied as a normally confident man could be. “I would like to introduce an artist who has appeared in many of the great Broadway shows of our time, whose brilliant reviews have been abash in our land—”
“That’s ‘awash,’ you idiot!”
“An actor of supreme depth and widespread perversity—”
“Di—dye—versity, you ass!”
“Hell, man, I’m doing the best I can—”
“Long introductions, inadequately presented, kill an entrance. Get out of my way!”
The tall, lean man swept down the short steps into the living room with a flair and an energy that belied his age. With gray, flowing hair, sharp features, and glaring eyes that bespoke a thousand such electric entrances on stage, he stunned the small group in front of him, as he had done with countless full houses in the past. His gaze settled upon Aaron Pinkus; he approached the attorney with a courtly bow.
“You have summoned me, sire, and I have obeyed. Your servant and boldest knight-errant, m’lord!”
“Why, Henry,” said Aaron, getting out of his chair and shaking hands with the actor. “That was just wonderful! It reminded me of when you did your one-man show for Shirley’s Hadassah, the excerpt from The Student Prince, I believe.”
“I don’t remember too many of the smaller—forgive me—my out-of-town performances, dear boy.… However, I think it must have been six and a half years ago roughly—on March twelfth, if I’m not mistaken, at two o’clock in the afternoon. I vaguely recall it, for I don’t believe I was in my best voice that day.”
“You certainly were, you were splendid.… Here, let me introduce you to my friends—”
“My C-sharp wasn’t full,” continued the actor, “but then the piano player was dreadful.… You were saying, Aaron?”
“My friends, I’d like you to meet them.”
“I certainly wish to, especially this adorable creature.” Sir Henry reached for Jennifer’s left hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes looking into hers as he gently kissed the back of her palm. “You make me immortal by your touch, sweet Helena.… Have you ever thought of a theatrical career?”
“No, but I once did a little modeling,” replied Redwing, not only caught off guard but modestly enjoying the moment.
“A step, dear child, merely a step, but in the right direction. Perhaps we should lunch one day. I give private lessons, the fees in certain cases, shall we say, dismissible.”
“She’s a lawyer, for God’s sake!” said Sam, not entirely sure why he was so adamant.
“That’s a terrible waste,” said the actor, slowly releasin
g the hand in his grip. “As the Bard put it in Henry Six, Two, ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ … Not you, of course, Aaron, for you have the soul of an artist.”
“Yes, well, let me introduce you, Henry. The actress—the attorney—is Miss Redwing.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle—”
“Before you maul her hand again, I’m Sam Devereaux, and I’m also an attorney.”
“Shakespeare had his insights—”
“And this gentleman in Indian attire is General MacKenzie Hawkins—”
“Oh, you’re the one!” exclaimed the performer, grabbing the Hawk’s hand and shaking it firmly. “I saw that film about you—how could you stand it? Didn’t you have any control over the casting, the script? My God, man, that jackass playing you should have worn lipstick!”
“I think he did,” said the general warily, but not unimpressed.
“Everyone,” interrupted Pinkus, “I want you to meet Henry Irving Sutton, as in England’s Sutton Place—his ancestral home—and frequently referred to in the newspapers as Sir Henry Irving S., after the great Victorian actor to whom he’s often compared. An outstanding artist of the stage—”
“Who says?” said Sam petulantly.
“Small minds make for large doubters,” answered Henry Irving Sutton, looking with bemusement at Devereaux.
“Who said that, Felix the Cat?”
“No, it was a French playwright named Anouilh. I doubt you’ve heard of him.”
“Oh yeah? How about ‘There’s nothing left to do but scream!’ … Huh? How about that?”
“Antigone, but your translation’s inaccurate.” Sutton turned to Hawkins. “General, do me a favor—I ask it as a former second lieutenant in the African T O, where I heard you speak many times, as often as not railing against Montgomery.”
“You were there?”
“Combat Intelligence, attached to OSS-Tobruk.”
“You boys were the best! You had those Krauts buffaloed in the big Sahara. They didn’t know where our tanks were!”
“Most of us were actors who could speak a little German. Really, we were overrated—it was so easy to portray soldiers dying of thirst and sputtering wrong information while going into comas. Actually, very simple.”
“You were in the enemy’s uniforms. You could have been shot!”
“Perhaps, but where do you get a chance to play such parts?”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned! Whatever you want, soldier, I’ll do it.”
“Screwed again,” mumbled Devereaux. “He does this to me all the time.”
“I want you to speak, General, preferably reciting something we both might know, say a piece of doggerel or a poem, or perhaps the words of a song, repeating whatever you like. Also, talk normally or shout, whatever’s natural.”
“Let’s see, now,” said the Hawk, squinting. “I’ve always been kinda partial to the old army standby, you know the one. ‘Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dustee trail—’ ”
“Don’t sing, General, just talk it through,” ordered the actor, his facial expressions instantly parroting those of MacKenzie, sounds softly emerging as the old war-horse martially peeled off the words of “The Caissons Go Rolling Along.” Then, suddenly, as though the two voices of a roundelay were merged, one fading, the other surviving, Henry Irving Sutton was speaking alone, his vocal tone and cadences, his body gestures and facial contortions, nearly indistinguishable from the Hawk’s.
“Goddamn!” exclaimed the general, as bewildered as he was astonished.
“Remarkable, Henry!”
“Not bad, if I do say so.”
“You’re a terrific actor, Mr. Sutton!”
“Oh, no, dear child of Elysium,” protested Sir Henry Irving S. modestly. “That’s not acting, it’s merely mimicry, which any second-rate comic can do. You’re fooled by the gestures and the expressions as much as you are by the vocal intonations.… I explain this thoroughly in my private lessons. Lunch?”
“Why the hell didn’t they get you to play my part in that goddamn movie?”
“A dreadful agent, mon général, you have no idea what it’s like.… Picture an outstanding staff officer who is not permitted to show his mettle in battle because his so-called superior is afraid his organization will fall apart—in my case it was a steady salary from a soap.”
“I’d have the bastard shot!”
“I tried that. Fortunately, I missed.… Lunch, Miss Redwing?”
“I think we should get down to the business at hand,” said Pinkus firmly, gesturing at the chairs and the sofa for everyone to use. They did so, Sam rushing to sit between Jennifer and Sutton.
“Of course, Aaron,” agreed the actor, glaring at the interloper. “I merely wanted to assuage a small mind that apparently belongs in the Lesser Antilles, if you catch the mixed metaphor.”
“It’s singularly apparent, Kermit the Frog,” said Devereaux.
“Sam!”
“Okay, Jenny, I’m overreacting. I never do that in court.”
“Business?” Pinkus signaled Cyrus, who was purposely staying as far away from Henry Irving S. as possible, the ride out from Boston with the actor having tried his patience, if not his sanity. “Should your colleague join us?” asked Aaron.
“I’ll tell him everything he should know,” said Cyrus quietly, sitting down. “I’d like to keep this as simple as possible. Frankly, the combo of Roman Z and your new recruit doesn’t appear to be the most stable. I’ll handle it.”
“You have a fine deep voice, young man,” interrupted Sir Henry, obviously annoyed that he could not overhear Cyrus and the elderly attorney. “Have you ever sung ‘Ol’ Man River’?”
“Get off my case, man,” said the mercenary.
“No, I’m quite serious. A revival of Showboat—”
“Henry, my friend, all that can come later,” Aaron broke in, holding up both hands in dissuasion. “We haven’t much time.”
“Of course, dear boy, the curtain must go up.”
“As soon as possible,” concurred Cyrus. “Even tonight, preferably tonight, if we can.”
“How do you think we should proceed?” asked Jennifer.
“I can make contact with this so-called Nobel committee at that hotel as the General’s civilian aide,” answered the mercenary. “I’ve got decent clothes in my suitcase, but we’ve got to get something for Roman to wear.”
“My brother-in-law has a closet full of clothes and he’s roughly your colleague’s size—he lifts weights, even at his age. Also, Mrs. Lafferty’s an excellent seamstress—”
“Then that’s settled,” interrupted the impatient Cyrus. “We just have to try and find out who those clowns from Air Force Two really are and how to handle them.”
“I’ve already done that,” said MacKenzie Hawkins, relighting his mangled cigar.
“What?”
“How?”
“When?”
The tumult of stunned voices assaulted the Hawk, who merely raised his bushy eyebrows and blew a circle of smoke above his face.
“Please, General!” pressed Cyrus. “This is important. What did you do?”
“You lawyers and chemists think you’re so smart, but you’ve got damn short memories.”
“Mac, for Christ’s sake—”
“Especially you, Sam. You’re the one who figured it out; of course, I was ahead of you, but I was proud of your off-scene analysis.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Little Joseph, boy! He’s still there—”
“Who?… Where?”
“That hotel, the Four Seasons. I talked to him a half hour ago and he’s on top of things.”
“On top of what? You can’t trust that little bastard, Mac, you said so yourself!”
“I can now,” said the Hawk emphatically. “He flagrantly abuses his per diem privileges, a sure sign of an independent subordinate, and he tries repeatedly to provoke me—that’s a man you can have some fait
h in.”
“The logic escapes me,” said Pinkus.
“He’s crazy,” said Jennifer softly, her wide, disbelieving eyes on the general.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Cyrus. “A hostile underling tells you where you stand. You’re not likely to get fragged by him because he’s done just that.”
“You’re crazy, too,” observed Devereaux.
“Not really.” The mercenary shook his head. “There’s a maxim that goes back to the Cossack wars. ‘You kiss the boot before you hack it off with your saber.’ ”
“I like it, I like it,” cried the actor. “A perfect second-act curtain!”
“Maybe I’m crazy, too,” added the daughter of the Wopotamis, “but I think I understand you.”
“I would hope so,” said Sam sardonically. “To clarify, Counselor, one does not throw suspicion on oneself before committing a crime.”
“Smart ass,” muttered Redwing. “I see your point, Cyrus, so what do we do?”
“The question is, what has the general done.”
“It’s quite acceptable,” said the Hawk. “And considering your background, I think you’ll approve.… I’ve instructed Little Joseph, who, although advanced in years, is a born infantry scout, to survey the situation from all points of the battleground. He’ll check out their bivouacs, the whereabouts of support troops and their firepower, if there are any, your escape routes, if necessary, and the best camouflage you can employ reaching zero target.”
“Zero what?” exclaimed Sir Henry.
“No, no, Henry, I’m sure the general’s exaggerating!” interrupted Pinkus, staring at MacKenzie, then shifting his intense gaze to Cyrus. “You guaranteed there’d be no violence, no lack of safety procedures!”
“There won’t be, on either count, Mr. Pinkus. The general’s merely using military terms to describe this so-called committee’s hotel rooms and the proper attire—”
“You misunderstood me, Aaron, dear boy!” The actor rose to his feet, his profile (that’s “profeel”) to the right, his jaw firm, his eyes glowing. “I welcome the assignment, a glorious pursuit—whatever it is. Remember, General, when we joined the Brits and slogged our way toward El Alamein!”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 37
