A Hard Act To Follow

by Troy Conway

  They took one look at me and their faces went white. Chiquita retreated fearfully to a neutral corner. The Big Head blinked, ran his fingers through his hair, looked around, toyed with his hound’s-teeth necklace and poked his hands in and out of the folds of his robe. Finally he managed to sputter, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I flashed a Mike Hammer grin. “Waiting for you, pal. We were supposed to have a little discussion, remember?”

  He looked around again, as if trying to find a hole to crawl into. Then he pulled himself together and regarded me with the expression of a haughty personnel director getting ready to give the heave-ho to an unwelcome job applicant. “I’d like to spend some time with you, Damon,” he said, “but I suddenly find myself very busy. Let me have your phone number, and I’ll give you a ring when things slow down.”

  My grin broadened. “I can’t wait that long, Worthington. I’m anxious to share my ideas with you.”

  He went to the mirror over the sink and began washing off his makeup. “Write me a letter about them,” he smirked. “If I like what I read, you might just get an answer.”

  I got up from the john and positioned myself behind him. My eyes founded found his in the mirror. For a moment I just glowered at him and let him see that hate that was raging inside me. Then, with one quick motion, I grabbed his hair and tugged his head back until his body was arched like a bent sapling and his face was looking at me upside down. My knee found a spot midway up this spine and pressed hard against it. “Now listen, Worthington, and listen good,” I hissed. “I know about The Big Freak-Out. I know when it’s coming off and I know who’s behind it. I know when it’s coming off and I know who’s behind it. I know where your people are going to be stationed when they make their big move, and I know just how they’re going to go about it.”

  He squirmed, and I dug my knee harder into his back.

  “Let me go!” he gasped. “You’re killing me!”

  I pulled his head farther down and drove my knee farther up.

  “Please!” he begged. “I don’t Know what you’re talking about!”

  I smiled and gave him a little more of the same treatment.

  Tears came to his eyes and his voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. “Please, Damon! Let me go! I’ll do anything you say!”

  I held on tight. “Okay, Worthington, here’s what I want you to do. Go back to your bosses and tell them I want a piece of the action. One way or another I’m going to get it. If they cut me in voluntarily, we can be partners and split the pie right down the middle. If they don’t the people I’m working with are going to stage another coup a few minutes after your people stage theirs. We’re a lot better equipped than you are and a lot better equipped than you are and a lot better organized. You won’t stand a chance.”

  I let go of his hair. He struggled to his feet, clutched his aching back and tried to assume an expression of outraged bewilderment. “For a sex researcher, Damon,” he stammered, “you’re a pretty violent type.”

  I let my eyes narrow into little slits. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, pal. Mess up on the little mission I Just assigned you and you’ll find out how violent I really can be.”

  He straightened his robe and leaned against the sink. “I’d like to do what you want, Damon. I really would, because frankly I’m suddenly frightened to death of you.” His face showed just the right amount of fear. “But you’re talking to me wrong man. I don’t have any bosses to give your message to. And I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about with this Big Freak-Out Jazz.”

  I brought my face close to his. “Then find out, buddy. And find out fast, because I’m coming back tomorrow night at seven. When I get here, I want that goon you’ve got at the door to bow and scrape and address me as ‘sir’ before he ushers me to your bathroom. And when I see you, you’d better have an answer for me. If it’s yes, there won’t be any problems. If it’s no, you’re going to have a million of ‘em.”

  He started to protest, but cut him off.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Don’t get any ideas about sending one of your gooks with piano wire after me. I’m not alone in this thing. If one of your people kills me, you’ll never live to celebrate my funeral.”

  His mouth was open, but no words came out, He just stood there, clutching the sink and looking scared.

  I glanced at Chiquita, who was still cowering in the corner. “You were lots of fun at the party, kiddo,” I told her. “Don’t blow your cool and we might trip the light fantastic again when all this is over.”

  It was a great exit line, and I knew I’d never be able to top it, so I took off before either of them had a chance to reply.

  Out on the street, I made a beeline for a phone booth. When Aunt Matilda answered my call, I told her what I had done. Then I asked her to get on the line as quickly as possible with one of the agency’s New York operatives. I wanted the operative to meet me at my apartment at midnight with a forty-five automatic, a shotgun and enough ammo to blow the East Village into Long Island Sound.

  She promised to set things up without delay. I hung up and headed for The Ink Well.

  The Decline of the West wasn’t on duty, but a twenty-dollar bill persuaded the bartender to give me the name and address of every man in the group. I tried Egbert’s pad first. When two minutes of pounding on the door failed to produce a reply, I headed for the next place on the list. There was no answer there either, but there was at the third place, and the guy who answered was Egbert himself.

  “Come on outside,” I told him. “I want to talk to you.”

  His dilated pupils told me that he was flying higher than a Boeing 707. “Sorry, baby, I’m busy,” he mumbled. “Catch me some other time.

  I caught him all right—by the throat. His eyes bulged and the veins in his forehead threatened to burst as I bore down on his adam’s apple and swung him around into the hallway. “I don’t like rude creeps, creep,” I said. “And you’re a rude creep.”

  I squeezed harder and his face turned dark red. Then his mouth popped open, and an unintelligible little squcal came out. I loosened my grip enough to let him try again. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Honest, I’m sorry.”

  I let him go. He dropped to the floor, clutching his throat. I buried my heel in his chest to keep him there. “Egbert,” I said, “you can’t hold your acid, and a man who can’t hold his acid is a danger to the movement.”

  His eyes found mine, and suddenly he seemed very sober. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked.

  “You know damned well what I mean. The other night at the party you told me all about The Big Freak-Out. Me, a complete stranger. How’d you know I wasn’t with the F.B.I.?”

  “You were w-with L-lola,” he stuttered. “If-figured you were all r-r-right.”

  “But you didn’t figure I was all right last night when I saw you at The Ink Well.”

  “I-I was s-s-scared. I d-didn’t like the way you c-c-came on.”

  I took my foot off him and let him get to his feet. He brushed off, leaned against the banister and looked at me as though he were afraid I was going to breathe fire on him.

  “Egbert,” I said, “you’re dammed lucky you opened your mouth to me and not to somebody else. Four other creeps in this town opened their mouths to the wrong people, and now all four of them are dead. You’d be dead too if you didn’t cover up so well last night, but now that I’ve seen that you can think on your feet, I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Thanks,” he managed.

  I pretended I didn’t hear him. “Besides,” I went on, “I’ve got other plans for you. You’re too stoned tonight to talk sensibly, so I’ll wait till tomorrow to tell you what I have in mind. Meanwhile, I’m telling you know that I want you to stay straight until the time our thing swings into action. And I mean completely straight. No acid, no coke, no hash, Not even pot, Get it?”

  He nodded.

  I gestured toward the door. “You can go back inside now. But I’ll stop b
y your pad tomorrow to talk more. Understand?”

  He got off a weak “Yeah.”

  I tossed him a look that’d wilt an onion, then scampered down the stairs.

  My watch said five after eleven. I phoned Aunt Matilda to find out if my order for the guns and the ammo had been put through. She reported that it had. I thanked her and ducked into a nearby bar for a quick beer. Then I took a slow walk across town to my apartment, timing it so that I’d get there at exactly twelve.

  My timing was perfect. So was the timing of the little guy who came staggering down the street from the opposite direction.

  He was wearing workman’s white coveralls and a cap, the bill of which all but buried his face. The reason he was staggering was the enormous box he had hoisted over one of his shoulders. It was all of four feet long, three feet wide and two feet deep.

  “Wheah else but in dis stoopid boig wouldja fine a joik dat wants a TV set so bad he’s willing ta cough up an extra hunnert bucks fer immediate delivery ?” he asked me in a loud, obviously phony Brooklyn accent. “And wheah else wouldja fine bum like my boss dat’s so hungry fer a buck dat he wakes me outta my goilfriend’s bed alla way ova in Greepernt just ta deliva it? You wooden happen ta know wheah a guy named Rod Damon lives, wouldja buddy?”

  I peered beneath the peak of his cap. He scowled at me, and his small white teeth glinted ferociously beneath his walrus-like moustache. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot!” he missed. “Open the door! This box is heavy.”

  We carried the box up the stairs together. Inside my apartment, he pried off the top. Then, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat, he produced two forty-five automatics, a twelve-gauge shotgun, a twenty-gauge shotgun, a thirty-caliber submachine gun and nine boxes of ammunition.

  “I’ve got to give you credit,” I told him, “You really believe that what’s worth doing is worth doing well.”

  He dismissed the compliment with a shrug. “If I interpreted Aunt Matilda’s message correctly, you’re going to need all this and more. What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”

  I smiled. “A forty-five is pretty good protection against a man with a strand of piano wire, isn’t it?”

  He scowled, “Not if he gets the wire around your neck before you get a chance to pull the forty-five.”

  I gulped. “Maybe trying to force their hand wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

  He regarded me with a look of grudging admiration. “Well, Damon, it wasn’t the textbook solution to the problem, but frankly it was a brilliant idea. Dangerous, perhaps; but brilliant. Also, judging from developments of the past week, quite necessary. You see, we now believe that a target date has been set for The Big Freak-Out, and It’s right around the proverbial corner.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “As you know, you’re not the only operative our agency has on this case. Others have been keeping a close watch on suspicious hippies in San Francisco, Chicago and Miami as well as New York. Two days ago, a contingent of hippies from all four of these cities arrived in Washington. Yesterday another contingent arrived. Today, still another. All told, there are now nearly sixty-five hippies in the capital whom we suspect of involvement in the plot. Presumably this is the advance force, whose function is to set things up for the main body of troops, who’ll arrive in a day or two and make their move a day or two after that.”

  I whistled under my breath. “You think it’s that close?”

  “Yes, and here’s why. We’ve just learned from a source high up in the State Department that an ultra-top-secret and ultra-high-level diplomatic conference has been set between representatives of the United States and representatives of Communist China. The conference is scheduled to begin on the twenty-third, just nine days from today. It’s my theory that The Big Freak-out has been timed to break any where from one to four days after the conference.”

  “I don’t get it. If the Chinese want to meet us at the conference table, why would they back a plot to overthrow our government? Obviously we won’t be in a position to discuss anything if Washington is in total chaos.”

  “That’s the whole point. The people who are backing the plot actually want to sabotage the conference.”

  “Then why agree to confer in the first place?”

  He smiled sardonically. “The answer to that lies in the crazy-quilt maze of China’s internal politics. But, before I get started on that, I want a drink.”

  I poured a healthy one for each of us. He downed half of his in a single swallow, smacked his lips and plunged into the promised dissertation.

  “As you probably realize, Red China today harbors two political factions, the extremists and the so-called moderates. To the Western eye, they appear similar to the point of being merely the same product in two different packages. Actually, however, they’re quite dissimilar. Both naturally are opposed to capitalism and seek to convert the world to communism. But the moderates argue that China is not now strong enough to risk an out-and-out confrontation with the capitalist powers, whereas the extremists maintain that she is strong enough. So far, the moderates have prevailed. But the extremists are rapidly gaining popular support, and some knowledge observers feel that the balance of power will soon swing their way.”

  “Where does Mao fit into the picture?”

  “He’s on the fence. Despite the image of domestic omnipotence which he has managed to convey, he’s presently struggling very hard to keep his hold on things. That’s why he didn’t crack down when the Red Guards went on a rampage a few months ago, and it’s why he didn’t intervene when Lin Po needed his help. According to my sources in the State Department, he’ll go whichever way the wind blows.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Yes, and also very dangerous. At least, it is for us.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well, if he had a tighter hold on things, we’d know pretty much what to expect from him. As it is, we’re completely in the dark.”

  “Point taken. But how does all this tie in with the conference you were talking about?”

  “The conference was set up by the moderates, who more or less control China’s Department of State. Presumably they’re going to spell out their problems for us and ask us to make a gesture of peace—maybe a slowdown in Vietnam—so that they can regain some of the ground they’ve recently lost to the extremists. It would benefit us to do so, of course, because we’re as eager to avoid a confrontation at this time as they are.”

  “And The Big Freak-Out?”

  “That’s the extremists’ baby. They control the Army and the Espionage Corps. We think they had the plan in the works for some time before the conference was set up and are now adjusting their schedule to achieve maximum political effect at home as well as abroad.”

  “So, when all is said and done, the extremists and the moderates are playing a game of political Chinese checkers and the United States is the pawn.”

  “Precisely, and also the prize. That’s why your little power play with The Big Head may prove to be a stroke of sheer genius. When he tells his bosses that you’ve got a conspiracy going that plans to steal his conspiracy’s thunder, they won’t know which way to turn. If they still want to stage their coup before the conference, they’ll have to come out on the open and find out just what you’ve got going for you. If they don’t come out into the open, they’ll have to delay the coup. One way or the other, we’re ahead of the game. Your ploy has purchased us an invaluable tactical advantage.”

  “But,” I pointed out, remembering his advice about the possibility of a man’s getting some piano wire around my neck before I could pull my forty-five, “the purchase price may have been my life.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” His tone became solemn. “And if that’s the case, Damon, we’ll all miss you very much.”

  “How consoling”

  He drained his drink and handed me the empty glass. “But.” He said, his face suddenly brightening, “let’s look at the positive
side of the picture. We’re no longer in the dark. The fat is in the fire. We can expect action at any moment, and”? he patted the barrel of the submachinegun ? “we’re ready for it.”

  “I wish,” I murmured candidly, “I could share your enthusiasm.”

  He got up from his chair, inspected his coveralls and tugged the bill of his cap over his eyes. “You will. Just wait till the bullets start flying.” He started toward the door. “And now, much as I enjoy your company, I must be off. Is there anything I can do for you while I’m in Washington?”

  “Yeah. Assign another agent to the case.”

  “Heh-heh. Very funny, Damon. Very funny. You have a natural talent for comedy. Did anyone ever tell you that?” His hand found the doorknob. “Ta-ta, now. And happy hunting.”

  “Wait,” I said. Suddenly I remembered my man Egbert, of the Decline of the west. As of the moment, he was convinced that I was a fellow conspirator. But he’d be infinitely more useful if he could be persuaded to work along with me knowing exactly who I was and whom I represented. With Walrus-moustache’s help, I might be a able to persuade him.

  Walrus-moustache turned from the door. “Did I hear you say ‘wait’?” he asked.

  “Yeah. There’s nothing you can do for me in Washing ton, but you just might be able to do something in New York.”

  “For example?”

  “Do you have any connections among Federal narcotics men?”

  “A few.”

  I wrote Egbert’s name and address on a slip of paper. “I want this guy picked up on a dope charge—any dope charge—and I want him held incommunicado until I come to rescue him. Do you think you can arrange it?”

  “The American Civil Liberties Union won’t like it, but I’ll see what I can do.” He tucked the slip of paper into the pocket of his coveralls. “Phone Aunt Matilda tomorrow at noon. She’ll tell you what jail they’re holding him at and what officer to contact to spring him.” He opened the door. “Anything else I can do for you?”