“I’m the weariest, most confused sonofabitch you’ve ever gone to bed with, that’s who I am.”
“Of course, you are—alias the Pied Piper of Hamelin, alias the Barber of Seville, alias Robin Hood, alias the fucking Tooth Fairy, alias—”
“There ain’t no fucking Tooth Fairy—Strap Jockingstud already cleared that up.”
Dixie spun quickly on the bed to lean over Kirby, grabbing him by the ears and snapping his head sharply in her direction. She said, “Well, by God, you’ll tell me about you or I’ll screw you to death, here and now!”
Kirby groaned. All right, enough of this stuff—if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em! He shook his head free of her grasp, sitting up in bed, spreading his hands helplessly. He said, “Okay, Dixie, you win—I’m a free-lancer—I work with Scotland Yard, Interpol, the CIA, the FBI, any outfit that can pay the freight. I busted New York’s Santa Claus Slaughters and Frisco’s Golden Gate Massacre, among others—you remember the Golden Gate Massacre, I’m sure.”
Dixie’s jaw was sagging, “Uhh-h-h, no, I can’t say that I do—not offhand, that is.”
“You’re better off! It was a grisly affair, and I’ve been trying to forget it for years!”
Dixie was staring at Kirby, her eyes like violet saucers. “But—but just law enforcement? Jim Gallagher had you pegged as an industrial espionage man.”
“Well, yes—some of that, but it’s just a sideline thing.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere! What else?”
“That’ll take weeks, maybe months.”
“Oh, never mind. I don’t have to know everything, but it’s good to have you level with me!”
“Now can we go to sleep?”
Dixie pulled him back to his pillow and placed her head close to his. “And you took this job for peanuts because you’re a patriot, God bless your true-blue ass! America needs a few more like you, you glorious, stars-and-stripes-struck anachronism, you!” She nibbled gently on his neck. “A few would be all we’d need!”
Kirby grunted sleepily.
Dixie murmured, “Oh, to hell with it! I’m going to screw you to death anyway!” She put out the nightstand lamp and rolled to him, her rose and spice perfume blowing every circuit in his body, her breath hot and uneven, her eyes glowing, consuming him in the darkness. She whispered, “Kirby, would you believe that we’re supposed to be back in Chicago by dawn?”
Kirby said, “And we ain’t gonna make it.”
Dixie wiggled deliciously. She said, “Make mine a thinking man every time!”
Kirby said, “Route change—Istanbul, here we come.”
Dixie popped to her knees. “Not tonight! Tonight it’s good old American style!” She straddled him. She stared down at him. She smiled. She tweaked his nose. She said, “Hooray for the red, white and blue!”
Kirby shrugged. He said, “Glory, glory, hallelujah.”
Thirty-Seven
Diversey Avenue’s late afternoon traffic was heavy, moving sluggishly and infrequently. Dixie Benton’s BMW was squeezed to the curb in front of Lulu’s Jungle Tap. Dixie said, “How long will you be in this roach ranch?”
Kirby said, “As long as it takes. Why?”
“I’m not being nosy, but you want to get paid, don’t you?”
“Now that you mention it, I’d have no serious objections.”
Dixie’s tongue bulged her cheek. “You’d have no serious objections? Why, you bastard, if I had your money I’d buy Acapulco and retire!”
“Uhh-h-h-h, about my pay.”
“Hastings Jefferson will be coming by shortly and he’ll square up with you.” She leaned to kiss him wetly and warmly. “Kirby, I don’t know just how to say this, but the past few days have been the best of my life. I wish we could go on together—I could arrange that, you know.”
“Well, don’t arrange it just yet. There are matters that I have to attend to.”
“The Middle East and oil, I’ll bet!”
“No, Goodyear and rubber. My tires are shot in the ass.” He left the car and waved to her.
Her smile was pensive. “All right, Kirby, so long for this time.” The BMW slipped silkily away from the curb and Kirby hoisted his suitcase.
Lulu O’Doul looked him over. “Laddie, you’ve lost weight. You must have had a good time.”
Kirby said, “I’m not sure. Let me have a Hickory Barrel.”
“Moss Hallahan dropped off your fifteen bucks yesterday—I applied it to your tab.”
Kirby nodded. “Where’s Bud Hackelson?”
“Uhh-h-h-h, Bud ain’t been in recently.”
Kirby grinned. “How come?”
Lulu frowned. “He blew a prostate gasket or something.” She glanced over Kirby’s shoulder. “I think you got company.”
Hastings Jefferson had come in. He motioned Kirby toward a booth and waved to Lulu for drinks. When they were comfortable and their drinks had arrived, Jefferson looked at his watch. “Expected you people early this morning.”
“Yeah, well, debriefing, you know.”
Jefferson said, “You look debriefed. You look so damned debriefed you better get to a rest home.” He submerged his knowing smile in his gin and tonic. “The Santa Claus Slaughters—the Golden Gate Massacre? Never heard of either, and I keep pretty well up to date on the rap sheets.”
“Old stuff, Jefferson. You got a check for me?”
“No checks, Kirby—cash.” He took a bulging manila envelope from a pocket and pushed it across the table. “Five and tens. We doubled your payoff and the IRS has agreed to overlook the tax, but I wish to God we could have done better by you! You saved this nation’s ass!” Blue smoke from Jefferson’s battered briar pipe swirled between them and Jefferson peered through it with undisguised admiration. “Y’know, Kirby, I was in Grizzly Gulch, posing as a peanut vendor, and during the early going you had me completely baffled! You didn’t seem to know the score—you were just drifting around with your fly open, looking bewildered, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Jim Gallagher had overrated you. Then you roped Kisarze and the landslide was underway!” Jefferson popped the table-top with the flat of a beefy hand and their glasses danced a fandango. “God damn it to hell, Kirby, you were beyond doubt the shrewdest spook I’ve ever encountered!” Kirby lit a cigarette in silence, and Jefferson leveled a forefinger at him. “Shrewd and modest, and by God, I like that in a man! Why, just a couple years ago, one of our guys busted a Bulgarian hit man who was over here to assassinate a defector. He did one helluva job, but he couldn’t stop bragging about it, and we had to let him go.”
Kirby nodded.
Jefferson said, “It was the greatest thrill of my career to remain in the background and watch you work! You’re completely unorthodox by the CIA book—where’d you get your training?” Kirby didn’t reply and Jefferson said, “Sorry, Kirby, that was an off-limits question.”
“No harm in the question, but the answer wouldn’t help.”
“Well, it was an astounding performance!”
Kirby said, “This Hannistan kid—fine baseball prospect.”
“Yes, unfortunately Rog won’t be with us in the future—he’s going to New York.”
“He can’t miss. Yanks or Mets?”
“Manhattan Shakespearean Company—King Lear, I believe. Now, look, Kirby, we’ve seen you in action, we’ve seen you thoroughly demolish a plot against this government, and I’ve been authorized to offer you a top-shelf position with the Agency. Within a year you’ll be the Babe Ruth of the cloak and dagger league!”
Kirby shook his head. “Sorry, Jefferson—other commitments.”
“Wait a minute! You got short-changed on this assignment, but now you’re looking at six digits and bonuses could push it to seven! Shucks, you’d be making almost as much money as a .250 hitter!”
“It isn’t the money, Jefferson. It’s just that I don’t want to go to the well once too often.”
“You’ve already gone to the well once too often! You’re
a marked man! A lot of international prestige went out the window in Grizzly Gulch! You’ve made fools of the best the KGB has to offer, and they won’t take that lying down! They’ll want a rematch, they’ll be out to pick you off, and death could come from the least expected quarter! Caviar is still out there somewhere, and so is that crazy Tofchitsky! You’ll be a helluva lot safer in the organization than out!”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Jefferson shrugged. “Well, then I’ll just have to do the next best thing. I’ll assign an operative to you in a protective capacity. After what you’ve done for us, that’s the least we can do for you!”
“It won’t be necessary.”
“Kirby, we know that you can whip your weight in scorpions, but you don’t have three hundred and sixty degree vision—they’d get to you sooner or later! No, sir, we’ll have an agent on you right around the clock!”
Kirby sighed resignedly. “Will this agent identify himself?”
“In situations of this nature, we usually leave that decision to the discretion of the agent in question, but rest assured that you’ll be in competent hands.” Kirby frowned as Jefferson went on. “Any old time you want to rejoin the team, just whistle and we’ll make room for you. Dixie’s anxious to work with you again.”
“A very nice lady.”
“Kirby, there’s nothing like knowing that you command the respect of those with whom you share danger, and, believe me, you have the respect of Dixie Benton!” Jefferson produced his little notebook. “Like to hear a piece of her report?”
“Not if it’s confidential.”
“It’s confidential, but it’s not that confidential.” He riffled the pages rapidly. “Uh-huh, here it is! Listen to this: ‘Kirby’s moves are skilled, varied, and gratifyingly unpredictable—he possesses an uncanny knack for anticipating an approaching climax, and a hitherto unparalleled flair for meeting it with alacrity and finesse…’” Jefferson looked at Kirby over his notebook. “There’s more.”
“That’ll be plenty.”
Jefferson chuckled. “Of course, Dixie wasn’t telling me anything that I didn’t know: I’ve watched you two get it on—what a helluva show—I’ve never seen anything that would compare!”
Kirby’s frown had darkened to a scowl. He said, “Apparently you’re telling me that you stopped at the Rest and Recreation Motel.”
“I’m telling you that I was in Grizzly Gulch, and I had the opportunity to watch you and Dixie work together. What about the Rest and Recreation Motel?”
Kirby yawned. “Oh, nothing much. They used to have a pretty fair organist in the lounge—guy by the name of Max Livershank—Max did a good job on ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe.’”
“Rest and Recreation Motel—never heard of the joint. Where is it?”
“South of here—I was there a long time ago.” It seemed like a long time ago to Kirby. Everything seemed like a long time ago to Kirby.
Jefferson said, “‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe’ isn’t my kind of music.” He squinted puzzledly at Kirby. “Say, what the hell are we talking about, anyway?”
“‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe,’ as I recall.”
“Well, anyway, I prefer selections from the classical field—‘Meditation,’ for one.”
Kirby said, “Yes, ‘Meditation’—that was from ‘Thaïs,’ wasn’t it?”
Jefferson said, “It still is.” He got up and headed for the door, shaking his head like there was water in his ears.
Thirty-Eight
He’d spent two hours in Lulu’s Jungle Tap, blotting up Hickory Barrel Ale, pondering the goings-on at Grizzly Gulch, and wondering what Jim Gallagher would have thought of the resultant chaos. Kirby hadn’t dedicated much time to Gallagher while in Southern Illinois, but his return to familiar surroundings had dropped the floodgates, and he knew that it’d be a cold Friday in hell when the big Irishman escaped his memory, unretentive though it was. Eventually Lulu had called a cab, and now Kirby stood at the Diversey Avenue curb, waiting for his transportation, two thirds crocked, so tired he couldn’t see straight, his bad knee throbbing dully, his aching right foot resting on his crumpled suitcase from which protruded the toe of an orange sock, and this puzzled Kirby because he’d never owned a pair of orange socks. The embryo of a plan was squirming in a murky corner of his mind. He’d be damned if he’d spend the rest of his life with a CIA bodyguard tagging along every time he went to the bathroom! So, when he’d learned the identity of his protector, he’d arrange for Tizzie Bonkowski to lure him into bed, and by the time Tizzie had wrung him out, Birch Kirby would be somewhere else, and to hell with the CIA, no matter how good its intentions!
His cab driver was a squat, unshaven, bulging-bellied, garrulous man, sucking on an unlighted cigar and brimming over with sociability. He tripped the meter, stomped on the accelerator, and got right down to brass tacks. “Okay, buddy, wotcha wanna discuss?”
Kirby said, “Well, probably nothing, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Aw, c’mon, we gotta discuss something—make it a subject you know all about.”
“Which’d take us right back to nothing.”
“Hey, didja read about that crazy ‘carnival of death’ business downstate?”
“I don’t read much—I got a bum foot.”
“Well, they had it in the morning papers. The Russians was operating some kind of circus down there and they was going to blow up Washington, D.C., only this hotshot CIA guy sniffed it out, and I mean he turned that circus inside-fucking-out! The papers said he was what you call a counter-subversive specialist.”
“Anybody get hurt?”
“No, but some midget turned up missing and a lion-tamer got scared shitless. What this CIA man done was, he turned some maniac lion loose!”
“What was his name?”
“Genghis, I think—something like that.”
“The CIA man.”
“Oh, him—they didn’t give no name. Guess it don’t make much difference, on account he ain’t gonna be around long!”
“No?”
“The papers said that the KGB will be looking for him—that KGB is a bad-ass outfit!”
“That right?”
“Oh, you’re damn tootin’! I was reading somewheres as how they got over twenny-five thousand ways of killing a man!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Most of ’em very slow.”
“I see.”
“Can’t imagine why they need twenny-five thousand—hell, all its takes is one.”
“Must have required exhaustive research.”
The cabbie raised a prescient forefinger. “Hey, guys like you and me, hell, we wouldn’t know a KGB man from a bucket of busted bagels! Y’see, for all you know, I could be a fucking KGB agent, and this here cab could be just a front! I could be out driving around, waiting to pick up this CIA guy, and I could blow his balls off right here in the cab, and I could dump him in some vacant lot and nobody wouldn’t know nothing about it except me and KGB headquarters!”
They passed a vacant lot and Kirby said, “I think you better let me out here.”
“Hey, how come? We still got half-a-mile to go!”
“That’s okay—I can use the exercise.”
The cabbie shrugged and pulled to the curb. He said, “Speaking of exercise—I know this sweet little hooker, thirty maybe, blonde, big pale-blue eyes, very accommodating, has that knack of making a man feel right at home, name of Tizzie something-or-other—you’d never take her for no pro, she looks like the kind of chick you’d be proud to take home to momma—only no kinky stuff—she got some gorilla living across the hall, and he’ll throw your ass down the stairs!”
“Not this time, pal. Thanks, anyway.”
“You ever hear of this Tizzie?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
The cabbie gave Kirby a sidelong glance. “That’s funny—she got exactly the same damn address as you just give me.”
Kirby said, “Small world.” He got out and paid the driver
, watching him closely. He limped eastward on Diversey Avenue, his knee stiffening with every stride, his damaged foot thumping like a bass fiddle, his suitcase banging against his leg. He glanced over his shoulder at brief intervals. Late June twilight was enveloping the big city, factory smoke hung heavy in the air, traffic whizzed by, horns honking, radios blaring, tires sizzling on the blacktop. Lights were winking on here and there, the unworldly bluish glow of television tubes filled most first-floor windows, and Kirby’s color grew grayer.
He wondered what it’d be like, taking up permanent residence in a town where a man could get a breath of fresh air and appreciate an occasional moment of silence. He wondered about the taverns in Hubbard, Ohio—how many, how far apart, how early they opened, how late they closed, and if they served Hickory Barrel Ale. Taverns were very important in Kirby’s life. He wondered about the people—would they be open and friendly, or clannish, standoffish and suspicious? They’d talk a lot, of course, small town people don’t have much else to do. If he managed to fit in, Kirby wondered if he’d wind up in that rut, in the village watering hole exchanging chatter with the oldtimers—“Hey, any of you guys notice that Wally Smalley got his Buick repainted? What the hell color is that, anyway?” There’d be laughter, and somebody would say that it didn’t matter much what color it was because Wally Smalley didn’t know pink from purple and there’d be more laughter and Wally Smalley would come in and mention that the Widow Murphy had to pay two busfares because her ass took up two seats and there’d be still more laughter, and—hell, it just might be nice.
Somewhere in the smoke-choked evening gloom a dog howled broken-heartedly—the lonesomest God damned sound on earth, a dog’s howl—that, and the midnight whistle of a steam locomotive. You never heard steam locomotive whistles these days. Kirby’s smile was wistful. He wondered if they had steam locomotives in Hubbard, Ohio. From behind him came the sound of shrilling tires, and a bright-red taxi screeched to a halt at the curb. The sign on its door said ACME. Kirby had never heard of Acme Cabs. The driver leaned through the window by the meter. He was a skinny guy with the features of a bellicose canary. He chirped, “Cab, partner?”
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