“By the dozen, you say?”
“Right. Sort of like making bridles for three-headed horses, wouldn’t you think? I mean, just how many trick cannons can a limited market demand?”
Jayjee took a long, thoughtful pull at his double brandy. Then he slammed the arm of the leather couch under his fist. He said, “Sonofabitch! Same old gimmick, different booth!”
“Could be—and can you imagine a couple hundred of these infernal things scattered around the country, hidden under haymows, in barns, wherever—simultaneous nuclear missile fire on strategic targets, and us with no efficient means of detection or interception?”
“I can, but I’d rather not—it’d be a turkey-shoot!”
“Jayjee, this is hotter than Carol’s crotch! We have to take this installation out!”
“Who do you have in Youngstown, Ohio?”
“At this moment? Not a soul! We had Paulishen, but he’s out to pasture—growing garlic and drinking Heaven Hill straight bourbon.”
“And you’re looking for a guy who could apply for employment at this place—a man likely to be accepted.”
“You’ve got it.”
“That lets me out—I’m too old.”
“I know that, but in Grizzly Gulch, you brought in an unknown, and he had a field day! Which way did he go?”
“God knows—at that time he was operating under the handle of Birch Kirby—no way, Coleman—I don’t know what the hell happened to Kirby.”
Coleman Dreyfuss smirked at Jayjee, one of those checkmate smirks. He said, “I do.”
“The hell you do! If Kirby went to ground, God would never find him! You’re talking about a majorleaguer!”
“Paulishen found him.”
“Paulishen’s in Ohio.”
“So’s Birch Kirby—Hubbard, Ohio—six, seven miles out of Youngstown—maybe a twenty minute drive from the cannon works.”
“What in tarnation would Kirby be doing in Hubbard, Ohio?”
“Running a Polish restaurant at the north end of town—Joint called ‘Limpy’s Warsaw House.’ Good Polish food, Paulishen said—also a few Russian dishes, borscht, for one. Paulishen said that the license is issued to a Birch Kirby. Got to be the same man—the ‘Limpy’ thing clinches it!”
“Why?”
“Because the Grizzly Gulch file says that a circus elephant sat on his foot.”
“Not bad, Coleman, not bad at all!” Jayjee sat in silence for a time, swirling the brandy in his snifter. Then he snapped his fingers. “Another of his facades, sure as hell! If Birch Kirby’s running a Polish restaurant in Hubbard, Ohio, Birch Kirby’s onto something big, and you can take that to the bank!”
“Could Kirby handle a matter of this import?”
Jayjee snorted. “Kirby could handle a fucking Sikh rebellion! It isn’t a question of ‘could he?’ it’s a question of ‘will he?’”
Coleman Dreyfuss nodded. “There’s your assignment, Jayjee—determine if he’ll go in on this thing—you know the man, none of us do. What do you say?”
“I say that he’ll cost an arm and a leg this time. He worked cheap last time.”
Dreyfuss shrugged. “Well, whatever—we have to have him! Set it up for us, will you? Coordinate the operation.”
Jayjee was shaking his head, grinning delightedly. “Oh, that foxy bastard! How is he bringing this one off? What the hell, he isn’t even Polish!”
“Kirby doesn’t do the cooking. Paulishen said that he waits on tables, washes dishes, acts as cashier—seems happier than a colt in clover.”
“Then who does the cooking?”
“Kirby’s wife, Sophie. Paulishen got a brief squint at her. Blonde, pale blue-eyed woman, very quiet—Paulishen isn’t sure that she speaks English.”
Jayjee was silent, staring at the floor, his eyes narrowing. “Blonde, pale blue-eyed? Tall and slender?”
“Yes, Paulishen mentioned that. How did you know?”
“I didn’t—just took a flyer.”
Dreyfuss said, “I’ll have a car pick you up at six tomorrow morning and you should be in Hubbard by early afternoon. The restaurant’s on the west side of North Main Street, a block or so south of the railroad tracks. Paulishen said that there’s always a fat old black cat sleeping in the sun, just inside the east window. The Kirbys live on Burdie Street—little white ranch-house—picket fence, roses, lilacs, real cozy.”
Jayjee yawned.
Dreyfuss said, “You’ll stress the fact that this must be a low-profile operation. Kirby will have to act just a shade on the stupid side—you know, earnest but inept.”
Jayjee nodded, smiling. “With his fly open, maybe.”
Dreyfuss glanced up. “Yes, by God, that’d be a good touch—just another out-of-work slob! What made you think of a wrinkle like that?”
“I don’t know—it just came to mind.”
Dreyfuss bounced to his feet, slapping his hands together and grabbing his four hundred dollar trench coat. “Okay, Jayjee, it’s settled!”
Jayjee said, “It sure is—I ain’t going to Hubbard, Ohio.”
Dreyfuss sat down, very slowly, staring at Jayjee, his jaw drooping. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yep.”
“You won’t go?”
“Nope.”
“But why not—you’ve given the distinct impression that…”
“Coleman, you’re approaching this matter from the wrong angle.”
“Wrong angle? Why, my God, Jayjee, I’ve spent days on this!”
“They spent years on the Tower of Babel and that didn’t work, either.”
“Then how would you handle it?”
“The cannon company works two shifts?”
“That’s right, days and afternoons—scheduled to put on a graveyard crew shortly.”
“Uh-huh, then here’s your proper course of action: See Bob Mason, requisition a big chopper, a top-notch pilot, and a couple of delayed-fuse wide-dispersal napalm bombs.”
“Bob Mason—General R. E. Mason—Air Force?”
“Yes, tell him that I sent you but don’t tell him what we’re up to because he’ll want to get into the act—he’s a feisty bastard, and he’d eat this up!”
“And then?”
“Truck the napalm to Youngstown tomorrow, fly the chopper up there tomorrow night—any old isolated rendezvous point will do, Paulishen’s garlic farm, a cemetery, wherever! We’ll load up about two in the morning, we’ll buzz the cannon factory, we’ll burn the sonofabitch to the ground, and we’ll get the hell out of the area.”
Dreyfuss thought about it, his eyes wide, his face pale. “Well, yes, I suppose that would work, but we’re a clandestine organization, and it seems so out of character…so…so damned direct.”
“Coleman, the shortest distance between two points has always been a straight fucking line.”
“But won’t we make an awful mess?”
“Awful mess? You should have seen what Kirby did to the Admiral Doldrum Circus! Kirby doesn’t tiptoe through the tulips! Send Kirby in on this and he’s liable to tear up half of northeastern Ohio!”
“The Grizzly Gulch file mentioned a Russian spy who was like that—Tofchitsky, was it?”
“Yes, Leonid Tofchitsky—Kirby and Tofchitsky had a lot in common, only Kirby was smarter.”
“There was a Caviar—what about him?”
A half-smile fluttered a corner of Jayjee’s mouth. “Who can say? All of these people were looking for the ends of their own private rainbows.”
“Do you think they ever got there?”
“Yes, I believe that a couple of them made it.”
“Which ones?”
Jayjee polished off his brandy and stood, stretching. It was ten minutes after one o’clock. They’d be at the Gondola Motel just south of Baltimore, Henrietta and Scarrlone, rolling around, listening to the rain on the roof. Henrietta had a thing for rain on the roof—terribly romantic, she thought. Jayjee craved another double brandy but the Ambassador Club wa
s closing. It was a rotten world.
Coleman Dreyfuss said, “Which ones found the ends of their rainbows?”
“Put that in the singular, Coleman—same end, same rainbow.”
“All right, but you haven’t told…”
Jayjee swatted him on the shoulder. He said, “The gypsies have a saying—‘Let sleeping black cats sleep.’”
“Never heard it before.”
“Of course not—you’re very young.”
“What does it mean?”
Jayjee slouched toward the cloakroom. Over his shoulder he said, “Jesus, Coleman, I don’t know everything—ask a gypsy.”
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Kirby's Last Circus Page 19
