Joe spun back to Max Mainz. “Get your things packed, Max. We don’t know whether or not we can get to that dossier before Baron Haer checks it. He already suspects me as being anti-government, and if he finds out any connection between us, your name’s mud.”
“You’re the boss, Joe.” Max looked around the room. “Gee, I really liked living in this place. It’s going to be tough, going back to Lower quarters.”
Chapter Thirteen
Max Mainz was taken aback by the magnitude of the Headquarters of the Nathan Hale Society when he approached it Saturday night. Several days had passed since some contact of Joe’s had erased from Max’s Security dossier the pertinent information linking him to Joe Mauser. He and Joe had kept their fingers crossed in the meantime, but nothing had developed that would indicate that the Society had checked on Max before Joe’s friend had taken action.
He assumed that he would soon know, one way or the other. He was entering the lion’s den. He wasn’t too unhappy. According to Joe Mauser, some big mucky-muck in Joe’s organization, whoever it was—Max didn’t know the name of anybody else who belonged, except Nadine Haer—had promised to pay Max well if he came up with any useable information.
He entered the main doorway, passing two king-size Minutemen who were standing there, billy clubs in sheaths at their sides.
Max approached the nearest, a stupid looking oaf, and almost certainly a Low-Lower. His cheap clothing indicated that.
Max said, “I’m a new member. This is the first time I ever been here. Where do I go?”
The other grinned at him. “Right on through and straight on back. They got a big party going on. Bunch of chorus girls and all. Damn it. I hafta pull guard duty tonight”
Max entered into a large lobby where there were several reception desks, though at this time of the evening they were unoccupied.
He looked around, highly impressed. Admittedly, this was the national as well as the local headquarters; nevertheless, it gave a clue to the resources of the Nathan Hale Society. Max whistled silently. He could hear the sounds of the party toward the rear of the building and made his way in that direction. An orchestra was blasting away, doing its best to make itself heard above the clamor.
When Max had pushed his way through the swinging doors, he stopped for a moment and stared. The room was done in the decor of the Old West, an ultra-large saloon-cum-nightclub. An old-fashioned bar ran the full length of one side of the room parallel to a line of booths on the other. Live bartenders, a rarity these times, though not unknown even in the days of autobars, were busily supplying the needs of about a hundred men, most of them in Minutemen shirts. There were large numbers of others seated in the booths and at tables scattered around the center of the saloon. Waiters scurried about filling orders for these. At the far end of the room was a stage; before it, a live orchestra of six men. On the stage, eight topless girls, nearly bottomless, for that matter, were dancing with more enthusiasm than art. Half of their audience was drunkenly cheering them on.
Max headed for the bar, though it looked as though he’d have his troubles ever getting through the mass of drinkers.
To one side near the rear door stood Balt Haer, talking to a tough-looking Minuteman.
“That’s the one I mentioned,” Haer said.
Jerry looked over at Max. “Yeah. I met him at the rally. He says that he’s Category Military, but he looks kinda small to be a sojer.”
Balt Haer shook his head. “No. He’s a Rank Private. I checked him out. He fought under me once, when I was still in the Category Military. I don’t truly remember him, but his dossier says he was in one of the fracases my corporation fought. He looks wiry and aggressive, and that small build gives him a certain amount of camouflage. Nobody would take him for a tough.”
Baron Haer continued to consider Max, who was across the room. Then he said, “See that he has a good time, Jerry. After the show, see that he gets first pick of the girls and see that he gets laid. Then bring him to my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry said as he turned and headed in the direction of Max Mainz.
Max wasn’t having much luck in getting himself a position at the bar. The place was packed. Ordinarily, in spite of his size, or possibly because of it, Max was well on the feisty side. But this was his first appearance at the Society’s headquarters, and he had no desire to get into trouble. Besides, he had arrived late, and most of these cloddies were already at least half drenched. It would seem that the Nathan Hale Society spared no expense in the entertainment of its storm troopers.
Somebody came up beside him and said in feigned pleasure. “Max!”
Max didn’t recognize him at first but then did. “Oh, hi, Jerry. I just got here. Baron Haer told me to turn up tonight to finish off my application for membership.”
Jerry put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. “Great,” he gushed. “But there’s no hurry. I’ll see you get processed okay. First, let’s have some drinks and a few laughs.”
He nudged a couple of Minutemen at the end of the bar and said, with authority, “Come on, you cloddies, make room. The Baron wants this new member to have a good time.”
They grudgingly made sufficient room for Max and Jerry to get their elbows onto the bar. Jerry made a commanding motion to one of the bartenders, who hurried down to them. Evidently, Max decided, this Jerry funker had a certain amount of rank among the Minutemen and in the Society in general. He had been on the committee at the rally, and now he was giving with orders.
Jerry said to Max, “Bourbon highball?”
“Zen, yes. Usually I can’t afford nothing but pseudo-whiskey or beer.”
Jerry said to the bartender, “Two double bourbon highballs. My chum-pal, here, has got a lot of catching up to do. I want you should give him plenty of service the rest of the night.”
“Yes, sir,” the other said respectfully and hurried off for bourbon bottle and ginger ale.
It was the first time Max Mainz had ever heard a Lower addressed as “Sir.” He was impressed. Maybe this Nathan Hale Society wasn’t such a bad deal at that. He looked down to the stage, where the semi-nude chorus girls were prancing.
“Zen,” he said. “Look at the ass on that little platinum blonde.”
“It’s all yours,” Jerry said expansively.
The drinks were shoved in front of them.
“How do you mean?” Max said.
“I mean they all put out. This is your first Society party, so you can have firsts with her, before she gets all worn down. You know, nobody wants seconds. Or tenths. Some of these cloddies are real slobs. Before the girls get to go home, they’re walking bowlegged.”
Max took a deep pull at his drink, impressed. He looked back at the high kicking little platinum blonde.
“Zen,” he said. “She don’t look like no mopsy.”
“We get the best,” Jerry said. “Nobody wants to screw a beast. Only the best.”
Max took another pull at his drink, which he thought was more than a double, and maybe a triple. On top of that, it was good bourbon. Max had had precious little whiskey in his life and practically no really genuine whiskey. A Lower didn’t drink much good liquor these days.
Jerry told him, “Some of the biggest men in the country are members of the Society. They don’t mind, none about shelling out.- They can afford it. And Minutemen don’t get paid nothing, ordinarily. It’s a volunteer organization, like. Patriotic, see? So the Society throws these little bashes for them.”
Max looked about the room. “No women members, eh?”
“Hell, no. We don’t hold with women being in politics and things like that. We don’t even think they oughta be able to vote. Its unladylike. We also don’t believe niggers and kikes ought to vote.
“Yeah, sure,” Max said. His eyes went back to the stage. “Man, that’s some ass,” he said. To his surprise, his glass was empty.
Jerry ordered another for him. His own drink was still only partially touched.
After the drink had come and Max had taken a preliminary sip, Jerry said, “This is the life, Max. You can’t beat it when you’re only a Lower. Who the hell could afford this sort of living it up on the dividends a Lower gets from his Inalienable Basic?”
“Yeah,” Max said.
The chorus girls had wound up their dance and were prancing from the stage to thundrous applause and shouts.
Jerry smirked and said, “See that door over next to where the orchestra is? Go on through there. Maybell will be in Room Three. I’ll see you later. The Baron wants to talk to you.”
Max gulped his drink. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “You sure it’s all set up? What’ll it cost me?”
Jerry simulated indignation. “Zen, you’re a Minuteman, Max. It’s all on the house.” He grinned lewdly. “Just don’t wear her down to the point where there’s nothing left for nobody else.”
“These here girls clean?” Max said.
“Clean? Hell we have ‘em all examined by a doc just before they come in here.”
“I don’t like to take no chances,” Max said. “I never had a dose of clap in my Life.”
He took off. Max was surprised at the potency of the drinks. Hell, they weren’t just triples; they were quadruples. He wondered why in the hell Joe Mauser was against these people.
Finding Room Three was no problem. Max knocked politely and a voice said, “It’s open, dear.”
Max went in. Maybell was there. She was still topless and now she was barefoot; she’d been dancing all evening and her feet were killing her. But she was able to come up with a welcoming smile. Closer up, she looked a bit more aged than she had been on the stage, but she was still pushing one hundred percent in womanhood, so far as Max was concerned.
She grinned at him mischievously and said, in a husky voice, “I know what you got in mind.”
Max went over and pushed her back onto the bed. He pulled off her rompers which were sweaty from her dancing and slightly stained. It didn’t seem to make much difference, either to him or to her. Jerry had been right. By Max’s standards this was pretty high-quality merchandise. And it was all for free. Hell, he hadn’t even bought her a drink.
She gasped, “Zen!” and then, “Don’t you even want to kiss me a little?”
“No,” he said. “Spread your legs.” Max had never kissed a whore in his life and he wasn’t about to begin now.
It was all over in a brutally short time. Without looking back at her, or speaking to her again, Max went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He had heard somewhere that if you washed immediately after laying a mopsy you ran little chance of VD. Jerry had assured him that all of the girls had been medically inspected and he assumed that it was true. And he’d been the first to take this one, so he was comparatively safe. He grunted cynically and wondered what shape these girls would be in by the time the evening was over.
He returned to the hall and then to the party. There was already a line out in front of the bedroom door from which he had emerged.
Jerry, his face leering, was awaiting him. “You get fixed up with Maybell?” he said.
“Yeah,” Max said.
“How was she? I never sampled it. Never got around to it. I kinda like that redhead when this here crew comes on.”
Max Mainz made a rocking motion with his hand. “Not bad. I guess she was a little tired from the dancing.”
Jerry scowled. “I know what you mean. No bounce in her fanny, eh? I think maybe I’ll recommend to the entertainment committee that we have two sets of girls. Some for the entertaining out here and another gang back there for the screwing. And we oughta get more girls in the back rooms. They get kinda oily after awhile, you know what I mean. You want another drink, Max?”
“Maybe later. Maybe I oughta see the Baron. You said he wanted to see me.”
“Okay, come on.”
Jerry led the way through a door and to an elevator bank. Max was impressed. These headquarters of the Nathan Hale Society were really swank.
As they took the elevator to higher levels, Max said, “How come you call it the Nathan Hale Society?”
Jerry looked blank. “Damned if I know. The outfit’s run by Uppers. Some, kinda like eggheads. They dreamed up the name. Here we are.”
The elevator came to a halt. There were two Minutemen stationed at either side, armed with billy clubs. They looked at Max suspiciously but obviously knew Jerry and waved them on.
Jerry led the way down the hall and to a door flanked by two more Minutemen. Letters in gold on the door proclaimed Baron Balt Haer Commander-in-Chief.
One of the Minutemen said, “Hi, Jerry.”
Jerry said, “We got an appointment with the Baron.”
“Just a minute, Jerry,” the Minuteman said, and disappeared behind the door.
When he returned, it was to say, “Okay.”
They went through a reception room dominated by one desk, behind which sat a Category Military of Rank Colonel.
He looked up from his paperwork and said, “My country, may she always be right…”
And Jerry said, “But my country, right or wrong.”
The Colonel said, “The Baron is awaiting you.”
Jerry knew the way. He opened a door to the Colonel’s left and allowed Max to precede him.
Balt Haer sat importantly behind the desk.
He said, “Ah, Max Mainz, isn’t it?” He democratically held out a hand for a shake.
Max leaned over the desk and shook the other’s hand, although Haer hadn’t bothered to come to his feet. Max hadn’t expected him to. In fact, he was surprised at the offer of a handshake. Baron Haer, after all, was a Mid-Upper and Max was a Mid-Lower.
“Sit down, sit down,” Balt Haer said. “I checked out your dossier, Max. Born a Low-Lower, Category Food, Subdivision Cooking, Branch Chef. Obviously, a category that has all but completely been automated out of existence. So, being ambitious, you switched to Category Military, having had your basic training as a young man. You have thus far participated in two fracases, one under my father and one under Marshal Stonewall Cogswell. Both times you were on the winning side and received your bonus. I assume you must have distinguished yourself since you were bounced in caste to Mid-Lower. However, I am surprised that you remain a Rank Private.”
“Yes, sir,” Max said modestly. He wondered to what extent his dossier had been altered by whatever higher-up Joe had contacted. Max had been Joe’s batman in both fracases. He hadn’t had a shot fired at him. Balt Haer sounded as though Max had been an infantryman, in and out of the dill a half dozen times in the two frays. He added, “I guess they figured a bounce in caste was enough.”
Balt Haer pretended indignation. “Only Rank Private? A man with your experience? I am no longer in Category Military myself. Through the foolery of a funker named Mauser, who was serving under me at the time, I was expelled. However, I have friends. I’ll utilize my connections to have you raised to Rank Sergeant. That is, if our association proves fruitful.”
Max was inwardly surprised. In actuality, he hadn’t planned on ever participating in a fracas again. He had associated enough with Joe Mauser to have learned that the end product of that was copping the final one.
He said, “Well, thanks, sir. But whatda’ya mean by fruitful?”
The Baron leaned back, expansively. “Max,” he said, “we need more men who have seen combat. As possibly Jerry, here, has mentioned to you, we have special squads of Minutemen who perform special tasks of an emergency sort. Ordinarily, the Minutemen are not paid by the Society. They serve out of pure patriotism. However, these special squads sometimes are called upon to render special service; whenever they do so, at least one share of Variable Basic is added to their portfolio.”
Max didn’t know what a portfolio was, but he looked impressed. “That sounds good,” he said.
The Baron went on. “Jerry leads one of our special squads, and I propose that you join it. Right at this time we are somewhat short of good men. Rece
ntly, five of our best were lost in an operation down in Mexico, so we are short handed. What do you think, Max?”
“It sounds good to me, sir.”
“Fine.” The other rubbed his hands together. “We have your address, and Jerry will contact you the next time an assignment comes up. And now, why don’t you two go on back to the party and bend a few elbows?”
It was a dismissal. Jerry and Max got up, made their formal farewells, and left.
Max didn’t have the vaguest idea of what the Baron’s special squads ordinarily did, but he realized that those five who had jumped Joe and him in Mexico must have made up one of them.
Chapter Fourteen
Max and Jerry returned to the saloon and made their way back to their former position at the bar’s end. The place wasn’t quite so packed now.
Jerry grinned knowingly and said, “Some of ’em are back in the hall lined up in front of the doors of the girls’ rooms. Those mopsies are going to be a weary lot before morning. Some of the guys knock off a piece with one, then go back and get in line for another one. Art Prager claims he once laid all eight, but he’s a goddamned liar.”
The nearest bartender had recognized them and came down with two more bourbon highballs.
Max Mainz took his and looked around the room. At least a dozen of the Minutemen were already passed out at tables or booths. A waiter was mopping up where one had vomited.
He came back to Jerry and said, “These assignments your special squad gets. What for instance?”
“Aw, usually not much. One time we went out and beat up some school kids who were demonstrating against something or other. Another time we went and lit fire to a kike synagogue. Imagine a synagogue in Greater Washington. Why can’t these bastards join the Category Religion Temple, like everybody else?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “But what was that the Baron said about losing five guys in an operation in Mexico? That sounds like it’s tougher than beating up a bunch of students.”
Jerry looked evasive. “I don’t know about that one, he told Max. “Probably just a bunch of greasers. I don’t know why the govmint ever let Mexico into the United States of the Americas.”
The Fracas Factor Page 12
