The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai (7 page)

“Is it Hindoo?” I asked.

“It’s ‘undo,’ ” he said, “I’m learning to undo everything I’ve learned up to now.”

“What about the forty-seven thousand unknown facts?”

“That’s trivia compared to this,” he said, as we walked toward a waiting limousine dispatched by the Institute. “Everything is part of the harmonic pulsating ‘it.’ ”

“Have you watched television today?” I asked him pointedly.

“No, I’ve been practicing guitar.”

“Why do you think those police were having such a hard time holding back that mob of reporters?” I said, referring to at least several dozen reporters all frantically trying to shout questions at Buckaroo and the rest of us across the tarmac.

“Because we’re the Hong Kong Cavaliers,” replied Pinky, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and in a sense he was right. Buckaroo’s blazing artistry, with an able assist from the rest of us, had brought millions of fans to their feet the world over, and the glare of television lights was no stranger to us. But today was different, and the army of reporters, like a pack of dogs, were kept at bay only by the vigorous blows of police truncheons. At last, sensing something unusual in the air, Pinky Carruthers thoughtfully rubbed his nose and asked sheepishly, “What’s going on, Reno?”

“Buckaroo went through solid matter,” I said.

He was dumbfounded. “Any particular reason?” he said.

I laughed. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“I wonder if there’s a haberdashery around here.”

“Why?”

“Won’t his head swell?”

I didn’t quite see the connection, but it didn’t matter. I could always appreciate Pinky’s touching honesty. He had been with us not quite a year, but already we had all taken him to our bosom. He played his instrument well and did not tolerate rascals and scoundrels.

“Once you get to know Buckaroo a little better,” I said, “you’ll see he never changes. But it’s a natural question.”

“That’s a relief,” he said, as we reached the waiting limousine just in the nick of time, the police line suddenly having broken, sending reporters and hordes of teenaged girls rushing our way. We were quickly joined inside the car by Buckaroo and Rawhide and all found ourselves asking the same question.

“Where’s Perfect Tommy?” said Buckaroo. “Anybody see him?”

“I saw him,” said Rawhide. “He was with that reporter from CBS. The blonde.”

“Well, he’ll have to catch up with us,” said Buckaroo. “We can’t wait for him.”

It was easy to see why not. As the limousine pulled away, I looked out my window and saw the full fury of the reporters as they pounded the glass, shoving one another. My indignation was aroused as threats were heard, but soon it was all left behind like a wild drum roll ringing in our ears, and Buckaroo asked us to join him in a drink of potent
aguardiente
he had picked up in El Paso.

“Anything new from Pecos and the
Calypso?”
he asked, looking at me.

“Not yet.” I shook my head. “Still too much signal jamming going on.”

“Keep me in the picture,” he said.

“The minute I hear,” I replied, tipping my glass as Pinky shoved a tape in the cassette player and to an infectious syncopated beat we fell to talking among ourselves of less urgent matters.

As unofficial annalist of the group, I am often asked what such times are like, when we are alone. The truth is neither newsworthy nor particularly out of the ordinary. What do friends do when they are together? What do they talk about? The truth is, of course, nothing and everything. We have no festering feuds or simmering rivalries, though that may disappoint some to hear. On the other hand, neither are we saints. Maudlin with drink, we talk of women, gangster chieftains, music, and weapons with the easy familiarity of men who have gone on stage and gone through battle together. Some cloistered critics have accused us of having a myopic view of the world, living out the sorts of adventures that other men hold only as fantasies. I would retort that it is our view of the world which brought us together in the first place, and whether or not it is a correct view is an issue historians will decide. We prefer to think of ourselves as realists. One cannot always deal gentlemanly with brutes, for as B. Banzai has said, “There are times when verbal ingenuity is not enough.”

I
had my own government consulting business, or “think tank,” before accepting a fellowship to the Banzai Institute. Every day in my prior work the most trying problems crossed my desk, and my associates and I would put our heads together and attempt to find solutions. Hopefully, sensible reason would prevail, and we would forward the distillation of our hours (usually weeks) of research and discussion to the appropriate government agency where it would sink into oblivion, along with our follow-up reports and further recommendations. After years of such frustration, despite the pleasant living I was making at the taxpayers’ expense, a part of me had had enough. Money could no longer satisfy the strong yearning that had begun to insinuate itself into every pore of my being. I longed to roll up my sleeves and take a course of unabashed action without the usual need of diplomatic niceties, what we in the so-called civilized world have come to acknowledge as accepted behavior. The constraints of having to “go through channels” to put in one’s “two cents” while the world burned had suddenly ceased to be a viable option for me. I had heard of Buckaroo Banzai of course; I knew of his work, but I had no idea whether he would reply to the letter I dashed off one evening after a particularly bad day at the office. I have no idea to this day what gave me the audacity to drop it in the mail so airily and then forget all about it until a week later when my secretary buzzed me over the intercom, so excited she could hardly speak.

“Buckaroo Banzai is here to see you!” she ejaculated. “Should I show him in?”

I confess to having taken a quick drop of whiskey to energize myself as I arose unsteadily and went to open my door. I have always found it remarkable how a confident and open person can make a strong lasting impression in the space of a single moment, but that was just what I found to be the case with B. Banzai. A ready smile and a firm handshake attached to a body that seemed to be made entirely of sinew captivated me immediately. I suggested that we walk outside, and he agreed.

In the sunshine his face was smooth, unmarked. A smile played constantly around his lips, but the eyes were deep and thoughtful, of an unusual color I cannot readily describe. Neither can I recall who spoke first, a phenomenon I have found common among others when they have been asked to recall their first encounters with the man. I tend to believe it is the eyes, of such an unusual hue and hypnotic intensity that they could make one believe almost anything. In short, within the first minute of our meeting I believe I had decided to follow him anywhere without the slightest hesitation.

“What sorts of things do you enjoy doing?” I recall him asking.

I described my hobbies such as they were, giving a brief outline of my background and education. Throughout, he looked at me with great attention, giving away not a hint of what he was thinking until I mentioned the subject of music.

“You like music?” he asked.

“I like it very much.” I nodded. “Jazz, especially.”

“How about syncopated music?”

“I like all kinds, but I prefer to play jazz.”

“You do play, then?”

“The saxophone,” I said, itching to show my skill. “Would you like to hear me?”

“Of course. You have your sax?”

“I don’t live far.”

Buckaroo whistled, and as if from out of nowhere two women and a young man appeared. “Bring the car,” Buckaroo said to the heavyset youth I later came to know as Rawhide, while the two women, both of whom appeared capable of taking care of themselves in a pinch, looked me over with a scrutiny I did not appreciate. “This is Reno,” Buckaroo said to them, the name causing me to look around as it was the first time I had heard it. “He plays sax.”

Before I could reply, one of the women stepped forward and introduced herself, her eyes still filled with what I sensed to be secret contempt. “I’m Pecos,” said the slightly built female who nonetheless cowed me. “Are you hot?”

“I’m pretty hot,” I said, slipping into the argot of musicians.

“We’ll see,” she said, displaying a smile that made me feel only more intimidated. “We’re looking for somebody really hot.”

“Good,” I said. “You’ve found him.”

She muttered something and stepped aside. I remember thinking at the time that this birdlike creature with the steel grip had it in for me, I could not for the life of me figure out why. I immediately resolved not to like her, a resolution that I soon found myself hard pressed to keep, as regular readers of the series well know.*

*
(In the adventure
Bastardy Proved a Spur,
Pecos unci I declare our love for one another and agree to marry at a future date, provided we escape the yak skin in which Xan’s cat’s-paw, the Pasha of Three Tails, has stitched us.—Reno)

I received a cordial welcome from Pecos’s blonde companion who introduced herself as Peggy. It occurred to me immediately who she must be, for I had read of her in so many of the popular magazines. She and Buckaroo had set a fall wedding date in New York, and no event in recent memory had so stirred the public imagination. While more than pleasing to the eye, it was not her beauty that impressed me most. More than her feminine charms or even her keen intellect, it was her extraordinary gift of life (a trite expression, I’m well aware) that had drawn Buckaroo to her. Her carefree gaiety could bring sunshine to even the darkest of days. Her warm smile during our first meeting went a long way toward allaying my silly jitters.

“Do you ride?” she asked.

I had no wish to be considered a milksop, and so I nodded. “Oh, yes, indeed,” I blurted out. “I come from some of the best riding stock in Virginia.”

Pecos howled to the point of collapse, while Buckaroo and Peggy, controlling their own laughter, gave her scolding looks. I think my eyeballs filled with blood, for I saw only the color red until Rawhide pulled up in the car.

“Did I say something untoward?” I asked Buckaroo.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, patting my shoulder. “I haven’t seen Pecos laugh since Sluggo died. She likes you.”

She had an odd way of showing it, I thought, and it was not until we were halfway to my house that I realized with the force of a revelation what I had said. The whole incident suddenly struck me as uproariously funny, and I could not suppress a chuckle of my own. Pecos, her own amusement now piqued farther, could but look at me questioningly.

“I’m glad you liked my little joke,” I said, joining in the fun, “even if it was at my own expense.”

It dawned on her that perhaps I did know a thing or two, and she begrudged as much. “Then you’re a very funny man,” she said.

“Only when I’m nervous,” I said.

“Why should you be nervous among friends?”

She smiled, this time with a genuineness that was touching. Strange to say, I did feel surprisingly at ease with these four worthies at whose exploits I had long marveled. Buckaroo, like most true geniuses, was utterly without arrogance, a simple man in the best sense of the word. Decency toward others was not something he had to work at; with him it was as involuntary as breathing. On the other hand, I have seen him an hour after killing a man and found him to be perfectly composed. To the Occidental mind this may seem a contradiction; but to the soul of the Mongol, that atavistic side of B. Banzai whose blood flows in a straight line from the Khans, mortal combat is the prime rule of nature. We in the West have largely forgotten this. The Mongol has not.

I have not mentioned the hands of Buckaroo Banzai, the same hands that wield both scalpel and sword with equally dazzling skill. I have seen him make a samurai sword whistle a tune as it cut through the air, just as I have seen him swing the same blade close enough to my cheek to snip my whiskers. I have no doubt that had he not chosen to be a surgeon and a scientist, he could have easily turned his swordsmanship into a fortune on the variety stages of the world, just as he has done with his music.

Upon reaching my house, I pulled out my saxophone; and with Buckaroo on guitar, Rawhide on piano, and Pecos on harmonica, we played syncopated music until late in the evening. Peggy seated herself in the front row of our little concert and passed to us biscuits of toasted barley flour and a thermos filled with an odd pungent liqueur, which after I had imbibed it, made me feel as though I had devoured a more than ample meal. A strange sense of euphoria swept over me and seemed to improve my playing quite markedly. When I asked the name of the hearty concoction, they would say only that it was a favorite of long-standing with the band but was not necessarily for everyone. After we had emptied the thermos and I still insisted on knowing, Peggy smiled and said, “Very well, Reno. You know Buckaroo is part Mongolian?” I nodded. “Well, it’s a Mongolian drink,” she said, hesitating. “It’s . . . fermented mare’s milk.”