The Road to Omaha (52 page)

“Because what I’ve got for you comes from the big man himself, and if you’ve got a tape job in here, he’ll rip your throat out.
Capisce
?”

“On my word, on my
word
, no such thing! You think I’m
crazy
?… What does the big man say?”

“Buy defense, especially aircraft and related—wait a minute, I gotta read this.” D’Ambrosia reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Yeah, here it is. Aircraft and every related supply component—that’s it, component, that’s the word I couldn’t remember.”

“And that’s crazy! Defense is going into the toilet, the budget’s cut everywhere!”

“Here’s the rest of it, and I repeat, if you gotta tape rollin’, you’re on a meat hook.”

“Never, are you
meshuga
?”

“Things have changed one whole hell of a lot.” Meat again looked at his instructions, for several moments reading silently with his lips. “Okay, here it is.… Alarming events have tooken place,” continued D’Ambrosia, his voice as flat as his eyes, a man recalling from quasi-rote,
“which the country can’t know too much about because of which the panic that might sue—”

“Maybe you mean
ensue
?”

“I’m on your side. Whatever.”

“Go ahead.”

“There has been a lot of interference with the sub … substratisforic military sattelactic transmissions which concludes high altitudenal aircraft are … fuckin’ up the works.”

“High altitude—
U-2
types? The Russkies are going back on their nice words?”

“ ‘The specific hostile equipment has not been firmly identified,’ ” replied Meat, now unfolding the paper and reading—as best he could. “… ‘however, as the incidents have increased in numbers and ferocosity, and the … Russian Kremlins … have secretly confirmed like events—’ ” Here, Salvatore D’Ambrosia, a.k.a. “Meat,” refolded the paper and continued on his own. “The whole fuckin’ Earth planet, especially the U.S. of A., is on secret emergency alert. It could be the Chinks or the Arabs or the Hebes launching all that bullshit—”

“That’s
cockamamie
!”

“
Or
…,” Salvatore D’Ambrosia lowered his voice and blessed himself, almost getting the sign of the cross correctly on his large chest, “things we know nothin’ about—from up
there
.” Meat raised his eyes to the ceiling, in his gaze a prayer, if not a plea for mercy.

“
Whaaat
?” shrieked Salamander. “That’s the biggest tube of Guinea cheese I ever heard of! It’s full of … 
hoo-hoo
, wait a minute … it’s positively, absolutely
brilliant
. Like no junk bonder could ever come up with!… We got a whole new enemy we gotta arm the whole fuckin’ world for.
UFOs
!”

“You got the big man’s drift then?”

“Got it? I
love
it!… Hey, a sudden big thought.
What
big man? He’s with the fishes!”

It was the moment Meat had been primed for, rehearsed until he could handle it with his head soaked in Chianti. He reached into another pocket and withdrew a small, black-bordered envelope, in size and appearance similar to a funeral request. He handed it to the mesmerized Salamander
with nine simple words, so ingrained by repetition Salvatore would no doubt say them on his deathbed. “You breathe a word of this … no more breath.”

His eyes shifting warily between Meat’s face and the ominous-looking envelope, Ivan the Terrible picked up his glistening brass letter-opener, inserted it beneath a sealed edge, slit the paper, and extracted the message. The broker’s gaze instantly dropped to the bottom of the page, to the scrawled familiar initials he knew so well. He gasped, his head snapping up, his wide eyes riveted on Salvatore D’Ambrosia. “This is beyond
impossible
!” he whispered.

“Be careful,” said Meat, no louder than Salamander, as he drew his index finger slowly across his throat. “Remember, no more breath. Read it.”

Fear paramount, a tremble developing in his hands, Ivan began at the top of the page.
Follow the instructions as delivered verbally to you by the courier. Don’t even think about disobeying any aspect of them. We are in the midst of a maximum-classified, eyes-only, top-secret, black-drape, need-to-know basis operation. Everything will be explained to you within a reasonable period of time. Now, in front of the courier, burn this message as well as the envelope, or, with love in his heart, he’ll be forced to burn you. I shall return. VM

“Gotta match?” asked the petrified Salamander quietly. “I gave up cigarettes for my health. It’d be kinda dumb if I got burned because I don’t smoke.”

“Sure,” said Meat, throwing a pack of matches on the desk. “After you finish torching the paper, you got one other thing to do before I go.”

“Name it. When I get messages from beyond the grave, I don’t quibble.”

“Pick up the phone and place an order for fifty thousand shares of Petrotoxic Amalgamated.”

“
Whaaat
?” shrieked Ivan the Terrible, his forehead drenched with beads of sweat. Then he watched in terror as D’Ambrosia’s huge right hand reached under his jacket. “So
certainly
, of course! So why
not
? Let’s make it seventy-five, I mean, why
not
?”

•  •  •

Five other such courtesy calls were made by Meat the Courier, all with similar results—give or take a shriek or two—resulting in a
buy, buy, buy
! binge not seen since the Dow creased three thousand and was still climbing. As a natural consequence, in executive suites across the nation, the carrots led the asses (horses may not be bright, but they’re smarter than mules). Wild diversification and consummate oversupply were the orders of the day, and the orders went out by the billions. Something
really big
was going down, and the smart money boys and the conglomerate fraternity were going to go up on that fantastical seesaw of economic balances.

Buy out those computer firms, screw the price
!

Get control of all the subcontracting parts divisions in Georgia and don’t bore me with figures
!

We’re dealing from strength, you idiot! I want the majority interest in McDonnell Douglas, Boeing, and Rolls-Royce Aeroengines, and for Christ’s sake, don’t stop bidding until you get them all
!

Buy California
!

On the basis of an inflated fiction, shrouded in a mystery that would impress Little Joey, to say nothing of Houdini and Rasputin, billions in debt were accrued by the enemies of Vincent Francis Assisi Mangecavallo, who sat under an umbrella in Miami Beach, Florida, a Monte Cristo cigar in his mouth, a cellular telephone at his side, as well as a portable radio, a margarita on the plastic tray in front of him, and a wide grin on his face. “Go with the big wave, you fancy country club cannolis,” he said to himself, reaching for his glass, his free hand adjusting his red toupee. “Wait’ll the ocean dries up like that Moses made it do, may he rest in peace. You’ll be sucked down into the sand, you
bastards
! Put out a contract on me, better you should read the small print. Cleaning urinals in
Cairo
, that’s where all of you
belong
!”

Sir Henry Irving Sutton sat rigidly, angrily, in the kitchen chair while Erin Lafferty snipped away at his flowing crown of gray glory. “
Trim
, wench, merely a trim, or
you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in the scullery!”

“Y’ don’t scare me, y’ old fart,” said Erin. “I seen ya in that afternoon program
Forever All Our Forevers
fer—what was it? Ten years?—so I know all about
you
, boyo.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You was always yellin’ and caterwaulin’ on those young kids until you was drivin’ ’em nuts. Then you’d go into that big liberry and cry, sayin’ to yerself that they had life too easy, and had to be brought up to snuff so they could face the terrible misfortunes that faced ’em—and by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, yer words were gospel! Such lousy
times
they had! I mean you was actually cryin’, sorry for all the bad things you had to say to them, wishin’ you didn’t have to.… Nah, underneath you’re a softie, Grandfather Weatherall!”

“I was merely playing a roll, Mrs. Lafferty.”

“Call it whatever you like, Mr. Sutton, but for me and all the girls in Old Southy, you were the only reason we watched that stupid show. We was all in
love
with you, boyo.”

“I
knew
that son of a bitch never got me a decent contract!” spat out the actor under his breath.

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing, dear lady, nothing. Cut away, cut away! You’re obviously a woman of great taste.”

The kitchen door burst open, the hulk of Cyrus following, his dark face alive with anticipation. “We’re
on
, ‘General’!”

“Fine, young man! Where’s my uniform? I was always a splendid figure in military plumage.”

“No plumes, no uniform, that’s out of the question.”

“For God’s sake,
why
?”

“To begin with, the general is no longer a general by request of the Pentagon and just about every other major influence in Washington, including the White House. Secondly, you’d call attention to us, which isn’t practical.”

“It’s rather difficult to get into a role without proper accoutrements, which naturally presumes accurate clothing—as in a uniform.… Actually, as a general I outrank you, Colonel.”

“If you’re going to play that game, Mr. Actor, you’re
playing
a general; you were field-commissioned a
major
and I was given the rank of
colonel
. You lose, Sir Henry.”

“Damned impertinent civilians—”

“Where the hell are you, still in World War Two?”

“No, I’m an artist! The rest of you are civilians … and chemists.”

“Man, you and Hawkins got more in common than El Alamein. Then, most of the generals I’ve known were actors, too.… Come on, let’s go. They expect us at twenty-two hundred.”

“Twenty-two hundred what?”

“
Hours
, Major, or General, if you prefer. It’s military for ten o’clock at night.”

“Never could figure those damned numbers—”

The “Nobel” committee’s three hotel suites were adjacent to one another, the middle rooms designated as the meeting ground for the august General MacKenzie Hawkins, Soldier of the Century, and the distinguished “visitors from Stockholm.” As negotiated by the general’s aide-de-camp, one Colonel Cyrus Marshall, U.S. Army, Retired, the conference was to be private, without press coverage or news releases. As the colonel explained, although the celebrated warrior was immensely honored by the award, he was currently in seclusion writing his memoirs,
Peace Through Blood
, and wished to know the extent of his travel and media commitments before rendering his decision to accept. The committee spokesman, Lars Olafer, reacted to the secret meeting with such enthusiasm that Colonel Cyrus added gas-spraying weapons to the already complete arsenal on his and Roman Z’s persons. A trap was to be reversed in the best tradition of subterranean rats and Cyrus knew exactly how to do it. Pull in the rodents, immobilize them, bring them to with bound hands and feet, then subject them to interrogation usually described as psychologically macabre but without physical harm. Like ice picks poised in front of their eyes.

“I’d be far more impressive in a uniform!” said Sutton angrily, walking down the hotel corridor in a pinstriped
suit recruited from his Boston apartment. “These damn clothes were appropriate for Shaw’s
The Millionairess
, but
not
for the mission at hand.”

“Hey, you look terrific,” said Roman Z, pinching Sutton’s cheek to the astonishment of the actor. “You should only have perhaps a flower in your lapel, it would have a certain somzing.”

“Cut it out, Roman,” said Cyrus quietly. “He looks fine.… Are you ready,
General
?”

“You’re talking to a professional, dear boy. The adrenaline flows as we approach the moment. Now, the
magic
begins!… Knock on the door, precede me, as is proper, and I shall make my entrance.”

“Remember, Pops,” admonished the mercenary in front of the door. “You’re one hell of an actor, I’ll give you that, but please don’t get carried away and scare the hell out of them. We want to learn everything we can before we make our move.”

“Now you’re a director, Colonel?… May I explain for your untutored frame of reference that there are three descending
t
s in the theater: talent, taste, and tenacity, and within the second category is contained Hamlet’s entire advice to the players. I remember one time in Poughkeepsie—”

“Tutor me some other time, Mr. Sutton. Right now, let’s just have the magic begin, okay?” Cyrus rapped on the door of the hotel suite, drawing himself up to his full military height and ramrod posture. The door was opened by a white-haired man with a salt and pepper chin beard, a pince-nez looped over his nose. “Colonel Marshall, sir,” continued Cyrus, introducing himself. “Chief aide-de-camp to General MacKenzie Hawkins.”

“
Välkommen
, Colonel,” said the ersatz elderly delegate supposedly from Sweden; he spoke in an extremely thick Scandinavian accent that made the traveled Cyrus wince. “Vee are vid extreme pleasure to meet zee grand gheneral.” The delegate, bowing obsequiously, stepped backward so as to admit the celebrated Soldier of the Century, who strode through the door like an animated Colossus of Rhodes with an agitated Roman Z shuffling rapidly behind him.

“I am
deeply
honored, gentlemen!” exclaimed the actor, his guttural bark extraordinarily close to that of MacKenzie Hawkins. “Not only honored but supremely humbled by your selection of this minor player in the major conflicts of our times. I have merely done my best, and as an old soldier tempered by battle, I can only say that we fill the wall up with our heroic dead, those brave souls surviving, pressing ahead to victory!”

Suddenly, a rush of voices, the accents diverse and having nothing to do with Sweden, burst forth.

“Christ, it’s
him
!”