The Road to Omaha (73 page)

5:45
A.M.
As dawn broke over the Washington skyline, a russet mantle in the making, the silent marble halls of the Supreme Court came quietly alive as teams of cleaning women pushed their maintenance carts from one doorway to another. The tiers of trays held new boxed soap, fresh towels, tissue replacements, and, in front of each dolly, a suspended plastic trash bag for yesterday’s refuse.

One cart, however, differed from all the others in the magnificent structure dedicated to laws of God and nation. So did the elderly gray-haired lady pushing it; she was
distinctly
different from her counterparts throughout the building. Upon closer examination, her gray locks were perfectly coiffed, her blue eye shadow subtly apparent, and by mistake she wore a diamond and emerald bracelet around her wrist that was in value many times the annual salary of the other ladies. She also wore a large plastic label clipped to the pocket of her uniform that read:
Temporary. Cleared
.

What made her cart different was the suspended plastic bag designed for refuse. It was full before she reached the first office on her assigned route—an office she disdained
to enter as her mumbled words confirmed while she passed the door.

“
Escremento
!… Vincenzo, you
pazzo
. My best and most loved child of my dearest sister should be in hospital for
dementi
. I could buy every statue in dissa whole building!… So why do I
do
?… Because my beloved nephew means my no-good husband don’ have to work.
Mannaggia
 … Oh, here it is, the closet.
Bene
! I leave everything here, go home, watch a little TV, then with the girls a little shopping.
Molto bene
!”

8:15
A.M.
Four nondescript brown and black automobiles pulled up swiftly on First Street near the corner of Capitol Street. Three dark-suited men got out of each, their brows furrowed, all eyes robotically centered; they were the “gunslingers” hired for a job, and to fail meant going back to the most menial of their former union tasks—a fate worse than death. Twelve dedicated professionals, who had no idea what they were dedicated to, except that the two men in the photographs they carried in their pockets must never enter the Supreme Court across the street. No sweat. Nobody ever found Jimmy Hoffa.

9:12
A.M.
Two vehicles with government license plates parked briefly in front of the Supreme Court. Under the instruction of the Attorney General, the eight men who emerged were to take into custody two individuals wanted for outrageous crimes against the country. Each FBI agent had a photograph of the former and thoroughly discredited General MacKenzie Hawkins and his accomplice, an underworld lawyer named Samuel Lansing Devereaux still wanted for treasonous activities during his tour of duty in the last days of the Vietnam action. There was no statute of limitation on his crimes. He had impugned the reputations of his superiors while profiting from their disgrace. Federal agents
hated
guys like that—how did they
do
it?

•  •  •

10:22
A.M.
A dark blue van veered into the curb on Capitol at the side of the Supreme Court. Its rear doors opened and seven Ranger Commandos in camouflage green and black combat fatigues leaped out, their weapons concealed in their wide pockets. After all, they did not want to appear conspicuous. Their covert mission had been defined by the diminutive Secretary of Defense himself—orally, not in writing. “Gentlemen, these two scum would cripple the first line of America’s airborne forces, that’s all I can tell you. They must be stopped at all costs. In the words of that great commander, ‘Beam ’em up, Scotty,’—
way
up, out of
sight
!” … Commandos
hated
scum like that! If anyone was going to dump on the sky-jocks, it would be
them
. The fly-boys grabbed all the headlines and still flew home for a steak while
they
were in the mud!
No
! If anybody was going to blitz the “airborne,”
they
would do it!

12:03
P.M.
MacKenzie Hawkins, arms akimbo, studied the figure of Henry Irving Sutton in the hotel room, nodding his approval. “
Goddamn
, Mr. Actor, you could be me!”

“It wasn’t difficult,
mon général
,” said Sutton, removing his gold-braided officer’s cap, revealing a head of close-cropped gray hair. “The uniform fits superbly and the ribbons are, indeed, impressive. The rest is merely vocal intonation, which is simple. My voice-over commercials, including one for a rotten cat, sent one of my children through college—damned if I can remember which one.”

“I still want you to wear a combat helmet—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it would spoil the effect and defeat the purpose. My role is to draw men out, not frighten them away. A battle helmet telegraphs impending conflict, and that connotes defense measures such as armed concealed personnel for protection. One’s motivation must be clean and consistent, General, not muddled, you lose your audience that way.”

“You could also lose—well, you could be a target, too, you know.”

“I really don’t think so,” said the actor, his eyes twinkling at the Hawk’s unfinished statement. “Not with what you’ve got going out there. Compared to the sands of
North Africa, this is practically offstage. At any rate, it’s a minor risk, for which I’m being well compensated.… Incidentally, how goes it with our Stanislavski warriors of the Suicidal Six?”

“There’s been a change of plans—”

“
Oh
?” interrupted Sir Henry sharply, suspiciously.

“All to the good for everybody,” said Hawkins quickly, instantly recognizing the quasi-panic of the actor’s expression, a custom of a trade where
you got it, sweetheart, you’re teriff
! frequently meant
the bum’s a loser, get me some class like Sonny Tufts
. “They’ll be in Los Angeles by four o’clock this afternoon. My wife, my former wife—one of ’em, that is, the first, actually—wanted them out there so she could keep a motherly eye on all six.”

“How very sweet.” The actor touched the two stars on his collar. “However, to be blunt, nothing’s changed with regard to my appearance in the film?”

“Hell, no. The boys want you, and whatever they want they’re going to get.”

“Are you certain? They have no recognition quotient, you realize.”

“Whatever it is, they don’t need it. They control the ‘hottest boffo-box-office-mega-buster’—whatever
that
is—anyone in Dizzy City, West, can remember. In any event, everything’s in the hands of the William Morris Agency and—”

“William
Morris
?”

“Isn’t that the name?”

“It certainly is! I think one of my daughters is an attorney in their legal department—probably got the job because she’s my daughter. What
is
her name; I see her every Christmas.”

“The deal’s being handled by two men named Robbins and Martin, and my wife, my former—you know what I mean—says they’re the best.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ve read about them in the trades. I believe my daughter—Becky or Betty … whatever—was engaged to that Robbins fellow, or was it Martin? Yes, they really must be splendid, for she’s a very bright girl—
Antoinette
, that’s her name! She always gives me a
sweater three sizes too big, but then I’ve always appeared extremely large on stage—it’s called presence, you know.”

“I guess I do now. The boys are heading out to the Coast, everything first class, my Ginny told me.”

“Naturally. One doesn’t send six quarts of diamonds on a subway unattended. I’m surprised they didn’t hire their own jet.”

“My ex-wife explained that. She said all the studios and the agents out there hire people who do nothing but monitor corporate aircraft, and if anything looks suspicious, they bribe the pilots. She told me a Lear was lost in the Alaskan tundra three weeks ago and was just found yesterday, two hours after a rival studio signed some guy named Warner Batty to a contract.”

The hotel room doorbell rang, startling both men. “Who the hell could
that
be?” whispered the Hawk. “Henry, did you tell anybody—”

“Absolutely
no one
!” replied the actor, also whispering, but far more emphatically. “I followed the script, dear boy, not a single variation in the stage directions! I registered quite respectably as a pipe salesman from Akron—proper polyester suit, weary slouch … damn fine performance, if I do say so.”

“Who could it
be
?”

“Leave it to me,
mon général
.” Sutton walked to the door and assumed the weaving posture of a drunken man, loosening his tie and partially unbuttoning his tunic. “Hide in the
closet
, MacKenzie!” he said quietly, then raising his timbre, he spoke in a loud inebriated voice. “
Yesh
, wassit it? Dish is a personal party, and me and my broad don’ want no extra guests!”

“Hey,
fazool
!” came the gruff reply through the door. “If you think you’re playin’ one of your fuckin’ games like you did when we was in Bean Town, ferget it! Lemme
in
!”

Sir Henry snapped his head around; the closet door opened simultaneously, the face of MacKenzie Hawkins pinched in shock. “Oh, my
God
, it’s Little Joseph!… Let him in, goddamnit.”

“
So
?” said Joey, his hands clasped behind him as the door closed and standing as high as his five feet, three
inches permitted. “If the head of that
fazool
peekin’ out of the closet is your broad, soldier boy, you got
big
troubles in the military.”

“Who is this
dwarf
who obviously speaks dwarf-talk?” asked the actor, his indignation scathing.

“You’re an easy mark,
fazool
number
two
. Once you made contact with the big
fazool
on F Street and Tenth, what with your right shoulder twitching and your left hand jabbing south like you got the
DTs
, I knew you was the contact. You couldn’t fool nobody.”

“Are you questioning my
technique
, sir? I, who have garnered the approbation of a thousand critics across the land!”

“Who’s the hot fudge sundae?” asked Little Joey, as a perplexed Hawk walked out of the clothes closet. “I think maybe Bam-Bam and me should know, y’know what I mean?”

“
Joseph
, what are you
doing
here?” roared MacKenzie, his astonishment receding and veering to menace.

“Cool it,
fazool
. Vinnie has your best interests at heart, you gotta know that. Remember, I’m the Shroud. I can be anywhere, move anywhere, nobody notices me. Like you didn’t notice me when you flew into National Airport from New York this morning and I was right on your ass.”

“
So
?”

“A couple of things, maybe. Bam-Bam wants to know if he should call in a squad of torpedos from Toronto.”

“Absolutely
not
!”

“He figured; there’s not time.… Awright, then he wants you to know that his blessed aunt Angelina has done like you wished her to do because her husband, Rocco, is a no good son of a bitch and she loves her nephew, Vincenzo. The stuff you wanted is in the second closet in the hallway on the right.”

“
Good
!”

“All is not so good. Bam-Bam is a proud man,
fazool
, and your original American buddies are not so good to him. He says they treat him like garbage and the feathers around his head don’t fit!”

•  •  •

12:18
P.M.
The manager of the Embassy Row Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue was not prepared for the current behavior of one of his favored guests, namely Aaron Pinkus, attorney-at-law. As usual, whenever the celebrated lawyer journeyed to Washington, it was a given that his stay was confidential, as, indeed, was the case with any guest who requested the same, but this afternoon Mr. Pinkus had carried confidentiality to its extreme. He had insisted that he and his party use the delivery entrance and ascend to their adjoining suites—on the freight elevator. Furthermore, only the manager himself was to be aware of the attorney’s presence; fictitious names were to be entered into the register and, therefore, should any telephone calls come for him, those callers would naturally be told that no Aaron Pinkus was registered, for indeed he was not. However, should calls come specifying only the room numbers, they should be put through.

It was not like Pinkus to issue such vigilant instructions, considered the manager, but he thought he knew why. Washington was a zoo these days, and no doubt a lawyer of his expertise had been called to testify before Congress on some complicated points of law about a bill fraught with special interests. Obviously, Pinkus had brought down a contingent of the brightest attorneys in his firm to advise him during the hearings.

Which was why the manager was bewildered when, as he routinely checked the front desk, a man in an orange silk shirt, a blue silk sash, and a gold earring swinging from his left lobe came up to the counter and asked where the “droogy store” was.

“Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?” asked the suspicious clerk.

“Wat
alse
?” replied Roman Z, displaying his room key. The manager glanced at it. It was the number of a Pinkus suite.

“Over there, sir,” said the mortified clerk, pointing across the lobby.

“Iss
good
! I need new cologne! I
charge
, no?”

Only seconds later, two swarthy men dressed in uniforms the manager did not recognize, apparently from
some South American revolution, he thought, rushed up to the desk.

“Where’d he
go
, man?” cried the taller of the two, several gaps in his teeth.

“Who?” asked the clerk, backing away from the counter.

“The
gitano
wid d’gold earring!” said the second Hispanic. “He got the key to d’room but my
amigo
pressed d’wrong button on the h’evelator. We wen’ up, he wen’ down!”