The Road to Omaha (75 page)

“We’re not cooking, man,” had said a firm voice behind him. “We’re mixing the colors, which means you’ve got to melt the wax.”

“What?”

“
See
?” Suddenly a grotesquely painted face had been thrust in front of his eyes, causing the driver to lurch across the Virginia highway, slipping between the onrushing vehicles until he managed to return to his lane.

There followed what could only be described as a series of events that justified the screams of the owner of the Last Ditch Motel outside of Arlington, when he had roared from behind a mountain of duffel bags:

“I’ll blow the fucking place up before I let ’em back in! Holy
shit
! Fuckin’ war dances around a fuckin’ bonfire in the parking lot! Everybody else in all the other rooms left—
running
—without a nickel in my till!”

“You got it wrong, man! They were supplication chants. You know, like prayers for rain and deliverance, even sometimes broads.”

“
Out, out, out
!”

Once the duffel bags had been loaded, by necessity a number strapped on top of the bus, the series of intolerable events continued amid the smoke and the stench of melted-down Crayola crayons. “You see, man, when you mix it with paraffin and press it into your skin, it conforms and slowly drips down your face with the body heat. Scares the hell out of palefaces … 
see
?” The driver saw. Weeping streaks of bright colors slowly crawling down the face of someone named Calfnose. The bus had nearly crashed into the rear of a diplomatic limousine bearing the flags of Tanzania; instead, it merely dented the bumper, then skirted to the left, passing it and removing a side mirror as several wide-eyed black faces stared up at their more colorful counterparts in the windows of the bus.

Then came the audibles, initially the slow, bass-toned boom-booms of at least a dozen drums.
Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom—boom-boom, boom-boom! “Hai-ya, hai-ya, hai-ya
!” The fanatical chorus built to a hysterical crescendo as the driver’s head shot back and
forth over the wheel like a rooster in heat in time with the beat. Relief had suddenly come as the drums and the chanting abruptly stopped, apparently by command.

“I think we got that one wrong, guys and girls!” shouted the terrorist named Calfnose. “Isn’t that the wedding night celebration?”

“Beats the hell out of Ravel’s
Bolero
!” replied a male voice at the rear of the crowded bus.

“Who’d know the difference?” yelled another, now a woman.

“I don’t know,” answered Calfnose, “but Thunder Head said Indian Affairs might send down a couple of experts ’cause nobody expects us or knows why we’re there.”

“If they’re Mohawks, they’ll crap on us!” shouted yet another, by his voice an elderly member of the tribe. “Legend has it that they threw us out of our wigwams whenever it snowed!”

“Well, just in case, let’s rehearse the one that greets the sunrise; that’d be applicable.”

“Which one is that, Johnny?” Another woman.

“The one that sounds like a tarantella—”

“Only when sung
vivace
, Calfy,” corrected a painted brave in front. “When it’s
adagio
, it could be a dirge out of Sibelius.”

“So we go with the
balachy
bit. All right, girls, into the aisle and rehearse your thing. And remember, Thunder Head wants some legs for the TV cameras but no garter belt stuff. We gotta be squeaky clean.”

“
Aw, aw, aw
 … shit!” came the male voices.

“Here we go—
now
!”

The drums and the vocal chorus had begun again, compounded by the beating of female feet in the aisle, as the driver tried to concentrate on the growing traffic in the District of Columbia. Unfortunately, a Sterno can under a boiling pot of bright red Crayolas overturned, setting fire to the beaded skirt of a dancer. Several braves were quick to extinguish the flames.

“Get your
hands
out of there!” screamed the offended Indian lass.

The driver’s head had whipped around as the bus skidded into a fire hydrant, snapping off the top and sending
a gusher of water into Independence Avenue, drenching all the cars and pedestrians in the vicinity. Company regulations required that the operator of any vehicle involved in such an incident stop immediately, radio his dispatcher, and await the police. It was a corporate policy that absolutely, positively did
not
apply to
him
! concluded the driver of the bus filled with savage terrorists who wore dripping waxed paint on their faces. He was five blocks from his destination, and the moment his load of Sterno-burning, foot-stomping barbarians in their leather and their beads got off his vehicle with their duffel bags and their cardboard signs, he would race back to the depot, hand in a hastily scribbled resignation, drive home, grab his wife, and together they would take the next plane to as far away as possible. Fortunately, their only son was a lawyer; the hotshot lawyer could take care of the aftereffects. What the
hell
, he had put the snotty little bastard through law school!… Thirty-six years behind a wheel driving the pigs of humanity, a man had to know when the critical sign of acceptance stopped. It was like when he was in France in World War II, and they were taking a pounding from the Krauts, and that great man, General Hawkins, took over the division and shouted the words out: “There comes a time, soldiers, when we either cut bait or go after the big ones! I say we go on! I say we
attack
!”

And by God, they did. The great man had been right then, but here and now there was nothing to attack, no armed enemy intent on killing you, just armies of lunatics wanting to climb into your bus and drive you crazy! Thirty-six years; a good life, a productive life—
outside
the bus. But now, at this critical moment, there was nothing left, nothing to attack. It was time to cut bait.… He wondered what the great General Hawkins would say. He thought he knew.

“If the enemy isn’t worth it, find another!”

The driver would cut bait. The enemy was not worth it.

The last terrorist off the bus was the one they called Calfnose, the maniac with the grotesque waxed streaks of bright colors dripping down his face. “Here, man,” said the savage, handing the driver a small metal coin of no discernable value. “Chief Thunder Head wanted this to be
presented to the one who took us to our ‘point of destiny.’ Damned if I know what he meant, but it’s yours, buddy.” Calfnose leaped down the steps to the pavement, his cardboard placard, which was nailed to a tree branch, balanced over his right shoulder.

“… 
our point of destiny. Nothing will be the same after the action we take. We attack
!” General MacKenzie Hawkins in France forty years ago.

The driver stared at the metal coin in his hand and gasped. It was a replica of their division’s insignia of forty years ago. With the face of their great commander! A sign from heaven? Hardly likely, as he and his wife had long ago managed to avoid church. Sunday mornings were for all those television programs where politicians fueled his anger and his wife reduced it by a pitcher of Tabasco-laced Bloody Marys. Good woman, his wife.… But
this
! His old division, and the words of the finest commanding officer that ever lived!
Christ
, he had to get out of there. It was
weird
!

The driver restarted the engine, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and sped down First Street, only to see in his rearview mirror a crowd of painted faces racing after him. “
Fuck
you!” he cried out loud. “I’m out,
finished
! Me and my girl are heading west—maybe so far west it’s east, maybe someplace like that American Samoa!”

What the driver had overlooked was that there were thirty-seven duffel bags strapped to his roof.

1:06
P.M.
The doorbell of the suite rang, and as Aaron and Sam slipped into a bedroom to avoid any possible recognition, Jennifer walked across the room, glanced behind her, then said: “Yes, who is it?”

“Pliss, Miss Janey!” replied the unmistakable voice of Roman Z. “Thiss thing iss havvy!”

Redwing opened the door, to be greeted by Roman standing in front of the two Desis, who held the handles of an enormous steamer trunk, perspiration forming on their foreheads. “Good heavens, why didn’t you have the bell captain send it up?”

“My dearest fren who now happens to be a brutal and deranged ‘colonel’ said we had to bring it up ourselves.” The Gypsy walked into the room. “Otherwise, in case it fell open, I should slit the throats of any who saw its contents.… Come, my second and third dearest frens. In here!”

“I can’t believe Cyrus would give such an order,” protested Jennifer as Desis One and Two struggled with the outsized trunk, carrying it into the suite and setting it upright. “At least you could have used a dolly.”

“Was dat?” asked Desi the Second, wiping his brow.

“A small platform with wheels but large enough for heavy luggage.”

“Chu said we shouldn’t use one of dem!” yelled D-One at Roman.

“ ’Cause the magnificent
colonel
was talkin’ to the crazy peoples on the truck an’ all he said was ‘take it up an’ hurry!’ He didn’t say Hake it up on thiss machine an’ hurry.” My dearest fren iss smart; you never know when one of those things iss a trap. You ever try to run out of a big supermarket pushing a cart without paying? Zee bells go off, right, Miss Janey?”

“Well, there are codes on merchandise that are neutralized by passing over the paycheck grids—”

“
See
! My dearest fren saved our
lives
!”

“You will be well compensated for your labors,” said Aaron Pinkus, rushing out of the bedroom, Devereaux behind him. “Somebody open it,” he added, staring at the trunk.

“There iss no key,” said Roman. “Only leetle numbers on zee locks.”

“
I
have the numbers,” announced the impeccably, expensively dressed Cyrus, walking through the open door and immediately closing it. “I’m afraid I had to sign an additional bill of delivery with my firm, Mr. Pinkus.”

“You gave them my
name
?”

“Hell, no, but the original contractor may go after you if this whole thing comes out in the wash.”

“I’ll handle
that
!” exclaimed Sam. “Hiring escaped prisoners and wanted mercenaries to do their dirty work.
Hah
! A piece of cake!”

“Darling, we’re doing the same,” said Jennifer.

“Oh?”

“For heaven’s sake, open the trunk! I can feel Shirley breathing down my spine, a not altogether pleasant sensation. I haven’t called her since yesterday morning.”

“Giff me her number,” said Roman Z, twirling his blue silk sash around his right arm in front of his silk orange shirt. “There iss women and then there iss
women
, and very few can resist my charms. Iss so, my dearest frens?”

“Shirley would have you committed,” replied Pinkus. “I doubt your Dun and Bradstreet would meet her standards.”

“
There
!” said Cyrus, having manipulated the locks and pulling apart the trunk.

“My
God
!” cried Sunrise Jennifer Redwing. “All that metal!”

“I told you, Jenny,” said Cyrus, looking at the profusion of steel breastplates and skullcaps on hangers in front of receding racks of odd clothing. “This is hardball.”

1:32
P.M.
The contents of the huge steamer trunk were distributed and the process of infiltration-camouflage began. According to the Hawk’s orders (several points added or refined by his now senior military aide, Cyrus), the initial objective was to deceive the enemy scouts searching for them in the crowds outside and, by deceiving them, gain entrance to the great hall of the Supreme Court. Once inside, the second goal was to pass through security without Sam, Aaron, the Hawk, or Jenny revealing their identities. MacKenzie was convinced the guards had been given ident-alerts, certainly specifying Devereaux and himself, and, as Sam was Pinkus’s employee, probably Aaron; and, since S. J. Redwing had previously argued before the Court,
and
if someone had done his homework and learned she was a member of the Wopotami tribe, she, too, could be on the list. Granted, Jenny’s inclusion was farfetched, but so were the untold billions of dollars owed by the greedy enemies of the “deceased” Vincent Mangecavallo.

The third hurdle depended solely on Sam, Aaron, and Hawkins finding a men’s room and Jennifer locating a ladies’ room prior to being admitted into the august chambers. According to the detailed building plans secured somehow by “relatives” of Vinnie the Bam-Bam and confirmed by his favorite aunt, Angelina the Go-Go, the hallway on the second floor, where the chambers were, had two such conveniences—at opposite ends of the marble hall. The reason for the necessity of the restrooms takes us back to the initial objective of deceiving the Supreme Court guards and gaining entry into the chambers. The contents of the steamer trunk, however, caused Jenny to scream from her bedroom.

“
Sam
, this is
impossible
!”