The butler’s voice. “Some men, sir. I think they’re from the court.”
“Well, kick them out,” said Heller.
“I can’t, sir. There’s police with them and they’ve got guns.”
The shabby man in the shabby coat with the shabby hat pulled down over his eyes, unable to look at anybody straight, had followed the butler in. He placed an order in Heller’s hand.
“He’s served!” called the shabby man toward the door. “You can go ahead.”
Heller read the paper. It said:
SUPERIOR COURT
Wister vs. Wister
SEIZURE ORDER:
To protect all property, rights and assets of the PLAINTIFF, Toots Wister, and to prevent actual assets from being hidden under the mask of false or fabricated identity or titles, under the community property laws of this state, said assets shall be frozen by the order of this court until actual titles can be established.
The DEFENDANT shall hereafter and whereas and at once surrender up all bank accounts, assets, possessions real and personal and everything he uses and claims he does not own.
Superior Court
Hammer Twist
Judge
Dingaling, Chase & Ambo
“What the blast is this?” said Heller.
A heavy voice said, “It’s a court order and I come along to be sure it’s fulfilled without trouble. You pulled a gun on the process server the other day.” It was Police Inspector Grafferty!
Men were filing into the condo, picking up things and making lists.
“And what happens if I throw you crazies out?” said Heller.
“You get ninety days for contempt of court,” said Grafferty. “Say, haven’t I seen you someplace before? I never forget a face.”
“What shall I do?” said the butler.
“Follow them around and make sure they don’t steal anything,” said Heller. “But first tell the chauffeur to get out a car.”
“You can’t use any cars,” said Grafferty. “And you can’t live here, either. We’re padlocking the place.”
“What happens to the staff?” said Heller.
“They get padlocked, too,” said Grafferty. “Are you sure we ain’t met before?”
Heller picked up his hat.
Two policemen stopped him, removed his wallet and took the money out of it.
Heller took back the empty wallet. He went into his room to get some clothes.
“Can’t touch those,” a court marshal said. “You’re lucky we don’t strip you of them you got on. The only thing that stops us is indecent exposure laws.”
Heller walked out. Just before he got in the elevator, he bumped into the police inspector. Grafferty said, “I know where it was. Police lineup for sexual offenders three years ago. You got off then, but you won’t the next time. I’ll see to it personally.”
Heller exited from the front door of the condo. The doorman didn’t salute. Heller walked over to him. “I’ve got to make a phone call. Can you lend me a quarter?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said. “But them was bailiffs that just walked in. I don’t know what the trouble is, but nobody ever gets out of a court alive. Even a dime would be at risk. Have a good day, sir.”
Heller started downtown on foot. He had most of the length of Central Park to go.
He covered it and entered Columbus Circle. He went down Broadway, all the way from 59th Street through Times Square and on down to 34th Street. Then he went the final part of a long block toward Fifth Avenue and was in the shadow of the Empire State Building.
He stopped. He took out a piece of paper and, glancing around, put it up against the building and wrote a note. He wrote so fast I could not follow it.
He watched the entrance to the building. He stood there for some time. A young man came running out, probably a broker’s runner. Heller paced him. At the corner, where the young man was waiting for a light, Heller stepped close to him and pushed the paper into his hand.
“Don’t look at me,” said Heller. “Turn around and get this to Izzy right away.”
The young man must have been from Izzy’s own office. He waited for the light. Heller crossed. He glanced back. The young man hadn’t followed him. He was gone.
Heller went up the street to the Sukiyaki Bar and Grill. He went in.
A Japanese waiter came over.
“Give me a glass of water,” said Heller.
“You no order food? You no order drink?”
“Give me a glass of water,” said Heller.
“I’m most sorry, we don’t serve water. If you broke, go to Salvation Army soup kitchen.”
“You like this place?” said Heller.
“Yes.”
“You don’t want this place wrecked?”
“NO, sir!”
“Then bring me a glass of water.”
“I can’t, sir. You can sit there. But no money, no water.”
Heller waited half an hour. Other Japanese staff passed by, frowning at him. New York is no place to be without money. I heard somebody say once that the place was as hard as a whore’s heart. True, by my experience.
I was beginning to taste some satisfaction in this plight of Heller’s. Oh, there was no doubt he was finished. It was even curing my headache. Krak gone. Cars gone. Condos gone. Disaster all around him. I began to smile. This was worth everything I had been put through lately.
Izzy suddenly slid into the seat opposite him. He was pretty flustered, his hair untidy, his horn-rimmed glasses askew, his beak of a nose rubbed red.
Heller handed him the court order. “I didn’t want to chance anyone following me to the office. They might not know of its existence. I’ve noticed it before: people seem to know where I am and where I go.”
Izzy nodded. He was reading the court order.
“That can’t be very legal,” said Heller.
“Well, legal is whatever the lawyers say it is. They try anything, Mr. Jet. And usually get away with it. I’ll give this to Philup Bleedum: it will take months for him to untangle it and years to settle the case and he’s one of the fastest lawyers in town.”
“Now to something important,” said Heller. “What did the detective agency say?”
“Well, they’ve covered all the hotels. No one of that name or description registered. They’ve covered the hospitals and morgue. No sign of her anywhere.”
“Blast!” said Heller. “The poor kid must be really hiding. And from nothing! These suits are just a pack of lies.”
“Most suits are,” said Izzy. “The total design of the legal system is wrecking people’s lives so the lawyers can get rich. The trouble is, this fake Toots Switch doesn’t have a dime. The lawyers just take such cases to get fifty percent of any court award. You can’t recover damages from such people for all the wreckage they cause. By the way, they’ve already been to the office this morning.”
“What?”
“Yes. A court order to attach your salary. But as you don’t get any, it doesn’t have any force. They try anything. They don’t even have a judgment yet. But you were very wise not to come in. As I was en route here, I picked this up. Have you seen it?”
He handed Heller a paper. The front-page story said:
WHIZ KID BIGAMIST
SECOND WIFE SUES
FOR DIVORCE
Dingaling, Chase & Ambo today filed suit in Superior Court on behalf of one Dolores Wister née Pubiano de Cópula.
Alleging marriage by a village priest to the notorious outlaw Wister, otherwise known as the Whiz Kid, while he was on the run in Mexico, the delicate Mexican flower bared her tale of woe to the assembled media. It was a very pretty tale.
Posing as a revolutionist, the Whiz Kid, according to the suit, stole into the village and her bed in the depths of a romantic Mexican night and (bleeped) her thoroughly.
Due to the braying of her jealous burro in the next room, the village priest discovered them and married them immediately as they lay wallowing in
their sin.
Having searched in vain for her outlaw lover/husband for two desperate, lonely and heartbroken years, and finding now that he had since married another woman in Kansas, the pitiful, grief-withered beauty has decided to sue for divorce.
Property settlements may run into billions.
Heller threw the paper back across the table. “Any way to put her in jail?”
“With this legal system?” said Izzy. “The truth is, the cops who came to your apartment couldn’t have received the warrant yet. But one or another of these girls before the day is out is going to swear out an arrest order on you for bigamy. It’s a criminal offense. I’d keep out of sight.”
“Look,” said Heller, “I don’t give a blast about these people. I’m only interested in where the Countess is! I’ve got to find her!”
Izzy fumbled in his coat. He brought out a roll of bills inches thick. He slid it across the table to Heller.
Instantly the Japanese waiter arrived with two glasses of water. He went away.
Heller was counting the money.
“I’m sorry,” said Izzy. “All I ever keep in my personal box is thousand-dollar bills. I hope it doesn’t embarrass you changing them. I wouldn’t go into any banks, if I were you. Dingaling, Chase & Ambo will have everything covered. Here is something else.” He slid Heller an envelope.
Heller looked in. It was one of his phony CIA passports and a ticket.
“I still think you ought to go to Brazil,” said Izzy. “That’s where the ticket is for. I’ll get detectives looking even harder for Miss Joy and send her to you.”
“She wouldn’t come unless I spoke to her.”
Izzy looked like he was going to cry. “Oh, Mr. Jet, you don’t realize what you’re into! They’ve got you totally enmeshed in the legal system now. The devil himself couldn’t ever escape from it. And he’s still in it. No man once grabbed by it has ever gotten free of it. Please go, Mr. Jet.”
“I’ve got to find my girl,” said Heller.
Izzy shook his head. He got up and sadly left.
The Japanese came over. “You order now?”
“I’m going to order somebody vaporized before this is through,” said Heller. He walked out. He was looking up and down the street, as though by that he could locate the Countess Krak.
I was jolted. I had never heard him sound so cross before. Did he mean me?
Nervously, I threw the blanket over the viewer. Irrationally, I thought he might look back through it and see me.
My head was aching again.
Miserably, I tried to get some sleep. I couldn’t. I felt things were not going well. I should be very happy. I was sure that he was thoroughly on the skids and so was the Countess Krak.
Something kept nagging at me.
It was a bad day.
The ex-Miss Pinch, now Mrs. Bey, came home about five. She walked in, took off her gloves.
“You wanted to talk to me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “You promised you would open the safe.”
“That’s right,” said Adora. She seemed to be waiting for something. Shortly, the front door opened and Candy was home. “We’re in here,” Adora yelled.
Candy came in bringing Adora a beer. She had one for herself. She didn’t give me one. She sat down attentively.
“Now that we’re all assembled,” said Adora, “I’d better lay out the facts of life.”
“I’ve had too many lays already,” I said. “All I want is my money.”
“Well, you shall get your money,” said Adora with a beady eye. “But there is something you should know first.”
Candy laughed. I didn’t like that laugh.
Adora smiled. I didn’t like that smile.
“I don’t want to know anything,” I said. “Just give me my money.”
They both burst out laughing. I surely didn’t like that.
“It won’t do you any good,” said Adora.
“Give him the money, Pinchy. Then tell him. I still love it when he screams.”
“All right,” said Adora. She went into the front room. She opened the safe. She pulled out pack after pack of my money and put them in a garbage sack.
“Give him the blank invoices, too,” said Candy, laughing.
Adora pulled out a sheaf of them. “Go ahead and sign to your heart’s content.”
I thought they were kidding me. My eyes were on the sack, swinging in her hand.
I thought I would test it. I wrote a petty cash invoice for $40,000! I signed it George Washington.
She took it. She said, “You’ll have it tomorrow.”
She tossed the bag of money into my lap. I dived into it. Beautiful bills! There must be $65,000 here or more!
“Tell him, Pinchy,” said Candy.
I stopped my counting uncertainly. I did not like the way Adora looked.
“You wanted the money so you could run, didn’t you?” said the ex-Miss Pinch, Mrs. Bey. “You’ve been planning to light out the moment you had your hands on that dough. Oh, yes you did. But dough, my dear husband, won’t do you a (bleeped) bit of good.”
She leaned forward and her eyes were cold. “You see, you son of a (bleepch), you have just committed the crime of BIGAMY!”
The room started to spin. Dancing before my eyes was the news story I had just seen, “Whiz Kid Bigamist.” THAT was what had been nagging at me!
“If either wife,” said the ex-Miss Pinch, Mrs. Bey, “cares to prefer charges, you can be sent to prison for the rest of your life. Extradition amongst the states is automatic. You can be run down anywhere you go, brought back and thrown in The Tombs.” She flashed the marriage certificates from her purse. “We have these. So go ahead, you (bleepard). Try to run. That money won’t help you at all. The legal system will bring you home and throw you in the pen. Either one of us will pretend the other did not know. So spend your dough, bigamist. You ain’t goin’ nowhere but right here.”
They suddenly burst out laughing again. I must have looked very deflated.
The ex-Miss Pinch, Mrs. Bey, got up. “Now that that’s settled, dear husband, take a shower.”
“Why?” I pleaded. I had had enough horror today.
“Why?” she mimicked. Then her eyes narrowed and she poked her face very close to mine, for all the world like Lombar. Her voice became very deadly indeed. “You can stop your underhanded, chauvinistic machinations right now! By plying us with champagne and pot on our wedding night and then refusing to do your duty, you thought you could throw us back into lesbianism. You tried to make me break my sacred vow to crush Psychiatric Birth Control forever! Well, buster, you did NOT succeed!”
She slapped at my side just like Lombar. “It was NO good! You only confirmed my determination! Two lesbians will arrive in the next half-hour and they’ll be two ex-lesbians when we’re through. And no more tricks to wreck the program! No more whining about them being dead!”
She stood back and surveyed me. “Learn to toe the line, dear husband, or we’ll blow the whistle on you. Clean yourself up and get ready!”
They walked out. At the door, Adora looked back. “Bigamist,” she said.
Defeated utterly, I began to crawl out of my clothes. I felt terribly confused. I kept thinking I did not want to have sex with Dolores Wister née Pubiano de Cópula’s burro. But there was nothing I could do about it.
Belatedly, I started screaming. I hate burros!
PART FORTY-NINE
Chapter 1
The following morning, worn and weary, both from overexercise and a sleep that wasn’t sleep but a parade of nightmares, I took a review of myself in the bathroom mirror.
I had a scratched face.
One of the candidates for sexual reeducation last night had been a thin thing, mostly bones. In addition to an immature body, her breasts had not yet developed fully. I speculated on her age: she must have been fourteen or fifteen at the most. Someday she would be good-looking, maybe, but right now her eyes were too big and round and
her oversized mouth was far too large for her face. She wore her light brown hair in a ponytail. She chewed bubble gum with very loud satisfaction.