Restlessly, I went down in the elevator. Anything to get out of here. I was surrounded! The elevator boy was wearing a Whiz Kid Booster button.
On the counter of the news vendor was a huge Whiz Kid doll!
This whole thing was out of control. I didn't have the least notion of what would happen now.
Chapter 6
The publicity for the race began with rumors that it might happen. This progressed into predictions that it would be prevented. The build-up continued until the double, asked point blank on a national talk show— Donny Fartson's "It's Midnight All Day"—coyly announced he was willing to race to show off his new fuel.
Instant headlines!
Two days later, when that had dropped to page three, new, instant headlines appeared. I stared at them gloomily:
WHIZ KID
CHALLENGES
RACING DRIVERS
OF WORLD
With the confidence one could expect from this brilliant epitome of American youth, the Whiz Kid said, "I can lick 'em!"
The modest youth then said, "I am better than any of them bums."
It went on and on, paper after paper.
The following day, the spot ads began to appear on radio and TV. The race would be held in two weeks at the Spreeport Speedway under the auspices of the AAA and the International Racing Association.
In two more days, the sky-writing signs began to appear.
The talk shows began to interview the world's experts on auto racing. Learned predictions abounded in the press.
Two days after that, ticket sales must not have been brisk enough, because by popular demand, the race became a Demolition Derby and Combined Endurance Run.
The term was not familiar to me. What was a Demolition Derby? I found out rapidly enough. Cars banged and rammed each other until only one car was left able to move under its own power.
That made me feel a bit better. But when every sports and news announcer kept saying it would be a true test of the stamina of the new fuel, I again got uneasy. There was nothing wrong with Heller's stamina.
Publicity for the race went on. But so did other publicity.
Dirt Illustrated offered a $100,000 prize to anyone who could guess what the new fuel was.
A new game came out called "Whiz Kid." It was a computer game and was instantly on sale in all drug stores. If you won, you got to wear glasses.
The Whiz Kid—the double—modestly declined an invitation to breakfast at the White House, saying, "I'm too busy for trifling."
Through all this hurricane of publicity, Heller just went on working. He got the two tanks to hold oxygen and hydrogen on either side of the elementary-school toy. He made the adjustable ports that would throttle-feed the gases. He made the lever that would push regulated amounts of the fuel in. Apparently he was going to use a chunk of asphalt. He shaped the collar and mounted it all on the old engine block. He started it up and ran it for an hour. It seemed to work great. So that was one hour less before the sabotaged unit would fail. Then he put it over into the Caddy itself and ran it a half hour. Half an hour less. Maybe five and a half hours now? He was obviously unaware that he was dealing with a faulty unit. That was one hope.
He then took all the glass out of the Caddy and welded in a couple of temporary roll bars.
He seemed so calm, just going along doing his job, that it worried me spitless. Did he know something I didn't know?
Then I thought it over. Maybe Madison knew something I didn't know. I went down to 42 Mess Street. I almost got trampled. Madison was rushing about giving orders to three different people at once and when he sat down he was talking to three different phones at once. Busy! He wouldn't even look my way when I yelled at him.
That same afternoon, I walked into Bury's office. He was in rare good humor. It was so un-Wall-Street-lawyer-like that I thought he must have been drinking. But he said no, he had simply gone two whole nights now with no fight with his wife.
"Aren't you worried about this other thing?" I said.
"Miss Peace? Oh, hell no, Inkswitch. She gets knocked up every time she turns around. The man always thinks he did it and of course that's impossible but he rushes her off to the abortion clinic sometimes when she isn't even pregnant. It was the elevator boy this time. No, I'm not worried about that."
"No, no!" I cried. "This other thing!"
"No contest at all, Inkswitch. I told him very firmly to get rid of Miss Agnes once and for all so he bought her a half-a-million-dollar land yacht, a beauty. And who knows, she may up and sell her villa at Hairytown and go travelling and maybe that's the last I'll see of the interfering (bleepch). So I can stop worrying about her. Actually, today I haven't a care in the world. Rare day. It ought to be on the court calendar more frequently."
"How about Madison?" I asked ominously.
He actually laughed. That's right. Probably the first and last time in his life, but he actually laughed. A sort of a dry, hak-hak-heh. "Inkswitch," he said, "when you've had as much experience with Madison as I have, that's the last thing you will worry about. I haven't the slightest notion what he has in mind, but I can guarantee you it's not for nothing he's called 'J. Warbler Madman.' So what can I do for you?"
I thought fast. I was dealing with incompetents, sure-fire bunglers. What if all this messed up? What if Heller did win? Ouch! He'd be the most famous guy on the planet! Rockecenter and Lombar would be finished whether they knew each other or not!
"You can give me Faustino Narcotici's address," I said.
"Certainly," he said and quickly wrote it and the phone number out. "It's also in the yellow classified phone book under 'Family Counseling—Total Control, Inc.'" He tossed me the card.
I left him to his happy day.
I found myself before a splendid new high-rise in the Bowery. It was all black glass and chrome. I thought I must be in the wrong place and almost didn't get out of the cab.
"Sure, this is the Narcotici mob building," the cabby said, somewhat aggrieved that his knowledge of Manhattan was being questioned. "Cantcha see the U.S. Courthouse and Police Headquarters right over there? And up that street, the Federal Building? This place used to be a slum but now it's got some real tone. That'll be five extra for the guided-tour fee."
The splendid sign, Total Control, Inc., fanned above a splendid arch. The lobby had murals of American flags, depicting its evolution from Betsy Tea—calmly sewing the first flag with a joint in her smiling mouth—and adding star by star the appropriate and applicable drug of the state with charming little frescoes of the events. Obviously, American history was firmly based on drugs. The murals stopped with fifty-four stars, which dated the mural. A group of schoolchildren were on a guided tour but I pushed through them.
At the information desk, I asked for Faustino "The Noose" Narcotici and a charming Sicilian girl came right out from behind the counter and personally led me into what I thought was an elevator, until the sliding door closed. In privacy, then, she pressed what looked like a stop-button panel and my side of the floor suddenly opened.
I went down like a rocket! A chute!
Unsteadily, I came to rest at the bottom and found myself looking into the rather large muzzle of a Bernadelli Model 80 .380 ACP, seven-shot automatic pistol. The face above it was very thin and Sicilian.
Somebody behind me plucked my Colt Python out of my shoulder holster and jammed it into my spine. Another Sicilian came running up and lifted out my wallet and I.D.
"Oh, (bleep)," he said. "It's only a Fed."
"A pretty (bleeped) dumb Fed," said the Sicilian with the Bernadelli. "Walking up to a metal detector with a rod on him!" He waved the others away. "You new or something? You coulda got yourself shot! Didn't you see the cloakroom? You check your God (bleeped) gun there."
They gave me back my I.D. and wallet after removing the $400 that was in it to pay them for their trouble.
"Now whatcha want?" said the Sicilian with the gun. "Scarin' Angelina half to
death. Ain't you got no sense of decency? Fed appointment time is over! Two o'clock. You want to see some executive, it's gotta be before two o'clock. Green," he said to the other two.
"I want to see Mr. Narcotici," I said politely. "I'm sure you don't classify him as an 'executive.'"
"(Bleep) no. He's the capo di tutti capi and don't you forget it. Whatcha want to see him about?"
"Mr. Bury sent me," I said.
He turned to a computer, pushed it and it came up blank.
"Oh, (bleep)," said the one who had taken my gun.
"And this is a good rod. Brand-new." He gave it back to me.
The man who had taken the $400 gave it back to me.
"Well, excuse me for callin' you green," said the man with the Bernadelli, putting it nervously away.
He went to an internal red phone. He picked it up. He said, "Would you tell Mr. Narcotici we got a Bury messenger here under cover as a Federal agent?"
They took me over to another elevator door and I was shortly rocketing upward.
A young man who looked like an Executive Magazine clothing ad was at the elevator to meet me. He escorted me courteously through a huge banquet hall decorated with baskets of money and naked brunettes holding them. So this was the place the officials of New York got paid off every Saturday night! Beyond it was a big door. He gently pushed me in.
It was a huge office with murals of Sicily. Warm, artificial sunlight filled the room. Sitting in a shady cupola was a very fat man whose fingers were solidly metal with rings.
He got up and bowed. It was obviously Faustino. He was so fat you could hardly see his eyes. "And how is my good friend, Mr. Bury?" he said.
"Very fine," I replied. "He's particularly happy today."
"Must be a lot of dead bodies around then," said Faustino. "Me, I'm just small time. Bury, he deals in whole countries! Whole populations. Sit down. Would you like a cigar?"
There wasn't any place to sit but it was nice of him to ask. I cut through all the Italian preliminaries. I shifted to Italian to make him feel more at home. "I just need a couple of snipers. For one day only."
"What date?" he said, shifting easily in language.
I told him.
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "That's a crowded date. But you didn't have to come to see me about it. All you had to do was call in at the Personnel Department on the 50th floor."
"I think Mr. Bury wanted someone to look into your health," I said. "He commented you seemed very carefree lately."
He went sort of white. He hastily scribbled something on a card. He seemed very glad to see me leave.
At the Personnel Department a charming young man heard my request.
"That date," he said in a cultured accent. "It's crowded. Isn't that the date of the Spreeport Demolition Endurance Derby? Yes, it is. Well, I don't see..."
I gave him Faustino's card. He instantly started punching personnel computers like he was trying to put holes in them.
Really upset, he said, "I can't get two hit men for that date!"
"I'm only asking for snipers," I said. "Just plain snipers that are good shots."
He went back at it again. With relief he came up with two. I told him where they were to report and how. For I had all my plans exactly made.
He promised they would be there.
I went back to the lobby. I stopped by the Information Desk. "I am very sorry, Angelina," I said to the girl. "I didn't mean to frighten you." It was unlike me but I wanted good relations here. She was quite pretty.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but please get the hell out of the lobby. You've got every gun detector going again!"
I left. Reminded of the gun and being both Apparatus trained and of a cautious nature, I stepped into the facsimile of an old-time Bowery Bar, kept there for tourists, I supposed. In a booth I checked the Colt Python. Sure enough, that (bleepard) behind my back had slipped an explosive plug in the barrel just ahead of the cylinder. I withdrew it gingerly and threw it in a spittoon. Right then I knew you shouldn't trust the Mafia too far, even if it did run a lot of the country. If I had tried to assassinate Faustino, the gun would have blown my hand off. They weren't honest.
But I had accomplished what I had come for.
If Heller won that race, he'd do it on wings!
Even if the carburetor failed, it was no longer a factor. I was going to post two snipers with silenced rifles to blow out his tires one by one until he didn't have a single tire left! Providing he hadn't already wound up in the hospital.
Be certain of the result, my professors used to say.
Madison and Bury might both be crazy. But I still had a grip on my wits.
The very thought of Heller succeeding on top of all this publicity was gall upon my soul.
A plane towing a huge sign above the Battery told everybody to see the Whiz Kid race on Saturday just ten days away.
This riffraff wasn't going to see him win. I was making very certain of that!
Chapter 7
Smugly, I watched the pre-race comings and goings of Heller. He was finished as far as I was concerned. The only small worry was that he might get totally killed, for there would go my platen. However, a nice trip to the hospital, maybe with several broken bones and his handsome face smashed in, would do very well. And the wreckage of his reputation on Earth forever was infinitely acceptable.
As one watches the condemned man in his cell, so I viewed his attendance of Babe Corleone's birthday party the Sunday before the Saturday. I hoped I would pick up more data to compound his ruin.
It irked me that he would go and attend a birthday party when he ought to be gnawing at his fingernails with worry, hunched in a room, thinking about his coming doom. But there he was, the perfect fleet officer, courteous and urbane, attending the modest celebration in Babe's Bayonne condo. She probably held it there so as not to advertise that she was a year older. Just a few intimate family members and friends.
He had accompanied them to Mass, probably on the theory that when you are on a primitive planet you include its Gods in your acquaintances. But I noticed that instead of responding to prayers in Latin, he was answering up with Voltarian forms of prayer. I hoped these Earth Gods in their niches didn't speak Voltarian. I didn't want him to get any help at all!
The birthday party itself was quite mild. A little musical group—a violin, a mandolin and an accordion-played quietly over in the corner of the large living room. Babe sat in a big chair, dressed in white. Staff were handing her presents people had sent—most of them envelopes with money in them.
Heller was over to the side by a big punch bowl, talking with this one or that. He seemed to be wearing a blue suit, made possibly of silk, and he had big cuff links—blue six-pointed stars with a diamond in the center. His fleet rank symbol! Well, (bleep) him! Code break! I made a note of it.
Babe was not busy now. She was just idly chatting with some wives. Heller suddenly made a signal toward the hall. Geovani came in carrying a huge, flat package. Heller went over to Babe.
"Mrs. Corleone," he said with a formal bow. "I would like to celebrate this occasion with a small memento." He indicated the package with a graceful gesture and said, "Happy Birthday to a great lady."
I don't know how he does it. When he talks to people they pay attention and get pleased. Babe beamed and wriggled. She took the package with Geovani's help and began to rip off the paper. Then her eyes got round. She said, "Oooooooo!"
She jumped up and turned the item. "Look! Look, everybody!"
It was a painting taken from that photo of Joe Corleone Heller had found in Connecticut! There was dapper young "Holy Joe"! And Heller had had it framed in a gold frame in the shape of a heart with a lion's head at the top V. I suddenly realized that "Corleone" was not just a town in Sicily, it also meant "Heart of a Lion."
Babe was ecstatic! She was waltzing around showing it to everyone, telling them that even though it was decades before she had met Joe, wasn'
t it just like him!
Look at that expression! A true empire builder! Even the sub-Thompson looked real! Dear Joe!
The musicians took their cue and began to play "The March of the Lion," the family's anthem, complete with machine-gun bursts in rhythm.
What a stir! That (bleeper) Heller was always creating these stirs! He had gone and made Babe's birthday for her! Well, he'd soon be finished.
It took a long time to quiet down. And then Heller was about to take his leave.
Babe was suddenly very serious. "Jerome, you be very careful in that racing. Drive very slow and safely." She thought for a moment. "There's something I don't understand about all this publicity. You just don't look the same in those photos they are taking of you. Now, it isn't your fault, of course. A lot of stage stars have that trouble. They just aren't photogenic. So I think that must be what is wrong, Jerome. You'll just have to reconcile yourself to not being photogenic. You don't have to wear those awful glasses they show you in. Just turn your head away from the camera. I was a star and I can give you such tips. It's not your eyes. The camera does something extraordinary to your teeth. Maybe they should use a soft-focus lens. And possibly no lights. But even if you're not photogenic, Jerome, the family will be betting on you."
"No, no!" said Heller quickly.
She looked at him very oddly. "But Jerome, we control almost all the gambling in New York and New Jersey except for those slobs in Atlantic City. We have been making book on the race ever since it was announced."
"Make book if you like," said Heller, "but don't let any family member place any bets on me to win."
She looked at him very strangely.
"You know something," she said.
"Mrs. Corleone, please promise."
She just went on looking at him oddly. And shortly he took his leave.
I was troubled. Heller suspected something. Had my hiring of snipers leaked? Oh, I better double-check everything to make sure he didn't somehow turn the tables on me. The man just couldn't be trusted!