Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis

  “All right,” said Mike. “But what do you want out of this car, really? Speed? If it’s speed, I could put new aluminum alloy pistons in the new engine: they get rid of the heat quicker and the engine is less likely to blow up. And you could get a lot more revs out of it.”

  “Would that increase or decrease the gas consumption?” said Heller.

  “Oh, possibly increase it.”

  “Good,” said Heller. “Do it.”

  “All right. I could put special carburetors on it,” said Mike.

  “Good,” said Heller.

  “But if she is going to go faster, she better have a new radiator core and maybe an oil radiator for cooling.”

  “Good,” said Heller.

  “There may be some worn parts like axle spindles and such that would have to be replaced.”

  “Good,” said Heller.

  “She better have some new tires. Racing ones that’ll do a hundred and fifty without blowing out.”

  “Good,” said Heller.

  “Lighter magnesium wheels?” said Mike.

  “Would it make her look different?”

  “I should say so. Much more modern.”

  “No,” said Heller.

  Mike had received his first no. He stood back, had a drink, thinking fast.

  Bang-Bang interrupted him. “Ain’t that a Corleone pickup truck?” he said, pointing to a newly repainted and now black Ford.

  “Ready to go,” said Mike.

  “I’ll take it along when I go,” said Bang-Bang and promptly began to remove his cartons from the Cadillac and load the pickup.

  Mike, refreshed, returned to the fray. He picked at a fender. “There are some small dents that need body beating. She could use a sandblast and a new coat of paint. Hey, listen kid, we got some original Cadillac paint: we can never use it because it is too showy! I’ll get a card.” He rushed to the office and came back. “Here you are. It’s called ‘Flameglow Scarlet.’ It makes the car shine even in the dark! Real flashy!”

  “Good,” said Heller.

  I couldn’t track with him. He had originally chosen gray because it was more invisible. Now he was choosing paint that practically burned my viewscreen! What was he up to?

  “But,” said Mike, moving to the front seat and picking at it, “this upholstery—yes, and them back curtains—has had it. Now, it just so happens we have some upholstery that was bought and never used. It’s called ‘Snow Leopard,’ white with black spots. Sparkles! It’ll really show up wild against that red body! We can even get it thick enough for floor rugs, too.”

  “Great,” said Heller.

  Mike couldn’t think of anything else. “Now, was there something special you wanted in addition?”

  “Yes,” said Heller. “I want you to fix the hood so it can be locked down all around with keys. And under the car, I want a very light sheet of metal that will seal the engine absolutely.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about bomb jobs and armor,” said Mike. “Now, the reason they built these cars with so much horsepower was so they could carry the weight of armor. I can put you in bulletproof windows, armor plate in the side walls . . .”

  At last, I understood. He was afraid his car would be rigged for a blitz again!

  “No,” said Heller. “Just a light sheet underneath and locks on the hood so nobody can get to the engine.”

  “Burglar alarms?” said Mike hopefully.

  “No,” said Heller.

  I gave up. The only explanation was that Heller was crazy!

  “That’s all?” said Mike.

  “That’s about it,” said Heller.

  “Well,” said Mike, appearing to be a little apprehensive, “that whole lot we been over will add up to about twenty G’s.”

  Bang-Bang had been removing the last of the recorders. He dropped the box. “Jesus!” He came over. “Look, kid, I can steal and get converted fifteen up-to-date Cadillacs for that!”

  “I’ll throw in the new license,” said Mike. “And honest, Bang-Bang, it will cost that to tailor rebuild this car.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Heller. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a roll. He counted and held out ten thousand.

  “This kid just knock off Brinks?” Mike demanded of Bang-Bang.

  “It’s honest hit money,” said Heller.

  “Oh, well, in that case,” said Mike, “I’ll take it on account.” And he went to his office to write out a receipt. “What name?” he called back. “Not that it matters.”

  “Jerome Terrance Wister,” said Heller.

  Now I knew he was crazy. Bury could find out he was alive and could trace him! And with a flashy, different car like that . . .

  Bang-Bang had finished loading the pickup. He presented a grateful Mike with the case of Johnny Walker Gold Label. “Get in, kid. Where do I drop you?”

  “I’m going over to Manhattan,” said Heller.

  “In that event, I’ll take you to the train station. It’s quicker.”

  He did so and when Heller got out, Bang-Bang said, “Is that your real name, kid? Jerome Terrance Wister?”

  “No,” said Heller. “I’m really Pretty Boy Floyd.”

  Bang-Bang laughed uproariously and so did Heller. I was offended. Pretty Boy Floyd was a very famous gangster, too famous to be joked about. Sacred.

  “What do I owe you?” said Heller.

  “Owe me, kid?” said Bang-Bang. He pointed through the back window at his cargo. “For six months up the river, I been dreaming of a drink of Scotch! Now I’m going to swim in it!” And he drove off singing.

  I wasn’t singing. I was in new trouble just when I thought it couldn’t get worse. Heller was going to pull Bury straight back in on him by using that name and I didn’t have the platen. But at the same time, Heller was sailing ahead on his job. I could feel it! He might make it!

  The whole thing had me spinny. On the one hand, Heller must NOT get himself killed before I had the means of forging his reports to Captain Tars Roke. On the other hand, a very great danger loomed that he was up to some dastardly plot to succeed in his mission and definitely had to be put away or killed.

  I went out and laid down in the yard and buried my face in my hands. I had to be calm. I had to think logically. This was no time to go off my rocker just because I had to keep a man from being killed that would have to be killed. I had to think of something, something to do!

  And that (bleeped) wild canary kept trilling at me from a tree. Mockery. Sheer mockery!

  PART SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 2

  Heller clickety-clacked across the drive at the Gracious Palms and trotted into the lobby. It was still afternoon, and in the hot off-season of late summer the place was deserted.

  He was about to mount the steps to the second floor when one of the tuxedoed guards stepped into view and stopped him. “Wait a minute. You don’t have your room anymore, kid.”

  Heller had stopped dead.

  “The manager wants to see you,” said the hood. “He’s pretty upset.”

  Heller turned to go to the manager’s office.

  “No,” said the guard. “Get in here. He’s waiting for you.” He pushed Heller toward an elevator. They got in and the hood pushed the top floor button.

  They got out into a padded, soundproofed hallway. The hood walked behind Heller, shoving him along with little pushes that made my screen jolt.

  From an open door at the end of the long, long hall, the manager’s voice could now be heard. He was cursing at people in Italian. He sounded absolutely livid!

  There were others in the room, throwing things about, rushing around.

  The hood shoved Heller into the hubbub. “Here he is, boss.”

  Vantagio Meretrici gave a cleaning woman a shove out of his way and came stamping up to Heller.

  “You’re trying to get me in trouble!” he shouted. “You’re trying to cost me my job!” His hands, Italian-like, were flying about. He made a gesture across his own throat as though
to cut it. “You could have cost me my life!”

  He stopped to scream something in Italian at two cleaning women and they rushed into each other, one dropping a stack of sheets.

  Italians. They are so excitable. So theatrical. I turned down my sound volume.

  Sure enough, he came nearer and was louder!

  “That was not a nice thing to do!” cried Vantagio. “To sneak in here like that!”

  “If you could tell me what you think I did . . .” began Heller.

  “I don’t think! I know!” cried Vantagio.

  “If I did something . . .” Heller tried.

  “Yes, you did something!” shouted Vantagio. “You let me put you in that old second-floor maid’s room! You didn’t say a word! She was absolutely livid! She practically burned out my phone!”

  He put his hands on Heller’s shoulders and looked up at him. His voice was suddenly pleading. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a friend of Babe’s?”

  Heller drew a long breath. “I actually didn’t know she owned this place. I do apologize.”

  “Now, look, kid. In the future, speak up. Now, will this do?”

  Heller looked around. It was a two-room suite. The huge living room had walls of black onyx tile adorned with paintings. The rug, wall to wall, was beige, covered with scatter rugs of expensive weave and patterns of gold. The furniture was light beige modern with seductive curves. The lamps were statues of golden girls completely naked. A garden balcony was outside and wide glass doors showed a view of the United Nations Building, its park and the river beyond.

  Vantagio turned Heller in the other direction. There was a beige, leather-covered bar and gold shelves and scrollwork behind it. A barman was hastily emptying it of hard liquor and putting the bottles in cartons.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t leave the liquor here. It would cost us our license, you being a minor. But,” he rushed on hastily, “we’ll fill the fridge with soft drinks of every kind you can imagine. And we’ll leave the jumbo glasses and you can fill them from the ice machine there. And we’ll put fresh milk here every day. And ice cream?” he pleaded.

  Then Vantagio was showing Heller the various hidden closets and drawers around the bar. He stopped and came close to him. “Listen, I was only kidding about sandwiches. We don’t have a dining room because it’s all room service. But we got the fanciest chefs and kitchen in New York. You can order anything you like. You want anything now? Pheasant under glass?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He yelled into the bedroom and the cleaning people came hurrying out. He escorted Heller in, throwing his hands to indicate the place. “I hope this is all right,” he pleaded.

  It was a vast bedroom. The entire ceiling was mirrors. The walls were all mirrors, set in black onyx edging. The enormous bed was circular. It occupied the center of the room. It was covered with a black silk spread that had gold hibiscus worked into it in patterns. There were red, low footstools all around the bed. The carpet was wall-to-wall scarlet.

  There was an inset of sound speakers, quad, around which curled naked girls in a golden frieze. Vantagio rushed to the wall and showed Heller buttons and selections: Drinking Music, Sensual, Passionate, Frenzy, Cool Off.

  Vantagio rushed Heller into the bathroom. It was rug-covered. It had a huge Roman bathtub, big enough for half a dozen people. It had separate massage showers. It had lots of cabinets with things to be explored. And it had a toilet and two bidets surrounded with various douche devices. Heller was looking at Automatic Hot Towel and pushed it. A steaming hot towel came out in his hand and he wiped his face.

  Vantagio led him back to the sitting room. “Now, is it all right? This was the suite that was made up for the secretary-general, the old one, before he got assassinated. I know it’s a little plain but it’s more spacious. We almost never use it, so you won’t be moved around. It hasn’t been used for so long, we had to clean it up quick. The others are fancier but I thought, for a kid, this would be better for you. Do you think it will do?”

  “Gods, yes,” said Heller.

  Vantagio whistled with relief. Then he said, “Look, kid, all will be forgiven and we can be friends if you get on that phone and call Babe. She’s been waiting to hear all afternoon!”

  Heller almost got run into by a houseman who was responding to a signal from Vantagio and rushing a cart with Heller’s baggage into the room.

  He picked up the phone. The switchboard immediately connected him to Bayonne, evidently on a lease-line.

  “This is me, Mrs. Corleone.”

  “Oh, you dear boy. You dear, dear boy!”

  “Vantagio told me to call and tell you that the new suite was okay, Mrs. Corleone. And it is.”

  “Is it the secretary-general’s suite? The one with the original paintings of Polynesian girls on the walls?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite beautiful. A lovely view.”

  “Hold on a minute, dear. Someone is at the door.”

  The sound of voices in the room, dimly heard through a covering palm. A sort of squeaking, “He what?” Then very rapid Italian, which was also too muffled to be heard clearly.

  But then Babe was back on the line. “That was Bang-Bang! He just arrived here! I can’t BELIEVE it! Oh, you dear, dear, dear boy! Oh, you dear, dear, dear, dear boy! Thank you, thank you! I can’t discuss it on an open line. But, oh, you dear boy, THANK YOU!” The sound of a torrent of kisses being shot along the wire! Then a sudden roar, “Put that Vantagio back on!”

  I suddenly figured it out. She had just learned of the destruction of two million dollars’ worth of her rival’s booze, etc., and the demise of Oozopopolis, her nemesis!

  Vantagio had evidently not liked what he could hear from his end. He timidly took the phone. “. . . Si . . . gia . . . si, Babe.” He looked a bit haggard. “. . . no . . . non . . . si . . . Grazie, mia capa!” He hung up.

  He took the hot towel out of Heller’s hand and wiped his own face. “That was Babe.” Then he looked at Heller, “Kid, I don’t know what you did now but it must have been something! She said I could keep my job, but, kid, I don’t think I’ll really hear the last of putting you in a maid’s back room.” He braced up. “But she’s right. I wasn’t grateful enough and you did save the place and my life. I didn’t show respect. So, I apologize. All right, kid?”

  They shook hands.

  “Now,” said Vantagio, “about this other thing. This is the best suite we can offer you but she says you haven’t got a car. So, you’re to go out and buy any car you want. We have a basement garage, you know. And I told her you didn’t have many clothes. So, we have a great tailor and I’ll get him in and you’re to be measured up for a full wardrobe. Real tailored clothes of the best fabrics. Will that be all right?”

  “I really shouldn’t accept . . .”

  “You better accept, kid. We’re friends. Don’t get me in more trouble! Now, is there anything else you can think of that you want?”

  “Well,” said Heller, “I don’t see any TV.”

  Vantagio said, “Jesus, I’m glad you didn’t tell her I’d forgotten that! Nobody looks at TV in a whorehouse, kid. It just never occurred to me. I’ll send out somebody to rent one. All right, kid?”

  Heller nodded. Vantagio went to the door and then came back. “Kid, I know what you did here. You saved the joint. But you must have done something else. But even that . . . She treats you so different. Could you let me in on what you and she talk about?”

  “Genealogy,” said Heller.

  “And that’s the whole thing?”

  “Absolutely,” said Heller. “That’s all that happened today.”

  Vantagio looked at him very seriously. Then he burst out laughing. “You almost took me in for a minute. Well, never mind, I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”

  He started toward the door again but once more stopped. “Oh, yes. She said you could have any of the girls you wanted and to hell with the legality. See you later, kid.”

  PART SEVENTEEN
br />   Chapter 3

  My concentration on the viewscreen was jarred by a knock on the secret passage door that led to the distant office. I had raised so much pure Hells with Faht that he had finally gotten it through his lard-padded skull that he must send an Apparatus messenger with any reports that came in from America. And here was one! I removed it from the door slit. I opened it with trembling fingers. Possibly Raht and Terb had gotten smart. Perhaps they would be of help!

  I read:

  We think he is done for. We traced him to the city garbage scows and he’s now somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic. Be assured we’re on the job.

  The idiots! That shop had simply thrown away those bugged clothes!

  But the surge of anger hardened my resolve to act. I would carefully survey the Gracious Palms area and his rooms, note exactly where he put things, exactly what his routine was. Then I would disguise myself as a Turkish officer assigned to the UN, penetrate the place, pick his room locks, get the platen out of his baggage, plant a bomb and escape. It was a brilliant plan. It came to me in a flash. If I could do that, Heller would be dead, dead, dead and I would be alive!

  Sternly, I went back to the viewscreen. He would unpack shortly, of that I was sure, for the houseman had left the baggage on the cart.

  Heller was still walking around his suite. While it might not be up to his rooms at the Voltar Officers’ Club, it had its own peculiar charm: girls! Each lamp stand was a naked torso, each throw rug had a golden girl in its pattern.

  He walked up to one of several paintings on the wall and stopped and stared at it and said something in Voltarian I didn’t get. It was a beautiful painting. A brown-skinned girl, dressed mainly in red flowers, was posed against palm trees and the sea. It was, if you know painting, a conceptual representation, which tends to dominate the modern school.