The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  “Ladies, please?” cajoled Lafferty, helping Jennifer to gently insert Eleanor into the backseat and closing the door after them. Paddy then climbed behind the wheel, concerned that Sam was having such difficulties with the switchboard at the Four Seasons Hotel.

  “What do you mean all calls to the Pinkus suite are being transferred to another room?” shouted Devereaux.

  “Calm down, boyo,” said Lafferty, climbing behind the wheel and starting the engine. “You’ll get more with honey than vinegar.”

  Sam glowered at the chauffeur. “ ‘MacKenzie Hawkins, Superstar,’ ” he muttered. “Why don’t you clowns write a new musical?… It’s what, Operator? Busy? Never mind, I’ll call back.… I’ve got to reach Aaron,” said Devereaux, manipulating the buttons on the phone.

  “That won’t be easy right now,” offered Lafferty, speeding up the ramp and onto the highway. “When he called me, he said he was leaving the office for an hour or so and he’d see you all at the Ritz.”

  “You don’t understand, Paddy! Mac could have been taken by now … or worse.”

  “The general?”

  “He’s been followed ever since he got to Boston!”

  “By God!” shouted Lafferty. “Give me that phone and I’ll call the Pat O’Brien boys at the Legion Post myself! I’ll leave word for Billy Gilligan—”

  “Let me try the hotel one more time.” Frantically, Sam dialed and glanced over his shoulder into the rear section of the limousine. The hard look in Redwing’s luminous eyes told him that she understood the state of emergency; his mother blinked rapidly at nothing. “The Pinkus suite, please, Operator, and I realize that all calls are transferred to another room.” Devereaux held his breath until a strange, half-whining, high-pitched voice answered.

  “This is Little Joey,” said the man, woman, hermaphrodite, or dwarf. “Whaddya want?”

  “I believe I may have the wrong room,” replied Sam, doing his best to control his panic. “I’m trying to locate General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, hero of the United States Army and close friend of the whole Joint Chiefs of Staff, as well as the President, who will immediately order an invasion of the hotel if the general’s life is threatened in any way, shape, or manner!”

  “I gotcha. You want the big pasta fazool.… Hey, Mickey Ha Ha, it’s for you.”

  “You’ll never rise in the ranks with that sort of insubordination, Little Joseph!” came the growling, approaching voice of the Hawk. “Commander Pinkus, is that you?”

  “… Little Joseph? Mac, what the hell are you doing?… Never mind, we don’t have time—you’re being followed! Someone’s been following you ever since you got to Boston!”

  “Why, Lieutenant Devereaux, you’re shaping up. I mean you’re really counting off the numbers like a master sergeant, no offense to your bars.”

  “You know?”

  “Well, it was pretty obvious after my adjutant reported what he overheard at the front desk.”

  “But you said you didn’t know how it happened, that it wasn’t Hymie somebody-or-other’s modus operandi!”

  “I didn’t know then, and it wasn’t the Hurricane’s M.O. I do know now and it still isn’t Hymie. This fella wasn’t hard to find; his door was open exactly an inch and a half.”

  “For Christ’s sake, make sense!”

  “I just did, and you’ve got to get off this line. We’re expecting another call.”

  “From whom?”

  “I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

  “How?”

  “You heard me ask if you were him—”

  “ ‘He’—”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.… Who?”

  “Commander Pinkus, of course.”

  “He’s on his way to the Ritz.”

  “Not for a while, son. He and my adjutants are on a supply run.”

  “Who the fuck is Little Joseph?… Sorry, Mother.”

  “He’s kind of a sweet old guy,” answered the Hawk, lowerng his voice to a near-whisper, “with the size and shape of a good night-patrol point, especially in hill country, but I’m afraid his age and his temperament don’t go with the job any longer.… I wouldn’t care to tell him that, naturally. It could destroy his confidence, you can understand that, Lieutenant.”

  “I don’t understand a goddamned thing! What job?”

  “Those pricky-shit lace-pants in Dizzy City must really be crippled by the deficit,” continued the general rapidly, and so quietly Devereaux could barely hear him. “Son of a bitch, boy, that sort of thing never bothered any of us!”

  “He’s from Washington?”

  “I know, I know,” said the Hawk, with weary, if impatient, finality. “Commander Pinkus explained that it was vital we leave him room for deniability.”

  “Deniability?”

  “Bye, Sam.” The line went dead.

  “What is it?” asked Redwing intensely, leaning forward in the backseat, her right hand firmly gripping Eleanor’s shoulder.

  “Is the grand and great general all right, boyo?” cried Lafferty, accelerating the limousine and weaving in and out of the traffic toward Boston. “Shall I call Gilligan and the troops?”

  “I don’t know, Paddy, I really don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t give me no crap, lad!”

  “What do you know, Sam?” Jennifer asked, her question posed calmly, warmly, the consummate attorney. “Take your time and collect your thoughts.”

  “Cut the friendly interrogation, please, because that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to figure it out and it’s not easy, it’s just crazy.”

  “Then get your act together, Counselor.”

  “That’s better, Red.… Mac’s obviously in control, and my guess is that he’s found the man who’s been following him—guess, hell, it’s a given; he’s too condescending for it to be anything else—and he’s learned that the surveillance is from Washington.”

  “Oh, good Lord …!”

  “Exactly my sentiments, Miss Indian On-and-Off Love Call. Certain segments of Dizzy City are climbing the wall, and that’s the worst news we could hear.”

  “What segments, Counselor?”

  “From what I can gather, Counselor, they’re very unhealthy. Their emissaries to Boston carry guns.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” cried Redwing.

  “Shall we revisit Watergate or Iran-contra, or, to balance the agenda, half the elections in Chicago since 1920? There’s no ‘wouldn’t dare’ in those events. And even if there were, compare the bucks spread out to all of those historical connivances combined with one month of the Strategic Air Command. They’re infinitesimal, Indian lady, we’re talking megabillions! You think our benevolent battalions of defense contractors, along with their representatives from all over the country—suppliers from Long Island to Seattle—won’t push their panic buttons at even the prospect of denting all those profit sheets? Jesus, if one tenth of one percent of the defense budget is cut, they’re all howling for blood. This kind of thing could open up their vampire factories.”

  “You’re assuming that the Wopotami brief has been put on the Supreme Court’s schedule for argument.”

  “It doesn’t have to be put on any schedule, just word leaked that it’s even being considered, or worse, being held over for future possible argument.”

  “That’s always the bellwether for later serious consideration,” broke in Redwing.

  “You’ve got it. Either way, the money boys and their political hacks will mount a counterattack.”

  “Wait a minute, Sam,” pleaded Redwing, one hand on Eleanor’s head, the other on Devereaux’s shoulder. “A counterattack in congressional terms would mean spokesmen, or advocates, making their case in the House and the Senate, not hit men!”

  “Granted, but Congress isn’t in session, and I submit our current situation as Article A for evidence.”

  “I see what you mean. The hit men ar
e here. So one way or the other, word has been leaked.… Oh, my God, they’ve got to silence all of us!”

  Paddy Lafferty snapped out the cellular phone from its cradle, and with practiced fingers punched the numbers with his thumb. “The O’Brien Post, you are?” he shouted, and after less than a second, he spoke firmly. “Is Billy Gilligan there?… All right, all right, I’m glad for the fact that our telephone relays are workin’, now listen to me. When Billy G. gets there, have him lead a column of armed vehicles to the Four Asses Hotel on Boylston and pipe up every entrance! You got it, lad? It’s the great man we’re talkin’ about, and I’ll brook no mistakes. G’bye to ya, and get hoppin’!”

  “Paddy, what have you done?”

  “There are times, Sam boyo, when you charge ahead and look back afterwards. It’s a lesson we learned during ten glorious days in France.”

  “We’re not in France and this isn’t World War Two, and if there’s any suggestion of immediate danger down at the hotel, Aaron will call in the police. Everything’s too murky, too unclear, but Mac and our very quick-thinking employer are in touch with each other.… I repeat, Aaron is not a gung-ho mutant, nor is he indecisive. If he feels the police are necessary, they’ll be there.”

  “I dunno, boyo. The police have certain restraints placed upon them—ask Billy Gilligan, he’ll tell you.”

  “He’s already told me, Paddy, but we don’t know what Mac and Aaron are doing, and not knowing, we could be lousing them up. Now call off the hounds of Killarney!”

  “He’s right, Mr. Lafferty,” interjected Jennifer from the backseat. “Mind you, I’m not opposed to protection in any form, and I’d be grateful if your friends were, shall we say, available. However, Sam has a point; we’re in the dark and perhaps we shouldn’t do anything until we reach the Ritz-Carlton and talk to Mr. Pinkus.… I believe you said pretty much the same thing to Mr. Gilligan back at Nanny’s.”

  “Well, you put it better than the lad here—”

  “I simply used your own words, your own wisdom, Mr. Lafferty.”

  “Cheap tactics,” mumbled Devereaux.

  “All right,” said Paddy. “I’ll call ’em off,” he added, touching the car-phone buttons. “For a moment I guess I got too excited.… Hello, Post O’Brien?… Who’s this now?… Rafferty, it’s Lafferty, boyo. Is Gilligan there yet?… He what? Holy Mary … how bad was it?… Small favors are still a blessing, Rafferty. Now, listen to me, lad—about the members headin’ off to the Four Seasons on Boylston, I want you to tell ’em—” Suddenly, the limousine swerved dangerously—involuntarily—close to a huge truck on the highway. “They what, Rafferty? What the hell are you sayin’, boyo?… Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Aaron Pinkus’s chauffeur swallowed; in silence he replaced the phone.

  “What’s the matter, Paddy?” asked Sam, looking at Lafferty as though he did not care to hear the answer.

  “The lads have just taken off for the hotel, Mr. Devereaux. However, it’s not a full column, which is usually four automobiles—only three—and maybe a couple of the boys are pissed to the eyeballs.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “But the good news is that Billy Gilligan wasn’t hurt too bad.”

  “Hurt?”

  “He got piled up on the highway, his car pretty much totaled. One of the police on the scene is a member of the Post and called to let the members know what hospital.”

  “Hospital …?”

  “He’s okay. He’s yellin’ and screamin’ to get out of there and join the others.”

  “For Christ’s sake, let him! Maybe he can stop them!”

  “Well, there’s a formality or two—”

  “If he can yell and he can scream, he can get out of there!” Furiously, Sam yanked at the phone. “What hospital?” he demanded angrily.

  “Won’t do any good, boyo. There’s a mite bit of confusion over the accident report. Y’see, it wasn’t exactly his car on the highway. It was your mother’s yellow Jaguar.”

  “Yellooow birrd …,” came the lilting, high-pitched words and music from the tremulous throat of Eleanor Devereaux in the backseat.

  “Hey, Comandante, wad chu tink?” asked Desi the Second, standing resplendently in cutaway tails and admiring himself in the mirror of a successful formal-wear store Aaron Pinkus Associates had virtually put in business.

  “Positively striking,” replied Aaron, sitting in a velvet padded chair he could not move due to the heavy tuft of the shiny black carpet. “Where is your associate, the other Corporal Arnaz?”

  “We are sergeants now, Comandante!”

  “My deepest apologies, but where is he? We must move quickly.”

  “Well, you see, the lady who measured his pantalones ees from Puerrtoo Reekoh an’ I t’ink they got a—”

  “We have no time—”

  “Desi Uno!” yelled Sergeant D-Two. “¡Venga! Vámanos! Ahorita! Right away like, man!”

  Somewhat sheepishly, Desi the First emerged from a slatted dressing room door, followed by a generously endowed dark-haired girl who made it a point to stretch and check her measuring tape while adjusting her blouse. “Comandante,” said D-One, smiling broadly, his absent teeth all too apparent. “The pants we had to stitch closer. My hips are like a toreador’s! What can I say?” He, too, was in tails and there was no question about it, Desi the First also cut a striking figure.

  “You look splendid, Sergeant Arnaz,” observed Pinkus. “Now to my orthodontist, who says he has forty or fifty plastic devices, one or two of which he claims he can glue into your mouth for an hour or so.”

  “Dad’s nice. Wad does he do for a living?”

  “Joseph, I’m tired of your evasions, little fella,” said the Hawk, sitting in the hotel’s desk chair as Joey the Shroud reclined on the bed, his arms above his head on the pillow. “I could break your wrists one by one and force you to tell me who you are and where you come from, but I’ve always figured that sort of thing was barbaric, as well as against the Geneva conventions. But if push comes to shove, Joseph, you’ll leave me no option, will you?”

  “I seen you fazools all my life, Mickey Ha Ha,” answered Little Joey, unimpressed. “I can tell who will and who won’t.… Oh, you tough soldatos will smash heads like they were pizza pans in a Brooklyn riot, but one on one, if there ain’t no big advantage, you don’t want it on your soul.”

  “Goddamn!” roared Hawkins, getting up from the chair menacingly. “I don’t have any soul like that!”

  “If you didn’t, I’d be scared shitless, and I’m not scared shitless.… You’re like the fascisti from Salerno up the boot into Rome itself. I was a punk kid then, but I always knew the difference.… If they found me out, they’d scream esecuzione! Then we’d talk and they’d say non me ne importa un bel niente—who cares, the war’s over—and let me go. And some of those guys were the best donkeys in the Italian army.”

  “The … army? Soldiers? Salerno? You were—”

  “Fifth Army, Mark Clark, fazool. I guess we’re about the same age, except maybe you look better. As I say, I was punk private until they found out I could speak Italian better than the interpreters, so they put me in civilian clothes, raised me to a temporary first lieutenant ’cause they figured I’d last a day and a half, and sent me north to radio back info on installations. No big deal. I had lotsa lire, all the broads and vino I wanted, and only got caught three times—the like of which I already explained.”

  “Joseph!” shouted the Hawk. “We’re comrades!”

  “If you’re a fuckin’ homo, get away from me, Mickey!”

  “No, Joseph, I’m a general!”

  “I know that, fazool.”

  “And you’re a first lieutenant!”

  “That don’t count no more. When the brass found me in Rome, livin’ a pretty good life a few miles north in the Villa d’Este, they busted me back to a private. I got no use for you shitheads.”

  The hotel telephone rang. MacKenzie glared at it between repeated glances at Private Little Jose
ph, and then picked it up. “Temporary headquarters!” he roared.

  “I’d suggest a different, less strident announcement,” said Aaron Pinkus on the line. “Your adjutants are prepared. Have you learned what we have to know?”

  “I’m afraid not, Commander. He’s one fine old soldier.”

  “I will not presume to understand that statement. Shall we proceed, then?”

  “Proceed, sir!”

  The three automobiles from the Pat O’Brien Commemorative Legion Post raced down Clarendon Street, careening around the corner into Boylston, and, as prearranged, sped to within a block of the Four Seasons Hotel, each vehicle parking in an available space. Swiftly, they rendezvoused at the car nearest the hotel’s entrance, their d’avant-guerre conference somewhat held up by the Duffy brothers, who had not been reached by the phone relay insofar as they had been at the Legion Hall’s bar since early morning due to a medium-sized dispute with their wives, who happened to be sisters.

  “I’m damn sure there’s somethin’ in the Church that says we shouldn’t have done what we did, Petey!” cried a gray-haired Duffy brother as he was led to the rendezvous.

  “But we did it thirty years ago, Bobby!”

  “But they’re sisters, Petey. And we’re brothers—”

  “They’re not our sisters, Bobby—”

  “Still, brothers and sisters—I’m sure there’s somethin’, boyo!”

  “Will you two shut yer faces!” ordered a leather-lined Harry Milligan, put in charge of the small brigade by the injured Billy Gilligan. “Yer too pissed for combat, so I’m orderin’ you to stand watch.”

  “What are we watchin’?” asked a weaving Bobby Duffy, running his hand through the imagined hair on his bald head. “Where are the Krauts comin’ from?”

  “Not Krauts, Bobbo! The dirty bastards who want to shoot the heart out of the great general!”

  “What do they look like, Harry boy?” inquired a wide, red-eyed Peter Duffy, gripping the side-view mirror and, quite by the accident of his bulk, bending it out of shape—downward.