The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  “Conferences?”

  “They look ahead, General, way down the road, they have to. A picture starts with a high concept; the development takes a couple of years. Good Lord, every major star in the industry would be at your feet—you’d have to meet ’em all for precasting purposes.”

  “Meet them … all?”

  “Sure, but I guess it’s out of the question since you can’t tell me—on a confidential postoccurrence basis—who the big shot is. Later, any damn fool can reveal the name, and probably will; the time to strike for you is now. After the fact you won’t be anything special.… Oh, well, win some, lose some. Let’s get on with the interview, General. The cuts in defense spending directly affect the manpower situation, which has to in turn affect troop morale—”

  “Wait a minute!” An apoplectic Brokey the Deuce paced back and forth, looking down at the photographs of his magnificent creation/obsession. “As you say, when the story breaks—and it has to some day—I won’t be anyone special, and any damn fool can take credit for what I’ve done. God, they will, too! They’ll make a movie and I won’t be any part of it. I’ll have to pay probably fifty dollars just to sit in a theater and watch what they’ve done to my masterpiece. Oh, Christ, it’s terrible!”

  “That’s life, as Old Blue Eyes sings in that song,” said the journalist, his pen poised above his notepad. “For a fact, though, Francis Albert is looking for a good character role—he might even play you.”

  “Francis Albert …?”

  “I mean Frank, naturally, Sinatra, of course.”

  “No!” roared the brigadier general. “I did all this and did it my way!”

  “What was that?”

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” said the perspiring Brokemichael. “Later on, down the road, he’ll probably thank me, maybe find me another star, and even if he doesn’t he can damn well pay fifty dollars himself and watch that movie, my movie.”

  “I can’t follow you, General.”

  “The Secretary of State!” whispered Brokey the Deuce. “He’s the one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for. He arrived here yesterday incognito, nobody on the base knew who he was, his ID a processed fake!”

  “Bingo!” shouted the Hawk, leaping up from the chair to his full height and ripping the dull red wig off his head. “Gotcha, Deucey!” he continued yelling as he tore apart his collar and tie while yanking the steel-rimmed glasses away from his face. “How are ya, old buddy, you miserable son of a bitch?”

  Ethelred Brokemichael was beyond speech; in a word, he was paralyzed. A series of deep-throated grunts combined with high-pitched nasal wheezes emerged from his gaping mouth in the lower middle of his contorted face. “Ahhhh … ahhhh!”

  “Is that any way to greet an old buddy, even if he is a mental case and a misfit who probably shouldn’t have been given his Congressionals?”

  “Aiya … aiya!”

  “Oh, I forgot, he’s also a traitor and a troublemaker, and maybe there’s a story behind those medals like directing his own fire on himself, that might do it.”

  “Nyahh … nyahh!”

  “You mean you don’t think that’d work, you pissant?”

  “Mac, stop it!” cried Brokey the Deuce, recovering sufficiently to protest. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through … a divorce—the bitch is bleeding me dry—and fighting Washington for funds, and keeping my unit happy—Jesus, I have to arrange captive audiences for their goddamned staged readings when the recruits don’t understand a word and smoke funny cigarettes to get through the ordeals.… Have mercy, Mac, I’m just trying to survive! What would you have done, tell the Secretary of State to shove it?”

  “I probably would have.”

  “Yeah, well, you never had to pay a dime in alimony.”

  “Of course not. I taught my fillies how to take care of themselves, and by God, they did. If I’m short, any one of ’em will ante up.”

  “I’ll never understand, never.”

  “It’s simple. I cared for each and every one and helped them to be better than they were. You didn’t care and you didn’t help.”

  “Well, damn it, Mac, that wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case against you! And when he told me that lousy punk lawyer Devereaux was involved, I went bananas—dedicated bananas.”

  “That’s kind of a shame, Deucey, because that ‘punk’ Devereaux is the reason I’m here … to help you get your ass out of the biggest sling it could land in.”

  “What?”

  “It’s time for you to have a little mercy, General. Sam Devereaux now knows he overstated his charges against you and wants to make up for his younger indiscretions. Do you think I’d risk coming down here and walk right into the enemy’s camp if he hadn’t insisted?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re being set up, Brokey. Sam found out and literally ordered me to fly down and warn you.”

  “What? How?”

  “There’s this minor lawsuit against the government—someone’s always suing the government—but this one is a major embarrassment to Warren Pease, and he’s a very image-conscious politician. He wants it eliminated, so he enlists you and your team to do his dirty work, convincing you it’s a big national crisis, and the minute you’ve done it, he doesn’t know you! The lawsuit’s thrown out of court ’cause the plaintiffs aren’t there, somebody’s bound to protest, and the elimination trail leads right to your Suicidal Six—and you. A general officer who only barely survived serious charges in the Golden Triangle. You’re dead meat, Brokey.”

  “Holy shit! Maybe I ought to call them back.”

  “If I were you, I’d also insert an official memorandum in your files—dated yesterday—that upon reconsideration you withdrew your troops, because you believed the mission was beyond military constitutional authority. If there’s a congressional investigation, hang Pease, not yourself.”

  “Goddamn, I will!… Mac, how did you know so much about L.A.—the Coast, and the Polo Lounge, and all those other things you talked about?”

  “You forget, old buddy, they made a movie about me. I was the consultant for ten crazy weeks out there, courtesy of the Pentagon pricky-shits who thought it would do wonders for recruitment quotas.”

  “They took a nose dive, everyone knows that. It was the worse damn flick I ever saw and I’m something of an expert. I mean, it was really terrible, and even though I hated your guts, I bled for you.”

  “I hated it, too, but there were compensations only that place can provide.… Call your troops back, Deucey. You’re being led down the fall-guy path.”

  “I will, I will. I just have to find a way.”

  “Pick up the phone and give the order, that’s all you have to do.”

  “It’s not as easy as that. Christ, I’m countermanding the Secretary of State! Maybe I’ll just get sick—”

  “You waffling, Deucey?”

  “For God’s sake, I’ve got to think!”

  “Then while you’re at it, think about this.” The Hawk unbuttoned his jacket and spread it open, revealing a tape recorder strapped to his chest. “A colonel I recently field-commissioned suggested I be ‘wired,’ that’s what he called it. Every word said in this room is recorded.”

  “You’re scum, Mac!”

  “Come on, General, we’re just a couple of old-timers, and I’ve got to survive, too.… What’s that phrase? ‘If the devil don’t get you, the big deep will’?”

  “Never heard it before.”

  “Neither have I, but it kinda fits, doesn’t it?”

  24

  Vincent Mangecavallo walked across the white marble floor of the condominium in Miami Beach on his way to the apartment’s gym room. Once again he winced at the pink furniture that was everywhere—chairs, sofas, lamps, throw rugs, and even a living room chandelier made up of several hundred descending pink shells that looked as if it was going to crash down on somebody’s head any minute. Vinnie was no decorator, but the endless combina
tion of pink and white did nothing for him except to suggest that the big famous decorator his cousin Ruggio had hired was also very big on ballet.

  “It ain’t pink, Vin,” Ruge had said the day before yesterday over the telephone. “It’s peach, only you call it pêche.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause pink is low price, peach higher, and pêche goes through the fuckin’ roof. Me, I can’t tell the difference, and to be frank, I don’t think Rose can either, but it makes her happy, y’know what I mean?”

  “The way you live, Cugino, you should always make your wife happy. However, regardless, I appreciate your letting me use the place.”

  “As long as you like, Vin. We can’t get down there for at least a month, by which time you’ll be back among the living. We got pressing business with the El Paso family—but, hey, look at the gym I built, steam bath and all.”

  “At the moment, that’s where I’m heading when I get off the phone—I’m even wearing a pink towel-type bathrobe, kinda short.”

  “That’s for the girls, I got blue ones in the gym.”

  “What’s with the El Paso boys, Ruge?” Vincent had asked.

  “They want the whole fuckin’ leather saddle market, which takes into account not only the fake dude ranches in New York and PA, but all the fancy fox hunt clubs in west Jersey and New England.”

  “Well, with respect, Ruge, horses are like, Western, y’know? And saddles maybe should be like cowboys, huh? Western, right?”

  “That’s bullshit, Vin. Most of that saddle stuff is made in Brooklyn and the Bronx. You give those paisan yippee-yie-yo-yos an inch, first thing you know they’ll be into the tracks, and that we can’t tolerate.”

  “I see your point. I wouldn’t on the breath of my dead mother interfere with you.”

  “Your mama’s not dead, Vinnie. She’s in Lauderdale.”

  “It’s only an expression, Cousin.”

  “Hey, Vin, guess what? Tomorrow I’m going to your memorial service! Ain’t that somethin’?”

  “You gonna speak on my behalf?”

  “Hell, no, I’m lowlife. But the cardinal’s gonna say a few words. Hey, a cardinal, Vinnie!”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Your mama called and cried a lot and made an impact on the collection plate. He’ll speak.”

  “She’ll make a bigger impact when I’m resurrected.… Thanks again for the pad, Cugino.”

  Mangecavallo paused beneath the pink-shelled chandelier, reflecting on the telephone conversation he had had with Ruggio two days ago. As then, he was on his way to the small elaborate gym, where he intended to studiously avoid the brand-new Nautilus equipment, as if by touching it a person could catch the clap. The sudden memory of that phone conversation, brought on by the faggy Easter egg decor, reminded Vincent that it was time to make another call. It was not a call he was overjoyed to make, but it was necessary, and perhaps the information he might be given would make him the happiest man this side of an honest amateur who broke a bank in Vegas. But there was a catch. The news of his being alive and well and pulling strings was restricted to a very few people, namely the scumball Wall Streeters on Meat’s agenda who would have mouths sealed in cement or later face the rest of their lives in various slammers without the money they figured to make, and his cousin Ruggio. Ruge was also a necessity, as Vincent needed a private residence where he could stay securely out of sight until the time came for Smythington-Fontini to pick him up and fly him to the point of his miraculous “rescue” in the Dry Tortugas.

  However, Abul Khaki was not on that exclusive list, nor should he have been, but he, too, was now a necessity. In the world of international finance, Abul was every bit as devious as Ivan Salamander; what made him more dangerous, or successful, depending on one’s point of view, was the fact that he was not a citizen of the United States and had more offshore holding companies, like in the Bahamas and the Caymans, than anyone since the more successful pirates buried a couple of thousand trunks in the Caribbean. Also, as Khaki was an Arab from one of those sheikdoms that Washington was always trying to reach on the sly, he had certain built-in protections that came when the government concluded back-channel negotiations with politically unpopular people. People who, for instance, could broker a few thousand missiles and a King James Bible for three convicts and a prostitute from Damascus. Abul Khaki had a walking case of immunity.

  When Mangecavallo learned of Abul’s unadvertised credentials, he entered into a liaison with the Arab that was beneficial to both men. Khaki had numerous shipping interests and tankers pulling into waterfronts everywhere, sometimes carrying more than oil, and after a few embarrassing local busts, Vinnie let Abul know that he and his friends had considerable influence down at the docks … “from New York to New Orleans and points in between—they’re locked up, Mr. Cocky.”

  “That’s Khaki, Mr. Mangecuvulo.”

  “That’s Mangecavallo.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get to know each other’s name.”

  They did, and, as is said, one thing led to another, including certain financial services rendered by Abul to his friend Vincent. And at the firm suggestion of the dons in the tri-state area and Palermo that Mangecavallo go after the directorship of the CIA, Vinnie went to Khaki.

  “I gotta problem, Abul. The dons think big and that’s good, but they’re not much for details and that’s bad.”

  “The problem, please, my dear friend who has the eyes and the speed of the desert falcon—although, in truth, I’ve never been to the desert. Extremely hot, I’m told.”

  “That’s the problem, pal. The heat.… I’ve got a lot of bread buried in accounts all over the country under different names. Once I’ve got that job in Washington, and I’ll get it, there’s no way I can fly around some thirty-eight states picking up my cash, a great deal of which I’d prefer to keep private.”

  “An absolute, I should think.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Do you have your bank account books?”

  “All four thousand two hundred and twelve.” Vinnie had permitted himself an indictable grin.

  “Ahh, the gaze of the camel holds more than can be gathered by the rumblings of its several stomachs.”

  “Something like that, I guess.”

  “Do you trust me, Vincent?”

  “Sure, I’ve got to—just like you’ve got to trust me, capisce?”

  “With certainty. The tail of the Bedouin’s dog wags in the triumph of its survival.… Have you ever met a Bedouin? No matter, but let me tell you, they smell to high heaven in the marketplace.”

  “The bank accounts? The books?”

  “Sign several dozen for closure and collection and bring all of them to me. I have on my payroll an artist, a man of extraordinary talent, who can duplicate the signatures of anyone, living or dead, and has done so many times for considerable profit. I shall handle your portfolio myself, Vincent, a blind trust, as it were, under the aegis of one of the most respectable law firms in Manhattan.”

  “All of it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Only an amount commensurate with the estate of a rather successful importer. The remainder you’ll really make money with, and I can assure you there’ll be no paper trail.”

  Abul Khaki became Mangecavallo’s unofficial personal manager, with roughly four million in the market and seven times that amount in offshore holding companies. However, it was neither the serviceable friendship nor the service rendered that compelled Vincent to reach Abul. Quite simply, it was because Khaki had a greater in-depth knowledge of the global stock exchanges than any other person Mangecavallo knew, most of it garnered through illegal avenues, the rest through financial acumen. And of all men, Abul Khaki would keep his mouth shut. It was a given—his own survival eternally depended upon it, forget the Bedouin’s dog.

  “I can’t believe this!” shrieked the Arab after Vincent had used one of the code names to get through to him—at the moment in Monte Carlo.

  ?
??Believe it, Abul, I’ll fill you in later—”

  “You don’t understand. I wired ten thousand dollars’ worth of floral wreaths for your memorial service yesterday and signed it on behalf of myself and the Israeli government through my offices in New York!”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Well, I’ve made a shekel or two with the Likud, and coupling my name with theirs might lead to further arrangements.”

  “It can’t hurt,” said Vincent. “I always got along with the Mossad.”

  “I would expect so … but you’ve come back from the dead! I’m beside myself with shock, my entire body trembling—I’ll lose every hand to the boot in baccarat, costing me hundreds of thousands!”

  “Don’t play.”

  “With three Greeks at the table with whom I do business? Are you mad?… What are you doing, Vincent? What is happening? The swirling sands of the desert are blinding my universe!”

  “You’ve never been to the desert, Abul.”

  “I’ve seen photographs—appalling, just as your voice is appalling to me as you speak now, from where I know not, but I must assume it isn’t ethereal.”

  “I told you, I’ll explain later … after I’m rescued.”

  “Rescued …? Thank you, dear Vincent, but I don’t care to hear another word. In fact, I insist upon it.”

  “Then pretend it’s not me, just an interested investor. How’s the market doing in the States?”

  “How is it doing? It’s gone quietly insane. So much subterfuge, so many secret negotiations—mergers, buyouts, controlling interests; it’s started all over again! It’s madness!”

  “What do the oracles say?”

  “They’re not talking, even to me. Compared to the market, Alice’s looking-glass world is a place of incontestable logic. Nothing makes sense—again even to me.”

  “What about the defense-oriented companies?”

  “As you Italianos say, they’re pazzo! When they should be drying up, anticipating equipment conversions everywhere, they’re reaching all-time highs. Moscow called me, both furious and frightened, asking me what I thought, and I had no answers. And my contacts in the White House tell me the President’s been on dozens of conference calls with everyone in the Kremlin, assuring them all that it must be the opening Eastern markets and the conversions because the Pentagon budget continues to be drastically cut.… I tell you, Vincent, everything is pazzo!”