The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  “Ours is better, you can sing it.”

  “Now, Johnny! Our general’s going out!”

  “You got it, paleface.”

  “This is it, Henry! Make it good!”

  “I’ve never made it bad, you jackass,” said the actor as he took several deep breaths, pulled himself up to his full imposing height, and strode out toward the rioting crowd and the sudden Wopotami rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ The chorus was, in a word, spectacular. Voices rose to the heavens and the sight of forty painted, weeping faces of America’s original inhabitants had a striking effect on the crowd. Even the fiercely aggressive commandos, in deadly combat with the union-busting thugs, held their adversaries off with straightarms and hands around throats. The goons dropped their brass knuckles and their blackjacks, and all stared at the tragic figures singing their hearts out in devotion to a land that had been stolen from them. Many tears were starting to cloud the eyes of the onlookers.

  “Now is the winter of our discontent!” roared Sir Henry Irving Sutton in his most stentorian voice as he climbed to the fourth step and turned to the crowd. “Dogs may bark at us, but our vision is clear. A dreadful wrong has been done, and we are here to right it! To be or not to be, that is the question …”

  “That son of a bitch can go on for an hour,” whispered MacKenzie Hawkins into his radio. “Where is everybody? Answer by your numbers!”

  “We are in dee big stone hall, but chu don’ unnerstand, Heneral—”

  “I’ve got the princess and the rube with me,” said Cyrus, “and you really don’t understand!”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?”

  “A little number you hadn’t figured on,” explained the mercenary. “They’ve got metal detectors in here and if Jenny or Sam or Mr. Pinkus passes through, they’ll set off every alarm in the building and probably most of Washington.”

  “Oh, m’God! What’s this country coming to?”

  “I suppose I should say something like ‘look to the root causes,’ but right now we’re screwed.”

  “Not yet, Buttercup,” yelled the Hawk. “Calfnose, are you on the line?”

  “Sure am, T.H., and we’ve also got a problem. Our people have had it with your friend Vinnie. I mean he’s one big pain in the ass.”

  “What’s he done? You’ve only had him since this morning—what could he do?”

  “Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch, that’s all he does! Then his friend shows up, the little guy who talks like a chicken, and before you can say Geronimo, we’ve got a dozen crap games going on all over the motel with Joey something-or-other running from room to room to catch the action. Catch it, I might add, with very funny dice. He cleaned up, and a lot of our braves were cleaned out.”

  “We don’t have time for this!”

  “Make it, T.H., while your general, who I’ve got to admit looks like you, is still yelling his head off. Our boys and girls are mad as hell, and they’re not going to take it anymore. They want those two scumballs out and their money back!”

  “They’ll get their money back fifty times over, I promise!”

  “Holy shit! Do you see what I see, T.H.?”

  “I’m at the edge of this building and there’s too much going on—”

  “A bunch of guys in funny green and black suits are breaking through our ranks … wait a second! Now some others—either linebackers or apes in business suits—are joining them. They’re going after your general!”

  “Execute Plan B, Number One priority! Get him out of there! We can’t let him be hurt.… Start the chanting and the dancing. Now!”

  “What about the two scumballs, Vinnie and the chicken?”

  “Sit on ’em!”

  “We did that on the bus. The little guy bit Eagle Eyes’ ass.”

  “Execute. I’m heading over!”

  Colonel Tom Deerfoot, arguably the smartest officer in the United States Air Force and certainly in line for the chairmanship of the Joint Chiefs, was strolling through the streets of Washington, showing his niece and nephew the usual sights. As the trio turned right off Constitution Avenue toward the Supreme Court, Deerfoot’s ears picked up various familiar sounds stored somewhere in his memory banks; chants that went back to his childhood forty-odd years ago in upper New York State near the Canadian border. Tom Deerfoot was a full-blooded Mohawk, and the words and rhythms he heard were a slight variation of his own tribe’s language.

  “Hey, Uncle Tommy!” cried his nephew, a boy of sixteen. “There’s a riot over there!”

  “Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” suggested his niece, a young lady of fourteen.

  “No, you’re perfectly safe,” said the uncle. “Wait here, I’ll be right back. Something crazy’s going on.” Deerfoot, as his name implied, was a splendid runner, and in less than thirty seconds he reached the outskirts of the confused, rebellious crowd at the steps of the Supreme Court. It was crazy! Indians—their Indians—were in full war paint, stamping and dancing, and yelling their heads off in some fanatical protest, the nature of which was hard to determine.

  Then the memories came back, the legends passed down by the old men of the tribe, from one generation to another. The language he was hearing was similar but different, the pounding feet of the dancing chants imitative, yet not authentic. Good God, they were the Wopotamis of old! The ancient stories abounded with tales of how they stole everything in sight, so why not most of the language, and they never left their tepees whenever it snowed! Colonel Deerfoot bent over in laughter, holding his stomach so as not to collapse to the pavement in hysterics. The wild frenzy of the protesting chant with its highly suggestive dance movement was the “Celebration of the Wedding Night.”

  The Wopotamis never got anything right!

  “Calfnose, hear me and execute!” whispered Hawkins harshly into his radio as he threaded his way up through the dancers to the entrance of the Court.

  “What now? We got your general out, who kept screaming that he ‘wasn’t finished!’ Little Joey’s right, he’s a fazool!”

  “Little Joey?… Fazool?”

  “Yeah, well we made a deal. He’ll give back half the money, and I collect twenty-per off his take for arbitration.”

  “Johnny, we’re in a crisis!”

  “No we’re not, the two scumbuckets are in a bar down the street. You know, Vinnie’s red wig doesn’t do anything for our image. Real tacky, y’know what I mean?”

  “Oh, Christ, you’re talking like him!”

  “Actually, he’s not a bad guy when you get to know him. Did you realize that ethnic Indian types are very respected in Las Vegas? Nevada was big redskin territory, y’know.”

  “I’m talking about right now! Plan B, priority Two—the peaceful storming of the Court!”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind! We could get shot!”

  “Not if you all fall on your knees and do the wailing bit once you’re inside. It’s un-American to shoot anybody on his knees.”

  “Who says?”

  “It’s right there in the Constitution. You don’t shoot anyone on his knees because he’s praying and will die in a state of grace while you get shafted by God.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No fooling. Go!”

  The Hawk replaced the radio in the pocket of his distressed overcoat inside the great hall of the Supreme Court as Cyrus kept Aaron, Jenny, Sam, and the two Desis off to the side, away from the arched metal detectors. “Now listen up, folks,” said the mercenary-chemist. “When the Wopotamis crash in here, D-One and D-Two will raise the cordons and you—Sam, Jenny, and Mr. Pinkus—will slip under them and head to the second floor. Use the stairs or the elevators, whatever, and go to the second closet on the right. Your other clothes are there in a plastic bag. Change in the ladies’ and men’s rooms and meet at the chambers at the west end of the hall, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “What about Mac?” asked Devereaux.

  “If I know him, and by now I think I do, he’ll be at t
hat closet before you distributing the merchandise. Man, I wish that cat had been running a few campaigns I’ve been in. I’m good, but he’s the max—I mean really evil!”

  “That’s a recommendation, Cyrus?” asked Pinkus.

  “You better believe it, Rabbi. I’d follow him to hell and back because I’d know I’d get back.”

  “Well, he never swam twenty miles in a hurricane—”

  “Oh, be quiet, Sam.… Oh, oh, here they come!”

  “Great Abraham!” whispered Aaron Pinkus, as a horde of Wopotamis, their painted, waxed faces grotesquely weeping, burst through the doors and instantly fell on their knees, singing in unison, their heads raised to the ceiling, imploring their gods for deliverance. (If anyone knew, and they did not, it was still the “Celebration of the Wedding Night.”)

  The weapons of a dozen guards were unholstered, their guns aimed at the heads of the protesters. None was fired. Somehow, it was in the Constitution, or at least in the minds of the Supreme Court police, that one did not fire on people who were in the act of prayer. Instead, alarms were heard, not from the detectors but from within the building itself. In seconds additional guards, clerks, and maintenance personnel streamed into the great hall. Pandemonium prevailed.

  “Now!” whispered Cyrus as Desis One and Two raised the thick velvet cords while Aaron, Sam, and Jenny swept underneath during the insanity that faced the Supreme Court police and staffers.

  And during this new and totally unexpected chaos, MacKenzie Hawkins walked through the inferior metal detectors, thanked nobody in evidence, and raced to the stairway that led to the second floor.

  A problem. Naturally. Vinnie the Bam-Bam’s Aunt Angelina the Go-Go had confused the second closet on the right with an air-conditioning machine room and for several precious minutes the black plastic bag holding their clothes was not found. Suddenly, there was a muted explosion that none of them really noticed.

  “I’ve got it!” yelled Sam, in his excitement pushing a lever and shorting out the air-conditioning. “Everything stopped,” he added, bewildered by the cessation of the huge machinery.

  “Who cares?” cried Jennifer, holding up Pinkus as the Hawk came running down the corridor, throwing off his tramp’s overcoat.

  “There you are!” he roared. “The goddamned staircase was locked from the outside!”

  “How’d you get in?” asked Devereaux, pulling Redwing’s clothes out of the bag.

  “I always carry a little plastic explosive—you never know.”

  “I thought I heard a boom,” said the exhausted Pinkus.

  “You did,” admitted Hawkins. “Let’s go.”

  “Where’s the ladies’ room?” asked Redwing.

  “Down at that end,” answered MacKenzie, pointing east.

  “Where’s our room?” asked Sam.

  “Much nearer, right over there on the left.”

  They scattered, and suddenly Jennifer turned and shouted. “Sam! Can I dress with you? We’ve only got three minutes and that door’s two football fields away!”

  “Boy, have I been waiting for those words!”

  The platinum-helmeted hooker raced back to the chicken-breeding “Alby-Joe Scrubb” and together they followed Pinkus and the Hawk into the restroom. Jenny ran into a stall as the men shed their clothes and wigs for the more dignified attire they wore under their outlandish cam-ex equipment.

  Except for the Hawk. At the bottom of the large refuse bag, layered neatly for easy removal, were the massive full ceremonial garments of Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis, including the longest, most flamboyant feathered headdress since the Okeechobees greeted a misguided cosmetician named Ponce de León on the shores of the future Miami Beach. He swiftly removed his tramp’s trousers and soiled shirt, replacing them with his buckskins and his beaded buffalo jacket. Then, under the stunned gazes of Aaron and Sam, he carefully placed the gargantuan trail of feathers over his head. It reached down all six feet, three inches to the tiled floor.

  A minute later Redwing walked out of the stall in a smart dark-tailored suit, the image of a cool successful lady lawyer totally unafraid of facing the male-dominated Supreme Court. What momentarily terrified her, however, was the sight of MacKenzie Hawkins. “Ahh!” she screamed.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Devereaux.

  “General, ” added Pinkus, in the title a soft but earnest plea. “This is not a costume parade at Pasadena’s Rose Bowl. These proceedings are among the most serious and venerable of our legal system, and your outfit, as splendid as it is, is hardly in keeping with the occasion.”

  “What’s the occasion, Commander?”

  “Only the future of the Wopotami tribe and a large segment of the nation’s defense structure.”

  “I’ll go with the first part. Case closed. Besides, it’s all I’ve got unless you want me to walk in like a member of Hoboes Anonymous—which from another point of view isn’t a bad idea.”

  “We’ll go with the feathers, General,” said Jennifer quickly.

  “That filthy overcoat’s probably still in the hallway,” mused Hawkins. “There’s no one up here to find it; everybody’s downstairs.… Think of it, a downtrodden indigent from a disenfranchised people—in rags and maybe holding my stomach from hunger.”

  “No, Mac!” yelled Sam. “They’d drag you out to be deloused.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility,” said the Hawk, frowning. “This is a heartless city.”

  “Thirty-five seconds,” announced Redwing, glancing at her watch. “We’d better go.”

  “I can’t imagine that a minute or two of tardiness would matter,” said Aaron. “I mean, that’s a veritable insurrection downstairs, the masses storming the barricades, as it were.”

  “Not storming, Commander, but praying. There’s a difference.”

  “He’s right, Aaron, and that’s not to our benefit,” said Devereaux. “As soon as the guards realize it’s basically a peaceful demonstration, the alert will be called off and all the others will return to their posts.… You’ve been to these examinations before, haven’t you, boss?”

  “Three or four times,” replied Pinkus. “Authenticity is established of the plaintiff’s identity, as well as that of the attorney-of-record, and those of whatever amid curiae are in attendance. Then the arguments are presented.”

  “Who’s at the chambers’ doors, Commander?”

  “An assigned guard and a law clerk, General.”

  “Bingo!” roared the Hawk. “One of ’em or both of ’em will have our names on a list. They’ll get on a radio and a dozen others will come out of the woodwork and haul us away. We’ll never get in!”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Jennifer. “This is the Supreme Court. No one can buy guards and law clerks to do that sort of thing.”

  “Try billions in debt and red faces at the Pentagon, as well as State, Justice, and several dozen leeches in Congress who vacation on barrels filled with pork, against a few hundred thousand dollars spread through these hallowed halls!”

  “Mac’s got a point,” said Sam.

  “Flesh is weak,” observed Aaron.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” concluded Redwing.

  They did, all four hastening with as much decorum as possible toward the huge carved doors of the chambers. To their relief, they saw the massive figure of Cyrus standing in front of them; to their astonishment, they also saw the two Desis, kneeling on either side of him in their clerical garb.

  “Colonel, what are my adjutants doing here?”

  “General, what the hell are you wearing?”

  “The mantle of my tribal office, of course. Now, answer my question!”

  “It was Desi the First’s idea. He said they’d gone this far, and although they’re not sure what it’s all about, they figured you should have additional protection. It was no problem for them to get up here—it’s an insane asylum in revolt downstairs.”

  “How sweet,” said Jennifer.

  “How
dumb!” cried Devereaux. “They’ll be spotted, arrested, and questioned, and our whole illegal entry will be front-page news!”

  “Chu don’ unnerstand,” said D-One, raising his head, his palms still matched in prayer. “Número uno, we never say nodding. Número dos, we are misioneros who convert the poor bárbaros to dee ways of Christ. Who can arrest such padres? Also, if dey try, dey don’ walk for a couple of months, and nobody goes inside but chu.”

  “I’ll be damned,” mumbled Hawkins, affection in his eyes as he looked down at his two aides-de-camp. “I brought you boys up right. In dark operations one should always have secondary egress personnel; they’re usually the first to take the fire. We hesitate to assign them because we know the odds, but you didn’t hesitate to volunteer. Fine show, men.”

  “Daz nice, Heneral,” said D-Two, “but chu not be damned. I can straighten dat out myself, not my amigo. Chu see, I’m católico, he ees only a protestante—it don’ count.”

  The thundering sound of pounding footsteps in the long hallway caused all of them to whip their heads around in shock. It diminished quickly as the running figure of Roman Z, a camcorder in each hand, his shoulder-strapped nylon pouch bouncing off his hips, came rushing toward them, his WFOG T-shirt drenched with sweat. “My dearest, most loving frenz!” he cried, stopping breathlessly. “You could not believe how magnificent I was! I got pictures of efferyone, including three peoples who were convinced by my blade to say they were sent here by a ‘general-attorney,’ and by a leetle man secretary in somzing they call ‘defance,’ and a beeg soccer player who told me he was only an ignorant represantive of somzing he call zee ‘Fanny Hill Society’—some society, we got better in Serbo-Croatia.”

  “That’s terrific!” said Sam. “But how did you get up here?”

  “Iss easy! Down in zee big marble hall, efferybody iss dancing and singing and laughing and crying like zee best of my Gypsy ancestors. Men in crazy clothes and painted faces are passing around bottles of fruity juice and efferybody is so happy it remind me of our camps in zee Moravian mountains. It iss all glorioso!”

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Jennifer. “The yaw-yaw stills!”