Dancing Aztecs (31 page)

They a colorful band. They got a red uniform, with silver buttons and white piping and a gold stripe down the pants leg. All their brass instruments real bright and shiny in the sun, and when they marching around up there they look like a
Mad Magazine
idea of a Norman Rockwell cover for
The Saturday Evening Post
. They playing John Philip Sousa's “Thunderbird,” and many the people on the sidewalks watching, they give them a toast in the same.

Meanwhile, up ahead, Felicity, she smiling and nodding and waving at the multitude, she being Diahann Carroll to beat
all
, when just on a sudden she see, standing right there on the sidewalk, them two cruel white men what broke into her apartment last night but got scared off before they could complete their evil designs. And the smile and the nod and the wave all falter, and it Felicity Tower looking out at them two men, not any Diahann Carroll at all.

And the two men on the sidewalk look back at her, and one of the men, Frank, he say, “Hey, look. That ain't Diahann Carroll, that's that broad from last night!”

And a minute later the convertible with Bad Death in it go by, and Bad Death, he poke his associates with his elbows, he say, “There's them feds. They got they eye on me.”

The associates is very impressed.

Meantime, the funeral procession, it still going on. After the Liberation High band come three black Checker Marathons filled with professional mourners what F. Xavier, he got from a fellow mortician name of Israel Yid way down on Second Avenue. And these professional mourners, they got the Marathon windows rolled down and they got their heads sticking out and they moaning, “Oy!” and “Vey iz mere!” and similar sentiments, to regret the passing a Mole Mouth Dundershaft. And Leroy and Buhbuh, they don't know
what
to say about that. They just look at it, with they mouth open.

Then after the three Checker Marathons come one last flatbed truck, it containing three massed choruses a gospel singers, all female and all wearing floor-length robes and all singing at the top they voices. They singing hymns, and these hymns is made up mostly a two words. One a the words is, “Wah-ya-
yow
-ow-ow-wu,” and the other word is, “Jesus.”

And Leroy, he say, “Lu dah!”

And Buhbuh, he say. “Wuh you see now, Sidney Poh-tee-yay?”

And Leroy, he say, “I see my mama!”

Now this time, this time Leroy right That is his mama up there, and his sister Rose and his sister Ruby, and they all got they mouths open wide, and they all got they hymn books out in front a them, and they all
singing for glory
.

“Hey, Mama!” Leroy yell, but ain't nobody can hear nothing when they in the middle three massed choruses a gospel singers, so Leroy's mama, she don't look up from her hymn book at all. And the truck go on by.

With the jazz band and the marching band and the professional mourners and the massed choruses, this a funeral you can
hear
. This a funeral attract
attention
.

Now after the massed choruses come a dozen more cars, only these is not your regular-type funeral cars. One a them is a pink Cadillac with a white bearskin interior and mandalas painted on the hubcaps. And one a them is a silver Lincoln Continental with lemon suede interior and black metal eye-lashes over the headlights. They is all different—the only thing they all got the same is the little automobile TV antenna curling up over the roof on every one—but they is all got the same general name for them. They is pimpmobiles, and for those that think the Holiday Inn sign is pretty these here pimpmobiles is the last word in beauty. And they is being driven by they owners, who is business associates of either Bad Death or Mole Mouth, and who wanted to come to be a part a this special occasion, but who didn't want to be in no car they themselves wasn't driving, on account everybody got enemies so why take chances? And, anyway, they make a colorful part a the funeral procession, particularly since some a them got very attractive-looking girls in the passenger seats, girls that wouldn't somehow have fitted in with the massed choruses a gospel singers.

And finally at the end is a sleek black Cadillac Eldorado, with F. Xavier smiling and sweating and happy in the back seat. (Maleficent, she too fat to go out the house, she stay home all the time.) F. Xavier, he done it now and he know it. He The Funeral Man from here on out. This a funeral they gone be talking about for
years
. Walter B. Cooke, he don't understand
nothing
.

Leroy and Buhbuh, they trail along after the funeral a little ways, and then Leroy, he say, “Lu dah.”

Buhbuh, he say, “Wuh?”

Leroy, he say, “Dere dem cops.”

This time, Leroy, he right
and
wrong. It them cops, sure enough, but them cops is no more cops than that Jim Brown they seen was Jim Brown. Them cops is Frank and Floyd, and now the funeral it out they way they crossing the street, off to get Marshall Thumble's golden statue.

Buhbuh, he say, “Where they goin, them bastids?”

Leroy, he say, “Less follow em.”

So they follow them cops, and damn if them cops, if they don't go to Bubbuh's house and go on inside. Buhbuh, he say, “Wuh the fuck?”

So Buhbuh and Leroy, they stay outside and wait, while the sounds a the funeral, they fade away in the distance. 'Cause the funeral, it gone over a Hundred Twenty-Fifth Street to the Triborough Bridge. Then it gone over the Triborough Bridge and down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the Long Island Expressway, and out the Long Island Expressway to the cemetery, at fifty-five mile an hour, with the jazz band playing and the Liberation High band marching around and spelling ATIO (which is all from Liberation High they can spell without a whole mess a trumpets and tubas falling off the truck), and the professional mourners yelling out the windows, and the massed choruses hollering about Jesus, and all the girls in the pimpmobiles watching “Let's Make a Deal.”

And Frank and Floyd, they can't get inside the Thumble apartment, so they go back out the building and they see that kid Leroy Pinkham again, and they see the other kid with him, and Frank, he go over to Buhbuh and he say, “Are you Marshall Thumble?”

And Buhbuh, he say, “What of it?”

And Frank, he say, “Why didn't you say so before?” And him and Floyd, they walk away, and Buhbuh and Leroy, they don't say
nothing
.

ON THE PHONE …

By the time they'd finished breakfast and returned to the apartment, Oscar had convinced Chuck that something was going on, and Chuck was beginning to convince Oscar what that something was. “The
only
explanation I can think of,” Chuck said, “is that the original somehow got mixed in with all our copies.”

“I just don't see how,” Oscar said. His forehead was deeply ridged with bewilderment.

It was being quite a morning for Oscar. First, he'd awakened with the granddaddy of all hangovers, some big mean hairy dog scratching and biting inside his head, and then he'd seen where somebody had busted his Other Oscar into a lot of pieces and then badly glued them back together again. Memory had followed, confused and sporadic, and when he'd remembered that one of last night's visitors had been asking for Bobbi Harwood he went to the phone to call Chuck, and there wasn't any answer.

Which was all wrong. Over the last three years, Oscar and Chuck had worked more closely together than any other two members of the Open Sports Committee—they even had keys to one another's apartments—so that Oscar knew Chuck's teaching schedule, and at nine-thirty on a Wednesday morning Chuck had no class and should certainly be home. Most likely asleep, in fact. As for Bobbi, she was
never
out of the house before noon.

So down to the Harwood apartment he'd gone, walking through the apparently empty rooms. Shattered statue in the fireplace; poor bastard in even worse shape than Oscar's. Usual mess in the kitchen. Every stitch of clothing out of the gaping dresser drawers in the bedroom. And Chuck himself, naked in the closet. “Good Christ!” said Oscar.

“Oscar,” said Chuck, painfully straightening, “you might not believe this …”

Oscar listened to part of the story, then went downstairs to rescue what he could of Chuck's clothing, and then the two of them had a sorting-out conversation during breakfast in a nearby restaurant. Back in the apartment, Chuck brought up the idea of the original Dancing Aztec Priest having gotten mixed in with their copies. “I'm not saying it was total accident,” he explained. “More likely there was chicanery afoot, and it misfired.”

“Run that one through again.”

So Chuck told him about the flourishing museum trade in stolen artifacts, and the estimated million-dollar price tag on the original Dancing Aztec Priest, and the fact that the Priest was famous enough in art circles to be worth acquiring but not so famous (like the Pietà, for instance) that a museum would be unable to show it, and then he went on to suggest that the original might have been stolen in South America and sent north with a shipment of copies. “But the smugglers,” he finished, “took the wrong one at this end. They got a copy instead of the original.”

“You know,” Oscar said, “I think that makes sense.”

“And the
next
thing to do;” Chuck said, “is make some phone calls and see if any of the other statues were attacked last night.”

“Right,” Oscar said. “But what about Bobbi? Don't you want to know where
she
is?”

Shrugging, Chuck said, “She'll be back. Let's concentrate on these statues.”

“If you say so.”

They alternated the phone calls. First Oscar called Wylie, and was given a
very
excited account of the smashing of Wylie's statue on Wylie's forehead. Then Chuck called Bud Beemiss, who was out of the office; Chuck left a message. Then Oscar called Amanda Addlefor, but there wasn't any answer. And then Chuck called David Fayley and Kenny Sprang:

“Hello?”

“Hello, David? Chuck Harwood here.”

“Oh, hello, Chuck.”

“You got a cold? You sound all stuffy.”

“No, I've just been sort of upset, that's all.”

“That's too bad. Listen, I'm calling about that little statue Oscar gave everybody yesterday.”

“Oh, Bud already told me.”

“What?”

“About how we have to give them back to that museum in Rochester. So I put them both right away in the closet. Bud said he'd come around this afternoon and pick them up.”

“Oh, he did, huh?”

“So everything's all right, Chuck.”

“I'm glad to hear that, David.”

After which, Chuck and Oscar had a hurried tense conversation bristling with surmise, interrupted by the phone ringing. Chuck answered:

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Chuck?”

“Bud?”

“Chuck?”

“Is this Bud Beemiss?”

“Sure. How are you, Chuck?”

“We were just talking about you, Bud. Oscar and I.”

“You were? Is Oscar there? I wanted to get in touch with both of you.”

“About the statues.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You wanted to talk to us about the statues, Bud.”

“As a matter of fact, I did, yes.”

“That's a funny thing.
We
wanted to talk to
you
about the statues. I left a message at your office.”

“I haven't been—You wanted to talk to
me?
About the
statues?”

“Do you think maybe we ought to put our cards on the table, Bud?”

“I really doubt that, Chuck.”

“Think about it, Bud. Would it be better for us to compete or cooperate?”

(Pause)

“Bud?”

“I'm thinking. I'll tell you what, Chuck, let me get back to you.”

“How soon, Bud?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Three minutes, Bud. After that the line will be busy.”

AT THE CURB …

Jerry found the office address of the New York City Symphony Orchestra, in a building on 47th Street between Madison and Fifth. Of course, there's no parking within
miles
of an address like that, but what choice did Jerry have? Since he didn't know if Bobbi Harwood had already been here and gone, he'd have to leave the car and go up to the orchestra office and find out. He'd present himself as a friend of the husband, who had become so despondent he'd unsuccessfully tried to kill himself last night, blah, blah, blah. But the thing was, he'd have to leave the car alone and unattended in midtown Manhattan.

Although Manhattan, like all the rest of America, is entirely dependent on automobiles, it has made less provision for them than any place else in the country. The streets are too narrow and not decently maintained, through traffic and local traffic have to share the same routes, there are too few ways on and off the island, and there are far too few parking spaces. Midtown parking garages are almost always full by eleven in the morning, and no spaces become available again until around four in the afternoon. In the theater district they fill up again by seven-thirty in the evening. No department store in Manhattan offers parking space for its customers, and no office building in Manhattan offers parking space for its customers, and no office building in Manhattan offers parking space for more than a tiny fraction of its tenants. In the other boroughs you can at least park by the curb like a normal human being, but in all of Manhattan that matters you can't park by the curb at
all
. And if you do the Police Department will come along with big dirty dark-green tow trucks and tow your car away to a rotting pier shed over by the Hudson River and charge you fifty dollars or so to get it back.

Maybe it would be better for mid-Manhattan to become car-free, with shuttle buses from great parking areas on the fringes, like Norman Mailer wanted. Or, maybe it would be better to slam seven or eight elevated superhighways across the island, knocking down everything in the way, like Robert Moses wanted. But if any breed of politician in the world truly understands the word “compromise” it is a New York City politician, so what Manhattan has is the worst of both philosophies; they fill the city with cars every day, and then pretend they haven't.