The Count of the Sahara (25 page)

It was the same around campus. On one of my exploratory walks that afternoon, Beloit not being big enough for street cars, I didn’t see any signs or posters advertising the lecture. The campus rag, the Round Table, did have a small article, but certainly didn’t make a big fuss. If this was so darned important, why were they treating the Count’s visit like it was some state secret?

The longer the day dragged on, the more nervous he became. Usually, the closer we got to show time, the calmer and more confident he grew. I swear he actually got taller and better looking in the hour before he took the stage. Today, though, he was a sweaty shaky cartoon of himself.

“Remember, this is important. You’ll be meeting all kinds of important people. Do try to make nice. And for God’s sake, talk to them. Don’t just grunt like some kind of gorilla.” What was I supposed to say to that? I stuck out my lips, scratched my arm and made oooh-oooh-oooh noises until I got a laugh out of him. It struck me it was the first time I’d heard him really laugh in three days.

We arrived at the chapel in the center of the campus two hours before the start time, as we usually did. No one really paid much attention, in fact I had to find a janitor in another building to unlock the back door so we could get our gear inside.

Once inside, de Prorok looked around. “Not exactly the Great Hall, is it?” The chapel was lovely, but small. “Rather thought they’d be making a bigger to-do.”

“Byron, about time. Good to see you.” A tall, good looking guy with a high forehead, a moustache and glasses walked up the aisle of the chapel, his hand extended in greeting.

“Brad, by the Dickens, great to see you.” The two men shook hands and the Count quickly called me over. I recognized this guy from the pictures of the Expedition. It seemed strange seeing someone in the flesh you only knew from pictures. I guess it would be like meeting Lon Chaney in person.

“Brad Tyrrell, this is my traveling companion and projection technician, William Brown. Brown, Brad Tyrrell, one of the stalwarts of the Sahara Expedition.” We shook hands briefly. He was tall, nearly as tall as I was and built half way between the de Prorok and I—not as whippet thin as my boss, but less of a lunk than me. He had that calm, rich guy assurance about him and a smooth, baritone voice.

“Nice to meet you, young man.”

“A… pleasure… sir.” I may have sounded slow, but at least the words came out right. So far so good.

“Byron treating you okay?”

“Yes sir.” Short and sweet, that was the watchword for tonight. I was consciously avoiding “m”s and “p”s.

“And what does a projection technician actually do? Wait, don’t tell me… your job is to keep Byron away from his own equipment so he doesn’t show upside down pictures, am I right?”

“That’s a…bout it, yessir.”

“Fine, fine. Glad he’s got someone to keep him out of trouble. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have plenty to keep you occupied.” He smiled, then turned away from me in that way businessmen have of dismissing you even while you’re still in the room.

As I puttered, I heard them talking, so I puttered even more quietly.

“Brad, have you received your notification about the Palme d’Or yet?”

“The what? Oh, yes, thank you. It was very kind of them. I’m very grateful. Listen, I need to talk to you about a couple of things before tomorrow’s meeting.”

The Count was obviously only half listening. “Doesn’t this seem like an awfully small venue? I mean, the College, especially the Logan, was such a big part of the expedition, you’d think they be making more of an effort to fill the hall, don’t you think?”

Tyrrell’s voice flattened out, and I had to strain to hear him. “Yeah, about that. Look, Byron. You have to know the college isn’t too happy with you right now.”

“Why ever not?” I wanted to know the answer to that one, too, and caught my finger in the slide mechanism of the projector. I sucked the pain out of the digit, and strained to hear. It was getting easier, because that foghorn of a voice ratcheted up the volume.

“We have brought the world’s attention to this piss ant school…” Even he realized he was shouting, and in an empty, echoing chapel to boot, because he dropped his voice dramatically as he went on. “This piss ant backwater cow college. Do you think the New York Times would even know Beloit, Wisconsin, existed if not for me?”

Tyrrell’s voice was getting flatter and smoother. “I know that, but you have to admit things have gone a bit sideways in the last few months.”

“Oh, what things?”

“The school had to bail out a ton of money, for starters…”

“Which they’ll get back when they sign the digging rights. My God, they’ll save fifteen thousand dollars the first year alone.”

“Yes. If they sign.” We both froze hearing that.

“Why wouldn’t they? Pond is having the time of his life over there, playing in his sandbox and counting arrowheads and creating his precious little catalogues. Why would they risk all that?”

“They’ll explain it all at the meeting tomorrow morning. Please, Byron. As your friend, I’m asking you to step carefully. They’ll want to know you have all your bases covered with Reygasse and the Institute. If there’s anything you’re keeping from them, anything at all… For Chrissake the Algerian government is still calling you a grave robber.” The Count was about to protest, but Tyrrell put his hand on his shoulder, momentarily silencing him. “It just doesn’t look good, is all.”

The older man paused, then asked another question in a quieter, sadder way. “Why did you have to charge them for this speech tonight?”

“What do you mean?” The Count’s voice was getting louder again, and jumped up an octave. “It’s only two hundred and fifty dollars. And I really didn’t have a choice. Lee, you’ve met him in New York, Keedick, insists on getting his pound of flesh. And I have overhead,” he gestured over to me, the Overhead. “Why are they pulling this nickel and dime nonsense now? Was I supposed to do this for free?”

“Actually, yes. They might have seen it as an act of good will. A thank you for all their support and all that. Now it looks like you’re just in it for the money.”

“I
am
in it for the money. Some of us need the damned money. We’re not all millionaires, you know. I have a family to support, God damn it, Brad.”

“Alright, take it easy. We’ll talk some more and maybe we can figure out a plan of attack when we meet with President Maurer and Collie in the morning.”

“Can we talk to them tonight?” Byron asked.

Tyrrell hesitated. “They’re not coming tonight. We’re meeting in Maurer’s office in the Middle College tomorrow.”

“Not coming?”

Brad Tyrrell shook his head. “Afraid not. I’m introducing you tonight. Okay, you fellas get set up, and we’ll see you right at eight o’clock. He gave de Prorok another pat on the shoulder and walked up the aisle to the main chapel door. He brushed past Havlicek, who’d been eavesdropping from the last row of pews.

I don’t know if the Count saw the detective or not. He just looked at me and barked, “I’ll be back in a bit, Brown,” and stomped out of the chapel through the rear. I couldn’t avoid the bastard, though. He strutted up the aisle, hands in his coat pockets, hat pushed back and a big cheesy grin on his mug.

“How’s it goin’ kid?”

“What do you want?” I asked, without looking up from my work.

“Just sayin’ hi. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, might as well be friendly about it.” I had no intentions of being civil, so I put the first reel—the departure from Constantine—on the projector and threaded the film carefully while doing my best to ignore him. It would have been easier to ignore a snowball down my pants.

“Seriously, what’s wit’you?” He sidled up to me and looked over my shoulder. “Hmm. You do good work, gotta hand it to you. You know your boss is in big trouble.”

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” I managed it without stuttering, but did sound like a whiney little kid. “What’s he ever done to you?”

“To me? Nothin’. Look, I respect bein’ loyal to your boss. I got a boss, too, who doesn’t much like your guy. You gotta admit, de Prorok ain’t helping his own case much.”

I didn’t have to admit a damned thing, at least not to this guy. “He didn’t steal anything. Get off his back.”

The detective opened his coat. It was getting warm in the chapel already. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It’s not really my business. I follow and report. It’s a job, kid. Like yours, just a job.”

It wasn’t just a job. Not to me. I slowly stood up and leaned into him. I had him by a good four or five inches. “I’m not a kid.”

He did exactly what I knew he’d do; what bullies always do, he backed up a step. I was beginning to get a feel for him. Some guys just need a firm shove on the carriage. I let myself enjoy the moment when he took another step back.

“Whatever you say, Jumbo. It’s your funeral.”

“So are you going to follow us all the way to St. Louis?”

His voice changed. He was just talking to me, man to man in that cop way they have when they want you to relax and say something stupid. “If that’s what it takes. Look, either I get something on him, or my boss quits paying me. It ain’t personal.”

I thought about the hours de Prorok spent moping over Alice and the babies. I remembered him smiling like a trained chimp at all the meetings with college presidents’ wives and Rotarians. All the miles he traveled through the snow to bring people a little fun and maybe teach them something, the fights with bookers over money, and having to get to the bank before leaving for the next town so I could get paid. Havlicek was wrong. It was very damned personal. I couldn’t tell him all that, though. I just said, “He’s a good guy.”

“You believe that, don’tcha? Look, Willy. It’s Willy, right?” I nodded. Suddenly he was trying the fatherly approach. That was probably the least likely way to win me over, but he couldn’t know that. “He’s a fake. He’s Billy Sunday in a jungle suit. Trust me, get out while the gettin’s good.”

“Thanks for the advice. S-s-see you in St. Louis.” Damn, I’d almost gotten out of it without stuttering.

He shrugged and put his hat on. “Your call. If you can think of anything that’d help us out, Mr. Kenny is a pretty generous guy. He’d probably make it worth your while.”

I wasn’t going to sell the Count out. The very idea was infuriating. First of all, I was no rat. Secondly I didn’t see why everyone hated him so much. Sure he was working angles, but who wasn’t? And who was he really hurting? And really, what choice did I have? Byron de Prorok was my ticket out of… well, just out.

I hated feeling so useless. I couldn’t really do anything to help the Count out of his situation, it was all beyond me. But Havlicek…there had to be a way to get rid of him, at least. I knew somebody smarter would have figured something out by now. De Prorok didn’t have the luxury of someone smarter, he was stuck with me. So much for hiring the best.

That night at Beloit College the Count was as good as I’d ever seen him. From the moment Brad Tyrrell introduced him and he hit the stage in a spotless desert shirt, jodhpurs and pith helmet, he had that audience of professors’ wives and spoiled frat boys eating from his hand. Of course, we’d stacked the deck in his favor, too.

Ordinarily, he didn’t deviate a word or two from his normal lecture. This time, we’d gone through every slide and photograph and made sure every picture of the car—I think it was Lucky Strike—showed the Beloit College banner. It got a rousing cheer every time it appeared on screen.

He spent a lot of time up front, maybe too much time, thanking the Logan Museum, and the College, and President Maurer, and President Maurer’s mother, and Governor Blaine and Calvin Coolidge, and God himself. Even though the big shots weren’t there, plenty of people from the College and Museum were. Normally, these academic guys would beam proudly when they were mentioned. Tonight the faculty that bothered to show up just squirmed like the Father’d called them out during the homily in church.

I clicked one of the slides into place, and showed the whole Expedition. Some frat boy with pomaded hair behind me shouted, “Hey, it’s Lonnie Pond.”

Another one hooted, “Yeah, Little Lonnie!”

Three times the Count’s walking stick banged the platform. “Yes, that’s Alonzo Pond. Beloit College—and all of you—should be very proud of him.” His brow crinkled and he stalked to the front of the stage, pinning the loudmouth to his seat with a fierce glare. “Alonzo Pond rode three days on a camel, risking danger and even death, to save every man on that expedition from starvation and drought. He may be ‘Little Lonnie,’ as you so charmingly put it, but a better man… and a better representative of this institution… you’ll never find.” A hush fell over the room.

Then I saw him silently count to four, and a smile reappeared on his face, and his voice rose. “In fact, he represented all of you so well, that Tuareg and Arab tribes across North Africa know the Beloit yell.” He threw his head back, held out his arms and shouted, “Ole Olson, Yonny Yonson…” Before he was done, the frat boys joined in. “On Beloit. Wisconsin.” Then they started again, and the whole crowd took up the chang. “Ole Olson…” Over and over it went until the chapel’s walls shook.

By the time we were done for the night, the place was in an uproar. The frat boys loved him, the Professors’ wives thought he was adorable, and he was the king of Beloit. Even I got my share of pats on the back and invitations to parties, providing I brought along my “A-rab getup.”