The Israel Bond Omnibus (56 page)

Well, Oy Oy Seven, what comes first, your personal happiness or the destruction of the powers of darkness?

Certainly, he told himself as he bounded down the stairs and through the lobby, the papers would be there tomorrow, none the worse for a good night’s sleep, possibly the better for it, because an old, sleepy-eyed, grouchpuss set of documents wouldn’t be disposed to divulge anything significant.

He chopped down on the doorman’s neck with his stiffened left hand and commandeered a Lincoln Continental convertible, flattening the front gate, two Bulgroes and a Russgro on his juggernaut jaunt to the desert.

A million jewels hung suspended on the black velvet night. Somewhere the Norman Mailer Choir sang a Norman Luboff arrangement of “Stairway to the Stars” to the accompaniment of the Les McCann Trio. One thought plagued him. Would his hot Baronevkeh
shtetl
blood so recently cooled by his encounter with Countess Tracy be revived with a flash from the dark eyes of the mystery woman? Or would he prove a dismal failure and break her heart?
Gottenu
, he prayed, my kingdom for six dozen oysters laced with Gallo Wine!

He need not have worried, for as he parked the MBG under the palms he heard the tender
dee dee, da, da, da, da, dee dee
theme – this time a scat version by Joe Carroll; she had cleverly changed tapes for a new dramatic effect – and his body began tingling in all the right places, even in a few new ones he had never dreamed were zones of Eros, the tips of his Andalusian bedsocks and the loops of his Hickok belt.

The white camel poked its nose over the dune and the cool musical voice said, “Come, Mr. Bond. My desert is waiting.” No second invitation was required. He crashed through the windscreen, paying no heed to the new cuts and bruises, and slid down its bonnet to the lukewarm sand. Now he was on Latakia, enclasping her waist, thrilling to her whispered: “Blue heaven and you and I.”

“And sand kissing a moonlit sky,” he breathed. “Miss Lawrence, will you convert to my faith, marry me and set me up in a corner news stand business?”

“Yes, yes, oh yes!”

He hurled her off Latakia into the dune. His sensual lips brushed her eyes and found to his delight her lids were spiced with Murine and ginger nut cookie dust. “Take off your veil, Miss Lawrence, and let me see the seventh heaven of seventh heavens.”

The voice was pleading. “Nay, let us preserve the illusion of this first night between us, Mr. Bond, I pray you.”

“I accede, my sweet. Does that restriction apply to your golden robe as well?”

She trembled. “It is yours to do with as you wish. Lift it.”

“Miss Lawrence, not that it matters since I am a man of the world, but will I be the first?”

“Would that I had saved myself for you, dearest. Alas, no. There was one other, a ship that passed in the night just once. In America some years ago I went to a John Cage Music Festival in Poughkeepsie....”

Bond scowled. “The third coal scuttle player?”

“Yes. But how....”

“Button your lip, you f— loose-moraled wench! Let’s make it!”

He heard his childish, spiteful words echoing in his fine, intelligent ears and was ashamed. “Forgive me, Sarah Lawrence. It doesn’t matter. I love you.”

His long, tapering fingers drew warmth from her thighs.

“One question, Israel Bond. I know you love me, but why do you want to climb upon my body?”

It came out of him with passionate conviction.

“Because... because it is there.”

A modest moon blushed and slipped behind the dune, and, as his thighs conquered hers, she emitted a last heated word.

“Ra-a-aw——
ther!”

“Bunch of guys in white burnooses, the Wheys, stormed in with guns and took him to a court of judgment at their camp. ’Pears someone told ’em he’s a phony. They’re going to try him, then behead him. I don’t think even the Lawrence dame can get him out of this one.”

Back in the MBG, Bond wallowed in self-loathing as Neon and Goshen continued their “Coventry.” I’ve done it this time, he thought, fouled up the assignment, failed to get the goods on TUSH. Beame was right; I’ve had it with M 33 and 1/3. Win, lose or draw, this is the last caper, Oy Oy Seven.

Only James Brown, at the wheel, had a friendly word. “Man, that vitamin-enriched ball of yours saved my tail, Mr. Bond. I read the good word and made tracks fast—to get help. But when we came back in force, you were off the grounds. TUSH was very cooperative, very, but they’d never heard of you, of course. All traces of your visit had been cleaned up. And while we were there, the Wheys took LeFagel.”

Brown had the MBG at an impossible 289.7 hectares, liquefying the road surface, until he pulled into the encampment of a thousand white tents. They got out, arms held high judiciously, covered by stone-faced sentries with RK-47s, Roskolnikovs built in Russia. “Take us to the king,” Bond demanded. “There is no king,” one spat, “just an impostor. Follow me, infidels.”

More inflammatory TUSH agitprop, Bond figured. Thanks to Sarah, it didn’t work on the Kurds, so now they’ve poisoned the Wheys.

In the center of a circle of thousands of men in white burnooses sat LeFagel, his hands fluttering. “Save me, Super-Semite, save me!” An aged warrior, obviously the muktar
[54]
of the tribe, called out scornfully. “What is the judgement of the Wheyan people?”

“Death! Death! Death!” The verdict rasped out of thousands of throats.
Gottenu!
Bond thought. If I had the Luden’s cough drop franchise I’d leave this enclave a multimillionaire.

“The pretender will be given the opportunity to make a final statement,” said the muktar.

LeFagel drew himself up, a new dignity in his bearing. Good-o! Bond thought. It may be the end but he’s going out like a man. My tutelage has not been for naught.

“In my final moments I have composed a poem,” said the king.

“‘Looking death in the face I find something more,

‘Than the River Styx boatman who refuses to accept my Cunard Line credit card...

‘Or grinning skulls welcoming me to the abyss as I inhale,

‘The joint of no return,

‘Or dancing devil dolls by unholy firelight,

‘Prating of unspeakable terrors to come,

‘No, I find something more meaningful than this,

‘I find the beanbag I lost as a child,

‘And finding a beanbag is death.’”

Even the muktar seemed impressed as he dragged the ax along the sand, the blade cutting a furrow to LeFagel, who knelt to receive it across the back of his neck.

Now it was lifted high, its frightening symmetry caught by the sun....

Dee dee, da, da, da, da, dee dee....

Crack! The ax flew out of the muktar’s hands.

Sarah Lawrence of Arabia, astride Latakia, those black eyes at the sights of a Congoleum-Nairn-516 elephant gun, broke through the circle of white-burnoosed tribesmen to reach LeFagel’s side.

“Before ye dare spill the truly royal blood of Hakmir’s son, I would beg for a boon,” she said. “I have brought a great, wise holy man with me, who has been touring our land with his spiritual cavalcade. True, he is not of your faith, but he speaks for all mankind with a transcendent message of universality. Listen as I translate his words, then decide if you are to murder your rightful ruler.” She beckoned and a little wrinkled man in a Krass Brothers white linen suit, string tie and eleven-gallon Tex Ritter hat entered on an imposing Arabian steed.

By thunder! Bond thought. It’s Oral Vincent Graham,
[55]
the tent evangelist, the man who stirred the world’s heart just before the climactic showdown with Loxfinger in the Red Sea! But can even
his
words still the enmity in this tension-charged situation?

Oral Vincent Graham stood in the stirrups, his keen eyes gauging the hostile mood of the bloodthirsty crowd. He would have to choose his words well. A king’s life hung in the balance.

“Whomsoever gainsayeth the measure of men? Yea, whomsoever gainsayeth? Dare ye of small measure gainsay what is not man’s to gainsay?”

He paused to let his statement sink in; a wave of angry muttering assailed his ears. They were stirred up! Good!

“The days of the years are as threescore and ten; to the more fortunate, tenscore and three. Wherefore walketh he who gainsayeth not? To green valleys and lush fields, sayeth the sages, yet do not even the sages gainsay and not sayeth?
Sometimes?

“Pride goeth before a fall, yea, and so doth summer. In the winter of our years we seek the summer, gainsaying it when we can, not gainsaying it when we cannot. Who among ye strays from righteous gainsaying, who dares to number among his summers threescore and ten of straying, gainsaying, measuring and scoring?”

Bond could hear Sarah Lawrence sobbing. He knew the tears were soaking into the veil; his own cheeks were wet.

“Lest ye who would be judged e’en to the measure of the days of your years, beware! Hist! Even to thy children’s children and thy children’s children’s children. For the sins of the father delight the father. Hist! Lest ye hist in haste! If a man walketh not alone can it not be truly said that he is with someone? Whether in vales or fields?

“Oh, my friends, hist and harken. Let it not be said, I say unto you —LET IT NOT BE SAID!” He closed his eyes. “Amen.”

Even as the skies echoed the last crescendo of his wrath (bouncing his words off both vales and fields), the muktar and his people were kneeling before LeFagel, smothering his hands with kisses. “Forgive us, O glorious planter of a thousand irrigated opium fields!” The king placed his hand upon the weeping muktar’s head. “You are forgiven, muktar; now go make peace with the Kurds and together we shall go on with the winning of the East.”

Bond’s first impulse was to rush to Sarah Lawrence of Arabia’s side, but he saw her riding off into the sunset, her head bowed in thankful supplication. “See you at the dune, baby!” he shouted.