The Israel Bond Omnibus (6 page)

She’s a smasher! Bond thought. Sullen savage loveliness ... full, pouting lips, eyes of Brillo black and bluish highlights, a heart-stopping shape, hugged affectionately by leotards of sheerest net lace. Her proud defiant breasts were completely uncovered. If this damn elevator doesn’t stop in three seconds I’m going to crush those maddening rosebud nipples in my aching teeth, he swore vehemently.

Rosebud! He smiled a secretive smile. Odd to think of that word now. As a child he’d had a sled by that name. Wonder what ever happened to it?

With arch humor he bowed, permitting the blazing creature to leave the car first. “See you around ... or around you,” he riposted. She never even turned to acknowledge his quip, walking lithely away with her tantalizing dancer’s stride.

“She don’ like men, that one,” broke in the colorfully woolly-headed old Negro elevator operator, showing a mouthful of pointed teeth. “I seen lotsa menz in dis heah hotel tryin’ to sweet talk dat missy, but she don’ give no eye to none o’ dem nohow.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Bond said lightly. “Here, old timer.” The old man grinned at the two Luci Baines dimes Bond had placed in his pinkish palm. A nice enough old fellow, but no CORE member, Bond surmised.

She
was
a smasher! Bond thought again. But he’d sensed something strange, a man-hating look he’d noticed in certain bizarre bistros with an offbeat clientele. Lesbo? Well, if she was, he’d—in Warren Harding’s classic phrase—restore her to “normalcy”!

At the desk he asked for any messages.

“Uh, you’re Mr. Bond in Room 1818, correct, sir?”

“Yes.” (He’d insisted on that room number this time; no fool he!)

“Here you are, sir.”

The brief message, in Arabic, read: “I’d ride a Camel a mile to smoke an Oasis.”

What the hell was this? Bond frowned, his cruelly dark handsomeness becoming even more attractive. More than one woman had been driven wild by that frown.

Camel? Oasis? If these were code words, they were certainly not in his master book. “Clerk, are you sure this message is for me?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” said the clerk, reddening. “This is for the gentleman in 1817, the room next to yours. Mr. Jew.”

Mr. Jew? Bond thought hard. “Sounds rather familiar. What’s the gentleman’s first name, clerk?”

“His first name is Achmed. Just checked in an hour ago. Strange sort. When I asked him to register, he just gave me a blank look as though he didn’t understand what I was saying. He shoved a piece of paper in front of me that specifically requested he be quartered in the room next to yours. I thought the fellow was a friend of yours, so I saw no harm in assigning him 1817.”

No sense making the clerk suspicious. Bond snapped his fingers as though in recollection. “Of course! My old buddy Achmed Jew! Slipped my mind completely. He and I golfed together in Jamaica last winter. He shot a seventy-four as I recall it now. Nice chap. Glad to have him aboard.”

He thanked the clerk with a handful of Hubert Humphrey nickels and walked out onto the porch to give the matter some thought. Achmed Jew! And in the next room! Where was
he
from? Jordan? Kuwait? Saudi Arabia? Whoever he was he must be a dunderhead, indeed, to pick an on-the-head last name like “Jew” in order to blend into the crowd at this kind of a hotel. And to use his first name yet! What a faux pas! What Arabic stupidity! Or arrogance, rather, to think a name like Achmed would go unnoticed. No doubt, Mr. Achmed Jew felt uncomfortable in this totally alien environment. Well, he’d have to make Mr. Achmed Jew feel right at home—with a little welcome call late tonight.

A burst of classical music brought him back to reality. It was from a transistor radio held by an old man in Bermuda shorts sitting in a rocking chair reading a Yiddish newspaper.

Bond attempted a little friendly chit-chat. “That’s lovely. One of my favorites. What do you think of Tschaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake’?”

The old man waved a deprecating hand. “It’s not so hot. I stayed there last year. Food is terrible. Myself, if I could afford it—the Concord.” He went back to his newspaper.

In the Leni Lenape Lounge, decorated with Eastern American Indian motifs—somewhat at variance with the Polynesian theme of the Kahn-Tiki—Bond spotted the man he thought was Angelo Saxon.

“Saxon?”

The tall, weedy blonde who wore a baggy (and rather gamey, Bond’s nose reported) brown woolen suit, sipping a Tom Collins, turned to him. “Why ... uh ... yes. Bond, is it? Sorry for my seeming impertinence, old man, but I’d heard you were in public relations like me. Thought you’d try to con old Loxfinger into some shady promotion or other. Had no idea you were ... uh ... in your type of occupation. Drink?”

How tactful, Bond thought. Taken down a few pegs, he wants to be friendly. All right. We’ll join hands on the friendship trail for a bit. “Yes, thanks. Bartender, a Lhasa Lizard, please. Just a soupçon of mildly rancid yak butter in the bottom of the tumbler ... the right eye of any domestic lizard—iguana will do nicely ... one ounce of Gallo Wine—from the first squeezings of the grapes, please ... three crumbs from a Drake’s Yankee Doodle cupcake. Shake well. Now, how much? Sixty-five cents?” Bond’s chin shot out indignantly. “Good grief, man! Lhasa Lizards are never more than forty-five cents in the most elegant Manhattan posheries! The management will hear of this.”

Nevertheless, he left the mixicologist some gleaming Bobby Baker pennies. Wasn’t the man’s fault actually. He didn’t set prices.

“Now to business. What happened, Saxon?”

Saxon took out a pack of Marvels, stuck one in his prim mouth. It figures, Bond thought. Wears a brown, sweaty woolen suit in a glittering Catskill hotel cocktail lounge, so naturally he smokes Marvels.

“It happened rather quickly, Mr. Bond. Dr. Loxfinger—he’s been a ‘doctor,’ of course, ever since that honorary degree from Brandeis University—was exhorting the crowd in the Kahn-Tiki’s main ballroom to double their pledges to the UJA ... not the United Jewish Appeal ... this one’s a new organization which is seeking enough money to put Israel in the Nuclear Club. It stands for ‘Unleash the Jewish Atom’...”

“Yes, yes, go on,” said Bond.

“Well, that’s when this wiry, Levantine-type, who’d been masquerading as a busboy, dropped his tray of dishes, whipped out a revolver and fired point-blank at the doctor. I, of course, had seen the gun in his hand and made a lunge at the filthy little cretin. I missed. But strangely enough, so did he. I suppose my lunge unnerved him. Then he fled. Tell me ... did you get him?”

“Yes, the matter was taken care of on the Quickway.”

“Good show!” said Saxon, but there was something deep in his eyes Bond could not fathom as yet, but did not like. “This little gunman ... did he talk?”

“No, he died without talking, I’m afraid.” Was that a gleam of triumph in Saxon’s eyes? “Well, tell me, Saxon, what else happened when the shot was fired?”

“Naturally,” said Saxon, sipping his drink, “all hell broke loose. The loudest cries, it seemed, came from the hotel owner, Mr. Kahn. The ‘busboy’ had ruined forty-eight dollars’ worth of genuine East Side Fiesta dishes when he dropped the tray. In the confusion he fled. You know the rest.”

Time to put the screws on. “Frankly,” Bond began coldly, “I’m shocked at the general laxity around here. Has there been no guard assigned to the doctor up to now? Remember, this man is the greatest thing that has happened to Israel since Leon Uris. He is beloved by world Jewry, vastly respected by non-Jews. Wrap up Albert Schweitzer, Ringo Starr and Shirley Temple and you have Lazarus Loxfinger. This man must be guarded! What a blow to our prestige, our hopes and dreams for a better world if he were to be taken from us! Especially since the impact of the ‘Plowshare Papers’ upon most of humanity.”

“Oh,” Saxon said, his eyes widening with concern, “but I agree. Fully. The doctor does have a bodyguard, you know, quite a formidable one. You will meet him later. He’s a mountain, not a man ... a sort of Neanderthal, really. The doctor found him working on the docks in Marseilles, took pity on him and made him part of our entourage. This creature is the product of a rather hasty mesalliance between an American soldier, a nigger ... oops!” He winked. “Sorry for that. One does have to be ‘liberal’ these days. Uh, an American soldier of ... sepian hue, shall we say, who consorted with a white Scottish barmaid in Glasgow during World War Two. The issue of this one-night stand is our bodyguard. His name is Macaroon. Wanted by neither parent, he was shunted from orphanage to orphanage. Grew to be amazingly huge and powerful. He must be seven-foot six if he’s an inch. Makes one rather wish slavery were back; I’d sell him to the New York Knickerbockers for a million bucks and they’d pay it gladly to get a 100-point a night scorer. Macaroon’s specialty is karate. I’ve seen this simian shatter a twelve by twelve with one chop of that monstrous hand.”

“Why wasn’t he around to protect Loxfinger when he was needed?”

“Simple. He’d been drugged. Someone, the ‘busboy,’ no doubt, had spiced his haggis and chitlin’s—that’s all he eats—with a powerful sleeping draught.”

Bond inhaled. “You mentioned ‘entourage.’ Who else is in this charmed Loxfinger circle?”

Saxon winked again. “Besides Macaroon and yours truly, there’s one other ... his personal secretary, Peepee. You appear to be the sort of man who appreciates good womanflesh, Mr. Bond. You’ll find Peepee quite a mouthwatering sight.”

“Peepee? What kind of a gibbering, infantile name is that for a grown woman?”

“Those are her initials, P.P. But here she is now, Mr. Bond. I’d asked her to join us. Hope you don’t mind.”

Bond’s eyes rose—then popped. Peepee was the fascinating, unreachable minx he’d struck out with on the elevator. Still wearing the same fetching costume she had on when last they met she ... she oozed ... that was the word ... oozed across the lounge, those Junoesque breasts pointing to only heaven knew what mystical horizons, that frigidly wonderful, sullen face ...

She faced him now, those frosty lips opening, spitting out word icicles: “Mr. Bond, I presume? My name is Poontang Plenty. Mr. Saxon here insists on calling me Peepee. You may if you wish. I don’t give a flying f—”

“Well, now,” Bond laughed, cutting her off diplomatically. “I rather like your given name ... Poontang Plenty. Fraught with promise.”

Her top lip curled into an adorable sneer. “Forget it, he-man! The name is all that’s been given.”

The bitch has spirit! “Drink, Poontang?”

“What are you creeps having?”

“Mr. Saxon here is Tom Collinsing. I’m enjoying a rather far-out little libation with the picturesque nomenclature ‘Lhasa Lizard.’ One takes the right eye of—”

“Oh, crap!” she said in a blasé tone.

“The way we’re cutting each other off, Poontang, this whole conversation is turning into a circumcision!”

“Cheap one-liner, Mr. He-Man. And badly delivered.”

This girl’s got me backtracking, he admitted inwardly. And she knows it.

“F.Y.I., Mr. Bond, I’ve been drinking Lizards since I was six. And ...” she looked at his drink “... no iguana eyes, either. It’s got to have the right eye from a Siamese rain forest chameleon or it’s utter, utter garbage.”

He tried to keep his admiration for her out of his voice. “You’ve been around, Poontang.”

Saxon yawned. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to peck out each other’s eyes. So long, Peepee, see you later.” He bent his gaunt frame to buss her cheek.

“Put those Tussaud Waxworks lips on me and I’ll kick you right in the—”

Mumbling an insincere farewell, Saxon exited hastily. Gratefully, too, Bond thought. At least the fish-eyed P.R. man was no competition.

“That water lily!” Her voice was pure cobra venom. “I hate him, him with those putrid eyes and that stinking suit—eeech!” She shuddered, toying with something in her right hand. Whatever it was it made a clicking sound like two marbles tapped together.

“Ah,” said Bond, resorting to his usual lighter-than-air touch. It’s as good as any other gambit in this game d’amour, he reasoned. “Ah, Captain Queeg! Playing with your balls again, I see.”

“That’s right, buster,” her voice came up hard and gritty. “Know what these are?” She thrust her hand dramatically into his face, opening it. Two marbles, deep highlights radiating from their exotically striated cores, lay in her palm.

“Why, yes, Poontang. Marbles, aren’t they? Some childish carryover?”

“Think marbles is a childish sport, Mr. He-Man with the faggot sandals?” A smile, but hate-filled. “Care to ... uh ... take me on in a little game, maybe?”

“Oh,” said Bond, taken aback a trifle. “I don’t know if ...”

“You gutless bastard!” Three words scourging his pride. “Just like the rest of your oafish breed. Nice shoulders on you, Mr. Bond. Trim waist. That romantic scar. I’ll wager a carload of matzoh-stuffed matrons have rolled over in the clover for that combination, right, Mr. Bond? But you’re gutless. Yellow—like all the rest.”

Smile, Bond, smile. You’re stung, but you can’t show that to this adorable hellcat. Can’t let her hear your teeth grinding in rage. He dragged on his Raleigh.

“Care for legends, Poontang? No? Oh, you’ll like this one. Any girl who psychologically craves balls would dig this one. It’s all about brave little Peter, the Dutch boy who saved his homeland by sticking his finger in a dyke. Remember? Well, Holland has long since forgotten Peter, but, you know something ... that dyke is still crazy about him.”