The Israel Bond Omnibus (61 page)
Read The Israel Bond Omnibus Online
Authors: Sol Weinstein
MRS. HELEN MEYNER, HAROLD MAY, BOB BURTON, JIM POWERS, JACK HELSEL, J. WELLINGTON PIDCOCK, HORACE GREELEY McNAB, COUSIN DAVE GOMBERG, DAVE (OLDTIMER) HORWITZ, RON SCOTT, CHRIS WINNER, GABE ROSEN, CARL (KIVVY) ABROMOVITZ, DR. LEWIS HIRSH, SCOTTY MOSOVICH, MAYNARD BARKER, BOB AMOROS, SAM (TAMMI) KAPLAN, JACKIE and ARNOLD HODES, DAVE PITASKY, DAVE, WILLIE and MENDY KRAVITZ, JOE BERGER, JERRY, SIDNEY, MARTY, RALPH, ALFRED and IVAN POPKIN, IRV WARACH, ELI WARACH, ROBERT OLINSKY, BENNY OLINSKY, LOUIE OLINSKY, MILTON OLINSKY, IRV OLIN, CHARLIE BYER, RABBI WILLIAM, NATIE, JERRY and SIDNEY GORDON, JACKIE and WALTER HARRISON, WALT BELLAK, JACK POLLACK, PAT POLLACK, PAUL CAGAN, HARVEY SILK, MARK LITOWITZ, HARRY ZOLTICK, ALLAN and WALLY PLAPINGER, ERWIN WAINER, HYMAN (COWBOY) BALITZ, SHELDON SEAVEY, ZIGGY WALDMAN, CLYDE LEIB, EMIL SLABODA, HARVEY YAVENER, JOE LOGUE, EDDIE GOLDEN, ED (DUFFY) RAMSEY, EDDIE SOLAN, STEVE MERVISH and GEORGE MOLDOVAN. MURRAY BURNETT, BOB MENEFEE, TED REINHART, MIKE McGRADY, ABEL GREEN, NORMA NANNINI, BILL KARDALEY, ANDY ETTINGER, NATE ROBERTS, NORM BROOKS, ELAINE BELK, DURWARD EARLY, BERT and MIKE WEILAND, MARK VAN BROOKS, TOMMY THOMPSON, BETTY STEVENS, JAY (FINE SWISS WATCHES) GOLD, SYLVIA MANDELL, B. A. BERGMAN, FRANK BROOKHOUSER, WAYNE and AGNES ROBINSON, DAVID and STEVE KUSHELOFF, MURRAY, MARILYN, DEBBY and HOLLY ARNOLD, FREDERICK WERTHEIMER, AL FINGERMAN, HY and MARILYN GARDNER, FLORENCE BLOCK, DAVE WEST, CHARLIE SCOTT, EARL JOSEPHSON, MURRAY FISHER, JULI BAINBRIDGE, SHELDON WAX, ED, ROSE, WENDY and STEVEN BURTON, BOBBY DARIN, DON BARBER, TEDDI LEVISON, MICKIE SILVERSTEIN, RALPH COLLIER, BILL STRETCH, STEVE O’KEEFE, COL. CHARLES GREGG, CHARLIE PETZOLD, DON SCOTT, RUTH OLIS, FRANK MULLOY, HILDA SHIVERS, BOB RITCHIE, HOWARD MacDOUGALL, RALPH PEARL, JOE STEAD, FRANK WATRING, BOB (BOOKSTORES) CRAIG, BILL LINK and DICK LEVINSON, and SID and BUNNY SHORE.
MERV GRIFFIN and TONY GAROFALO, RUBE VERIN, BEN GRAFF, CHARLIE HERB and AL AMBERG of RUBE’S BARBER SHOP, Levittown, Pa., FRANK BISANZIO, LOU EMANUEL, EARL GEORGE of A.F.T.R.A., RON POLAO, LOU SCHEINFELD and JAY SARNO, JIMMIE (THE GREEK) SNYDER, RON AMOS, NATHAN JACOBSON, DAVID VICTORSON and MAURY, MURIEL and BRUCE STEVENS of Caesar’s Palace, Vegas. JOHN HUEGHNERGARTH, artist, MR. and MRS. JERRY GAGHAN, SID SHUCKER, GEORGE BLAISDELL, JACK McCUTCHEON, LEWIS CHARLES WENDELL JR., JERRY VERBEL, WILLIAM B. WILLIAMS, FLORENCE LONDONER, DR. JULES K. LEVY, JERRY SCHLOSS, ROBERT (LAUGHTRACK) PEET, BERNARD ZELL, MICHAEL SPOLL, APRIL AARONS, ISADORE SOLOVAY, MARTY MOSKOWITZ, JANE SCHULZE, CY and CLAIRE NEIBURG, JACK and BARBARA GILL, BARBARA KELLMAN, DON PHILLIPS, TOM (CONTACT, KYW-TV, Philly) SNYDER, DONALD E. KNOX, STAN BERK, DIANE ACTMAN, JIM TATE, and DR. WALDO FIELDING, ART MOGER, GEORGE ESTES, AL SHERMAN, MILT YAKUS, MIKE REINGOLD, GEORGE ROBERTS, DAVID HOFF, IRA GOLDBLATT, RICHARD C. JACOBS, AL KORN, JESS CAIN and LENNY MEYERS of the TUB THUMPERS, Boston.
And... NANCY BROWN LEVINE of Plainfield, NJ.-Poughkeepsie, N.Y.
Prologue
We have an old saying in the Israeli Secret Service well worth committing to memory, Mr. Bond. Briefly, it is this:
If you meet a man for the first time and he discharges a pistol in your direction it could be he’s a nervous, insecure person hungering for some attention or even sympathy in this increasingly dehumanized world.
If on your second meeting he makes a threatening gesture with a machete it could be a manifestation of a severe sexual aberration since, as we now know from Hollywood films, a knife is a penile symbol.
But should you meet the same man a third time and he attempts to take your life by using curare, cyanide, low-yield nuclear weapon or one of those extra-fat-drenched hamburgers sold by a firm whose name will not be mentioned here, and cries out, “Die, Israeli dog!” then such behavior can only be construed as out and out bellicosity, justifying at the very least a nasty letter to the New York Times (no more than 500 words please), or even a physical response of some sort.
- M
1 Mondo Bondo
Two hours to Tokyo, where he would rendezvous with Baron Cockimamiyama Sanka, the
ichi-ban
[59]
of the
Kyodo Kikaku
,
[60]
Israel Bond was jolted out of a demon-haunted nap by a rapid-fire sequence of sounds:
... The snatch of song in a lilting, ingenuous Irish brogue:
“Ivory liquid helps yer hands feel young again…”
... A horrified shriek.
... A metallic thump against the left wing of the Japan Air Lines superjet.
Gottenu!
The realization of what had occurred cast him into utter despair.
We’ve collided with Mary Mild.
He awoke in a chilling sweat to find upon him the solicitous eyes of the enchanting kimonoed and obied stewardess, the maiden called Festering Wind.
“It was bound to happen sooner or later, Mr. Bond. Miss Mild’s frequent, haphazard flights as a soap company’s television spokeswoman through congested air corridors have endangered hundreds of commercial planes. However”—and her manner was reassuring—“it was just a glancing blow. I am confident of her ability to make it to Guam or Wake for any necessary repairs to her body or starched apron.”
Quite the charmer, this Festering Wind,
Bond thought;
something more than the typical, efficient JAL servant of the sky dispensing her ever-handy supply of fluffy pillows and bowls of green tea.
For Festering Wind was also one of Baron Sanka’s most trusted agents and under orders to accord Bond the super-deluxe treatment a guest of his stature warranted. When the Baron called for VIP service he did not stint. The jet’s first-class compartment, customarily catering to sixteen people, had been revamped for Bond’s sole use and closed off from the tourist section by a bamboo curtain. Its seats had been ripped out to make space for a contoured swivel-chair bed under which thrummed a Relaxacizor unit; an
ofuro
, the deep, tiled Japanese bath now abubble with lethal chunks of Blofeld blowfish; a well-stocked bar with such offbeat libations as Creme de Mousse (the tiny antlers had been removed); a massage table; and a stereo corner which had already regaled him with Senator Dirksen and Congressman Powell Recite the All-Time Top Forty Hymns and at present was pumping out a catchy medley, “You’re the Top,” “You Can Do Anything Better than We Can” and “What Can We Say, Sir, After We Say We’re Sorry?” all from the new LP The Beatles Apologize to Jesus at the Astrodome.
In her frequent capacity as a masseuse Festering Wind had become accustomed and therefore indifferent to the bodies of magnificent men—sumo wrestlers, karate masters,
kendo
stick experts and the like—yet she shivered whenever her fingers strayed over the musculature of this
gaijin
[61]
clad only in an extra-long, extra-wide Carnaby Street Mod tie (all he actually needed in the way of clothing, so generous was the amount of the tie’s material). But aroused as she was by the massive shoulders, a trim waist that was more Hebraic than wasp, and long, tapering fingers, she found herself transfixed again and again by the cruel, darkly handsome face marked by a whitish scar on the left cheek (or was it the right? It seemed to be constantly
shifting!)
and the sorrow misting the gray eyes. Surely, she deduced, this man has suffered a monumental loss in his recent past.
Bond extracted a filter-tipped Raleigh from a pack Scotch-taped to his left thigh and ignited a blue-tipped Ohio match with a rub inside an abrasive furrow of skin perched atop his right shoulder, a memento of a madman’s Luger bullet in the unbelievable Loxfinger business of 1965. “How long was I in dreamy Dreamsville, my pet?”
“You shuttered those haunted eyes an hour before we landed in Hawaii to refuel, Mr. Bond. I had not the heart to wake you. And Baron Sanka’s orders were explicit. I am to let you rest whenever possible.”
“Man, that Sanka really lets you sleep,” Bond marveled.
On chopsticks whittled from the softest balsa wood that grows in the gardens of the Meiji Shrine, she fed him
hershi-sushi
, those succulent squares of chocolate-covered squid so highly prized by Japan’s upper class. Then it was time for his hourly massage, and to make up for the ones he’d missed while asleep, Festering Wind decided to put something special into it—herself. Peeling off his Mod tie and her diaphanous kimono and utilizing every wile taught to her by Madam Making-the-Bird-Rise of the Nishi Academy of Sexual Stimulation and Fish Cleaning, she led him through the flowery gateway of her being, their stamens and pistils dissolving in the searing instant of their cross-pollination. Gottenu! he sobbed soundlessly. I never dreamed it could be this way again. She’s got my mojo
[62]
working and I love it! Oh, Sarah, Sarah, my lost angel. Forgive me again for my callous infidelity.
An astral shape materialized over his head; two reproachful black eyes peered over a veil into his guilty, flinching gray ones.
I forgive you, Iz, my darling. But don’t enjoy it too much.
I won’t, I won’t,
his heart pledged.
But somehow he did.
After it was done and she’d swept away the last soggy petal the ecstatic Festering Wind glided to a rack and wheeled over a load of books and newspapers. “I picked these up in Honolulu, sir. Would you care to read?”
His ebullience flown, Bond stared at his moody reflection in the Perspex and gave a listless shrug. He jammed one of the new super-length Benson & Hedges into his sensual mouth, maneuvered the tip so that it would touch a flickering candle on the bar two feet away and inhaled deeply, blowing out fifty-four smoke rings, twenty-three octagons and the word “antidisestablishmentarianism.” He thumbed through the books—
The Wit and Wisdom of Lester Maddox
,
God’s Answers to Children’s Letters
,
No, You Can’t!
( a new biography of Sammy Davis by a Mississippi sheriff) and
Frodo’s Hobbit Cookbook
, discarding them as too depressing. His heart quickened momentarily as he saw under the pile the Sunday
New York Times
, of all the world’s newspapers his absolute favorite. (Bond had long considered himself the perfect amalgam of brains and brawn—erudite enough to understand the Sunday
New York Times
; strong enough to carry it.) But the advertisements in the slick magazine section, so captivating as a rule, left him oddly unmoved—the dewy-eyed sylph in scanties and a judicial wig: “I dreamed I refuted the findings of the Warren Commission in my Maidenform Bra”; the dour spokesman in the rent-a-car pitch: “We’d love to make Number Two all over Number One.”
Nor was there the slightest appeal in the cavalcade of inanities that constituted the front-page stories. An extremist civil rights group had made vociferous demands for “Black Power!”—at the main office of General Electric. The spirit of ecumenism continued to proliferate; a Vatican emissary gifted a prominent Jewish organization with a replica of the famous Papal encyclical on “Peace on Earth,” Pacem in Terris; the latter had reciprocated by mailing the Holy See the ancient Hassidic treatise on child psychology, Pacem in Tuchas. In New Haven, a campus “mating” computer, fed data on key socioeconomic and sexual factors, had concluded that the ideal marital partner for a Yale man was another Yale man. America’s urban riots would be the theme of a new Broadway musical, Sniper on the Roof. United Press International columnist Dick West had interviewed a Monterey, California, youth arrested for stabbing nineteen policemen and setting afire ten houses of worship. “My incarceration is illegal and an affront to creative people everywhere,” the youth lamented. “What hope is there for the artist if the authorities cannot comprehend the improvisational nature of a ‘happening’?”
Bond tossed the
Times
aside for the
Pacific Stars & Stripes
, the sprightly tabloid that services America’s fighting men throughout the Far East.
And the bold-faced lead story lashed out at him like the tongue of a cobra.
Carrying the byline of columnist Al Ricketts, the story was datelined Kagoshima, Japan.
A Lieutenant Eno Nanonuni, commander of an Imperial Japanese patrol boat, had reported contacting an unidentified fishing trawler “violating our territorial waters. I deployed our craft so close to the intruder that I could clearly see the glazed, mad-dog eyes of the crew, who were hanging over the rail and spouting epithets of a particularly offensive nature, relating as they did to our beloved Emperor. I also saw nets laden with illegally harvested fish.”
Ordered to halt and receive a boarding party, the trawler responded by raking the patrol boat with machine-gun fire, wounding Lieutenant Nanonuni and three of his men. “I replied in kind,” the officer stated, “by ordering a brace of torpedoes to be put into her below the waterline. She sank at once. There were no survivors. I sent down a diver, who identified the drowned men as Caucasians and emerged with two souvenirs, the log and flag. The former indicated the vessel was the
Blintz Charming,
of Haifa registry, commanded by Captain Jacob Bar-Kochlefel, and the route of passage the Suez Canal, Indian Ocean, Strait of Malacca, South China Sea and a final entry, Kagoshima. The latter was even more intriguing. It bears the Star of David.”