Read The Israel Bond Omnibus Online
Authors: Sol Weinstein
Even as he hurtled his body into a protective dive off the rumpled sheets into the corner of the room, upsetting a lamp, Bond’s trained ears instinctively identified the weapon bent upon destroying him; the characteristic sound indicated, of course, an Italian-make gun, probably an Olivetti favored by the partisans. Wielded by a very inept assassin, Thank God!
Or so he thought until—
bella ciao!
—a third shot seared his right shoulder. He lay helpless in the corner of Room 1818 of Miami Beach’s prestigious Palmetto Roach Hotel, panting, a hot streamlet of blood coursing from his grazed shoulder into the dank, matted hairs of his chest, reddening the golden chain of his mezuzah, the cylindrical symbol of his faith. The lampshade, jarred loose by his dive, had landed atop his head. I must be a ludicrous sight, he thought bitterly, a look of resignation framing his dark, cruelly handsome visage as he awaited the fourth bullet, the one that would end his life. Nay, his double life, for he had been sharing two existences—one the carefree, dashing public relations man-about-town (“Israel Bond? Oh, yes, that Hebrew chap. Loads of fun at any party ... he knows where the broads and the action are....”), and Israel Bond, prized member of a clandestine coterie, the Secret Service of the tiny democracy of Israel.
In that service he was known as Oy Oy Seven, a status which gave him license to kill. Not only was an Oy Oy holder licensed to kill, but he was also empowered to hold a memorial service over the victim. Bond thought of M., the head of the Secret Service, the only person to whom he had ever given his total love and trust, M., who had bestowed the Oy Oy rank upon him. But now, Bond reflected as he gazed into the menacing O of the Olivetti, the sallowly complexioned, wiry Levantine-type who held it had that license to kill. And he would use it.
Where would Shot No. 4 find its resting place? In his pounding heart which sounded like either the ocean’s roar or the beat-beat-beat of the tom-tom as the jungle shadows fall? Between his grey eyes? Either would be mercifully quick. Or would the grinning, swarthy little man in the bellhop’s uniform finish him off slowly, sadistically? Two or three in the gut? And as Bond lay moaning, would the little man grind his heel into Bond’s long, tapering fingers? Splintering the bones, relishing every cracking sound? Inflicting the ultimate indignity, the ruination of a $7.50 manicure?
From a corner of a glazed eye, Bond caught the girl’s face. No longer was it the sweetly obedient face of the lissome Oriental Bond had picked up a few hours ago. Its lips now were curled into a contemptuous sneer.
Of course! She was part of the cabal. He’d been had. As if she’d overheard his rueful thought, she responded with an insolent, “How big swinger rike his rittle Oriental praymate now?” And she spat into his face.
How different she had been earlier that evening at the Miami Beach Auditorium where Bond had gone with a fellow bon vivant, Seymour Feig, press agent for the Miss World Wow-Eee-Wow contest.
“Bond,” Feig had winked. “One of the contestants has kind of a thing for you. She spotted you at the Boom Boom Room the other night and wants to meet you. I think you got a little action there.’’ And Seymour had winked again, making the three-ring sign of the true ale man.
So they had met. “My name is Nu Kee,” she had shyly said with Far Eastern submissiveness. Bond’s eyes had twinkled. “A lovely name, my dear. Fraught with promise.”
The sight of her willowy body and a curvaceous leg peeking out of a slit in her tailored cheong-sam, a Klein’s original, had brought a catch to his throat.
They had cabbed it to the Eden Roc to catch the monumental Joe E. Lewis-Frank Sinatra show, Bond roaring at the puckish Joe E.’s sallies: “Show me a man who builds castles in the air and I’ll show you a very stupid architect.” Finally they headed to Wolfie’s at 23rd and Collins where the hip, show-wise crowd went. Bond had ordered for both of them, knowingly, crisply: “Morris, we’d like two egg creams, Seventh Avenue and 28th Street style. Made properly, there should be no ice shavings in the eight-ounce Corning Ware glasses. The seltzer should be cold enough to stand on its own with a 3.5 ratio of pinpoint carbonation, roughly 1,118 bubbles to the ounce. Before the seltzer is poured, a fourth of the glass should be filled with Walker Gordon non-pasteurized milk from selected tuberculin-free Holsteins at the immaculate farm in Princeton Junction, New Jersey. Only Fox’s U-Bet chocolate syrup should be used to complement the milk, both milk and syrup mixed delicately with an 1847 Rogers Brothers spoon, dairy silver, of course, in the tasteful Mrs. Aaron Burr scroll pattern, as the seltzer is added slowly, ricocheting rhythmically off the spoon.”
“Boychickl, you’ve been around,” said Morris the waiter, with new respect in his tired, I’ve-seen-it-all eyes.
At that point Bond had lit a filter-tipped Raleigh with his Nippo, a genuine Japanese copy of a Zippo, and had quizzed the girl.
“Whom do you represent in the Miss World Wow-Eee-Wow contest, my dear?”
She had bowed her head demurely. “Nu Kee not popurar with other girls. I am Miss Viet Cong.”
Even now as he crouched like a trapped animal, Bond remembered those words. Miss Viet Cong! How did I let that one go by me? She was practically telling me she was with the opposition and like the lazy vegetable I’ve become I missed it. M. was right. I’ve let myself get soft.
And the bellhop pointing the gun? What branch of the “oppo” did he represent? Heaven knows, there were many special organizations sworn to wreak havoc upon the secret agents of Eretz Israel. The Soviet Warriors for Immolating Secretive Hebrews? Or, as it was known to the Israelis,
swish? No
, this one didn’t shoot like a
swish
operative. A
swish
man would have made his first shot the last one. Perhaps, the Fraternal Egyptian Committee for Extirpating Sabras?
feces!
“No doubt, Mr. Bond,” casually interjected the gun wielder, “you are curious as to who it is that will destroy you.”
My God! thought Bond. They’re all mind readers. His nose was assailed by the scent of the cheap oil which plastered down the Levantine’s coal-black hair. Some cut-rate store junk, no doubt. Bond himself was partial to Code Ten, the hair preparation for all spies of consummate taste.
“I am a devoted member of a new terrorist group unknown to you, Mr. Bond. The Syrian Corps of Heroes for Murdering Unmercifully Craven Kikes. And now, dog of a Jew, say your infidel prayers!”
There was no time to figure out those initials, thought Bond. I’ve got to play my last card. And to do that I must wheedle, whine, beg.
“Please, please, let me say the final prayer. True we are mortal enemies, sir, but is it not also true that we share a common Semitic heritage? Do you not accept Moses as the spiritual predecessor of your own great Mohammed? Please, let me pray for my salvation, sir. Please ...” and he let his voice crack with emotion.
“Be quick about it!” snapped the Syrian, his finger tightening on the trigger. The girl snickered.
Bond reverentially lowered his head, muttering something in Hebrew. It was a list of all the titles of the Theodore Bikel albums he could remember, but the Syrian would not know that. Slowly, oh so slowly, his fingers slid imperceptibly down the bloodied chain ... his eyes began to close ... please, dear Lord, another precious second before the slug leaves its hot chamber ... another second....
His fingers found the mezuzah, pointed it at an angle, then squeezed the Star of David. Clearly elated at the sight of a quaking Jew, the Syrian broke into a raucous laugh.
Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z!
No longer was the Syrian laughing. A look of amazement had come over his features. He looked dumbly at the needle which had whizzed out of the mezuzah into his hand, which was now turning numb. He pitched forward, his fingers clawing at Bond’s chest. Bond sidestepped quickly. The Syrian fell face down. It had taken Molochamovis-B, the nerve poison on the needle tip, just two seconds.
He turned to the girl. Her snickering also had stilled at the startling turnabout in the situation. Bond’s cold gaze made her blanch.
“Now, my ‘rittle Oriental praymate’,” Bond sneered, mimicking her speech, “we’ve a little unfinished business, haven’t we? This ache in my torn shoulder isn’t the only one on my Jewish body, you adorable hellcat!”
He crushed her mouth with his own, viciously drinking of her bruised lotus-petal lips. She began to scratch like a maddened jaguar, then sighed and yielded to the unstoppable bulk above her.
Occidental thighs met Oriental thighs, the latter learning the meaning of sweet surrender to a more compelling way of life. Now her scratches were loving strokings on Bond’s back and the room began to swirl, spin, exploding in a 100-megaton flash of divine intensity.
Nestling in the crook of his bronzed arm and watching Raleigh smoke floating from his flared nostrils, she told him of her involvement in the affair, a contact man from the Syrian clique with the curious initials telling her Bond was an enemy of the “people’s liberation” movement in Southeast Asia, the “come-on” at the beauty pageant, a Cuban refugee bellhop at the Palmetto Roach drugged and substituted for by the man whose face now met the Dupont 501 Nova Scotia pink nylon rug.
She knew too much, he realized. And had to be gotten rid of. And yet, she was so young, so lovely, and such a great piece. Perhaps, an attempt at reclamation would be worthwhile. Speaking to her softly and passionately for about ninety seconds, Bond pointed out the fallacies in her child-like devotion to the Viet Cong, gave her a reasonably detailed analysis of the true meaning of the political undercurrents in her part of the world and then, convinced she had seen the error of her ways, sent her out of his room with a friendly pat on her well-formed buttocks.
“Goodbye, Nu Kee. Now go out and win that contest. Only this time,” he said huskily, “for freedom and democracy.”
Her eyes misted as she stood in the doorway. “Will Nu Kee see her brave secret agent again?”
“Yes,” he assured her with complete sincerity. “There must be more contacts between East and West such as we have experienced this night. Only through them can we look into each other’s hearts and find the universality of purpose and basic goodness that exists deep down.” Another pat on the derriere ... and she was gone, darting like some frightened jungle bird down the corridor.
It wasn’t until a moment or two after her departure that Bond realized her tidy little pile of garments—cheong-sam, bra, panties and A. S. Beck opera pumps—was still on the chair by his bed.
She seemed to be a resourceful type, he reasoned. She’ll find some way to explain her condition to the hotel people.
The hotel people!
By thunder, he’d forgotten the poor, drugged bellhop. Bond opened his closet and found him there, bound and gagged between two Sy Devore alpaca suits, his brown, moist eyes laden with fear.
Freeing him, Bond explained he’d been drugged by a pro-Castro provocateur (he pointed to the dead man) whom Bond had intercepted and dispatched. The man’s eyes flashed fire: “Bueno, Senor Bond, bueno! Then the insult I, Juan Valdez, have endured at the hands of this Red
gusano
has been avenged by you. But, Senor Bond, your shoulder...”
“A mere scratch, Juan. But, Good Lord, it’s nearly one
a.m.
and I’m due downstairs for an important engagement. Juan, a cup of coffee quickly. I must dress.”
Glancing with satisfaction at the body, the bellhop hastened off, returning with a cup of coffee and a fresh pack of Raleighs to find Bond already dapper in a burgundy silk shantung suit with matching cummerbund, bowtie clipped onto an Arrow Gordon Dover Taper Glenn shirt, Florsheim black loafers with Roman points and a rakish tassel. He had chosen the burgundy suit for expediency. No time to dress the wound, he knew, but at least the blood flowing into the jacket would go unnoticed.
“Drink the coffee, Señor Bond. It is the very best in the world. You should know, señor, that before coming to Cuba to work in the sugar mills I lived in Colombia. The coffee of my native land is guarded by friendly shade trees on Andes mountains and only the most worthy aged beans and the finest green beans are ...”
“Yes, Juan,” said Bond impatiently. “But we’ve a bit of a problem. The body.”
“I take care of him, Señor Bond. I, too, am a patriot! I cut him up piece by piece and put him in the garbage disposal unit. Then maybe this dog float back to his Communist master. That would be the great joke, no?”
This little bellhop is a gem, Bond thought. “Burn the clothes, and throw the gun into the sea.”
“Si.”
Hands unsteady, Bond nevertheless managed to light a Raleigh and strode toward the elevator. His shoulder throbbed incessantly. Nerve, man, nerve! Mustn’t act strange or ill at ease!
Glancing back at his room door, he became transfixed for a second. 1818. How ironic, he thought. Eighteen in Hebrew was expressed symbolically by the letters “chess-yood.” Which in turn symbolized “chai,” the word for “life.” But there were
two
18s. Life-life.