The Israel Bond Omnibus (28 page)

It was the brow of the
tigre
that was stove in by the soft-nosed bullet from the barrel of the high-powered Tanaka rifle.
El tigre
sank, was borne away by the rushing stream.

“Merde!”
[17]
groaned LaBonza. His target was now behind the tree, out of range. He climbed back on his rented quarter horse, slipped another quarter into the metered coin box strapped to its neck and rode off. He would bide his time. Another opportunity would come.

“You can come out now, my dear,” Bond said. His shoulders ached terribly. The cat’s claws had torn into each one. Luckily the epaulets on his Ramar of the Jungle pukkah-sahib jacket had been thick enough to absorb most of the gouging. But he knew from the hot streamlets rolling down each shoulder that
el tigre
had left a partial souvenir.

“One moment more, please.” A sweet, well-modulated voice from the other side of the thick foliage. “Well, here I am, sir, and my heartfelt thanks for your selfless act of heroism in saving my unworthy life. My daily bath is rarely interrupted in such a dramatic manner.”

Heavenly, utterly heavenly was the face that emerged from behind the tree, that of the most gorgeous Negro girl Israel Bond had ever seen. Two gentian-violet eyes in a finely chiseled setting, chin, nose, lips of classical proportions. All this he noticed moments later. It was her clothes that stunned the exhausted, panting secret agent. His new fascinating companion of the El Tiparillan rain forest was a nun!

“Yes, Sister. He is Israel Bond of Eretz Israel. Don’t let that boyish look delude you. He kills for a living.”

“Oh, dear!” the nun looked horrified. “Such a fine-looking man and so well-spoken. I find that hard to believe.”

“It is true. Look after him, Sister, for a while. I must treat our six Peace Corps survivors.”

“Then your camp is finished.”

“Yes, overrun, burnt to the ground. Perhaps by the same people who snatched poor little Pablito and spread that filthy rumor about the Passover bloodletting.”

“Do not worry, Doctor. I shall tend to him.”

Bond moaned. “Brandy, Sister Sweetcakes... served in a decanter of Ezra Stoneware at a room temperature of 73.1 degrees.”

“There is none, I fear,” she said. “But the good brothers do have some homemade wine.” She held a goblet to his lips. It was a bitter brew, aged the old Lombardy way, in deep dirty ashtrays. “If you are hungry there is some food, simple, but nourishing. Cheese and bread.”

“Monks’ Bread, 111 lay you ten to one,” he jested, the sight of this amazing woman reviving his zest for life.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” she laughed charmingly.

“I can’t figure you out, Sister. Beauty, poise, sensitivity. And yet you bury your loveliness in a cowl and habit. Why?”

She pressed a Raleigh into his swollen lips, scratched a match on the heel of her thick black shoe. “It is a dreary story, Mr. Bond. I was at the height of a dazzling career, appearances in the smartest supper clubs, records selling phenomenally, the quarry of rich men of all races pressing diamonds and chinchillas upon me.... I drank too much; indulged in meaningless affairs with men I did not love. A life without purpose or form. I awoke mornings with the taste of dissolution in my mouth.”

“I myself have found that Listerine—”

“Then,” she went on, not noticing his helpful interjection, “I met a wonderful man, Cardinal Musial, a prince of the Church, who convinced me that my life could yet have meaning. I became a nun, forsook my empty, glittering, twelve o’clocktail lush life. I have found serenity and hope here at OLEO. Would that my tormented half-brother could find the same.”

“Your half-brother?”

“Yes, Beaster Simmons, a man of rare insight and creative genius, who, alas, has been psychologically warped by his hatred of white people. He has changed his name to Baldroi LeFagel and is a leading poet and playwright of the so-called angry school.”

“Yes,” said Bond. “I seem to recall one of his novels. I have it in a paperback. I found it soul-searing, unsettling. For a moment I was ashamed of being a Caucasian. However, I did purchase a Moms Mabley album. And I took out a subscription to
Muhammud Speaks.”

“What a coincidence!” she brightened. “Baldroi is its night club editor. As a matter of fact, he is—”

“He is here.”

There in the doorway was the little bearded man Bond had seen on Tannenbaum’s plane. The secret agent’s orbs bulged in disbelief. Baldroi LeFagel stood posed like a ballerina, a toe pointed daintily at Bond. He wore an attractive, white Courrèges middy blouse and skirt, with black buttons and piping. His little feet were jammed in that fashion-setter’s famed boots. He pirouetted over to Bond’s bedside and flicked his hand across Bond’s face in contempt. Sister Sweetcakes gasped. He paid her no mind, began to recite:

“You negate my existence, Mistuh Charlie Whitey Man,

You have held me in chains since the world began.

You have bruised my flesh and, worse, my psyche,

Let me tell you, Whitey, yo’ black slave no likey!

From out of the ghettos there comes the roar,

Of a new black man who knows the score.

We will seethe in your streets, sound trumpet and drum,

I promise you, Whitey, we shall overcome!

And now you’re frightened, Mr. Charlie White ’fay,

Of our new-found strength which burgeons each day,

Yes, now you wanna make up for yo’ chains ’n’ dogs ’n’ whips,

I’ll make up, yes, on my terms—kiss me on the lips!”

“Baldroi!” Her voice scourged him. “Mr. Bond is wounded and burning with fever. And he is my guest. Let him be!”

“One sweet kiss?” whimpered LeFagel.

“Begone! You shame me!”

With a wink and “see you later, Whitey, sweetie,” the poet exited.

Oy Oy Seven lifted himself. “I must find the boy, Sister. And you must help me.”

“Please lie down, Mr. Bond. You must rest.”

LeFagel popped back. “Here’s my latest, you adorable bitch,” and he darted his tongue at Bond. “Dig this, sweet pappy:

“I have a pet cobra named Alger,

On his sweet fangs I give him a kiss,

When I tell him ’bout them bad white folks,

You should hear Alger hiss!”

The telephone at his bedside erupted. “It’s for you, Sister Sweetcakes,” Bond said. “Long distance from New York. Somebody named Marty O’Marty from Rock of Ages Records.”

“Ah,” she smiled. Was there the tiniest trace of longing for the old days in her violet eyes? “Dear Marty. He was my agent and now owns the record company that keeps after me to record a religious album. I may yet yield, Mr. Bond. Our parish here is quite low on funds and Cardinal Musial has given me permission to do it—if it is done tastefully and reverently. It might amuse you to listen in, Mr. Bond.”

She placed that divine head next to his and for a moment Bond forgot her sacred calling. What a woman! He could fall in love with a sublime creature like this in twenty seconds. And easily be faithful to her twice as long. Already the memory of Anna, that slattern, was beginning to fade.

“Hiyah, Sister!” The high-pressure voice of a real New York “go-getter.”

“Hello, dear Marty.”

“Look, Sister. We ain’t had a hit album on the charts for two years. Whadda yuh say yuh break down and cut one for good old Rock of Ages, huh? Something with class, naturally, but with an appeal to the wonderful kids who are the principal record buyers in today’s market.”

“Well, Marty, I—”

“Great! You’ll do it! Actually you don’t have to pray
that much,
do you? I mean, uh, well, couldn’t you maybe cut one o’ them lesser masses? I mean, what the hell— uh, no offense, Sister, I’m a good Cat’lic meself... well, you should hear the tunes that me and my A&R man picked out for the date. Dig these, Sister. ‘Forget the Baubles ‘n’ Bangles—Just Give Me the Beads’... that’s class... ‘I Love Parish’; we kinda rewrote one of them Cole Porter things. He can’t sue us now anyway. ‘Paul or Nothing At all,’ ‘I Married an Angel,’ ‘Nun Domenticar’... somethin’ Eyetalian always adds that distingué laplume de ma tante, if yuh know what I mean.... ‘There’s No Place Like Rome,’ that’s like for the family crowd... old folks buy records, too; I don’t knock ’em, believe me.... ‘It’s Gettin’ To Be A Habit with Me’—there’s a grabber, a pun ’n’ cuter than hell... again, no offense, Sister; I personally got three kids enrolled in the CYO... and we’ll send down our hot new group, A Man Called Peter and the Padres, for backgrounds; they’ll do the oo-wahs under the melody... plus technicians, equipment... you got a real jungle down there, ain’t you, Sister? With birds and monkeys and all that? Maybe like we could even work in some of them in the background with the oo-wahs and rang-a-langs, like the Martin Denny sound, huh? And dig the title of the album: ‘I Love Him, Yea, Yea, Yea!’ The album cover has you in the nun suit, except you’re in a Rolling Stones’ wig, see? With a look of reverence on your sweet face, of course; don’t get me wrong. So it’s all set. The whole bunch, singers, sound men, will be down there in a chartered plane in a day. Uh, if you can spare a moment from divine contemplation... and, God knows, that’s important... I ain’t knockin’ it... uh, maybe you could like rehearse some of the jungle birds and beasties. They’ll get union scale, of course. Or we’ll donate to any charity dear to your wonderful heart. I’m personally gonna direct this session myself, Sister. Maybe we can get a photo spread outa True Magazine. Or maybe even Jim Bishop could come down and write a human interest thing: ‘Nun Swings, So Little Children May Walk.’ Nice tide, huh? It’s got heart. I’ll throw to Jimmy; he might dig it. Anyhow it don’t hurt to have a Bishop on our side, does it, Sister? Ha! Ha! Little inside joke there. See you soon. Don’t take any wooden idols!”