The Israel Bond Omnibus (4 page)

Of course, there had been the interlude with the stunning, vixenish stewardess, who had practically forced Bond into the lavatory while a dozen passengers, squirming with nature’s call, grumbled vociferously at the sight of the
occupied
sign glowing for thirty-five minutes. The events in the tiny cubicle had not done Bond’s aching shoulder one bit of good, Miss Bonnie Jane Abney (a former beauty pageant winner herself, incidentally: “Miss White Citizens Council” in a Selma, Alabama, summer bombing festival) practically serrating the edges of the wound with her industriously passionate teeth.

I’ll have to knock off this crap, Bond told himself, shoving a Raleigh into the corner of his firm, sensual mouth. The Raleigh reminded him of the packages that had been awaiting him in his suite at the Ansonia Hotel, his plush Manhattan base of operations. Bundles and bundles ... each containing several cartons of Raleighs and heart-rending notes from the women he had known sweetly, intimately on his public relations swing throughout the United States. “When will I see you again, darling?” read the notes from Tami in Fort Wayne, Hilda in Santa Monica, Ida from Shreveport, even a special delivery from Charlene from whose lips he had recently torn his own.

All of them had noted his constant Raleigh smoking and he had hinted that a carton or two would be a nice little gift to keep his memories of them glowing like cigarette ends. The cartons, of course, had four extra coupons. In reality, Bond loathed Raleighs, but due to M.’s urging he smoked them solely to acquire the coupons.

“Ours is a penurious little Secret Service,” M. had pointed out. “We need those coupons. How do you think I got your silencer and plastique bomb kit? For 1,500 coupons—that’s how. You’ll smoke Raleighs, Oy Oy Seven, and like it.”

After a good night’s sleep at the Ansonia (interrupted only by a suicidal dowager who had jumped from the ledge outside his room to the street twelve floors below, an action which elicited cheers from a good-natured throng, especially when the firemen neatly pulled the net away), Bond moseyed over to West End Avenue to make his contact and get further instructions from an agent at the Cafe Aw-Go-Go-Already who made fellafel and acted as a “mailbox” for messages.

Ah, fellafel! Israel’s answer to the pizza and hotdog! Chickpeas (“hayseh arbis,” as they were known to the old-line, Yiddish-speaking Jews of Eastern Europe) ground up and fried into inedible balls, covered with techina, an exquisitely uninspired sauce, then housed in an envelope of pita, the thoroughly tasteless Arab bread. Fellafel! He grew nostalgically sick to his stomach with each sniff at the counter.

Zvi Gates, the fellafel maker with the piercing eyes, had greeted him with a grin: “Back from Miami Beach, Mr. Bond? Here’s a special fellafel for you.”

And Bond’s trembling fingers had reached into the bottom of the pita, extracting the message from M., written in invisible ink, made doubly hard to decipher since it was inscribed on invisible paper.

He had sprayed on the powders which restored visibility to the paper and its message and read:

TO ISRAEL BOND, PUBLIC RELATIONS REPRESENTATIVE FOR MOTHER MARGOLIES: SUBJECT— 21-CASE SHIPMENT TO CATSKILLS: POSSIBILITY OF NEW TERRITORY FOR SALES OPENING UP AT THE KAHN-TIKI, LARGE HOTEL IN LOCH SHELDRAKE, N.Y. BE ON YOUR GUARD TO PREPARE SPEECH FOR DELIVERY BEFORE GREATER NEW YORK LEAGUE AGAINST ANTI-SEMITISM BY JEWS. WHILE THERE GREET RENOWNED PHILANTHROPIST LAZARUS LOXFINGER. SHALOM—M.

A seemingly innocuous message. Should it fall into alien hands the reader would deduce it had something to do with Bond’s P.R. duties for the firm.

He knew, however, that the 21-case designation meant that the 21st word of each following sentence was the key word.

He counted the words deliberately, his heartstrings going zing! zing! zing!

The 21st word of the first sentence: “Guard.”

Word No. 21 of the second tortuous sentence: “Loxfinger.”

With blinding clarity, it was clear. Frighteningly, blindingly clear.

“Guard Loxfinger!”

Lazarus Loxfinger, septuagenarian, multimillionaire, philanthropist, whose personal story had assumed epic proportions. He had come from Argentina several years before with seemingly unlimited funds, determined to use them to make Eretz Israel a better place in which to live. His charitable works were legendary by now, the Lazarus Loxfinger League Against Constipation, the Lazarus Loxfinger Mothers March On Ringworm and Halitosis, the Loxfinger Center for Retarded Jewish Children, the Loxfinger Center for Non-Retarded Jewish Children, the Loxfinger League for Positivism in Everyday Thinking (Its members, imbued with the league’s philosophy, favored pro-biotics and pro-histamines among other things.) et al. His endless generosity had caused a grateful citizenry to term him “tzaddik”—saint! And he had gone beyond mere charity. He had written a series of articles for the highly respected
Boot & Shoe Recorder
which had been given wide coverage by the press and TV the world over, becoming famous as “The Plowshare Papers,” since he continually stressed the “beat swords into plowshares” theme vis-a-vis Israel and the hostile Arab diehards. His articles had noted the spiritual kinship between the Jewish state and its neighbors, pointing out the undue strain on their respective economies engendered by the arms race, offering (in his words) “... a final solution based on equitable negotiations, cultural exchange, trade and other unifying factors. To see this final solution in my lifetime is my goal, my
raison d’etre.”

And now this magnificent old man was in peril. From whom? Why? How? When?

Ergo, the hell-for-leather trip in the rented Rambler, now leaving the Harriman Exit 16 and roaring up the Quickway to the mountains. Ignoring its limitations, Bond pushed it up to forty-five. The hell with what it can stand! This baby’ll have to take it.

It had been acquired from a famous car rental agency in Manhattan with an intriguing sign:

“AVIS-RENT-A-HERTZ. SURE, WE’RE NERVY, USING ANOTHER AGENCY’S CARS. BUT WE’VE GOT TO DO THINGS LIKE THIS. WE’RE ONLY NO. 2!”

Such chutzpah deserves my business, he had decided.

He jammed a Raleigh in his lips, contemptuously flicking its ashes onto the cover of a thick pamphlet on the seat next to him:

“REPORT OF THE SURGEON-GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES ON SMOKING.”

Screw it!

Hungry for the sound of a human voice as he sped down the deserted roadway, Bond flicked on the radio.

“... yessiree and yessirooney, teen timers, that was Peter Pant and the Pantyraiders rockin’ and sockin’ ol’ Number 98 on the chart on Three-H time, the Hot Hit Hotline, on the Rockin’ Robby Robbins Show on Station ROBBY and ROBBY-FM, your mad, mad mountain greenery teenery station where your Bob-Bob-Bobbin’ Red Red Robin Rockin’ Robby Robbins grins and spins the wacky shellacky, the chatter platters, like that last big, big one, ‘Go Frug Yourself.’

“That one was for the Gangbang Gang, all of you in Miss Hepzibah Trevelyan’s biology class at Novak High, all of you ... Sheri, Augie, Rocco, Dodie, Duty and Gidget ... and remember, kids, Rockin’ Robby Robbins’ travelin’ teen bandstand, featuring such top, top recording artists as the Swine; the Scum; the Carbuncles, who made that big, big one, ‘Squeeze Me’; Sneering Sammy Snot and the Sinuses; Lamount Cranston and the Shadows (Remember their big one, “Where Are You?”); Little Laura Little, your Goosey Watusi Girl; Morrie and the Morons (You all bought their golden record, “Duh, Duh, Duh.”); Pregnant Peggy Prendergast ... just anybody who’s anybody on the teen scene ... they’ll all be there at your school next Tuesday at 4:30
p.m
. to lip-synch their big, big hits and mark their X’s in your autograph book. Now, that sensational group from England, Tarry Stool and the Bedpans, to sing:

Saturday night at the senior prom,

I went and blew the gym up with a homemade atom bomb,

‘Cause I’m a teenage bomber! Yea, yea, yea!

I’m a
—

Still hungry for the sound of a human voice, Bond changed stations. “Once again, it’s time for ‘Your Tum-Tum-Tummy and You,’ with yours truly, Dr. Charlton Carter, your nutritionist of the airwaves, with today’s topic, ‘Can a Severe Heart Attack Be Beneficial in Easing Tension?’—but first a word from my sponsor, Otto’s Organic Foods, a combination of nature’s own whole grain okra flour with genuine crushed Indiana limestone.”

Still hungry, etc., his tapering fingers dialed again.

“... with the snarlup caused by the accident at the FDR Drive near the Tri-Boro Bridge exit, motorists are advised to avoid that area. In general, if you’re coming into New York, I’d say use a canoe. This is Mark Russell, your flying traffic reporter in the WDULL helicopter, speaking to you from FDR Drive where we caused the snarlup when our chopper crash-landed ...”

And another try.

“The signal you heard was a Civil Defense test. I repeat—a test. If this had been an actual alert, right now I’d be hysterical. Stay tuned ...”

A final flick of the dial.

“... the elderly Israeli philanthropist, seemingly unnerved by his brush with death at the Kahn-Tiki Hotel (Bond froze; his hands were clammy against the wheel.), vowed he would continue his attempts on behalf of Israel, his adopted homeland. Said Loxfinger: ‘This cowardly attempt at assassination will only spur anew my efforts to seek a final solution for Israel in her relationships with her Arab neighbors.’

“The philanthropist then shrugged off his frightening experience and plunged into a full round of speeches and appearances at the Catskill area hotel. Meanwhile, the suspect in the shooting, who Police Chief Ed Chelland said was driving a 1963 blue Cadillac convertible, was possibly headed toward New York City. State troopers were patrolling the Quickway, hoping for an early arrest. And that’s the latest on the attempt to murder Lazarus Loxfinger, Israel’s old man with a heart as big as his fortune. CBS will interrupt its regular programming should further developments warrant it. Remember, when the big news breaks, CBS cracks up! This is John Cameron Facenda returning you to the program now in progress, ‘Sue Stark, Girl Junkie,’ which asks the question: Can a beautiful heiress from Philadelphia’s Mainline find happiness as a mainliner? Yesterday, if you’ll recall, Sue and her bohemian lover, Paul Gray, an itinerant kumquat salesman, had just copped three bags of heroin from Harry (The Horse) Botoff and ...”

Two streams of Raleigh smoke jetted through his nostrils. Bond switched off the radio.

At least, Loxfinger was alive. Alive!

And if it hadn’t been for my damned conceit I might have been in Loch Sheldrake thirty minutes ago. A Rocket Olds 98 would have gotten me there in time to stop this hideous thing. But I had to rent this Rambler. You know why, Bond. Because it has a bed in the back. You’d hoped for a little hanky-panky on the road, hadn’t you? The whole fantasy had run through your mind a hundred times ... a car broken down, some high-breasted young thing with chopped liver-brown eyes imploring you to help her: “It got overheated, sir. You’ll take me to Grossinger’s in your car? Oh, bless you, sir! I could just kiss you.” ... which she would, their tongues tangoing sensually against each other’s gold fillings, sharing deep swigs from Bond’s flask of heady, potent, aphrodisiacal Gallo Wine ... then thighs thrashing thighs ...

(Bond had always had the deepest respect for Gallo Wine, especially since he had seen their commercials on television. First of all, it came from the Wine Countree, and, secondly, each bottle bore the signatures of the Gallo Brothers on the label. Which was a proud admission that the Gallo Brothers could write their names. That kind of integrity moved a man like Bond.)

Bond, Bond told Bond, you’d better stop letting your damn, blessedly endowed genitalia rule your head. A lecher can’t operate effectively as a Double Oy. Mother Margolies would have a proverb applicable to this, he thought. What had she once said? Yes ... “I cursed because I had no eyes; until I saw a cheerful man who had no head.”

Wait! What had the radio bulletin said? The blue Caddy convertible was New York bound!

He pulled the Rambler over sharply, parked and lit a Raleigh. His face was icy now, lips in a tightly set vise. It was a look his enemies had learned to fear, an Israel Bond turned into a murderous machine.

He double-timed it across the north-bound section, flattening his body on the grassy medial strip. It was luxuriantly rich against his cheek—Burpee Seed, no doubt. His fingers felt the road, drawing some comfort from its texture. Portland Cement. Tops in any league!

And his right hand fondly stroked the slim, deadly item resting in his Neiman-Marcus shoulder holster.