Read The Israel Bond Omnibus Online
Authors: Sol Weinstein
Willi demonstrated his versatility with a collection of risqué stories which had the audience in titters (one of them with a rhyming punchline, “faggot maggot,” wasn’t bad at all, Bond conceded, writing it down in his notebook) and ended his turn with a rousing yo-ho sea shanty whose lyrics fitted in harmoniously with the general theme of the Gayboy.
Throwing kisses to all, stopping to bestow special favors on a few, he made his way to LeFagel’s table.
“Your gracious, gracious liege, heartbeat of Swishdom, defender of man’s unalienable right to be alien,” he purred and knelt to kiss the blushing king’s hand.
As he genuflected, Willi Marlene’s right hand slipped into the back pocket of his Transves-Tights, Bond’s eyes on it all the way.
Bond’s fingers were without prehensility, it seemed. He couldn’t get the damn clasp to open, cursing himself for not having tried a few dry runs with the purse.
Willi’s right hand came out with a curved
kris
, its wicked silhouette standing out in the candlelight.
Bond swung with all his power and smashed Willi across the throat as the dagger moved toward LeFagel’s heart. Willi Marlene fell softly on his back, a broken rag doll.
LeFagel was screaming from the top of a chair now, hurling the Clorox bottles all over the club in his hysteria. One of the candles touched off the stage curtains and it flared into a sea of flames.
Bond stood looking down at Willi Marlene’s body. How good it had all been before tonight, he thought. The glorious killings by Moshe Dyan rifle, the Tzimmes-88, the frozen Milky Way, the ten-ton Matzohball. Now I’m at the nadir of my career.
To look at it from a professional viewpoint, he
had
done his job, the weight of the gun inside crushing Willi Marlene’s windpipe. For now, Baldroi LeFagel was safe.
But he couldn’t keep the enormity of
how
he’d done it out of his head.
I have just killed a man by striking him with a purse.
He turned his face aside so that he could not be seen.
Israel Bond wept.
13 Gas, Meter Of A Traitor
LeFagel snapped him out of it.
“Mr. Bond! Mr. Bond! I’m on fire!”
So now it’s
Mr.
Bond when you’re up against it, eh, King Baldroi? He resisted an urge to cry, “Burn, baby, burn!” and pulled the screaming ruler from the table top, beating out the tongues of flame with his hands.
The wild fire LeFagel had set off by his outburst of irrationality was spreading like... well, wildfire. Not a bad line, either, Bond thought, and jotted it down as he hacked and wheezed on the smoke.
Bond put the tiny fellow on his torn, aching shoulder and barreled through the clawing, howling Gayboy customers to the street, the cool air a godsend to his scorched body.
Depositing LeFagel in a trashcan, he raced back into the inferno three times, snatching twelve more trapped customers, dumping them all on the sidewalk.
“Oy Oy Seven!” There was a bleat from one of the blackened faces in the third batch he’d taken up.
Neon!
“Are you okay, kid? And where the hell were you?”
“Backstage. I just came to a minute ago. You’ve saved my life again, Oy Oy Seven. I wish to hell I knew how to—”
“Forget it, boychikl. That’s what Double Oys were made for. Why were you backstage?”
Neon choked for a minute. “Goddam smoke... it’s damn near burned out my lungs. Got a cigarette?” Bond slipped him a Raleigh. “I told you I was going on ahead to snoop and I found something.” He looked rueful. “Trouble is something found me, too. I’d spotted this Willi Marlene actor making up in the dressing room and I saw one of those symbols on his wrist.”
“TUSH?”
“Well, sort off. Naked buttocks were being kicked all right, but by high heels.”
Bond snapped his long, tapering fingers. “TUSH’s special department for killer homos. He was in the Gayfia.”
“Well, I guess he’d seen me in the mirror or something, because when I turned around I got coshed real good.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry, Oy Oy Seven. I loused up my first big job and he got away.”
Bond gave the youngster a friendly jab to the mouth, which split it and sent three teeth flying into the gutter. “He’s been taken care of, fella.” Several of the Gayboy patrons ran screeching down the street. Bond grinned. “See them running. I guess that’s what they really mean by drag racing.”
“Oy, mommeleh!” Neon’s eyes bulged out and he was in the grip of an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Damn, that’s funny!
Drag
racing!”
Hey, Bond thought, looking at young Neon with new respect. The kid’s a
laugher!
Hell, he laughs more than Zvi Gates ever did. ’Course, I’m sorry for what happened to Zvi, but....
Back at the William the Conqueror he called for a parley.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here. TUSH has a boatload of agents in London. But we’ll throw ’em a curve. Instead of Sahd Sakistan, our next stop’ll be Israel.”
“I suppose I should thank you for saving my royal life, Bonderooney,” said a subdued Baldroi LeFagel. “It was precious of you. Mayn’t I reward you in my own sweet way?” His eyes burned into the secret agent’s.
“Yes, by acting like a king. Now go pack.”
“Take this, Mr. Bond. It’s a special edition of my new book of verse,
We Should Think About Spoons and Other Poems
. Bysie for a whilsie, luscious long, lean Litvak of my heart.”
LeFagel flounced out and Bond signaled for Neon to follow him. He opened the fragile, scented volume whose text was printed upon cerise ScotTissue. He read the title poem.
“We should think about spoons,
“On haunted parapets kissed by beaks of owls.
“Spoons, spoons, silver thighs of hate-love,
“I pressed his thighs with molten spoons,
“He slid down the mountain on his giderum.
“Too short the peacock’s sugared toes,
“Too short, one long, dit-dit-dot, dit-dit-dot.”
Bond’s cruel, darkly handsome face was filled with sorrow. The little bastard has talent, by thunder! He reread the line about “the peacock’s sugared toes.” Real talent, sensitive imagery. And LeFagel squanders it on this awful sexual aberration. Why, with a little toning down and some strict discipline Baldroi could very well be doing verses someday for Hallmark Cards. Sure, some of those ivory tower chaps might look down their noses at Hallmark Cards, but, by God, when you got a Hallmark Card you knew where you stood! He vowed: I’ll straighten out this pint-sized pansy, make a real mensch
[39]
out of him yet!
As he did his own packing he looked with regret on the electric blue Jersey knit dress that had served him so well on this grim night. Seems a shame to throw it down the incinerator, he thought. I’ll take it along. There might come a day when I’m just bugged by everything else in my wardrobe and....
Ben-Bella Barka’s chauffeur took them to the airport, Bond keeping a rear window watch for any tailing cars, his hand clamped around the purse.
At the airport he bought them all insurance, including the new policy that covers death by plane crash in the waters of a holy shrine—sold only by Lourdes of London—and settled back to do some hard thinking as Neon and Baldroi snoozed. The London
Times
had more explosions to report, a total of 4,999 on the three continents. The Pinochle Royale would have made it an even 5,000, he reasoned, adding 4,999 and 1 and coming up with the inescapable answer.
The
Times
noted that in every instance but five the bombings had destroyed edifices which had some relationship to food and drink. The exceptions were five Halifax-to-New York freighters. Were these just random, unrelated incidents? Or part of the TUSH plot in some unrecognizable way?
James Bund’s oblique references came back to him. “Operation Alienation.” “Dr. Holzknicht.” He’d have to tell M. and Beame immediately. Then a great guilt pervaded him. He’d also have to tell them that he had covered up the sordid betrayal of Eretz Israel by weaselly Nochum Spector, the little man with the big dream of world domination in the Matzohball caper.
[40]
Nochum had been M.’s nephew; Bond had not wished to hurt the old woman. But his silence had cost Israel almost 60 dead, including his buddies, the Double Oys. That part of the story intrigued him the most, the blown-up cab in Jerusalem after they’d gone to renew their licenses to kill.
It was obvious. Someone in the license bureau had fingered them in some way.
He would pay that bureau a friendly little visit.
Two cartons of Raleighs later, the El Al jet circled Lod Airport and angled downward. It touched the soil of Eretz Israel and tears rolled down his cheeks. He whispered:
“This land is mine. God gave this land to me.”
The unloading took a bit longer than he’d bargained for. His personal effects occupied just twelve suitcases, but there were 86 others stuffed with Raleigh coupons to get through customs. Enough for a medium tank, if M. bargained right, to help keep Israel free!
Lazar Beame was waiting in the Citroyenta, the ugly but gutsy little car produced in Beersheva by a French-Israeli cooperative. Beame was a short, stocky man of 55, with a tanned, stoical face. He was an ex-Double Oy himself who had moved up when he reached field-combat retirement age of 45. He’d begged for a two-year extension, but M. had turned him down: “You don’t know what the really good wines are any more, your thickened waistline makes you unattractive to women and your golf game is way off. Worst of all, you can’t work that hair-across-the-doorway trick any more. You’re bald. Come in out of the cold, Lazar.”
Beame’s teeth were serrating a White Owl, and he paused from time to time to spit out bloody feathers. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigar on you, would you?” When Bond shook his head, Beame said brusquely, “We’re in Emergency Site Zaddik-Iyan-Gimmel-Gimmel-Yood ever since....” He bit through the cigar in his anger.
Z-I-G-G-Y. Ziggy’s! The popular Kosher restaurant on Jerusalem’s Bezalel Street. Was that the new cover? Was fat, wisecracking Ziggy Gershenfeld, the Max Asnas-Toots Shor-Duke Ziebert of Israel, a big cog in the Secret Service?
“Surprised?” Beame said sotto voce so that King Baldroi and Neon, seated in the rear, could not hear. “I can hear your brain clicking. Yes, it’s Ziggy’s and, yes, he’s way up in M 33 and 1/3; has been for years. There are some things you never learn until you get up to my level, Oy Oy Seven. Actually the Kosher restaurant front is fine for M. She’ll be hidden away in the kitchen and besides it gives her a chance to cook while she’s planning counter-operations.”
They motored through the Judean hills, harsh and beautiful. Somewhere along the line three of the Citroyenta’s four tires fell off, but the doughty auto chugged along with spirit. “These little babies can really take it, Bond,” said Beame. The rear end dropped off at Jaffa Road and Bezalel Street, the motor fifty yards from Ziggy’s, yet the sturdy frame made it right up to the door.
From the restaurant he could spot the Old City, which lay in Jordanian territory, and the words of an old Israeli spiritual rang in his head:
“Ah looked ovah Jo’dan and what did Ah see?
“Comin’ fer to carry me home....
“A band of Ay-rabs was a-shootin’ straight at me
“Comin’ fer to carry me home....”
They were hustled through the service entrance, down a hallway rampant with odors of pickles, stuffed cabbage, and
chili con carnage,
into the kitchen.
There was M.
She sat in a wheelchair, her slight legs made tree-trunk thick by yards of bandages. There were bruises on her forehead and cheeks and a plaster sticker on the tip of her nose. But her eyes had lost none of their keenness.
“Shalom, Oy Oy Seven, 113, and honored guest, King Baldroi.”
After a round of salutations, M. suggested that Neon take King Baldroi to the front for a bite and seemed bewildered by the little ruler’s arch response.
“The King has a bizarre sense of humor,” Bond said, apologizing. He then unloaded his terrible secret from a heart that was bent into accordion folds by it.
Beame’s reaction was instantaneous. “You stupid bastard! Nobody’s feelings should ever be spared in this game. There’s a ton of blood on your head, Mr. Bond. If I were you, M., I’d take away his number and throw him to the wolves.”
M.’s answer took a long time in coming. “Op Chief Beame is correct, Oy Oy Seven. You have done a terrible thing.” Bond bit his elbow in shame. “And a noble thing. I must be condemnatory in my official capacity, grateful for your concern in my human one. I disagree with Op Chief Beame’s solution, however. It is unrealistic. Oy Oy Seven is perhaps our last hope, Mr. Beame. He will finish this assignment at least, before any departmental inquiry is held. The king still must be protected and this TUSH junta smashed. Maybe God will again strengthen Israel Bond’s hand so he can redeem himself. Now, Mr. Bond, a detailed report on your experiences in Trenton and London, and your theories.”