The Israel Bond Omnibus (65 page)

A death ray from the planet Mongo could not have pierced the collective gloom, but Z. made a manful try. “The business about the bad joke young Zion puts so much emphasis on could be fixed, you know. Oy Oy Seven is mentally tired, that’s all. The pressure of having to come up with a tremendous joke each time he kills has burned him out. A simple solution: We call up the William Morris show business agency in New York; they assign Jay Burton or Sheldon Keller to write Bond some fresh one-liners to cover any conceivable kind of death and—”

“That’s no answer, Z, and you know it,” snarled Op Chief Beame. “Neon’s a nervy little
momser
asking for the world’s most heralded license to kill, but he’s right. Bond has had it. Hell, I’ve been puking at Rangemaster Rosenzweig’s last few reports on Oy Oy Seven’s shooting. He’s been missing at three feet with a bazooka. The only thing he’s hit in eight weeks is the late Rangemaster Rosenzweig.”

A cluster of soup greens, which had been so crisp and lively, wilted at Beame’s disclosure and fell with a disconsolate splash into a pot of chicken soup. M. pretended not to notice the mishap and said, “Dr. Freudan, may we hear the results of your psychiatric workup?”

The pert blonde crossed her splendid legs. “Before I recommended a Caesars Palace vacation for Oy Oy Seven I spent considerable time on his case. He is sound physically. The understandably severe injuries he suffered in the fall from the Empire State Building have healed in a satisfactory manner. However, he hallucinates whenever he has sexual intercourse. He sees the ghost of the veiled beauty, this Sarah Lawrence of Arabia he was to marry, standing over him, her accusatory eyes provoking great feelings of guilt.”

M.’s withered face held a searching look. “How do you know he is physically sound, doctor?”

A blush stole over Dr. Freudan’s cheeks.
Thank heaven I’m wearing an opaque skirt,
she thought. Her answer was a mite too defensive, she realized later. “I am a medical doctor as well, M., and I took it upon myself to examine Oy Oy Seven for any injuries that might be related to his mental state.”
I couldn’t help it,
her heart confessed.
There he was on the couch shivering so, the poor dear, so I covered him with a blanket, which didn’t help, then my coat, my clothes, me, and then that
marvy
musculature was doing insane things to me—not the sweet semi-rape women are supposed to enjoy and really loathe, but pure and lovely bruising, bashing barbarity with the right touch of Neanderthal, plus a hint of Ervin Laventhal. Oh, Iz, Iz, my shameless love for you is branded on my face and M., the dear, sweet old wise thing, knows it!

“You should do something about that burn on your face, Dr. Freudan,” M. said with a cool, diagnostic smile. “An overdose of sun, hah? So, mine
tireh
doctor, what’s to be done?” She, Z. and Beame awaited the summation that would close the door on the career of Israel Bond. From the damning evidence there could be no other verdict, it seemed.

Dr. Freudan lit a Raleigh. “In my researches into the qualities that make a secret agent the
rara avis
[72]
that he is, I have learned one thing. When a secret agent appears to be down and out, unable to function in ‘The Great Game,’ it is a historical verity that he can be revived by the kind of intrigue and danger only to be found in Japan.”
Oh, Iz, Iz,
she grieved inside.
I don’t want to let you go, but it’s the answer.

Beame pounded his fist against the table. “You’re crazier than Bond is. What the hell can Japan do for his breakdown? And why there? If you’re thinking about putting him back into the field, let it be West Germany. Quiller didn’t finish the job. Or Jordan. Let him knock off a few of these ‘holy war in Palestine’ nuts King Hussein can’t control. Or let him check out a harebrained story I just received to the effect that our missing trawler was seen going through the Suez Canal.”

“It’s got to be Japan.” Dr. Freudan stared the op chief down. “Japan.”

It was in M.’s lap, as all major decisions were, and they knew it. M. had these famous bees in her peruke, among them an exaggerated faith in agents who believed in dressing to kill to kill, whose parents came from the Ukrainian
shtetl
of Baronevkeh. Would she allow her prejudices to becloud her usual sound judgment?

“I’ll tell you something a person learns only when she’s in my eight-and-a-half-double-E low-heel I. Millers,” M. said. “The Shinbet and Mossad have been jealous of our little agency’s status for years and have been trying to convince the PM that we’re unnecessary and should be incorporated into their structure. One factor has kept M 33 and 1/3 autonomous—the incredible successes we’ve scored in the Loxfinger, Matzohball and Queen affairs, which have pulled our little nation from the abyss. And who, I should ask, is responsible for those successes? Oy Oy Seven, Israel Bond. If you all want to keep on picking up your paychecks you’ll listen to me, kinderlach. So happens I agree with the good doctor.”

Beame made a last stab. “Japan isn’t even in our sphere of influence. There’s nothing cooking for us in Japan.”

M. clenched her gnarled fist and yelled, “Gnash! Gnash! Gnash! Gnash!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Beame.

“I left mine teeth in a glass so it’s the only way I can express my anger at your stupidity. If I know Oy Oy Seven, he’ll start something cooking, don’t worry. That lad could uncover suspense in a crate of lettuce. So it’s settled. Z., you’ll get Bond’s friend in the CIA, Monroe Goshen, the fellow who got shot up in the Queen business, to send in Oy Oy Seven’s behalf a nice letter of introduction to Baron Sanka, my counterpart in Tokyo. Beame, you’ll prepare a white paper on the political situation in the Far East that Bond can use as reference material. I suggest you get in touch with the only truly knowledgeable people about that region, Sidney Toler or Warner Oland, who both played Charlie Chan. Dr. Freudan, you’ll fly to Las Vegas and administer whatever therapy”—her tone was pointed—“he needs between now and departure time. Book him on Japan Air Lines, deluxe accommodations. A first-class killer should never fly tourist. And rehearse a hefty, hearty farewell for him at the airport. What is it the Japanese say?
Sy’n’ Sarah
, no? My mind is made up. For the good of M 33 and 1/3, Eretz Israel and the whole profession of espionage, I decree: Send him to Japan!”

“Roses are red, violets are blue...”

“Sugar is sweet, but it’s a damn good thing he retired from the ring; the kids were beginning to knock his block off.”

The coded salutation came from a chubby New York type in the front seat of a boxy black Cedric sedan idling near the taxi stand. Bond replied, “Hickory dickory dock... The mouse ran up the clock... The clock struck one... The mouse got hysterical... He’s now in rehab.”

“You’re my man,” grinned the driver. “It’s good to look on a
poonim
with a little
taam
in it.
[73]
My name’s Heshy Burg from Mosholu Parkway. Baron Sanka sent me to pick you up. Since I’m always hanging around the main drag, the locals call me Ginza-Burg. Get in. I’ll stow your gear in the back.”

Though the Japanese custom is to drive on the left, the loquacious Ginza-Burg kept for the most part to the right lane of the freeway to Tokyo, sending oncoming motorist after oncoming motorist swerving into poles and abutments. “Hot damn!” chortled the ex-Bronxite. “Betcha I’ve sent almost fifty of the little buggers to their honorable ancestors.” When he saw Bond’s frown, he added hastily, “’Course, the government tacitly encourages this practice. Country’s bursting at the seams. They’re damn grateful if you help thin out the masses now and then.”

During the pell-mell jaunt Bond learned Ginza-Burg was a Jackie Mason Rabbinical Seminary student who’d ranked high in his Talmudic studies, but flunked the major courses, Nightclub Standup Comedy 1 and 2. Embittered, he’d come to Japan in search of an “indefinable something.” What it was he found hard to define, he admitted to Bond.

Ginza-Burg left the freeway at the turnoff to the Assakissa section and sped through a network of narrow alleys, halting in front of a two-story edifice at Ichiwada-ku, 4-chome, chrome-6. “We’re here, Mr. Bond. Welcome to the Cathouse of the August Tea.”

* * *

“Ichi! Ni! San!”

On
“san,”
Japanese for “three,” the two men facing each other across the low lacquered black table unballed their right fists to reveal their choice of either one or two fingers in the age-old, intellectually demanding contest of odds-and-evens, played throughout the world and held in especial fondness by game-loving Orientals.

Each contestant jabbed out one finger.

“Evens!” An exultant cry escaped the throat of Baron Sanka, the chunky little man in the expensive
yukata
whose watercolor print depicted heroic kamikaze pilots diving their bomb-laden planes into West German camera and automobile factories. “Evens again, Izzy-san! My twelfth triumph in fifteen games.”

Bond, sitting on a tatami mat in the cross-legged style of the East, knew he was playing badly. With just minimal concentration he might have been holding his own, perhaps even winning, because on Baron Sanka’s playing hand there was only one finger.

To celebrate Sanka’s win, the geisha Flowering Fungus let a hesitant smile play on her lips (her instinctive Eastern wisdom told her it was the correct anatomical location for such a display) and plucked a discordant tune from her six-stringed Selmer samisen, winning an approving
“Yo-I! Yo-I!”
[74]
from Sanka and the madam of the pleasure palace, a shrewd-faced old woman named Eating the Mango.

“It is a very mournful air, Izzy-san,” remarked the Baron. “I shall translate as she sings.” As Flowering Fungus chanted in a wavering basso profundo, Sanka said, “It is the story of a great samurai, Raykko, which in English means ‘Lord of the Auto Seat Cover.’ One spring day Raykko wanders into a small village, where he is greeted by the headman and his wife. They present Raykko with fish and rice cakes and bow low. Presented with this unexpected opportunity, he swings his sword and decapitates them. The headman’s son, Sardo, offers Raykko green tea and Raykko responds by cutting the boy in twain. He goes into each hut and chops up the sleeping inhabitants. A party of children back from an outing to Fuji approach and trill a gay song extolling the samurai’s goodness. He runs amok and hacks them into mincemeat.”

“I agree, Cocky,” Bond said, using the diminutive form of Sanka’s name. “It is a sad song.”

“Oh, no, Izzy-san.” Sanka registered mild shock. “To this point it has been a most jolly song, but now Flowering Fungus is singing the depressing part. Raykko looks about, but there is nobody left to kill. Nobody.” Was that a muffled sob from his host? “Think of it, my friend. Here is a warrior who has consecrated his life to the noble art of slaughter, and he stands there frustrated, no victims in sight. Oh, the final verse does tell us how he eviscerates a few cats, dogs and chickens, but it is just not the same.”