«Oh God, Devereaux, cut it out! You actually can turn me—forget it.»
«What?»
«Forget it!… So Thunder Trunk won’t tell us, Mr. Pinkus. What do we do now?»
«We wait. He’s having a duplicate made of the tape, and Paddy Lafferty will bring it to us this evening. Then if we don’t hear from the general within twenty-four hours, I’m to use whatever influence I have to reach the President of the United States and play the tape for him over the telephone.»
«Very heavy,» said Sam softly.
«The heaviest,» agreed Jennifer.
Although the trip south to New York City from Hooksett in Aaron Pinkus’s limousine was somewhat cramped in the rear quarters—the Suicidal Six sat three facing three while the Hawk rode in front with Paddy Lafferty—several things were accomplished. The first was made possible by a brief stop at a shopping mall in Lowell, Massachusetts, where the general purchased two additional tape recorders and a carton of one-hour tapes, enough, he figured, for the trip to New York. Along with these items, Mac bought a small patch cord with a built-in attenuator that enabled him to transcribe the spoken material from one tape onto a new one in a second machine, thus duplicating whatever recorded dialogue was stored.
«Here, let me show you how it’s done. It’s really very simple,» the Radio Shack clerk said.
«Son,» replied the Hawk in haste, «I was crosspatching prehistoric transmitters between the caves before you could turn on a radio.»
Back in the limousine, the first newly purchased tape recorder activated, Mac turned to Brokemichael’s men in the rear of the vehicle. «Gentlemen,» he began, «since I’ll be the liaison between you and these motion picture people you’ll be meeting, your commander, my friend Brokey, suggested that you give me a complete rundown of your experiences, both as individuals and as members of your incredibly successful Suicidal Six. It will help me in my subsequent conversations with those big producers… And don’t be put off by the presence of Mr. Lafferty here—Gunnery Sergeant Lafferty. We were comrades together at the Bulge.»
«I could die right here on the spot, me soul already sanctified!» choked Paddy under his breath.
«What was that, Gunny?»
«Nothin’, General. I’ll drive like you taught us to up through Roubaix. Greased lightnin’, it was.»
As the huge automobile raced forward, there began an uninterrupted four hours of narrative, the complete history of the unit called the Suicidal Six—uninterrupted, that was, except when the members interrupted one another, which was frequently, with explosive energy incarnate. By the time they reached Bruckner Boulevard on their way across the bridge to Manhattan’s East Side, the Hawk held up his left hand, his right turning off the tape recorder. «That’ll be fine, gentlemen,» he had said, his ears ringing from the Crescendos of melodramatics from the backseats. «I’ve got the full picture now, and both your commander and I thank you.»
«Good heavens,» cried Sir Larry. «I just remembered! Our clothes, the luggage your young adjutants picked up for us at the hotel last night, everything’s badly in need of pressing. It would hardly be proper for us to be seen at the Waldorf walking around in wrinkled clothing. Or, God knows, into Sardi’s!»
«Good point.» It was a wrinkle Hawkins had not considered, and it had nothing to do with clothes. The last thing they needed was for the exuberant actor-commandos to be parading around anywhere! Especially six high-spirited performers who believed they were on the edge of great success. Christ! thought MacKenzie, recalling his brief Hollywood days: All any actor—specifically any unemployed actor—needed was the slightest hint that a coveted role was in the offing and his or her personal network went to work. He never faulted the actors, for unrewarded talent needed all the confidence it could corral, but this was no time for the Suicidal Six to revert to their preclandestine lives. Sardi’s! A theatrical institution! «Tell you what,» the Hawk continued, «the minute we get to the rooms we’ll have everything sent out to the hotel cleaners.»
«How long will that take?» asked The Duke-cum-chairman of the board.
«Well, it doesn’t really matter,» Mac replied, «at least not for tonight and maybe not even tomorrow.»
«What?» said Marlon.
«Hey, come on!» added Sylvester.
«I haven’t seen the West Forties in years!» interrupted Dustin.
«And Mr. Sardi is a close personal friend,» said Telly. «He’s the owner, an ex-marine, by the way—»
«Sorry, gentlemen,» the Hawk broke in. «I’m afraid I wasn’t clear about this bivouac, I just thought you’d naturally understand.»
«Understand what?» Sly spoke again, none too kindly. «You sound like an agent.»
«Your upcoming conferences demand the … utmost secrecy. Although your splendid commander, General Brokemichael, is going to bat for you with these Hollywood people, you’re still in the army, and everything could fall apart if word gets out. I mean really fall apart. Therefore, you’re confined to quarters until he says otherwise.»
«We’ll call him,» suggested Marlon.
«That’s out!… I mean all communications are on status ‘black drape.’»
«That’s for emergencies,» said Dustin. «Frequency interception.»
«And that’s what we’re talking about. Those rotten politicians who tried to pit us against one another are out to wreck your film, your careers. They want it all for themselves!»
«Dirty bastards,» exclaimed The Duke. «I won’t deny a lot of them are actors, but all their crap is shallow!»
«Not an honest spine in their motivations,» added Sylvester.
«Not an ounce of truth,» stated Marlon emphatically.
«You’ll grant there’s technique,» said Sir Larry. «But it’s Pavlovian, over-rehearsed, as it were.»
«As it is!» confirmed Telly. «Sound bites, programmed expressions, and wrinkled eyebrows when they forget their lines—when will people wake up?»
«Well, they may try to act, but they’re not actors!» cried The Duke. «And I’ll be damned if they’ll take work away from us!… We’ll confine ourselves to quarters and do whatever else you like, General!»
MacKenzie Hawkins, neat but less than impressive in his gray suit, steel-rimmed glasses, reddish toupee, and slightly stooped shoulders, walked across the carpeted, crowded lobby of the Waldorf, looking for a pay phone. It was shortly past one o’clock in the afternoon, the actor-soldiers of Suicidal Six safely ensconced in adjoining suites on the twelfth floor. Spared Desi the Second’s more deleterious culinary fare, refreshed by large amounts of wholesome, restorative food, exercise, and a decent night’s sleep without spiders crawling up the walls, all the members of the unit were fully recovered and in exuberant spirits. The men had assured him that they had their combat fatigues with them—a vital component—and that they would stay in their suites and make no outside calls, no matter how tempting the urge. As they were getting settled, the Hawk had taken out the original tape recorder from Fort Benning, duplicated the entire conversation with Brokey the Deuce, given the duplicate to Paddy Lafferty, and instructed him to take it to Swampscott. Now, bouncing several balls in the air at the same time, he had to make several untraceable calls—the first to Little Joseph in Boston; the second to a retired la-di-da admiral who had sold his soul to front for the State Department and who also owed Mac a favor for saving his miscalculating ass on an offshore battlewagon in Korea’s Bay of Wonsan; and finally to one of his dearest old buddies, the first of his four delightful wives, Ginny, in Beverly Hills, California. He dialed the zero code, entered his credit card number, and dialed.