«Oh, very well, you’re forgiven whatever you’re capable of doing—what did you say?»
«You heard me, Angel Puss!» whispered the now grotesque harridan, her voice abruptly lower, harsher, as she withdrew a straight razor from the folds of her dress and whipped it open. «Now get behind the tree, or the last thing you’ll worry about is your vow of chastity.»
«Oh, my God—you’re not a woman, you’re a man!»
«It’s debatable on both counts, but what I am is a cutter—I love to cut. Now, move!»
«Please, please don’t hurt me, don’t … oh, my God … don’t cut me!» His whole body trembling, the Secretary of State stepped awkwardly back into the shadows of the tree. «You really shouldn’t, you know. Cutting a priest is a very, very big sin.»
«I had you marked fifteen minutes ago, Angel Puss,» hissed the man/woman, his or her wrinkled scarlet lips and swollen purple eyelids revolting in the dim light. «You and that ugly rug on your head, you’re a disgrace to honest deviants everywhere!»
«What …?»
«How dare you walk around like that? Looking for little boys, you creep? And dressed like a priest? That’s disgusting!»
«Now, really, madam—mister, whatever you are—»
«What was that? You insulting me, Snake Face?»
«On my word, never!» Pease’s left eye was in pivotal-orbit. «I’m only telling you that you don’t understand—»
«I understand, all right! Creeps like you carry lots of bread in case somebody blows a whistle. Up with it, you pervert!»
«Money, you mean money? For God’s sake, take everything I’ve got!» The Secretary dug into his pockets and pulled out a number of folded bills. «Here, here, take it!»
«Take what? That’s chickenshit. I’ll have to slash your pockets before I start the real cutting!» The androgynous monster forced Pease behind the tree. «You make a sound, your lips are on the ground, you dirty, dirty boy!»
«Please!» begged the Secretary of State. «You don’t know who I am—»
«But we do!» interrupted the strange, deep voice from the shadows beyond. «All right, Brokey … you, too, Commander Y, disarm the assault! Now!» As one, the elderly West Pointer and the portly middle-aged capo supremo from Brooklyn attacked, the former wrenching the razor away from the hand that clutched it, the latter tackling the legs encased in a wide, flowery skirt.
«It’s a fuckin’ broad!» yelled Mangecavallo.
«The hell he is!» shouted Brokemichael, yanking the gray-haired wig off the wrinkle-faced, rough-faced mugger.
Vinnie the Bam-Bam saw his error instantly, and began pummeling the ugly cosmeticized figure that was falling to the ground. «You no-good piece of rotten mozzarell!» he roared.
«Let him go, Commander!» ordered the Hawk.
«Why?» asked Brokey the Deuce. «The scumbag should be behind bars!»
«With his fuckin’ legs broken!» added the presumably deceased director of the CIA.
«Are we going to press charges, gentlemen?»
«What …?» Brokemichael stepped back as Mangecavallo snapped his head up, his red wig once more askew, a sideburn now partially covering his nose, his eyes barely seen. «He’s got a point, Commander whoever-you-are,» said the Deuce.
«Yeah, well, maybe he does,» agreed Vincent, administering a last knee into the rib cage of the mugger. «Pound sand and get outta here, you lowlife!»
«Hey, fellas!» shrieked the perpetrator, grinning exuberantly as he grabbed his wig and got to his feet. «You wanna come to my place? We could really have a ball!»
«Get outta here.»
«I’m going, I’m going.» Skirt flying, the mugger ran across the lawn and disappeared into the crowds.
«Oh, my God, oh, my God …!» came the quivering sounds from the prone figure on the ground beside Hawkins, his head facedown in the grass, his hands gripped above his head. «Thank you, thank you! I might have been killed!»
«Why don’t you turn over and get up and see if you want to live?» said the Hawk gently, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a tape recorder.
«What?… What are you talking about?» Slowly, Warren Pease pushed himself off the ground, pivoted painfully on his buttocks, and, from his sitting position, saw first the resplendent uniform on his right, then the face. «Brokemichael! What are you doing here?»
MacKenzie activated his recorder, and the sound of Brokemichaers voice filled the enclave. «The Secretary of State. He’s the one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for!… That wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case against you!»
«Only it wasn’t a legitimate case, was it, Mr. Secretary?» said General Brokemichael as the Hawk turned off the machine. «It was a sacrifice. One exonerated old soldier who could never get out from under that cloud of suspicion and his unit of fine young men. We were as expendable as Mac here, not my closest old buddy, but he doesn’t deserve to be dropped into an arctic ice flow, either.»
«What are you talking about?»
«Perhaps I didn’t introduce him. This is the former General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, who you first tried to have … let’s say ‘neutralized’… and then ordered my unit to kidnap, destination TBDL, ‘to be determined later,’ but definitely north, way far north.»
«Not too terribly pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Secretary,» said the Hawk. «You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer my hand.»
«This is insane, absolutely insane! Great issues are at stake, the ultimate strength, the strike force of the nation is in the balance!»
«And the only way to put it right is to get rid of those complaining?» asked MacKenzie. «You can’t talk, you can only get rid of the nuisances, who, incidentally, have a very legitimate case.»
«You’re twisting everything! There are other issues, economic issues, gargantuan financial losses—my God, my boat, the Metropolitan Club, my class reunion, the life I deserve, I was born to! You don’t understand!»
«I do, you smelly prichute,» said Vincent Mangecavallo, walking forward in the dull wash of light. «Like certain people can be useful to you, but you got no use for them!»
«Who are you? I’ve seen you before, I know your voice, but I can’t… I can’t—»
«Maybe because my own mother, may she rest in peace in Lauderdale, wouldn’t know me, either, due to my one terrific disguise.» Vinnie removed his red wig and squatted in front of the Secretary of State. «Hello, fazool, how are ya? Maybe your country club boys blew up the wrong boat, wadd’ya think of that?»
«Mangecavallo!… No, no! I went to your memorial service the other day! You’re gone, you’re dead! This isn’t happening to me!»
«Maybe it isn’t, you big diplomatico, maybe it’s all a bad dream brought on by the evil in your rotten soul. Maybe I just rose from the arms of Morphine—»