«My what?» asked the man in a hotel room two stories below, his voice equally low but hardly soft.
«Just listen to me. The target’s checking out—my informant tells me he called the bell captain to have his luggage taken downstairs.»
«Who the fuck are you?»
«Your liaison to D.C., and you should thank me, not curse me. Hurry up. Follow him.»
«I’m locked in!» shouted the would-be assassin furiously. «The fuckin’ door jammed; they’re working on it now!»
«Out. We can’t be involved any longer.»
«Holy shit!… Wait a minute, the door’s being pulled out!»
«Hurry.» The Hawk hung up the phone and looked down at Little Joey the Shroud sitting on the edge of the bed. «Are you going to tell me you didn’t know that man was in the hotel?»
«What man?» protested Joey. «You are the fazool of fazools, Mickey Ha Ha. You need help, big fella, like maybe a nice place with green grass lawns and iron gates and lots of doctors.»
«You know, Little Joseph, I believe you,» said the general. «It wouldn’t be the first time command has kept certain aspects of an operation from the scouts.» With these words the Hawk walked rapidly to the door and let himself out; he could be heard accelerating his pace down the corridor… And the telephone rang. Joey reached over and picked it up.
«Yeah?»
«Is this the grand and great general himself, sir?»
«So?» replied a squinting, curious Little Joey.
«’Tis the privilege of me life, General! ’Tis Private First Class Harry Milligan and I’m here to tell ya that we got the place not only surrounded but infilterated, sir! No harm’ll come to ya, sir, on the word of the patriotic boyos of the Pat O’Brien Commemorative Legion Post!»
Quietly, slowly, Joey replaced the telephone and leaned back on the pillow. Fazools, he mused. The whole world was peopled with flakereenos, especially in Boston, Massachusetts, where the friggin’ pilgrims were probably inbred to begin with. After all, what did they have to do but have a little fun on the long journey in that boat, the Maypot?… Well, thought Joey, he was going to order a nice, early room-service dinner and then call code Ragu in Washington. Vinnie the Bam-Bam was going to hear a long, very screwed-up story whether he liked it or not. Fazools!
Aaron Pinkus escorted his two diplomats in their cutaways to the front desk and proudly announced that his guests, the ambassadors from Spain, would be occupying his suite and whatever courtesies were extended would be greatly appreciated, not only by their host, but by the government of the United States of America.
The entire front desk converged to pay homage to the distinguished visitors, and when it was learned that neither spoke English, a Puerto Rican bellboy was summoned to act as interpreter. The bellboy, whose name was Raul, was overjoyed as his first communication with Desi the First consisted of the following—freely translated.
«Hey, man, where’d you get that fancy uniform with the shiny buttons? You in the army?»
«No, man, I carry suitcases. I’m assigned to you so I can make the gringos understand what you say.»
«Hey, that’s cool! Where are you from?»
«P.R.»
«So are we!»
«No, you’re not, you’re big-shot diplomats from Madrid! That’s what the cat said.»
«That’s for the gringos, man! Hey, maybe later we have a nice party, what do you say?»
«Hey, man, where you’re staying, they got everything!»
«They got maybe girls? Nice girls, of course, because my associate is very religious.»
«I’ll get him what he wants, and I’ll get us what we want. Leave it to me, man.»
«What did they say, Pedro?» asked the head clerk.
«Raul, sir.»
«Terribly sorry. What did they say?»
«They are very appreciative of the fine manners and exemplary kindness displayed by all of you. They are especially gratified by the fact that you have assigned this modest Raul to be with them throughout their stay.»
«My word!» said an assistant manager. «You speak extremely well for a Sp … for a newly arrived person to our shores.»
«Night school, sir. Boston University Extension Course for Immigrants.»
«Keep your eyes on this young man, gentlemen. He’s different!»
«He’s the biggest asshole of them all. This is a good place; he won’t last a month.»
«Tell us something we don’t know, Pedro!»
«Perhaps,» said Aaron Pinkus, interrupting, «you’d like to look around this magnificent lobby. It’s really very unique… Would you translate, please, Raul.»
«With great pleasure, sir.»
Harry Milligan approached the tank top-cum-tattoos and whispered into his ear, only vaguely aware that a number of people in the lobby stared at them. «The great general moves in wondrous and mysterious ways, lad. I explained our mission and he was kinda quietlike, but as the Lord is my witness, I could hear the wheels spinning in that fine brain of his… Y’know, that grand man could be scalin’ down the outside walls at this minute. I’m told he taught all the Rangers every thin’ they ever learned!»
Suddenly, the intrusion startling, the septuagenarian in the patch-laden field jacket, his bowed legs a set of churning parentheses, rushed up to Milligan and Tank Top. «I’ve got it, boyos! They’re terrorists!»
«Who, for Christ’s sake?»
«Them fancy dans in the fish ’n’ chips!»
«What’re ya talkin’ about?»
«Those two dark-skinned, black-haired creeps leavin’ the front desk! They’re supposed to be big shots, right?»
«Well, I guess they are, boyo. Look at ’em.»
«Since when do big shots in big-shot threads get out of a lousy, small three-year-old Buick instead of a big limousine-type automobile? I ask ya, Harry Milligan, does it make sense?»
«No, it don’t, ’cause it ain’t natural, not with highfalutin duds like that in a place like this. A three-year-old Buick just ain’t fittin’ transportation, yer right about that.» Harry squinted at the splendidly dressed visitors who looked for all the world like preening peacocks, foreigners from some sun-drenched country in the Mediterranean by the dark complexion of their faces… Arabs! Arab terrorists who surely were not comfortable in the clothes they wore or they wouldn’t be hitching up their shoulders and wiggling their asses in their tight-fitting trousers. No, sir, those boyos were used to desert robes like in the movies and long-curved knives under their belts, not fancy-dan sashes around their waists. «Holy Mary, Mother of God,» whispered Gilligan to Tank Top. «This could be it, boyo! Get word to each of our lads—tell ’em to move in slowly, keepin’ their eyes on those two Sahara rats. If they get into an elevator, we get in, too!»
«Harry, I didn’t go to confession this week—»
«Oh, shut up, there are seven of us, for Christ’s sake!»
«That’s more than three on one, ain’t it?»
«Now you’re an accountant, lad? Hurry along now, and lastly, tell the boyos that if I give the lodge war cry, we rush ’em!»