«‘The specific hostile equipment has not been firmly identified,’» replied Meat, now unfolding the paper and reading—as best he could. «… ‘however, as the incidents have increased in numbers and ferocosity, and the … Russian Kremlins … have secretly confirmed like events—’» Here, Salvatore D’Ambrosia, a.k.a. «Meat,» refolded the paper and continued on his own. «The whole fuckin’ Earth planet, especially the U.S. of A., is on secret emergency alert. It could be the Chinks or the Arabs or the Hebes launching all that bullshit—»
«That’s cockamamie!»
«Or…,» Salvatore D’Ambrosia lowered his voice and blessed himself, almost getting the sign of the cross correctly on his large chest, «things we know nothin’ about—from up there.» Meat raised his eyes to the ceiling, in his gaze a prayer, if not a plea for mercy.
«Whaaat?» shrieked Salamander. «That’s the biggest tube of Guinea cheese I ever heard of! It’s full of … hoo-hoo, wait a minute … it’s positively, absolutely brilliant. Like no junk bonder could ever come up with!… We got a whole new enemy we gotta arm the whole fuckin’ world for. UFOs!»
«You got the big man’s drift then?»
«Got it? I love it!… Hey, a sudden big thought. What big man? He’s with the fishes!»
It was the moment Meat had been primed for, rehearsed until he could handle it with his head soaked in Chianti. He reached into another pocket and withdrew a small, black-bordered envelope, in size and appearance similar to a funeral request. He handed it to the mesmerized Salamander with nine simple words, so ingrained by repetition Salvatore would no doubt say them on his deathbed. «You breathe a word of this … no more breath.»
His eyes shifting warily between Meat’s face and the ominous-looking envelope, Ivan the Terrible picked up his glistening brass letter-opener, inserted it beneath a sealed edge, slit the paper, and extracted the message. The broker’s gaze instantly dropped to the bottom of the page, to the scrawled familiar initials he knew so well. He gasped, his head snapping up, his wide eyes riveted on Salvatore D’Ambrosia. «This is beyond impossible!» he whispered.
«Be careful,» said Meat, no louder than Salamander, as he drew his index finger slowly across his throat. «Remember, no more breath. Read it.»
Fear paramount, a tremble developing in his hands, Ivan began at the top of the page. Follow the instructions as delivered verbally to you by the courier. Don’t even think about disobeying any aspect of them. We are in the midst of a maximum-classified, eyes-only, top-secret, black-drape, need-to-know basis operation. Everything will be explained to you within a reasonable period of time. Now, in front of the courier, burn this message as well as the envelope, or, with love in his heart, he’ll be forced to burn you. I shall return. VM
«Gotta match?» asked the petrified Salamander quietly. «I gave up cigarettes for my health. It’d be kinda dumb if I got burned because I don’t smoke.»
«Sure,» said Meat, throwing a pack of matches on the desk. «After you finish torching the paper, you got one other thing to do before I go.»
«Name it. When I get messages from beyond the grave, I don’t quibble.»
«Pick up the phone and place an order for fifty thousand shares of Petrotoxic Amalgamated.»
«Whaaat?» shrieked Ivan the Terrible, his forehead drenched with beads of sweat. Then he watched in terror as D’Ambrosia’s huge right hand reached under his jacket. «So certainly, of course! So why not? Let’s make it seventy-five, I mean, why not?»
Five other such courtesy calls were made by Meat the Courier, all with similar results—give or take a shriek or two—resulting in a buy, buy, buy! binge not seen since the Dow creased three thousand and was still climbing. As a natural consequence, in executive suites across the nation, the carrots led the asses (horses may not be bright, but they’re smarter than mules). Wild diversification and consummate oversupply were the orders of the day, and the orders went out by the billions. Something really big was going down, and the smart money boys and the conglomerate fraternity were going to go up on that fantastical seesaw of economic balances.
Buy out those computer firms, screw the price!
Get control of all the subcontracting parts divisions in Georgia and don’t bore me with figures!
We’re dealing from strength, you idiot! I want the majority interest in McDonnell Douglas, Boeing, and Rolls-Royce Aeroengines, and for Christ’s sake, don’t stop bidding until you get them all!
Buy California!
On the basis of an inflated fiction, shrouded in a mystery that would impress Little Joey, to say nothing of Houdini and Rasputin, billions in debt were accrued by the enemies of Vincent Francis Assisi Mangecavallo, who sat under an umbrella in Miami Beach, Florida, a Monte Cristo cigar in his mouth, a cellular telephone at his side, as well as a portable radio, a margarita on the plastic tray in front of him, and a wide grin on his face. «Go with the big wave, you fancy country club cannolis,» he said to himself, reaching for his glass, his free hand adjusting his red toupee. «Wait’ll the ocean dries up like that Moses made it do, may he rest in peace. You’ll be sucked down into the sand, you bastards! Put out a contract on me, better you should read the small print. Cleaning urinals in Cairo, that’s where all of you belong!»
Sir Henry Irving Sutton sat rigidly, angrily, in the kitchen chair while Erin Lafferty snipped away at his flowing crown of gray glory. «Trim, wench, merely a trim, or you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in the scullery!»
«Y’ don’t scare me, y’ old fart,» said Erin. «I seen ya in that afternoon program Forever All Our Forevers fer—what was it? Ten years?—so I know all about you, boyo.»
«I beg your pardon?»
«You was always yellin’ and caterwaulin’ on those young kids until you was drivin’ ’em nuts. Then you’d go into that big liberry and cry, sayin’ to yerself that they had life too easy, and had to be brought up to snuff so they could face the terrible misfortunes that faced ’em—and by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, yer words were gospel! Such lousy times they had! I mean you was actually cryin’, sorry for all the bad things you had to say to them, wishin’ you didn’t have to… Nah, underneath you’re a softie, Grandfather Weatherall!»
«I was merely playing a roll, Mrs. Lafferty.»
«Call it whatever you like, Mr. Sutton, but for me and all the girls in Old Southy, you were the only reason we watched that stupid show. We was all in love with you, boyo.»
«I knew that son of a bitch never got me a decent contract!» spat out the actor under his breath.
«What was that, sir?»
«Nothing, dear lady, nothing. Cut away, cut away! You’re obviously a woman of great taste.»
The kitchen door burst open, the hulk of Cyrus following, his dark face alive with anticipation. «We’re on, ‘General’!»
«Fine, young man! Where’s my uniform? I was always a splendid figure in military plumage.»
«No plumes, no uniform, that’s out of the question.»
«For God’s sake, why?»
«To begin with, the general is no longer a general by request of the Pentagon and just about every other major influence in Washington, including the White House. Secondly, you’d call attention to us, which isn’t practical.»