Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair Page 11
Heller took the purse and spilled the contents on the floor. A jumbled assortment fell out, tangled up in knitting yarn. Heller began to inventory it.
“An obsolete Voltar Fleet grenade. An Apparatus Knife Section knife. Russian rubles. Traveler’s checks on a Panama bank. Assorted Canadian, Swiss and US passports. A baggage check.” He had his hands on packets of money. “And US dollars done up in Turkish bank bands.” He sat back. “This is CRAZY!”
Oh, my Gods, I recognized the money. It was my $100,000! How cruel Fate is! There were the hundred big ones in Heller’s hands! I tore at my hair.
Bang-Bang opened the door. “What’s all this worry over the cat?”
“He saved my life. I’m responsible for him now.”
Bang-Bang had half a pint of cream. He cut off the top of the carton and was putting it on the floor for the cat when he saw the money. “Jesus, Jet. Did the cat give you that?”
Heller said, “He’s a very wealthy cat.”
“Ain’t he kind of young to have all that dough?” He was watching the cat tie into the cream.
Heller snapped open one of the suitcases. It seemed to have some strange things in it. He pulled out something that looked like a close-fitting jump suit. It had a little undetached label:
Proofed to 3600 foot-pounds of impact energy
CIA Test Lab, Langley, Virginia
Heller said, “Mysteriouser and mysteriouser. Items from all over the place: Russia, Panama, Canada, Switzerland and wherever, including Turkey and Washington.”
Bang-Bang said, “That’s an African-type cat. My aunt had one with the same white, orange and black markings. They’re great fighters, supposed to be awful bright for cats. They’re called calicoes. Male calicoes are very rare. Oh, yeah, they’re also supposed to bring good luck. So anyway,” he continued learnedly, “if you’ve got Russia and Washington and all them, you can add Africa. If that’s his purse, I’d say he was a very well-traveled cat.”
Heller was opening up passports. They all had the same face in the pictures but different names. He came to the US one. His hands jolted.
GUNSALMO SILVA!
Heller covered up the type with his hands, leaving only the picture showing and turned it to Bang-Bang. “Who is this?”
Bang-Bang’s eyes bugged. “Jesus Christ! It’s GUNSALMO SILVA!”
Heller looked back at the passport and said, “Thanks. I just wanted to be sure. But Gunsalmo Silva from where, for whom?”
“Sangue di Cristo!” said Bang-Bang with awe. “You just rubbed Gunsalmo Silva!”
“The cat did it,” said Heller. “He’s a hit man. Got a record as long as his tail. Wanted posters in every post office. And he just broke out of the slammer. So don’t turn squealer on him: they could send him up for life.”
“Gunsalmo Silva,” whispered Bang-Bang, still in awe. “Top of the hit parade. Jesus, Jet, that must’ve been Gunsalmo plastered all over Fifth Avenue! You threw him off the Observation Platform!” he added in sudden comprehension.
“It’s my word against the cat’s,” said Heller. “And he’ll take the Fifth. But quit changing the subject, Bang-Bang. This bulletproof suit is too small for me. It looks like it would fit you exactly.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bang-Bang. “What’s coming off here?”
“It isn’t what’s coming off,” said Heller. “It’s what’s going on. You know that rental costume shop up on West 37th Street in the garment district? Get going.”
Bang-Bang did, while the cat, having demolished the cream, climbed up on Heller’s lap and with a deep sigh went to sleep.
They halted in front of an old two-story building with a costume shop on the ground floor and, apparently, living quarters on the second. It was well after midnight and the shop was closed and barred.
Heller got out and forcefully pushed a bell behind the iron grate.
A window shot up on the second floor and a bald head jutted out. “Ve iss closed yet! Go avay!”
Heller stepped back. He called, “Won’t a hundred-dollar bill open you up?”
“Dot iss a goot key! Down right I’ll be yet. Don’t noplace go!”
Presently they were in the shop. The proprietor was in a white nightgown and slippers with a black jacket thrown over his shoulders.
Heller handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “I want to look,” he said.
“For a hundred dollars business iss so bad you can buy the shop,” said the proprietor.
Heller was going through racks of all kinds of costumes. He came to a rack where everything was black. Black dresses, black hats, black veils. He kept looking at them and then back at Bang-Bang, locating a size. He pulled one out.
He handed Bang-Bang the bulletproof suit. “Go in that booth over there and put this on.”
Bang-Bang, grumbling, did as he was told.
Then Heller handed him the black dress.
“Oh, no!” said Bang-Bang.
“Oh, yes,” said Heller. “It’s the latest style.”
Bang-Bang furiously wrestled into the dress, muttering, “What I go through!”
Heller now put the hat on him and dropped the veil over his face.
“Oh my God!” said Bang-Bang, looking at himself in a mirror. “If they ever hear of this at Sardine’s, I’ll never live it down!”
Heller gave the proprietor another fifty dollars. “We’ll bring the costume back.”
The man said, “Nein, nein, keep it! We got plenty like dot. Them we furnish for the funerals, yet.”
“I hope not mine!” said Bang-Bang.
“Let’s go and see,” said Heller.
PART THIRTY-ONE
Chapter 4
In the cab, Bang-Bang said, “That cat is having an awful effect on you! Janitors don’t ride in cabs and old ladies sure as hell don’t drive them!”
“This is G-2 homework,” said Heller, in obvious reference to his military class. “We’re spies in disguise.”
“Oh,” said Bang-Bang.
Heller was examining the baggage check. It said:
Midtown Air Terminal
Overnight Baggage Check
He told Bang-Bang where to go exactly. The town was quiet. They reached the entrance Heller had specified and pulled into the covered area where cabs usually stood. There weren’t any there. The place was deserted.
Heller put his cap down on the back seat and put the cat on top of it. Heller handed Bang-Bang the baggage check.
“Now, Bang-Bang, we’re going to go in separately. When you hear me drop this bucket, you walk up to the overnight baggage counter, present this check, pick up whatever they give you and walk out through the underground passage back to this cab. If I yell ‘Pizza,’ you duck. Got it?”
“Did you say ‘Drop the bucket’? or ‘Kick the bucket’?”
“If there’s any shooting, let’s hope it’s somebody else that kicks the bucket.”
“I haven’t got a rod.”
“Neither have I and I didn’t notice any in these bags. But I know this place. I am sure you’ll be as safe as if you were in your own bed.”
“You don’t know some of the skirts that get in my bed,” said Bang-Bang.
“They always shoot for the body,” said Heller.
“Let’s hope they know that,” said Bang-Bang.
They got out. “Now, cat,” said Heller, “you stay there. I don’t want you hitting me up for overtime.” He closed the door.
Bang-Bang slung the empty purse over his shoulder and entered the long dark tunnel.
Heller, with his broom and bucket, skipped around to another entrance and shortly emerged on a mezzanine that overlooked the lobby. From it he could see the overnight baggage-check counter below and across the lower floor.
The mezzanine had seats on it. In one of the seats sat a very beefy man in a black overcoat and a black slouch hat. He glanced up as Heller walked along and then resumed his watch on the lobby below.
Heller looked the lobby all over. Only a couple o
f clerks. No traffic at this time of night.
He dropped the bucket loudly and began to sweep away.
Bang-Bang emerged from the tunnel and mincingly walked over to the overnight baggage counter below.
The man in the black overcoat leaned forward.
Bang-Bang pushed a buzzer on the counter and a sleepy clerk came out of the wire-enclosed interior, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
Bang-Bang handed him the ticket.
Heller swept away at the carpet, ignored by the man on the nearby seat.
The clerk found the item. He got it down from the racks. It was a large brown suitcase with big metal locks. It seemed heavy. He wanted two dollars and Bang-Bang, with the empty purse, had to hike up his dress, fumble in the pockets of the bulletproof suit for his wallet and get out two one-dollar bills. He made it not very elegantly, but from this vantage place on the mezzanine, the bulletproof jumper didn’t show. Bang-Bang needed a lot of lessons in being an old lady!
The clerk relinquished the suitcase. Bang-Bang got it off the counter at the near cost of a sprained arm. He went tottering off toward the underground-entrance arch.
Black Overcoat was up with a grunt the moment Bang-Bang vanished into the tunnel.
With great speed the man went flying down the mezzanine stairs.
Heller with bucket and broom was not five steps behind him.
Why didn’t the fellow look back? Then I realized Heller was running at the exact same cadence as the other. There was only one set of sounds of feet!
Heller was almost breathing down the man’s neck!
They crossed the lobby.
Black Overcoat darted into the tunnel.
He had drawn a gun!
Suddenly it came to me that somebody had not meant Gunsalmo Silva to really collect that suitcase! I was watching the standard hit-the-hitter routine in progress!
Or was it? Maybe this was something else?
The doors ahead of Bang-Bang burst open!
Two men dressed like cab drivers rushed in. They were thirty feet in front of Bang-Bang.
Black Overcoat had a big revolver extended toward Bang-Bang.
Heller reached over the big man’s shoulder and seized his gun hand. The bucket clattered to the floor.
“Pizza!” shouted Heller.
Bang-Bang dropped the suitcase and dived to the side! Heller’s left hand was gripping a neck muscle of the big man. The gun stayed extended.
The two coming in the door dived for the suitcase. One got it. The other was grabbing out a gun.
Heller’s hand closed on the big man’s gun fist.
The revolver roared!
The one who had been drawing was flung back with a hammer blow!
The big man’s revolver fired again!
The one with the suitcase flew forward, dropped it and collapsed.
Heller turned the gun sideways until it pointed at the struggling assassin’s head.
BLOWIE!
The hat went sailing with hair in it.
Heller’s left hand shifted to the overcoat. He snatched out a wallet from the breast pocket.
He let the big man collapse and only then let go of the gun hand. Black Overcoat’s fingers were still wrapped around the weapon. I realized Heller’s own hand had never touched it!
Heller scooped up his bucket and broom.
Bang-Bang was picking himself off the floor.
Heller raced ahead and grabbed Bang-Bang by the arm and then, in passing, grabbed the handle of the suitcase.
They sped to the cab.
Heller threw Bang-Bang behind the wheel and the bag, bucket and broom into the back.
“Close that door!” cried Bang-Bang. “We don’t want this blamed on the cat!” He slammed the cab into gear with a crash!
There wasn’t a soul in sight as Bang-Bang sped out of the terminal.
PART THIRTY-ONE
Chapter 5
In a parking lot and a darkened cab they got Bang-Bang into his regular clothes. Then, burdened with all the baggage and the cat riding in the purse, they struggled through the icy New York night and entered the Empire State Building at the 33rd Street entrance.
A sleepy elevator girl deposited them incuriously at their floor and shortly Heller was knocking sharply at the door of Multinational.
Izzy put an eye to the door. “What’s up?”
“We’re making you an accessory after the cat,” said Bang-Bang. “Come along.”
They went to Heller’s office, put the baggage down and turned on the lights. The cat began to inspect the place.
Heller laid the new bag over on its side and was reaching for something to pick the locks when Bang-Bang stopped him. “No, no! Jesus, don’t you never remember nothing I taught you? Never pick a lock in New York—it might be wired for a bomb! Let me.”
Bang-Bang rummaged around in a case of tools and found some wire snips and thin screwdrivers and began to attack the hinges of the new bag.
Heller opened the two original suitcases wide and began to go through their contents.
Izzy came in. He had on a shabby old overcoat and a nightcap and his feet were bare.
Heller was picking up items and reading their tags:
Hydrogen self-inflatable balloon
for rapid escapes.
Certified CIA Test Lab.
Melting spoon.
When used to stir cocktails,
introduces deadly poison.
Certified CIA Test Lab.
Poison Lipstick.
Shade: Charming Carmen.
Apply to secretary’s lips
and when she kisses boss,
imparts deadly poison that kills instantly.
Certified CIA Test Lab.
Suicide Kit: Take two before retiring.
The Surgeon General has determined these
to be hazardous to your health. . . .
“What are you doing?” said Izzy with alarm.
“We’re penetrating the most closely held secrets of the CIA,” said Heller.
“I can’t get these god (bleeped) hinges loose,” said Bang-Bang.
Heller reached over to the front locks and gave them a flip. The bag cracked open! Bang-Bang dived for cover.
Izzy didn’t. He had already spotted something through the crack. He bent down and pulled the top wide. He said, “Oy!”
MONEY! The bag was jammed tight with US bills of assorted denominations, neatly strapped with bank bands.
Heller picked up the corner of the big suitcase and emptied it on the floor.
A small mountain of MONEY!
Heller examined the bag for internal markings and false bottoms.
But Izzy sat down on the floor. His bare feet started scrubbing against each other. His hands, like talons, began to lock upon packets of money.
In a muttering blur of sound, as fast as the blur of his hands as he stacked it, the pile of packets, neatened, grew beside him. Then he was done.
“Oy,” said Izzy. “Give or take miscounts in the packages, this is a MILLION DOLLARS!” He rubbed at his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He looked at Heller. “How do you do these things?”
Heller fished up my poor, misdirected hundred thousand. He added to it rubles and an extra fistful of currency that had been in the purse. Then he tossed all this on the pile. He said, “I have secret admirers, Izzy. They are terrified I might go on welfare.”
“Did you draw this out of the bank? I mean are there any traces on it?”
“Nary a one,” said Heller. “A totally untraceable donation.”
Izzy was totaling again. “Oy, oy!” he said, “This means we only have $400,000 more to go to clean up IRS!”
Heller reached over. He pulled some packets off the stack. “Make that $410,100, Izzy. Bang-Bang is low on skirts. He was complaining just tonight.” He handed $10,000 to Bang-Bang.
Izzy was doing plans and calculations. “I won’t pay IRS. I will put it all on the arbitrage line, run it up and then pay those goyim
robbers. The Japanese yen is dirt cheap in Singapore tonight and sky-high in Paris! I’ll get right on—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, Izzy.” Heller looked around. The cat had gotten up on his desk and was sitting there eyeing Izzy very intently.
Heller handed Izzy a $100 bill. “Go buy this cat a blanket and a new harness and a dish and things. He hasn’t got a decent spacekit.”
Izzy took the $100 but he said, “You going to keep a cat here? There aren’t any mice.”
Heller said, “This is a no-mice cat. He deals with rats, exclusively. He’s a very tough hit cat, Izzy. And you’ll be very glad to know that I saved his life so now you have somebody to share responsibility for me.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” said Izzy. “I’ll get him a spacekit at once, whatever it is.”
Izzy was stuffing money into big plastic bags from the bar. He looked around to see if there was any more and then rushed out.
The cat, apparently having made certain that Izzy would obey, curled up under Heller’s desk lamp and went to sleep.
Heller was looking at the wallet he had snapped out of Black Overcoat’s pocket. It had some names and ID in it. He showed it to Bang-Bang. “Inganno John Scroccone. You know the name, Bang-Bang?”
“No.”
Heller looked at it again. “I’m certainly in the ID collection business. I’ve got to find out.”
Bang-Bang said, “What really happened up there on the roof tonight?”
“Hush,” said Heller. “I promised the cat faithfully I wouldn’t turn state’s evidence on him. His paw prints are all over the place. So both him and me have got to take the Fifth.”
“Oh,” said Bang-Bang.
The cat stretched and began to purr.
PART THIRTY-ONE
Chapter 6
The horrible sight of my hundred thousand dollars US in Heller’s hand did something even more horrible to my psyche. A psyche is, as all psychologists know, located just above the id and, when overreacted upon, bruises the ego. When these three things are already swollen from past abuses, there ensues what is called the “I’m-going-nuts syndrome.” A case of multiple frustrations is likely to ensue, surcharging the blood vessels and precipitating an epileptic fit.
All patients have their own particular remedies. With some, it is yelling at the wife. With others, it is kicking the dog. I thought rapidly: if I did not apply first aid at once, I might find myself in need of psychiatric help. Drunkards often obtain relief by imbibing the hair of a dog that bit them but I had no dog whose hair I might find palatable, much less one to kick. Thus, out of dire necessity, an inspiration was born. I had better look at some money. That, I was sure, would be the soothing balm which would interrupt the threatened epileptic fit.