She got out a pen and poised it over the snowy linen tablecloth. "Now, first, of course, you need a brand-new wardrobe." She wrote that down. "And then a string of polo ponies—that encourages you to be a gentleman when you hit other boys over the head with a mallet. Yes, definitely polo ponies." She wrote that down. She thought a bit.
Heller would have spoken but she sensed it and shushed him with a hand gesture. "Oh, it's wintertime. You will need some new ice skates." She wrote that down. "And then, of course, it will soon be spring. So you will need a new baseball bat."
Heller would have spoken again but this time she shushed him directly. "No, no more racing cars. Not one, Jerome. You may think this is harsh but my ears cannot possibly stand to hear one more word about racing from the mayor's wife!"
She thought for a bit. "I was going to add the old Capone villa in Miami Beach but you're getting that for Christmas and I want to keep it as a surprise. Part of being a good mother is not to spoil a boy all at once."
She checked her list to see that she had everything down. She said, "Good." She drew a big circle around the notes on the tablecloth. "That settles it. Now, with your new wardrobe, you'll have to have something very quickly for the Silva funeral.... A red tuxedo and cape. Yes, that will do. It won't clash with my gown. Here, have some more cookies, Jerome."
A faint honking had been going on, from out in the street. Babe suddenly yelled, "Geovani! What the hell is all that honking out there?"
Geovani popped in. "It's a New York taxi. He says he's been waiting for the kid here for three hours."
"Well, blood of Christ, pay the (bleepard) off! You think I'd send Jerome back to town in a public cab? Tell Battitore to get out my limousine! You think my own son is some kind of a bum? And you tell that Battitore to get the back seat nice and warm. You want Jerome to catch cold?" She turned to Heller. "Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes. An increase in allowance..."
That was too much! Outraged at all this attention and adulation Heller was getting, I turned off the viewer and hid it from my sight. There is a point where even masochism pales.
I thought I'd better see what the radio and TV had to say about this "mighty deed" he was bragging to everybody about. I listened to several news broadcasts. Aha! Not a mention of it!
I stretched my credit with the news vendor and got the afternoon papers. There had been nothing in the morning papers. But in one afternoon one there was a little notice wedged in amongst the latest fashions. It said:
MIDTOWN CONTEMPORARY GARB
A body identified as that of one Gunsalmo Silva by dental plates and fingerprints, was found in the small hours of last night on Fifth Avenue, apparently having fallen from the Baltman and Company roof. Silva was clothed in what had apparently been a woman's black dress. One wonders if this is the latest fashion trend now emerging.
That put things in their proper perspective. The newspapers never lie. They always tell the exact truth in things of this kind, and things of all kinds, for that matter. The Rockecenters and Madisons take care of that!
I felt a little better. I was no longer twitching and I didn't have to keep my mouth tight to suppress the tiny screams which sought to issue from my throat.
My lot was very difficult. I was broke. Heller and some unknown had robbed me. Miss Pinch didn't have a clue as to how to be a petty-cash cashier.
Somehow, trembling, abandoned and alone, I would struggle further along the sadistic road of thorns some people laughingly call life.
Lacking a crystal ball, I thought no further shocks lurked ahead, at least today.
I was wrong!
Sirens were sounding in the street. There seemed to be an awful commotion going on. Despite the cold, I went out on the terrace and looked down at Fifth Avenue.
Military vehicles! Drawing up around the hotel!
White-helmeted and -belted MPs leaping out to set up a machine gun on the corner!
I drew back. A movement on a nearby building caught my eye.
Snipers in white helmets and belts!
They were laying their weapons directly at this terrace!
My Gods, I gasped—the U.S. Army has discovered I'm an extraterrestrial! They've got me trapped! They're closing in!
I hastily withdrew inside the penthouse.
A thundering on the door!
I'm dead!
Bravely, as one walks the last mile, bare-chested to the bullets, already in so low a state I did not care whether I lived or died, I threw the door open.
It was a bellhop.
His face was chalk white.
"Is a Mr. Inkswitch in?" he said.
Life without money wasn't worth living anyway. "Why not?" I said.
Crash!
Out of the stairwell, out from around the potted palms, out of the elevator, came MPs with assault rifles, running low.
They knocked the bellhop aside like he was a rag doll!
They burst past me!
They overturned the chairs, smashing them!
They yanked open closet and bathroom doors, leaping back with rifles pointing in case anyone came out.
They fired short bursts into mattresses!
They jabbed their rifles into clothes.
They raced out on the terrace with a crash of potted palms and took positions commanding the surrounding terrain.
An officer stood firmly before me. He was backed up with two MPs who had their Colt .45s on me. He gave a signal. An MP began to shake me down. He got my wallet. He handed it to the officer.
The officer looked at it. He held it to the light. He compared pictures. He gave another signal. A soldier grabbed my hand. He produced a pad and inked it. He got my fingerprints. He gave them snappily to the officer.
The officer compared them to a card he had.
In a cavalry voice, he shouted, "FOHwud, HO-o!"
There was a roar and rattle.
A cart of equipment was rushed in, the cannon wheels rumbling on the carpet and tearing it to bits. Three men were pushing it. They stopped it in the center of the room. One of them rushed out on the terrace and held up a chromium-plated pole.
Another officer came in. He knelt by the cart. He picked up an instrument. He barked into it and waited tensely.
The pause gave me an instant to read their uniform badges:
U.S. Army Signal Corps
The officer at the cart said to me, "This is ultra-secret. You could be shot for disclosing that you have seen a satellite-enscrambled decode-recode. Not even the Russians know we have it. Do you swear you have not seen it?"
I raised my inked-up hand and swore.
"Good," he said, "here is your party." He handed me the instrument.
A voice said, "Alo. Kto eta gavarit?"
I handed the instrument back to the Signal Corps officer. "Don't you have the wrong number? I think he just asked me who was speaking in Russian."
"(Bleep)!" said the officer. He got on the line again. He talked very fast and hard. Once more he handed me the phone.
A voice said, "!Diga! ?Con quien hablo?"
I tried to hand the instrument back to the officer. "Somebody just answered me in Spanish. I think he wanted to know who he was speaking to."
"No, no," said the officer. "You've got the right party."
I put the instrument back to my ear. The voice repeated, "?Con quien hablo?"
"Inkswitch," I said.
"Ah. Espere un momento, por favor." So I waited a moment. It was more than a moment, but that's how the Spanish are. Funny, though. I didn't know enough Spanish to spot accents but it sure wasn't Spain Spanish. A lilting sort of speech like he was singing. Cuban?