A mob seemed to be gathering. There were two tough-looking fellows who wanted to get through the picket line and at Bury who still wore the sign on his back. Some others tried to join the picket line.
I fended them off with various pokes and sorties. One timid-looking fellow seemed to have gotten caught between the mob and the phone booth. He had an overcoat the same color as Bury's. I hoped Bury would finish up quickly. This was getting tight. The mob was increasing. Instead of the placards fending them off, they seemed to be attracting them. These were a different crowd—blue-collar workers. An ugly situation was in the making.
Bury finished!
He hung up the phone and opened the kiosk door.
I acted, quick as a wink.
I took the sign covertly off Bury's back and put it on the timid man's back. I hissed into his ear, "They're after you! Run for your life!"
My, did he run! He went tearing down the platform and away!
The crowd, confused in the dim light, attracted as they should be by the motion, saw the CIA MAN sign vanishing out of their clutches!
They sped in a howling torrent after their quarry!
Their savage cries were deafening! They receded.
"What was that?" said Bury.
"Joggers," I said.
We left the impromptu emergency world-command post of the Rockecenter planetary proprietorship.
The phone was ringing. Probably Miss Goog wanted more quarters. We ignored it and left.
Mr. Bury glanced at his watch. "We had better take time to eat. This schedule will be pretty tight later."
We went into the Jewish delicatessen at the top of the subway stairs. There was a greasy, white-topped table at the back. Mr. Bury said, "I hate these places normally. I'm dead set against Jews making money, but that applies generally to other races, of course."
We sat down and he looked at the menu in big letters on the wall. The Klan had spray-painted a swastika with a KKK over it. "I think all they have here is kosher hot dogs. No wonder our Ku Klux Klan attacks them."
"You finance the Klan?" I said.
"Of course. They make social trouble, don't they? Hey!" he yelled at the little Jew back of the counter, "two hottee doggies, you savvy?
"Blasted foreigners, they don't speak English, you know. But they're all right if you put a dash of bicarbonate of soda on them."
I was very contrite. I realized I had shot two of their Klansmen. Not very brotherly of me. Well, I wouldn't tell Bury.
We got our kosher hot dogs. Mr. Bury, eating one, was working on his notebook. I didn't interrupt him. He was being very careful and neat about it, making his rough notes written in the kiosk legible. I knew he must be rounding off the administration details to make it all right with the powers that be.
"I think we have a very good chance of getting Madison," he said. "Hatchetheimer sure is bright. I just hope we have enough firepower." He made a couple more notes. "Well, that will suffice to give my office staff something to handle. Got to keep them busy. How does this look to you?" He turned the notes around so I could read them. I was touched by his confidence and his seeking my opinion.
The notes said:
1. Send Peeksnoop's wife a box of chocolates.
2. Account for one bag of change, IRT Subway System.
3. Rebuild Fort Apache using taxpayer's money, order one squadron of horse cavalry to it, transfer General Sheridan to command it and order him to chase Geronimo until he reaches retirement age.
4. Demote Miss Goog, Chief Operator New York Telephone Company, to track polisher New York Subway.
5. Debit three hot dogs to expense account.
6. Promote Captain Jinx of the U.S.S. Saratoga to rear admiral if he comes through on time.
7. Tell the British they can choose the next NATO commander if their tank squadron does its job.
8. Send the mayor's wife a dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses and appoint her president of the Metropolitan Opera.
I said, "It seems all right to me. But I don't get this last one."
He looked at it. "Oh, heavens. You're right, Ink-switch. I forgot to call the mayor." He hastily stuffed the last of his hot dogs in his mouth and rushed to the pay phone.
I didn't hear what he was saying. He came back looking the usual disillusioned look of a Wall Street lawyer.
"It was just as I suspected. I hate politicians. All I asked him to do was use every squad car in Manhattan to block all entrances and exits to Twelfth Avenue and the West Side Elevated Highway from West 17th Street to West 79th and prohibit all other traffic on it between 8:30 and 9:30 tonight. That's territorial U.S. so it's all legal to use them as long as they are not actively engaged in the assault—we have to close all loopholes to a possible Madison appeal on technicalities."
He thumped his fist on the table. "And (bleep) him, I knew he would balk. So I had already figured my way around it. That's what the flowers were for. I told him we were after a member of the Corleone mob. It's his wife, you see. She and Babe Corleone were chorus girls together at the Roxy Theater and they hate each other. You have to know the ins and outs of local politics as well, Inkswitch. So, of course, he issued the order instantly and Madison won't escape on any side streets. So we leave the flowers on the list."
Bury rubbed his hand wearily over his prune face. Then he gave his narrow, snap-brim New Yorker's hat a tug. "We might as well be going, Inkswitch. This is likely to be a pretty violent assault and I told my wife I'd be home by ten."
He paid for the hot dogs with a handful of change out of the IRT bag. I noticed he had forgotten his sheet of notes. I caught up with him outside. I gave them to him. He wadded them up and threw them in the litter basket by a lamppost. "Don't litter, Inkswitch. We have a campaign going right now. 'No Littering.' Lets us pick up all the anti-Rockecenter leaflets and jail the offenders, without being charged with violating the First Amendment of Free Speech and Press. You have to know these things, now that you're a member of the family. But I will say that you won't find it easy. People like us, we work and slave, cogwheels in the machines of the mighty, unappreciated and ignored no matter how devoted to our duties. I think I have indigestion. Did I put bicarbonate of soda on my hot dog?"
I didn't recall that he had and he settled it by remembering he didn't have any with him.
We made our way to the rendezvous with the Gods of battle.
It was about 8:20 P.M. The deadly zero hour was rushing upon us.
Bury and I alighted from a cab: it could not get any closer than a block away. We sped on foot toward our rendezvous with fate.
Ahead were masses of vehicles. The black night was foggy blue with glowing lights. The Hudson River lay to our left hand like a plain of pitch.
Bury was muttering, "Aircraft carrier, sixteen M-20 latest model battle tanks, assault rifles, bazookas... I hope we have assembled enough firepower to handle
Madison. But one cannot actually tell. He's tricky beyond belief!"
We were going through police lines, squad cars blocking everyone off the coming battleground. A huge hulking figure barred our way. It was Police Inspector Grafferty.
He looked closely at us and then he backed up with a smart salute. "I see it's you, Mr. Bury. I had a notion it might be. No one else could take every squad car in New York off its patrols. Want us to look the other way at anything?"
Bury was concentrated on getting through the squad cars and police mob and to our first destination. But he answered, "No, this is all legal tonight."
"Oh?" said Grafferty, honestly stunned with surprise.
"It's an international matter so don't let your men get involved in anything but the traffic block. I wouldn't want any Americans up before the International Court of Human Rights."
Grafferty agreed hastily. "No. They wouldn't stand a chance on that one."