«Hey, Uncle Tommy!» cried his nephew, a boy of sixteen. «There’s a riot over there!»
«Maybe we should go back to the hotel,» suggested his niece, a young lady of fourteen.
«No, you’re perfectly safe,» said the uncle. «Wait here, I’ll be right back. Something crazy’s going on.» Deerfoot, as his name implied, was a splendid runner, and in less than thirty seconds he reached the outskirts of the confused, rebellious crowd at the steps of the Supreme Court. It was crazy! Indians—their Indians—were in full war paint, stamping and dancing, and yelling their heads off in some fanatical protest, the nature of which was hard to determine.
Then the memories came back, the legends passed down by the old men of the tribe, from one generation to another. The language he was hearing was similar but different, the pounding feet of the dancing chants imitative, yet not authentic. Good God, they were the Wopotamis of old! The ancient stories abounded with tales of how they stole everything in sight, so why not most of the language, and they never left their tepees whenever it snowed! Colonel Deerfoot bent over in laughter, holding his stomach so as not to collapse to the pavement in hysterics. The wild frenzy of the protesting chant with its highly suggestive dance movement was the «Celebration of the Wedding Night.»
The Wopotamis never got anything right!
«Calfnose, hear me and execute!» whispered Hawkins harshly into his radio as he threaded his way up through the dancers to the entrance of the Court.
«What now? We got your general out, who kept screaming that he ‘wasn’t finished!’ Little Joey’s right, he’s a fazool!»
«Little Joey?… Fazool?»
«Yeah, well we made a deal. He’ll give back half the money, and I collect twenty-per off his take for arbitration.»
«Johnny, we’re in a crisis!»
«No we’re not, the two scumbuckets are in a bar down the street. You know, Vinnie’s red wig doesn’t do anything for our image. Real tacky, y’know what I mean?»
«Oh, Christ, you’re talking like him!»
«Actually, he’s not a bad guy when you get to know him. Did you realize that ethnic Indian types are very respected in Las Vegas? Nevada was big redskin territory, y’know.»
«I’m talking about right now! Plan B, priority Two—the peaceful storming of the Court!»
«You’re out of your fucking mind! We could get shot!»
«Not if you all fall on your knees and do the wailing bit once you’re inside. It’s un-American to shoot anybody on his knees.»
«Who says?»
«It’s right there in the Constitution. You don’t shoot anyone on his knees because he’s praying and will die in a state of grace while you get shafted by God.»
«No kidding?»
«No fooling. Go!»
The Hawk replaced the radio in the pocket of his distressed overcoat inside the great hall of the Supreme Court as Cyrus kept Aaron, Jenny, Sam, and the two Desis off to the side, away from the arched metal detectors. «Now listen up, folks,» said the mercenary-chemist. «When the Wopotamis crash in here, D-One and D-Two will raise the cordons and you—Sam, Jenny, and Mr. Pinkus—will slip under them and head to the second floor. Use the stairs or the elevators, whatever, and go to the second closet on the right. Your other clothes are there in a plastic bag. Change in the ladies’ and men’s rooms and meet at the chambers at the west end of the hall, I’ll be waiting for you.»
«What about Mac?» asked Devereaux.
«If I know him, and by now I think I do, he’ll be at that closet before you distributing the merchandise. Man, I wish that cat had been running a few campaigns I’ve been in. I’m good, but he’s the max—I mean really evil!»
«That’s a recommendation, Cyrus?» asked Pinkus.
«You better believe it, Rabbi. I’d follow him to hell and back because I’d know I’d get back.»
«Well, he never swam twenty miles in a hurricane—»
«Oh, be quiet, Sam… Oh, oh, here they come!»
«Great Abraham!» whispered Aaron Pinkus, as a horde of Wopotamis, their painted, waxed faces grotesquely weeping, burst through the doors and instantly fell on their knees, singing in unison, their heads raised to the ceiling, imploring their gods for deliverance. (If anyone knew, and they did not, it was still the «Celebration of the Wedding Night.»)
The weapons of a dozen guards were unholstered, their guns aimed at the heads of the protesters. None was fired. Somehow, it was in the Constitution, or at least in the minds of the Supreme Court police, that one did not fire on people who were in the act of prayer. Instead, alarms were heard, not from the detectors but from within the building itself. In seconds additional guards, clerks, and maintenance personnel streamed into the great hall. Pandemonium prevailed.
«Now!» whispered Cyrus as Desis One and Two raised the thick velvet cords while Aaron, Sam, and Jenny swept underneath during the insanity that faced the Supreme Court police and staffers.
And during this new and totally unexpected chaos, MacKenzie Hawkins walked through the inferior metal detectors, thanked nobody in evidence, and raced to the stairway that led to the second floor.
A problem. Naturally. Vinnie the Bam-Bam’s Aunt Angelina the Go-Go had confused the second closet on the right with an air-conditioning machine room and for several precious minutes the black plastic bag holding their clothes was not found. Suddenly, there was a muted explosion that none of them really noticed.
«I’ve got it!» yelled Sam, in his excitement pushing a lever and shorting out the air-conditioning. «Everything stopped,» he added, bewildered by the cessation of the huge machinery.
«Who cares?» cried Jennifer, holding up Pinkus as the Hawk came running down the corridor, throwing off his tramp’s overcoat.
«There you are!» he roared. «The goddamned staircase was locked from the outside!»
«How’d you get in?» asked Devereaux, pulling Redwing’s clothes out of the bag.
«I always carry a little plastic explosive—you never know.»
«I thought I heard a boom,» said the exhausted Pinkus.
«You did,» admitted Hawkins. «Let’s go.»
«Where’s the ladies’ room?» asked Redwing.
«Down at that end,» answered MacKenzie, pointing east.
«Where’s our room?» asked Sam.
«Much nearer, right over there on the left.»
They scattered, and suddenly Jennifer turned and shouted. «Sam! Can I dress with you? We’ve only got three minutes and that door’s two football fields away!»
«Boy, have I been waiting for those words!»
The platinum-helmeted hooker raced back to the chicken-breeding «Alby-Joe Scrubb» and together they followed Pinkus and the Hawk into the restroom. Jenny ran into a stall as the men shed their clothes and wigs for the more dignified attire they wore under their outlandish cam-ex equipment.
Except for the Hawk. At the bottom of the large refuse bag, layered neatly for easy removal, were the massive full ceremonial garments of Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis, including the longest, most flamboyant feathered headdress since the Okeechobees greeted a misguided cosmetician named Ponce de León on the shores of the future Miami Beach. He swiftly removed his tramp’s trousers and soiled shirt, replacing them with his buckskins and his beaded buffalo jacket. Then, under the stunned gazes of Aaron and Sam, he carefully placed the gargantuan trail of feathers over his head. It reached down all six feet, three inches to the tiled floor.