«What is it?»
«Mac gave me a medallion of his old division from World War Two, the one that broke through the Bulge, and I always keep it on me for good luck.» Devereaux reached into his pocket and withdrew an outsized, lightweight, ersatz coin with the face of MacKenzie Hawkins etched in the center. «I’ll flip it up and let it land on the road. I’ll take heads, you take tails. If it’s tails, you’ll go back to San Francisco and we’ll both suffer the tortures of the damned. If it’s heads, you’ll come to Boston with me.»
«Agreed.» The medallion spun end-over-end in the air and fell on the dirt road. Jennifer bent down. «Good heavens, it’s heads.» She started to pick up the coin when Sam’s hand clamped over hers.
«No, Jenny, you mustn’t lean over like that!»
«Like what?»
«It’s very bad for your sacroiliac!» Devereaux pulled her up while clutching the medallion in his right hand.
«Sam, what are you saying?»
«The husband’s first job is to protect his wife.»
«From what?»
«Bad sacroiliacs.» Devereaux manipulated the medallion in his fingers and scaled it into the pasture on their left. «I don’t need any lucky pieces anymore,» he said, embracing Jenny. «I have you, and that’s all the luck I ever wanted or needed.»
«Or maybe you didn’t want me to see the other side of the coin,» whispered Redwing into his ear while softly biting it. «The Hawk gave me one of those in Hooksett. His face is on both sides. If you had said tails, I would have killed you.»
«Wanton bitch,» whispered Sam, nibbling her lips like a chimpanzee finding peanuts. «Is there a secluded field we might wander into?»
«Not now, Rover, Mac’s expecting us.»
«He’s out of my life; this is the end!»
«I sincerely hope so, my darling, but being a realist, I wonder for how long?»
They rounded the corner of the dirt road where the huge multicolored, multilayered tepee of imitation animal skins flapped down from the apex to the widespread stakes in the ground. Smoke emerged from the opening above.
«He’s there,» said Devereaux. «Let’s make the good-byes quick and simple, like in nice-to-know-you-stay-the-hell-away-from-our-lives!»
«That’s a bit harsh, Sam. Look what he’s done for my people.»
«It’s all a game for him, Jenny, don’t you understand that?»
«Then it’s a good game he plays, darling, can’t you see that?»
«I don’t know, he always confuses me—»
«Never mind,» said Redwing. «He’s coming out. Good Lord, look at him!»
Sam stared in disbelief. General MacKenzie Lochinvar Hawkins, a.k.a. Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis, bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to either alleged person. There was not an inkling of the military, much less the majesty of the American Indian; in fact, there was no dignity properly attributed to either image. Instead, regality had been replaced by gaucherie, the flamboyance of the shallow man, which somehow was more solid, more convincing. Partially covering his bristling, close-cropped gray hair was a yellow beret, and below his strong nose a thin, blackened mustache, and below that a purple ascot that was in flaming contrast to his pink silk shirt, which was color-coordinated with his tight-fitting bright red trousers, the cuffs lopping over a pair of white Gucci loafers. Naturally, the suitcase he was carrying was a Louis Vuitton.
«Mac, who the hell are you supposed to be?» yelled Devereaux.
«Oh, there you two are,» said the Hawk, without answering the question. «I thought I’d have to leave without seeing you. I’m in a dreadful hurry.»
«‘A dreadful hurry’?» said Jennifer.
«Mac, who are you?»
«Mackintosh Quartermain,» replied the Hawk sheepishly, «veteran of the Scots Grenadiers. It was Gin-Gin’s idea.»
«What?»
«Off to Hollywood,» mumbled Hawkins. «I’m a co-producer and technical adviser on Greenberg’s flick.»
«‘Flick’ …?»
«Just to keep an eye on Manny’s financial imagination … and maybe a few other things, if they crop up. Hollywood’s in a mess, you know. It needs some clear-thinking innovators… Look, it was terrif seeing you two sweethearts, but I’m really in a hurry. I’m meeting my new adjutant—assistant—Colonel Roman Zabritski, late of the Soviet military cinema, at the airport. Our plane goes on to the Coast.»
«Roman Z?» asked a stunned Redwing.
«What happened to Cyrus?» said Sam.
«He’s somewhere in the south of France, checking on one of Frazier’s châteaus. It was vandalized.»
«I thought he wanted to go back to the laboratory.»
«Oh, well, what with his prison record and everything … well, Cookson’s buying a chemical plant… Look, it was great you dolls came out to see me, but I’ve really got to dash-bash. Give us a kiss, sweetheart, and if you ever want a screen test, you know where to jingle me.» The astonished Redwing accepted the Hawk’s embrace. «And you, Lieutenant,» continued MacKenzie, throwing his arms around Devereaux, «you’re still the best legal skull on the planet, except maybe for Commander Pinkus and the little lady here.»
«Mac!» cried Sam. «Don’t you see? You’re starting all over again! There’ll be nothing left of Los Angeles!»
«No, not true, son, not true at all. We’ll bring back the glory days.» The Hawk picked up his Louis Vuitton suitcase, stifling the emergence of tears. «Ciao, babes,» he said, quickly turning away and hurrying up the dirt road, a man with a mission.
«Why do I have the idea that sometime, somewhere in Boston, the telephone will ring and at the other end will be Mackintosh Quartermain?» said Devereaux, his arm around Jennifer as they watched the figure of the Hawk grow smaller in the distance.
«Because it’s inevitable, my darling, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.»