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Fiction-Online Volume 7 Number 2
FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 7, Number 2
March-June, 2000
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
mail a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by downloading from the website
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online
The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
at the following URL:
http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage
performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
=================================================
CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Family Verses"
Jean Bower
"How Professor Weinberg's Failure to Hand in His Exam on Time
Altered the Course of Human Destiny Forever"
Clifford S. Fishman
"Vulcan," an excerpt (chapter 19) from
the novel "Ay, Chucho!"
William Ramsay
"XXX," part 3 of the play "Shell Game"
Otho Eskin
=================================================
CONTRIBUTORS
JEAN BOWER is a retired attorney. She has attended numerous
poetry workshops in Washington and New England. Her poems have
appeared in various journals and in the recent anthology In a Certain
Place.
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs,
has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and
produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has
been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in
Washington.. His play, "Miss Julie" will be staged this fall by the
SCENA Theatre in Washington.
CLIFFORD S. FISHMAN is a professor of law and has published
books and papers in that field. The short story is one of his preferred non-
legal modes of expression.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. His play, "Agamemnon," was recently
staged by the Georgetown Theatre Company in Washington..
==================================================
FAMILY VERSES
by Jean Bower
My Father's Hat
He doffed it
to a lady
(ah! who?)
and found
splat
of pigeon poo
on the fedora
that shaded
his blue-gray
eyes.
Mother in her 40's
Sometimes she'd put
her book down
and give a party
canapes of shrimp
on toast squares
with mayonnaise
and ketchup,
crustless white bread
sandwiches, cookie-
cutter shaped,
Old Fashioneds
rye with sugar,
orange slices,
maraschino cherries.
Or she'd go to lunch
one arching feather
on her hat,
small-waisted suit,
stone marten stole,
high-heeled shoes
to show her ankles
to advantage.
But mostly it was books:
Louis IX, the sainted one,
his life (she loved
the Capet kings) or
Eleanor of Aquitaine
whose realms were fiercer,
finer things. She dreamed,
and planned to translate
Don Quixote.
==================================================
How Professor Weinberg's Failure to Hand in His Exam on Time
Altered the Course of Human Destiny Forever
by Clifford S. Fishman
Yaakov Weinberg was supposed to submit his exam to the faculty
secretariat on Tuesday, May 1. The Associate Dean for Academic
Affairs called him that afternoon to remind him.
"I know, Regina, but look, the exam won't be given until the 8th. So
what's the big deal if I don't get it for a couple more days?"
"Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal to you," the Associate Dean
said, "but you never know how one thing might lead to another."
* * *
You could blame it on the weather, I suppose. If it hadn't been such a
beautiful spring afternoon, human history would have continued more
or less on the same path. But May 1, 2001 was a beautiful spring day,
and as a result, while bicycling home from the university, Professor
Yaakov Weinberg set in motion a chain of events that wiped out several
huge industries, totally disrupted the world economy, and virtually
destroyed personal privacy. On the other hand, it also cleaned up the
atmosphere, reversed earth's dangerous drift toward global warming
and opened the way to the moon, the planets and the stars.
Yaakov Weinberg didn't set out to wipe out, disrupt, destroy, clean up,
reverse or open anything. He wouldn't know how to if he wanted to.
He didn't hold public office, he wasn't a scientist; he was a law
professor. He had biked the 16-and-a-smidge miles to school that
morning; now that he had completed the return trip, he should have
showered, turned on his computer, and finished writing his criminal
procedure exam.
But he never liked writing exams, and this one was giving him more
than the usual amount of trouble, and he resented being pressured by
the dean, and it was such a beautiful spring day that he decided to stay
out a little longer and check out the curious thing he'd noticed (but
more or less ignored) whenever he biked to the University.
The curious thing was this. According to the tripometer on his bike,
from his house in Rockville to the intersection of Independence Drive
and Connecticut Avenue in Aspen Hill was 2.0 miles. He was sure of
that, because he always set the tripometer at 0 when starting out, and it
clicked from 1.9 to 2.0 just before reaching Connecticut.
But on the return trip, the distance from that intersection to home, on
exactly the same streets, was only 1.7 or 1.8 miles. According to his
bike's tripometer, at any rate. If it read 30.6 when he reached that
intersection, then when he pulled into his driveway, instead of 32.6, it
read only 32.3 or 32.4.
Yaakov had noticed this curiosity before. He assumed it was
imperfection in the tripometer-- it must register distances a little shorter
as the mileage increased, until the tripometer was clicked back to zero.
That he had not noticed anything like that happening on any other rides
or any other routes, he attributed to his own inattentiveness.
But because May 1 was such a beautiful spring day and he didn't want
to work on his exam, when Yaakov pulled into his driveway at 32.3
miles he decided to check out the hypothesis. He rode around in circles
on his block until the tripometer clicked up to 32.4, then retraced his
route again back to the intersection of Independence and Connecticut.
It clicked from 34.3 to 34.4 just before reaching Connecticut.
Huh, Yaakov thought.
He turned the bike around, clicked the tripometer back to zero, and
peddled home. As he pulled into his driveway the tripometer read 1.7
miles.
Well, he thought, there goes the faulty tripometer hypothesis. He toyed
with a few others: maybe the route was two or three tenths of a mile
longer biking on the south and east sides of the streets on the way out
than on the north and west sides on the way back? Could it be because
that distance was slightly up hill on the way out, slightly down on the
return? A difference in tire pressure?
The temperature had cooled off by then, and Yaakov was a bit tired, so
he put his bike away, took a quick shower, turned on the computer,
brought up the draft of the exam, stared at the screen for five minutes,
wrote a sentence, revised it twice, deleted it, and brought up his e-mail
program.
Rachel, his oldest daughter was an environmental engineer with EPA in
Boston. He figured she'd get a chuckle at feeble attempt to analyze the
situation. He opened a message, addressed it to her, and in the
"subject" box, typed in: "Breach in the space-time continuum?" and
described what he called "my little anomaly."
Rachel loved and respected her father, but she was, after all, in her
twenties while he was, after all, in his fifties; and she was, after all, a
scientist and engineer, and he was only a law professor. Her response
to his e-mail was admirably concise.
"Weird!" she e-mailed back, and promptly forgot about it.
Nothing in that to change the course of human history.
Except ... a week earlier, a middle level committee of the Scientific
Terrorism Control Group of the National Security Agency (NSA-
STGG) directed that NSA's Echelon Supercomputer Network (NSA-
ESN), which monitors electronic communications worldwide, do a
multi-lingual search for references to the space-time continuum.
As to why a middle-level committee of NSA-STCG issued the directive,
it seems the FBI was doing a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act
(FISA) wiretap on Reginald Whitehall, the second son of the second
son of the Earl of Cornwall. Whitehall was a theoretical physicist who,
in the past five years, he had renounced his aristocratic heritage,
affected a cockney accent, espoused Third World Liberation and
denounced the West, long after doing so had ceased being fashionable.
Accordingly, he had been awarded with visits to Havana, Baghdad,
Tripoli and other choice locations on the Jihad-Proletarian Axis (JPA).
Naturally this also won him the attention of the CIA, NSA, FBI, Surete,
MI5, Mossad, and affiliated members of the Intelligence Community.
Whitehall was currently a Visiting Professor of physics at Johns
Hopkins University in Baltimore. While at Hopkins, Whitehall was in
frequent telephone and e-mail contact with Professor Katherine
Noddingham Pepper, a political scientist at the University of Hull at
Leeds with close ties to the KLF (Kurdish Liberation Front). During
several phone calls, Whitehall made several comments to Pepper about
how close he was to a "significant breakthrough on spice time." Elihu
Cabot, an FBI agent assigned to the Bureau's International Terrorist
Section (FBI-ITS), had recently seen a pretty good revival of My Fair
Lady at the Warner Theater, and speculated that "spice time" might be
the cockney-affecting Whitehall's way of pronouncing "space-time."
Cabot knew from numerous Star Trek episodes that He Who Controls
the Space-Time Continuum Controls ... well, just about everything. He
e-mailed a memo to the NSA liaison to the FBI-ITS. The memo
worked its way up the NSA chain and in late April culminated in the
"space time continuum" directive.
The irony is that Whitehall's references to "spice time" had nothing at
all to do with theoretical physics. Shortly before Whitehall left England
for his visitorship at Hopkins, he and Katherine Noddingham Pepper
had fallen monumentally in lust with each other. His private love-name
for her combined her first two initials and last name -- K. N. Pepper;
their passionate grapplings, he referred to as "spice time." The
"breakthrough" he spoke of involved securing funding for a trip back to
England so they could enjoy "spice time" together.
MI5 was of course aware of the nature of the Whitehall-Pepper liaison,
but had compartmentalized that knowledge, and neither the FBI nor
NSA had wind of it.
When the NSA-ESN computer picked up Yaakov's e-mail to Rachel, a
bored interception monitor glanced at it, guessed the name Yaakov
sounded foreign, maybe even Russian (it wasn't; he had Hebraicized his
name from Jacob following a trip to Israel a few years earlier) and,
without bothering to read the body of the e-mail, sent a very low-grade
request to the FBI's Washington, D.C. local field office with a request
to "check this guy out."
It was given so low a priority that it wasn't tasked out until that
Saturday (May 5), which is why it was assigned to FBI Special Agent
Albert Floogle, who was catching "priority zee" jobs that weekend.
Albert had compiled so impressive a record as an agent that he would
long since have been assigned as the Bureau's permanent liaison with
the Hungry Horse, Montana, Sheriff's Department CBIU (Contraband
Bovine Interdiction Unit, nee "cattle rustling squad") but for one fact:
his wife, Minerva Floogle, happened to be the daughter of Gabriel Horn
III. Four years earlier the Floogle-Horn wedding garnered some play in
the media, in part because of its euphonious name but mainly because
Gabriel Horn happened to be the chairman of the United States Senate
Committee on the Judiciary's Subcommittee on Oversight of the United
States Department of Justice. In other words, Senator Horn controlled
the FBI's budget.
Minerva Floogle (nee Horn) did not want to live in or near Hungry
Horse Montana. She preferred Washington, D.C.
The Bureau preferred to be funded.
The Bureau and the Senator came to an understanding.
But by May of 2001 that understanding was somewhat strained. Three
months earlier Albert had been directed to follow a suspected drug
dealer's car. Three minutes into the assignment he lost his quarry, then
picked up the tail again. Unfortunately the car he diligently followed
for the next ninety-seven minutes, from the mall to the library to the dry
cleaner, and ultimately seized, towed, searched and dismantled in an
unsuccessful quest for heroin, had a slightly different license plate
number than the car he had assigned to follow. (It was also a different
make and model.) More unfortunate still, it happened to belong to the
Chief Judge of the United States Court of Appeals for the District of
Columbia Circuit. Even more unfortunate, the Chief Judge's wife was
driving it at the time.
Since then Albert had found himself assigned to "TDW" status, which
officially stood for "Temporary Detail Workstation," informally known
within the Bureau as reserved for agents judged "Too Dumb to Wipe"
themselves. His most challenging job in the past three months was
carrying the Bureau's classified garbage down to the incinerator in the
Hoover Building basement. In fact, the only reason he was on duty at
the local field office that Saturday was that he'd volunteered to fill in
for a sixty-two year old agent who was checking out a time-share
condominium in Massanutten Mountain in the Shenandoah Valley.
So maybe you could blame the whole thing on Shenandoah time shares.
Albert was a man seeking redemption. When the memo to "check out"
Yaakov Weinberg came in at about 11:37 that Saturday morning, he
saw it as an opportunity to prove his merit and get out from under the
dark cloud that had stalled his career.
Yaakov and his wife Elisheva (nee Elizabeth) had gone to synagogue
that Saturday morning as usual. Services ended a bit after twelve, and
as was their wont, they stood around at the kiddush afterward and
shmoozed with their friends 'til about 12:50. They arrived home at
about 1 p.m.
They pulled into their driveway just as Albert Floogle was loading
Yaakov's computer into the trunk of his car.
"Hey, what the hell!" Yaakov said.
"National security," Albert said, flashing his FBI credential.
For an instant Yaakov was indecisive. The credential looked like the
real thing (at least, it looked like the ones Muldur and Scully used on
the X-Files), and he believed deeply in national security. On the other
hand the only copy of his just-completed criminal procedure exam (due
Monday) was on his hard drive.
"Bullshit," Yaakov replied, and wedged his car up against Albert's,
thereby preventing Albert from going anywhere.
"I'm going to have to order you to remove your car," Albert said
severely.
"Bullshit," Yaakov said again, rather proud that, although a law
professor, he was able to express himself so succinctly when the chips
were down.
At this point Yaakov's next door neighbor Ernest walked by, with his
miniature bull dog, J. Edgar. "Hey Jake," Ernest (who kept forgetting
it was now Yaakov) said, "what's going on?"
As Albert flipped open his credential for Ernest and Yaakov shouted
"This idiot's trying to steal my computer," J. Edgar relieved himself on
Albert's right rear tire; some of the urine splashed off the tire onto
Albert's right rear foot, which did not improve his disposition.
Ernest asked Yaakov, "What you want me to do?"
"Call the police!"
Even at this point the course of human history would have remained
more or less the same, except that two weeks earlier, for Ernest's
birthday, his wife Ernestine bought him a cell phone, which was on sale
cheap because it was an undigitized, unencrypted analog phone.
Because the contract with the cell phone company included free
weekend use for the first six months, instead of going inside his house
and picking up his hard-wired phone, Ernest flipped open his cell phone
(mimicking the wrist flick Captain Kirk had made famous decades
before) and dialed 911.
"Please send the police to 4227 Hazelnut Drive," Ernest told the
dispatcher. "There's a crazy guy claiming to be an FBI agent who is
trying to steal my neighbor's computer."
When you listen to the tape of Ernest's call to 911, you can hear Albert
shouting "National security!" in the background. Gerald Tribune could
also hear it on his scanner.
Gerald described himself as a free-lance journalist. Mostly he mowed
lawns for his brother's landscaping company, but in his free time he
liked to check things out, ask a lot of questions, and hope for the big
break that would one day permit him to follow in the footsteps of his
hero, Matt Drudge. Mostly his efforts got him cursed at and punched.
Gerald was cruising the Aspen Hill-Rockville area, hoping for a six-car
collision, gas leak explosion or some equally serendipitous calamity,
when his scanner picked up Ernest's call to 911. As it happened, he
was only two blocks away, and made it to Hazelnut Drive in under a
minute. He hopped out of his car, camcorder running, and taped
Yaakov calling Arnold an idiot, Arnold flashing his credential and
explaining that it was a matter of top national security relating to the
space-time continuum, and Elisheva shouting that Arnold was a fugitive
from the X-Files.
Then the cops showed up.
Patrol Woman Charlotte O'Hara was not in a good mood. As she was
leaving the house at 7:30 that morning her daughter put her toast, jelly-
side down, on the new couch in the family room -- again. ("Tara
O'Hara, how many times have I told you...!") At the station house she
learned that her regular partner had phoned in sick and she was
assigned to ride with Mike Standish, a decent guy but slow enough on
the uptake to think his station house nickname, "Garlic," was a token of
affection.
Charlotte hoped the "check out a disturbance call" on Hazelnut would
be interesting enough to shake off her sour mood, but her disposition
was not improved by the way Yaakov and Albert and Elisheva kept
shouting at each other. Nor was it improved by the way Gerald ducked
in and out, filming, shouting questions and suggesting that Charlotte
and Albert stand closer to Yaakov's car so he could get all three of
them in a nice, tight shot. And when J. Edgar anointed her right foot,
Charlotte lost it. She handcuffed Yaakov and Albert and Ernest and
Gerald -- no small accomplishment, as she only had one set of cuffs.
Then she and called for the paddy wagon.
At the station house, J. Edgar piddled on Desk Sergeant Mario
Marinara's chair.
Mario responded by ordering Mike Standish to tie J. Edgar's leash to
the bars of an empty holding cell in the basement. Then he sorted
things out pretty quickly. Charlotte, he decided, had showed less than
perfect judgment in hauling everybody in, but Mario, prompted by his
characteristic generosity of spirit, was willing to write that off as time-
of-month stuff. The only one who actually deserved to be locked up, he
figured, was the nut-job who had stolen the professor's computer and
impersonated an FBI agent.
It happened that Mario's brother-in-law Trent Wellborne was with the
FBI, so just to yank his chain, he called him.
"Hey Trent? This is Mario. Got a guy here who broke into some
professor's home, stole a computer, says he's one of yours, matter of
national security. I figure, who am I, a lowly local cop, to interfere ---"
"Quit yanking my chain," Trent answered, and then, prompted by a
sixth sense, added, "uh, what's the guy's name?"
"Lemme see," Mario said, "his very official looking credential says his
name is Albert Floogle."
"Oh, shit," Trent said. Trent, as it happened, had been the agent-in-
charge of that drug surveillance back in February.
In the end -- no, it would be better to say "in the middle" -- almost
everybody was mollified. Yaakov agreed not to charge Albert with
burglary; in exchange he got his computer back, and Officer O'Hara
and Special Agent Wellborne each agreed to appear at his seminar next
semester. Ernest got J. Edgar back (although he had to rush him to the
vet to treat him for severe dehydration). Albert got unarrested and
assigned permanently to the dead file room at the Hoover building.
Gerald, though, was pretty ticked off because when the camcorder was
returned to him, there was no tape in it.
Even at this point, the world economy and individual privacy would
have been safe and travel to the stars would still be a far-off dream.
Except that Gerald complained about the missing tape to Woodward
Bernstein, stringer for the Washington Post, who decided to interview
Yaakov and Ernest, and wrote a clever "Style" section article about it
("Space-Time Breach in Aspen Hill?"). In the article, a resident along
the route commented, "That explains it. I always thought it took an
awful long time for me to mow such a small lawn. Who knew I was
also mowing Alpha Centauri?"
And that indeed was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it.
Because Marty Swift happened to read the article, and Marty was a
physics graduate student at the University of Maryland who would
soon lose his fellowship because he had produced nothing even faintly
resembling worthwhile work in the last eighteen months, and when that
happened Marty would have to have no choice but to go to work for
his father in the family plumbing supply business, so Marty was
desperate and decided what the hell, I'll check this thing out.
Marty was dating a secretary in the geology department and prevailed
upon her to appropriate a department vehicle with a scientifically
precise tripometer.
From Yaakov Weinberg's driveway to the Independence-Connecticut
intersection was exactly 1.987 miles.
In the other direction, the exact same route was precisely 1.763 miles.
He did it again. The results were the same. A third time. The same.
Next, he drove 0.4 miles from the intersection toward Yaakov's house
and back. The return was 0.4. From the 0.4 mile mark he went
another 0.4 and back. The same. From the 0.8 mile mark he went
another four tenths.
The trip back measured only 0.2 mile.
Shortening the distance each time, he pinpointed the anomaly, which
ran along the fence separating 14302 Bauer drive from 14304.
So as it turned out, Yaakov indeed had discovered a breach in the
space-time continuum, a breach which Marty located precisely. He
quickly wrote a paper, posted it on his web site, and waited for the
offers to come in.
The first "offer," of course, was from NSA-STCG, but by then it was
too late. Others had seen the posting, and soon some very powerful
scientific instruments were focused along that fence on Bauer Drive.
The space-time continuum breach having been confirmed, it was not
long before scientists all over the world found several other mini-
breaches. And only months after that, several different people
developed techniques to exploit those breaches to transmit first
inanimate objects, then animals, then human beings, over larger and
larger distances. And as the power to transmit items grew, so did the
ability to zero in on precisely where they were to be delivered. Within
two years, at the cost of a few dollars' electricity, virtually anything
could be transmitted, or transported, or (as the process inevitably
became known, "beamed") anywhere on earth. Anything -- from a
boxcar full of machine tools to miniature cameras and microphones --
could be "beamed" across thousands of miles, -- through walls, ceilings
and floors -- to rematerialize exactly where it was aimed.
Which, of course, pretty much destroyed privacy as we know it.
It also wiped out the transportation industry: who needed cars, trucks,
planes, trains or boats? Or gasoline, or tires? Or interstate highways?
Tens of millions suddenly out of work. Billions in bank accounts and
retirement funds, worthless. The world economy in a shambles. Whole
nations, suddenly impoverished and stripped of their influence in the
world.
On the other hand, the virtual abandonment of cars and trucks has left
the atmosphere cleaner. The ozone layer is making a comeback.
Several satellites are being readied for beaming into earth orbit, and
from there, the plan is to beam entire habitats to the moon.
Researchers predict Mars will be accessible by the end of the decade,
followed quickly by the larger moons of Saturn and Jupiter. And
maybe a decade or so after that ... the stars?
And all because May 1, 2001 was a beautiful spring day, and Yaakov
Weinberg didn't want to work on his criminal procedure exam.
Like Regina, the Associate Dean, said, one thing can lead to another;
you never know.
==================================================
VULCAN
by William Ramsay
(Note: this is chapter 19 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
Pierre was insistent on getting the joint bank account opened and
the fifty thousand deposited immediately. So I began my trip to El
Salvador on an Air Caribe flight in a 12-passenger Havilland from
Santiago to Grand Cayman. I sat up front with the pilot. It turned out
that he had trained at Fort Lauderdale Airport with my teacher, Jake
Collins. At one point, after closing the cockpit door, he put his finger
to his lips and let me take the controls. It felt good to be back in the
pilot's seat again, scooting away high above the white puffs of the
cloud tops. In Grand Cayman, I took a taxi into town and finished my
business at the bank. It took a little longer than expected. I had been
thinking about things while at the controls of the Havilland, and I
decided that I wanted to make sure that Pierre wouldn't take advantage
of me. Mr. Cooper at the Bank of Cheshire and Grand Cayman was
very helpful, and the two of us ended up arranging it so that I would
come out of the deal with a little bit of "insurance" in case of problems
-- for one thing, I changed the personal code for the account to one
that suited me better. I also was able to take some other precautions,
taking advantage of another account that Pierre had at the bank. I had
absolutely no intention of cheating Pierre -- but I didn't see any reason
to neglect my own interests, either. I was taking risks, lots of them --
and it was my father's money that was at stake. Anyway, I was in
plenty of time to get back to the airport to catch a TACA flight making
a stopover from Miami on the way to San Jose, Costa Rica. From San
Jose, I made a connection to San Salvador.
Approaching Ilopango airport, the old green volcanoes didn't look
so mysterious this time, or maybe it was just that I was too nervous to
think about time and immortality. I pictured Amelia meeting the plane,
then Pepita, then both of them together -- measured alto greetings of
"Hello, Chucho" crossing with soprano shouts of "Felipe!" By the
time the brakes had squealed into action on the runway in Ilopango, I
came close to forgetting why I was there in the first place. I exited the
plane, heading down the narrow corrugated tunnel toward the passport
control and customs, worrying some about my parents, but more about
myself. When I passed through the "Nothing to Declare" line and the
door swung open to the clump of people meeting the plane, I felt very
unready to face whatever music there would be.
Familiar faces in the crowd. One with black hair -- Paco -- the
other was blonde -- Valeska in a new avatar of the Afro-Cuban spirit.
Paco smiled, gave me an tight abrazo. Valeska put her arm around my
neck and gave me a fat-lipped kiss on my ear. Her tongue lapped
quickly in the opening of the ear canal and slurped. I pulled my head
around to look for the other girls -- not a sign of them! I felt
smothered in the dual embrace, but I was so relieved not to see the
either Amelia or Pepita that I closed my eyes and let go. Then I felt a
third hug, lower down.
"Chocolate milkshake," said Valeska's son Pedro, looking up at
me.
"Later," I said.
"Oh!" said Valeska to her son. "Quiet!"
"Amelia's been held up in Miami -- she should be here tomorrow,"
said Paco.
As we went to the car, Valeska pulling Pedro along, him yelling
"Thirsty!" and digging his feet in, Paco whispered to me: "A friend of
yours is waiting back at the hotel."
Yipes! Pepita. I closed my eyes in the car as we made trip in
from Ilopango. As about the fifth serious pothole had succeeded in
jouncing my eyes open, I realized that I should be able to handle one
girl at a time. It looked like I had one girl, or two at most, but not
three -- because from the way he held her neck in his hairy, tanned
arm, it looked like Paco had taken over the handling of Valeska.
But when we got to the hotel -- the Sheraton this time, we figured
the C.I.A. could afford it -- it soon became a question of who was
handling whom. I registered and sent my suitcase and backpack
upstairs. Then we met Pepita in the restaurant on the pool level. My
first glimpse was of patches of white skin and chartreuse fabric peeking
through the dark green leaves of an overgrown dracaena. When I
rounded the plant, I got the entire tableau, her healthy Amazon body in
a jumpsuit with a very wide brass zipper straight all the way down the
front, sitting in the middle of a crimson vinyl-covered booth. She
looked like a green fruit in a ripe red pod. She was smiling uneasily.
We sat down, Valeska gave Pedro a banknote and he ran off. She put
her arm around Paco and squeezed tight. He grimaced and groaned,
apparently with pleasure. Pepita looked at me as if she were asking for
something. Valeska dropped her hand down under the table, at a level
with Paco's beltline. Pepita glanced at them, then turned to me.
"There are a number of things we haven't yet reached an understanding
about yet in this exchange."
"We can talk," I said.
"Oooh," went Paco. A waiter approached, shoes slapping on the
tile floor. Paco, turning conventional, moved Valeska's hand away and
ordered daiquiris for everyone. Valeska yawned. The waiter left and
Paco took her hand and eased it back under the table. I noticed
Valeska was wearing a jeweled gold pin I didn't recognize.
"How did you get involved in all this?" said Pepita, taking my
hand. It disappeared inside the cup of her large white fingers. "Felipe?
Hmmm?" she said in high-pitched but molasses-smooth tones.
"It's complicated."
"Felipe," she said.
"It's good to see you," I said. Paco groaned again, I was afraid he
was going to attain orgasm right at the table. Valeska's arm moved
more rapidly, her face looked intent and blase at the same time.
Pepita closed her eyes. "Let's..." She opened them and glanced at
Paco's face.
"What?" I said.
"Let's talk about it somewhere else. In your room."
What with the porno video put on by Paco and Valeska and
Pepita's high, sweet voice, my penis was getting plenty hard. "Let's
go," I said, carefully easing myself up out of the booth. I noticed
Valeska's face had changed, she was frowning, her other hand was in
her own lap.
"Uhhn!' said Paco.
"Oosh," said Valeska.
"Sssss," said Pepita, shaking her head. I took Pepita by the hand
and we walked out of the restaurant. I turned at the low stairs up to
the main lobby and looked back at the table. Valeska and Paco were
still intertwined. Two thin legs and a small rear end clothed in blue
shorts were sticking out from under the tablecloth: Pedro had returned.
Then Valeska suddenly screeched and rose from her seat and Pedro
scrambled out from under the table.
"Pedro!" she screamed.
Pepita and I headed toward the elevator. Pepita put her arm
tightly around my waist and leaned her head down on my shoulder, her
strawberry hair tickling the hairs on my neck.
Alone in the elevator, I pulled on the big brass zipper and had the
catch on her brassiere open before we reached the third floor. A waiter
with a dinner cart got in on the fourth. He stared, but Pepita took him
by the shoulder and turned his head away from us. She kissed me.
The waiter looked up and smiled. I pulled my mouth apart, bared my
teeth, and smiled back. As we got off on the sixth floor, Pepita turned
around, grasped the open sides of her jumpsuit, and flashed at the
waiter. "Salud, comrade," she said. The waiter looked as if someone
had just hit him in the kneecap with a baseball bat.
"Here," I said, handing him a five-dollar bill, "go out and buy a
magazine."
As the elevator doors closed, she wrapped her arms around me
and said, "Felipe, you arrogant capitalist, corrupting the proletariat."
I zipped her up again temporarily and led her by the hand toward
room 666. As I took off my underpants, I felt a stinging slap to my
rear. I had almost forgotten the physical demands of our relationship.
I grabbed her and spanked back.
"Oh, Felipe, it's so good to have you back! Hit me again!"
After we made as much battle and love as I could manage, I fell asleep,
only waking up to eat the steak and mango ice cream that Pepita
ordered from room service. I dozed off again feeling drained, bruised,
and happy both in body and mind: with good relations restored
between me and Pepita, a major obstacle to arranging the exchange
seemed to be cleared up.
"Felipe." I felt a shaking. "Felipe. 'Youth, divine treasure....'" she
said, quoting the Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario. "Oh, yes, I've missed
you." It was the middle of the night, but I yawned and tried to wake
myself up. The "Felipe" reminded me of the continuing problem with
my dual identity. I had registered with my American passport, under
my real name, and I flinched when the phone rang earlier that evening
and the desk asked for "Mr. Revueltos." Pepita didn't hear of course,
and she might have thought that I would use a nom de guerre, anyway,
but in case of slip-ups, I particularly didn't want to have her associate
me with the name of the hostages to be exchanged.
"Me too, Pepita."
"You and that woman with the hair!"
I suppressed a giggle. "A good proletarian."
She reached down, took hold of my penis, and squeezed tight.
"Ouch!"
She relaxed her grip. "It's good that your handsome right-wing
friend Paco is keeping that little tart busy. Otherwise..." and she
slapped my face with light little taps.
"Not again! Not just yet, darling," I said.
"Poor Felipe!" She caressed one of my bruised cheeks.
"Ouch!"
"Anyway," she said, "tell me how this exchange came about. Why
you?"
I professed ignorance, saying that Fidel had found my expertise
useful, and that since Americans were involved, he thought my fluent
English would be of help.
"You know," she said, "I don't think much of Raul Castro. I don't
know what's going to happen to Cuba when Fidel goes."
I raised my eyebrows.
"But," she said making a face, "the Cuban comrades have given us
so much support, we'd help them to recover the King of Spain if they
asked."
"When will the American prisoners arrive in El Salvador?" I said.
"They should be arriving any time, perhaps tonight."
I was startled at the chill that went up my back -- after all this
time. My parents out of Cuba! It had seemed like such a long
nightmare. Now to get Raul safely exchanged for them -- and I would
have my father back -- and I presumed a loyal son's share of the bearer
bonds that could save me from bankruptcy and perhaps torture or
assassination. I couldn't go to sleep, so I reached for the inside of
Pepita's thigh. A good sound slap on my arm told me that the track
was clear.
When I woke up again later, the light around the edges of the
curtains had become bright. Pepita was awake, reading an agricultural
pamphlet, her steel-rimmed glasses setting off her magnificent,
prow-like chest, breasts hanging slightly askew. After I had kissed her
there, and on the mouth and other places -- and she had given me a
few slaps on the shoulder blades -- we talked about a schedule for the
exchange. Pepita had arranged for an airstrip near Sosuntepeque to
receive the C.I.A. plane with Raul and Pierre. She and the American
agent -- Amelia -- would supervise the exchange. Afterward, the
American agent -- given the code name "Anvil" for this operation --
would handle getting the prisoners -- "Iron" and "Steel" (my parents)
and "Alloy" (Pillo) -- from FMLN territory into government-held
positions. Pepita -- "Hammer" -- would see that Raul would return to
Cuba in the same plane that he arrived in, but with a new pilot supplied
by the FMLN.
I -- as "Vulcan" -- would be responsible for liaison when needed.
I hoped that would be never: "Vulcan"'s greatest ambition was to
avoid ending up in some kind of smash between "Hammer" and
"Anvil."
Pepita had not been clued in on my parents' identities. She
remarked that "Iron" and "Steel" must be important. I said they were
undoubtedly important to somebody. She stroked my cheek and said
that she wished that she were as important as that to some special
somebody.
"You're nice, Pepita."
"'Nice'! And you could sleep with someone like that awful vulgar
woman."
"A good working-class girl."
"Carlos Marx didn't know the people you know," she said. Her
lips pursed out into a pout.
I stroked her brow, pushing away the wrinkles, and then I kissed
away the pout. She gently pinched back.
I remember wondering if I was going to miss Pepita when all this
was over with. I massaged the upper part of my arm, where the latest
major bruise was.
"I'm sorry that 'Anvil' didn't get here before I have to leave for
Sosuntepeque." Pepita was leaving San Salvador at ten that morning.
"Yes," I said, "too bad."
"Well, I hope you get on with him."
"Yeah."
"I'll meet him sometime in the course of all this, I would think."
"Maybe so," I said. I hope not, I hope not, I thought.
Keeping Amelia and Pepita from exchanging notes had suddenly
become an important goal in my life.
Later, as I put Pepita into a taxi to make her rendezvous for the
trip to Sosuntepeque, I thought: so far, so good.
"You have all the instructions for communications with us out
there, the code words and so on?"
"Right."
Just then another taxi began to pull up alongside. Through the
glass, I could see it was Amelia. But she couldn't see me yet.
"Kiss me, Felipe," said Pepita.
Over the top of the cab, I saw Amelia raising her head. I lowered
mine, giving Pepita a fast buss on the cheek.
"More," said Pepita. I didn't dare look up. Through the window
of Pepita's cab I could see Amelia's shoulder and torso as she alighted.
I grabbed Pepita and kissed her hard on the mouth and then pulled
back abruptly.
"That's more like it," said Pepita, giving me a sharp little slap on
the hand.
"Chucho!" yelled Amelia over the top of the cab.
"Take off!" I yelled to Pepita's driver. The cab lurched into gear.
I could hear a thin "Fe-liiii-peeee!" as it took off, leaving me facing
Amelia.
"Chucho, who was that?"
"Who was who?"
"In the taxi."
I realized I was surprised at something. "Amelia, you're talking to
me, I mean really talking. Have you forgiven me?"
"Oh, Chucho!" She looked almost angry. "I'm so mad."
"At me?"
"No, at myself." She came over and gave me an abrazo, hugging
me to her small, solid breasts, softly encased in pink silk.
I didn't know what to say.
"When I saw that slut with my brother last week, I was disgusted,
but still..." She bit her lip. "I was so glad she wasn't with you,
Chucho. I realized that was all that counted." She took me by the
shoulders as if I had been a naughty little boy. "Come on."
"Come on what?"
"I know you, you can't wait, you Cuban Michael Caine."
"Errol Flynn," I said automatically. I knew what she meant. And
everything within a radius of three feet of my crotch area longed for a
lengthy rest, a week in some mountain monastery. She pulled at my
arm. "Ouch," I said.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No. But wait a minute."
"She looked at me closely. "Is something wrong?" A frown
spread from her eyes up to her hairline.
It was no use. "No, no, just wait a minute until my room is
ready."
"God" she said, "let's go into the ladies' room and grab a booth, I
can't wait."
"No, no, Amelia, remember it's Havana, no toilet paper."
She made a face. "Sometimes I hate communism," she said.
"Hey," she said, "this isn't Havana, it's San Salvador."
I edged away. "So it is, but let me double-check."
"Double-check what country we're in?"
By this time we were halfway to the desk. "No, my room." I
took a breath. "If the room's ready."
"God," she said.
"Yes, with His help..."
"With whose help what?"
"Oh nothing," I said. "Let's order a drink in the bar while I check
-- you look like you need one, darling."
"Oh, O.K. But I don't, really."
"I do."
I figured I was entitled to two. As it turned out, Amelia was
considerate of me -- she let me have an early, restorative lunch before
we took our long afternoon siesta.
And some people call me selfish.
==================================================
"XXX"
by Otho Eskin
(This is the third part of the comedy "Shell Game")
CHARACTERS:
HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop.
HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress as
a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a
woman (Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed with
clothes, shopping and make-up.
HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator.
CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special
assistant. Corliss is a closet gay.
ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat
dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her
wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's.
BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate.
CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife.
PLACE
Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very
expensive resort.
TIME
The present
ACT 1 (continued)
ZENOBIA
Course, LaVerne usually got to be the virgin, but then she started
sneezing when she got close to the ape. I did the act till LaVerne got
her allergy shots.
BOOM-BOOM
I cried at every one of your performances. It was that good.
ZENOBIA
Thank you, Mr. McKool. But as much satisfaction as I get from being
an understudy for the chorus line at the Ding-A-Ling Club, I aspire to
higher things. I am an artist. I have something important to say.
BOOM-BOOM
I believe in you, Miss Birdsong.
ZENOBIA
That's why I came to Shangri La West. To audition for a new act
where I can do something other than scream.
BOOM-BOOM
I would like to hear all about you, Miss Treadwell. About your life.
Your dreams.
ZENOBIA
There's not much to tell. I'm an orphan. To make matters worse, so
was my brother. Him and me we were left on the steps of Mrs.
Wooten's Home for Unwanted Infants in Allentown, Pennsylvania when
we were only a few days old. My brother ran away when he was nine.
Since then I've had to make my own way in life. (ZENOBIA glances at
her watch.) Under normal circumstances, Mr. McKool, and seeing as
how you are an appreciator of the fine arts, I would love to stay and
talk but the auditions begin soon.
(CYBIL discovers the cosmetics case which Zenobia left in
the Honeymoon Suite.)
BOOM-BOOM
I would be honored if you would call me Boom-Boom.
ZENOBIA
Of course, Mr. Boom-Boom.
BOOM-BOOM
Would you permit me to accompany you to the audition, Miss
Birdsong?
ZENOBIA
That would be very nice.
(CYBIL, her suspicions aroused by the cosmetics case,
spots the common door. ZENOBIA and BOOM-BOOM
exit the Empress Suite. YURT returns to the living room
and puts on his blonde wig and shoes just as CYBIL opens
the common door and enters the Empress Suite, carrying the
cosmetics case. YURT and CYBIL stare at each other.)
CYBIL
Filthy, conniving, man-stealer!
YURT
I don't think we've been introduced. My name's Heidi...
CYBIL
Your name's mud...
YURT
There must be some mistake.
CYBIL
There's no mistake. (Pointing at the cosmetics case.) This yours?
YURT
My case! You've got my cosmetics case!
CYBIL
You admit it's yours.
YURT
Of course it's mine.
CYBIL
What was it doing in my husband's room? You're having an affair with
my husband. You're dead!
(CYBIL puts down the case and fumbles with her gun.
YURT makes a dash for the bedroom door, slamming and
locking the door behind him. CYBIL tries to open the door,
beating at the door in a fury.)
CYBIL
(Continued)
Come out of there, harlot! You can't escape my wrath!
(CYBIL kicks at the door.)
CYBIL
(Continued)
I'm counting to three. Then I'm coming in. I'm warning you, if you don't
open the door before three, I'm going to be really annoyed. One. Two...
(The door to the bedroom opens and YURT appears, as a
man, dressed in one of BOOM-BOOM's suits (several sizes
too large). CYBIL steps back, stunned and, for a moment,
speechless.)
CYBIL
Where's the girl?
YURT
Girl? What you talking about, lady?
CYBIL
The girl that just went in there!
YURT
There ain't no girl in here. I woulda noticed somethin' like that.
CYBIL
I just saw her go into the bedroom.
(CYBIL enters the bedroom, YURT moves toward the case
which CYBIL had brought in. CYBIL returns to the living
room.)
CYBIL
(Continued)
Where the hell did she go?
YURT
There's no one here but me. And you. Just the two of us.
CYBIL
I'm losing it! I swear a girl just went in that door. A bleached blond,
really sleazy looking. Obviously a tramp.
YURT
I beg your pardon! I guess you must be the young lady who's living
here in this suite with me.
CYBIL
I am?
YURT
It's a real pleasure to meet you.
CYBIL
My name's Cybil. I'm not sharing any suite with you. I'm in the next
suite with my husband, Horatio Treadwell.
YURT
Yeah. I heard of him. Isn't he the one ?
CYBIL
That's him. Your friendly defender of public virtue, protector of the
innocent. Hail fellow well met, back-slapping, tongue down your
throat kind of guy. Your typical Washington asshole.
YURT
This.. eh.. this girl ..how come you're looking for her?
CYBIL
My husband's been cheating on me with her.
YURT
I don't mean no disrespect, lady, but there ain't no way your husband
could be having an affair with her.
CYBIL
And just who the hell are you?
YURT
My name's Heid..Heid ..Heid.. Henry. Henry Yurt.
(YURT eyes the cosmetics case, which CYBIL has put on
the floor at her feet.)
YURT
(Continued)
That's a damn fine cosmetics case. Mind if I take a look?
(YURT kneels to get a closer look at the cosmetics case.
CYBIL anxiously pulls the case toward her.)
CYBIL
I can't let it out of my sight. This belongs to the slut.
YURT
(Anxiously)
You ain't gonna open it or now...?
CYBIL
I'll find evidence of who she is. Then I can arrange to have her run over
by a truck. You understand?
(YURT still on his knees, looks at CYBIL's shoes.)
YURT
Well I'll be goddamned!
CYBIL
What is it?
YURT
Those pumps aren't Farragamo are they?
CYBIL
I guess so.
YURT
It's unfuckingbelievable! I've been looking for a pair that color for
months.
CYBIL
You have?
YURT
A little strappy number with saucy heels. I don't know about you but I
have a helluva time finding the right shoes.
CYBIL
If it looks good, it hurts. That's the main lesson I've learned in life.
YURT
Truer words were never spoken, Mrs. Treadwell!
CYBIL
Please call me Cybil.
YURT
Did you see the boutique in the lobby, Cybil? There's this darling purse
in the window you know, with small beads and a stylish brass buckle
that would be smashing with your shoes.
CYBIL
I guess I didn't notice.
YURT
Maybe if you're free sometime we could go shopping together. I just
adore shopping, don't you?
CYBIL
Personally I detest it.
YURT
Well... yes. I was going to ask you about your outfit.
CYBIL
You hate it.
YURT
I think with just a few changes in details you could be a sensation.
CYBIL
Really?
YURT
Lose the bangles!
CYBIL
Really?
YURT
We should do something with your face.
CYBIL
You leave my face alone!
YURT
Make up, Cybil. Make up. No more frosty pink lipstick, Cybil. Frosty
pink is over! Over! Over! It's history. Just a little base, a few dabs of
shimmer and translucent powder. Gloss for that pouty yet serious
look. Perhaps a touch of gold on the center of the lower lip.
CYBIL
What are you talking about?
(YURT holds CYBIL's face in his two hands and stares deep into
her eyes.)
YURT
We're looking for major eyes here. Heavy eye liner. Killer lashes. Tons
of mascara.
(YURT runs his hand through CYBIL's hair. CYBIL closes
her eyes with pleasure and sighs.)
YURT
Split ends! The cross we all must bear.
CYBIL
Who are you?
YURT
We must do something with your hair.
CYBIL
Bruce, who usually does hair, says what my face needs is a pageboy.
YURT
Bruce is an animal. What you must have is wispy bangs brushed down
over the forehead. And a middle part to provide drama.
CYBIL
I don't think I've ever met anyone just like you.
YURT
I wouldn't be a bit surprised.
CYBIL
I've spent the last eighteen years living as the wife of a senator, a life
spent among the bottom feeders of American politics. I realize now
there's something important missing in my life.
YURT
Mousse?
CYBIL
Do you know what my favorite word in the English language is? Love.
What's yours?
(YURT thinks a moment.)
YURT
Shopping?
CYBIL
I can't stay any longer. I must find that girl and scratch her eyes out.
She looks like the type who hangs out in lounges. I'll check out the
bar. But we must talk again. Very soon.
YURT
Perhaps you'd care to leave the cosmetics case with me. I can keep an
eye on it.
(CYBIL picks up the cosmetics case and heads for the common
door.)
CYBIL
I'll send a note with the bellboy and let you know when I'm free to meet
again. We can talk accessories.
YURT
(Staring mournfully at the cosmetics case.)
That would be wonderful. About the case...
CYBIL
bientt, my dear.
(CYBIL blows YURT a kiss and exits, carrying the
cosmetics case, going into the Honeymoon Suite. SHE puts
the cosmetics case down and leaves. Back in the Empress
Suite YURT discovers the second cosmetics case left by
Zenobia and is just about to open it when BOOM-BOOM
enters. BOOM-BOOM stares at YURT in stunned
amazement.)
BOOM-BOOM
Jesus H. Christ! What the fuck you doin' here, Yurt?!!
YURT
Boom-Boom, you crazy bastard, how the hell are you?
(BOOM-BOOM grasps YURT by the lapel)
BOOM-BOOM
Shut the fuck up, Yurt! You not only steal nine and a half million
dollars my money. You come in here and steal my suit. You got no
shame, Yurt. No fucking shame.
(YURT backs away.)
YURT
You think I took your money, Boom-Boom? You fuckin' serious?
Nobody fucks with Boom-Boom McKool. Everybody knows that.
You think I'm crazy? You think I'm stupid? You think I'm fuckin'
stupid?
BOOM-BOOM
Yeah, I think you're fuckin' stupid. Give me my money.
YURT
With all due respect, I think you're out of line here. We should try to
talk this out. We're old buddies, Boom-Boom. Right? We respect one
another. We're honorable men. OK, we've had our ups and downs...
BOOM-BOOM
Know what your problem is, Yurt? You talk too fuckin' much.
YURT
I can explain everything.
BOOM-BOOM
What's to explain? You're a lying, cheating, perverted thief.
YURT
What do you mean "perverted"?
BOOM-BOOM
You like to wear dresses. Correct me if I'm wrong but girls wear
dresses. Boys wear pants.
YURT
I beg your pardon! Why should girls have all the fun? They get to
dress up. Put on make-up. Wear perfume. Wear stylish shoes. I just
like to be pretty. Is that a crime? So shoot me.
(BOOM-BOOM pulls a gun and aims it at YURT.)
YURT
That's just an expression.
BOOM-BOOM
Make me happy, Yurt. Drop dead! No. Give me my money. Then drop
dead!
YURT
Why don't we try to think of this in terms of a short-term loan
arrangement?
BOOM-BOOM
Did you know Tony "Big Nose" Garbanzo?
YURT
Tony Garbanzo?
BOOM-BOOM
Guy with a big nose.
YURT
Oh! That Tony "Big Nose" Garbanzo!
BOOM-BOOM
Tony a friend of yours, Yurt? He come to the club? He mouth off?
YURT
Whatever became of good old Tony?
BOOM-BOOM
Good old Tony is now beneath the footings of a large parking garage
under construction in Santa Monica.
YURT
A parking garage? In Santa Monica?
BOOM-BOOM
You should be so lucky.
YURT
I swear by my grandmother's tattoos, if I had any idea the least little
fuckin' inkling this money belonged to you I'd have brought it to you
immediately. You oughta be grateful it was me what found your
money, Boom-Boom. Somebody else found it, they might not have
been so careful. I can't believe the amount of dishonesty there is these
days. I don't know what this country's coming to. Crime. Violence.
Cheating. Was a time you could trust other people. A man's word was
his honor. You understand. But today! You can't walk down to the
corner to buy a TV guide without you being mugged. Where are the
police when you need them?
BOOM-BOOM
You stole my money, Yurt.
YURT
Stole? Stole? I can't fuckin believe you said that. You think I stole
your money. You shittin' me? You fuckin' shittin me? I never stole
nothing from you. Would I lie to you, Boom-Boom? Would I fuckin'
lie to you?
BOOM-BOOM
Yes you'd lie to me. You're a rotten, conniving, deceitful thief.
YURT
You're talkin' like I'm some kind of criminal.
BOOM-BOOM
You are a criminal, Yurt. Now listen carefully cause I'm gonna say this
jus' once. I want my money back. Now! You robbed me. Eleven and a
half big ones. You know how that looks to my associates? They think
maybe I'm gettin' soft.
YURT
Hey! I'm here to say you're not getting soft. No way. Hard as nails,
I'd say....
BOOM-BOOM
How'd you like a bullet in the head?
YURT
That wouldn't be my first choice.
BOOM-BOOM
I now gotta pay that money to some guys from the East Coast. With
interest. Guys who ain't so forgiving as me. They're out now looking
for their money and me. Give me the money, Yurt! You got five
seconds.
(YURT moves carefully toward the common
door.)
YURT
Sure, Boom-Boom. Anything you say, Boom-Boom.
(YURT dashes into the Honeymoon Suite just as BOOM-
BOOM aims. YURT locks the door. BOOM-BOOM tries
to force open the door but can't. YURT sees the cosmetics
case where CYBIL left it. Thoroughly confused now, he
starts to open it. BOOM-BOOM goes to the phone, dials.
CORLISS enters the Honeymoon Suite.)
CORLISS
(Surprised - To YURT)
Who are you? What are you doing here in Senator... in this suite?
YURT
This is all just a simple mix up. I'm staying in the Empress Suite just
next door, you understand. Mrs. Treadwell came over to visit just a
few minutes ago....
CORLISS
Cybil Treadwell? She's here at Shangri La West? Oh, my God! This
is a disaster. It's the end of the world.
YURT
I've already had a word with Cybil about her unfortunate fashion
choices.
BOOM-BOOM
(On the phone)
Hello, Punchy... Yeah, it's me. I found that asshole Yurt. Right here in
the goddam hotel. ...You believe it? ... I want you and the boys should
start searchin' for him right away. And Two Thumbs Luzak... You
heard me.... Expense is no item. I want the best muscle in the country.
Cover all the entrances, the parking garage, the bars. And don't forget
the ladies' rooms.... You heard me. That fucker Yurt is not getting out
of this hotel alive. You unnerstand my meaning?
(BOOM-BOOM slams the phone down. HIRSCHEL enters the
Empress Suite.)
HIRSCHEL
You called, sir?
BOOM-BOOM
Get out of here! I'm busy!
HIRSCHEL
The front desk said you rang.
BOOM-BOOM
Can't you see I'm trying to shoot someone.
HIRSCHEL
Just because there are somebody else's clothes in your closet? If you
damage hotel property it will be added to your bill.
BOOM-BOOM
Do I look like I care?
(BOOM-BOOM bangs angrily on the door.)
BOOM-BOOM
Open this door, you thieving son-of-a-bitch!
CORLISS
What's going on here?
(CORLISS gestures toward the common door.)
YURT
Oh, that! It's nothing.
BOOM-BOOM
When I get my hands on you I'm gonna tear you apart. Slowly. Then
I'm going
to put you down in disposal. Unnerstand?!
(HIRSCHEL heads for the door.)
BOOM-BOOM
(To HIRSCHEL)
Wait a minute!
(HIRSCHEL freezes.)
BOOM-BOOM
(To HIRSCHEL)
I want the key to this door.
HIRSCHEL
I don't have a key.
YURT
Cybil Mrs. Treadwell was carrying a cosmetics case just like
mine. I guess she picked up the wrong one and took it with her. Left
hers in my suite. Hey! I see it right over there.
(YURT points to the cosmetics case.)
BOOM-BOOM
Whaddya mean, you got no key? You gotta have a key.
(BOOM-BOOM grabs HIRSCHEL's arm.)
BOOM-BOOM
Make me happy, gramps. Find me a key! Or I break all your fingers.
HIRSCHEL
There's an extra key in the manager's office.
YURT
(Continued)
At least I think this is mine. They look identical. I'm not sure.
BOOM-BOOM
Then let's you and me go there and get it.
(BOOM-BOOM and HIRSCHEL leave. YURT listens to the
common door.)
CORLISS
Why don't you go next door and get the other case? We can open them
both and see which is which.
YURT
OK. (YURT listens at the door) It seems quiet in there. I guess he
must have left. I'll go get the other case.
(YURT goes into the Empress Suite, shutting the door
behind him. HE crosses to the cosmetics case and struggles
to open the case. TREADWELL enters the Honeymoon
Suite.)
CORLISS
Senator, I just learned that Mrs. Treadwell is here at Shangri-Law.
TREADWELL
Keep her away from me.
CORLISS
But, sir
TREADWELL
And I want that girl Zenobia. Go find her. Bring her here
CORLISS
(Glancing at the common door)
With Mrs. Treadwell here at Shangri La? I think we better leave right
away.
TREADWELL
No way, Twinkle-toes. Get that girl! Now! I'm going to set the stage.
CORLISS
If you insist, Senator.
TREADWELL
I insist.
(CORLISS leaves the Honeymoon Suite.)
END OF PART THREE
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