The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (15 page)

Julian was in a state of pure bliss. He was with Marshall, he was free of police, a new adventure was beginning.

Marshall was figuring that the cops would be notifying the bus driver that the boy was being sent home. And this was exactly what was happening at that moment. As for himself turning up missing, Marshall thought, with six passengers lost off the trip, a seventh would be accepted by the driver as fate.

Slowly the file began to move, the truck joined the crawl.

Marshall said to Julian, “Your shoelace is untied.”

Julian looked down at his feet. It wasn’t. Before he could protest Marshall snapped, “You heard what I said,” but managed to tip him a wink. “Christ, it’s hot,” he said, removing his jacket and holding it in his lap as Julian bent down, carefully untied both laces and then tied them again. The young driver was staring stonily ahead, his eyes on the tailgate of the truck preceding him. Traffic was beginning to speed up in both directions and the next moment they were passing the scene of the action with troopers waving the vehicles through.

One glimpse showed Marshall all he needed to see, the bus loaded and ready to take to the road again, the black and white radio car parked in the field now surrounded by troopers, agitatedly arguing. Marshall quickly turned his face away from the troopers and towards the truck driver and said, “That musta been where it happened. They sure got a lot of law around.”

The driver turned and looked squarely at Marshall and said, “I don’t go much for cops,” and then they were past, rolling up the road at thirty, and as traffic spaced even more, up to fifty and every turn of the wheels put distance between them and those left behind.

Marshall apostrophized himself.
Well, you stupid bastard, if this isn’t the craziest caper!

Back in San Diego, Lieutenant King of the Missing Persons Bureau, not too ably supported by Sergeant Cassidy, was going through one of the most unhappy and uncomfortable moments of his life trying to explain to a man with a thundering temper and a woman on the verge of screaming hysterics. It seemed he could get no further than, “. . . I’m afraid, sir, for the moment we just don’t exactly know. Those hicks down there in Morellos fouled things up. We’re in touch with them every minute. See, they had it all set up and then suddenly they said the kid was gone . . . ,” and thereupon the storm burst over his battered head again. “Gone where? Gone why? Who was in charge? Call the police commissioner, get through to the governor.” Words, shouts, threats, but nothing took away from the fact that Julian and his Bubble Gun had vanished into the blue again.

During a part of that night Julian was asleep, his head on Marshall’s lap. The truck driver said, “Your old lady’s took sick bad, eh?”

Marshall was drowsy and momentarily off guard. He said “What? Whose old lady?”

The truck driver never took his eyes off the road through which his blazing headlamps were boring a tunnel but his voice had an edge as he said, “Yours—and the kid’s, too, if he’s your brother.”

Marshall tried to cover. He said, “Oh, sure, sure. I’m afraid she don’t have much longer to go. She’s gettin’ on.”

The driver said, “Look here, feller, this isn’t any kind of a caper, is it?”

Marshall said, “No, it isn’t.”

The truck driver regarded the handsome profile for a moment in the dim lighting from the dashboard and said, “Okay then. We ought to be in Albuquerque in the morning and if it’s any kind of a racket I’m gonna turn you in.”

The big truck was on schedule and at 8 a.m. drew up at an intersection in the heart of the business area of Albuquerque. A policeman was directing traffic, passers-by were stopping at a corner news-stand to reduce piles of morning papers with black, blazing headlines and pictures.

The driver said, “Albuquerque. All out.”

Marshall reached over a hand and said, “Thanks, friend.”

The driver ignored the gesture and said, “Okay, bud, and watch out for the cops.”

“What cops?”

The driver snorted. “While you were sacked out last night I heard it on the radio. There’s a five-state alarm out for your kid brother. You said this wasn’t a caper.”

Marshall said, “I swear it isn’t.”

The driver said, “You’re a great kidder, ain’t you? You better give. You know I’m not supposed to pick anybody up. I could lose my job. You see that cop over there? I bet he’d like to know.”

Marshall said, “Okay, pal, but just hang on to that kid a sec.” He jumped down from the cab, grabbed a copy of the morning paper, left two bits and was back in again handing it to the driver. “Here, read this.”

The man stared at the hijacking headlines and photographs and took in the opening text with bulging eyes and then said, “Well, for Pete’s sake. This the kid?”

Marshall said to Julian, “Show him.”

Julian produced the Bubble Gun and squeezed the trigger. It was on its machine-gun kick releasing first a whole flight of coloured bubbles and then one large juicy one which changed magnificently into every shade of the rainbow before bursting upon the edge of the cab window.

The driver goggled and managed to say, “Well, whaddaya know? Brother!” but then said swiftly to Marshall, “So, where do you come in?”

It was Julian who filled in the gap. “He’s my friend. He’s helping me. I’m g-g-going to Washington to patent it and m-m-make a lot of money. They’re t-t-trying to stop me.”

Marshall said, “I’m giving the kid a hand. Wouldn’t you?”

The driver’s face broke into a grin. He said, “Okay then, good luck. Beat it, and keep your eyes peeled. Get out on this side and the cop won’t notice.”

They shook hands and Marshall and Julian slipped from the offside of the cab. The driver crashed into gear, wheeled his truck around the corner and left the two standing on the busy intersection feeling naked.

Marshall had to take a chance. He said to the news-vendor, “Excuse me, Mac, where’s the bus station?”

The man was busy making change and didn’t even look up. He said, “Straight ahead, four blocks. You can’t miss it.”

Marshall looked in the direction indicated. There was the traffic cop at the intersection and two blocks down a prowl car was parked at the curb. Marshall cursed himself. There were now several reasons why he wanted to finish what he had started. If they picked up the kid, he would, of course, be sent home immediately but Marshall was uncertain as to what charges would be brought against himself. He took Julian by the hand keeping him on the inside away from the curb and when the lights and the wave of the traffic cop’s arm were with them, they crossed the intersection. The cop was too busy keeping the early morning business bustle moving to pay them any mind. But the prowl car with its radio! And passers-by too, one out of every three of whom must have heard the alarm on the morning news for the red-haired kid with the gig-lamps and the stammer. Oh Christ! Was there any way around to get to the bus station another way? There they were, Julian still carrying his small case, Marshall’s belongings in one slightly larger. They were as conspicuous as though they had been bearing placards announcing their identity.

Marshall noticed suddenly that they had halted opposite a façade and entrance to one of the larger branches of the J. C. Penney chain of stores a half block in length. Marshall gave vent to an exclamation, “Hey, wait a minute!” and inspected the display window. He then said, “C’mon, kid,” and instead of going on, turned and with Julian entered the store.

The two CIA men had managed to elude the guards and officials at the gate leading to the tarmacs and runways of Mexico City’s International airport not far from where the Russian giant four-engine Tupelov jet aircraft was waiting. All the passengers had been herded inside, but the boarding steps had not yet been removed. The two men were watching the entrance anxiously.

The first said, “You sure he wasn’t among the passengers?”

The other consulting a photograph said, “They wouldn’t be that dumb.”

“Disguised maybe?”

“That isn’t how they operate.”

“They’re obviously waiting for him.”

“Uh huh.”

The first CIA man sighed and said, “Well, here we are. There’s the guy. That’s the little bastard who stole the shot.”

Nikolas Allon emerged from the departure building. He was surrounded fore and aft and on both sides by six large, tough-looking and obviously well-armed Russian bodyguards.

The second CIA man groaned, “And his pals.”

The first operative said, “Jesus, there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t stop him. They’re going crazy in Washington.”

“They go crazy. We’re the patsies. What do we do?”

They both had their hands inside their jackets fingering the butts of their shoulder-holstered guns only to find themselves hypnotized by the slow methodical march of the group striding across the tarmac in the direction of the plane. The bodyguards were looking about them and in every direction. If they noted the two CIA men when they came within range of the standing pair, they gave no sign. The hands of the two emerged from their jackets—empty.

The second CIA man put it succinctly, saying, “Kamikazes we ain’t.”

Allon climbed the stairs and entered the aircraft. The bodyguard remained grouped below until he had vanished inside the ship and the heavy door slid shut. Attendants pulled away the boarding stairs, others removed the chocks from the wheels. The four jet engines breathed heavily setting up miniature whirlwinds of dust and papers. The plane moved away and soon was heading down the runway for the takeoff point. Thereafter the two men watched the great tin bird heave itself into the deep blue Mexican sky where for an instant its glittering silver was framed against the white of the snow on the peak of Popocatepetl.

The second CIA man murmured softly, “Next stop, Moscow.”

His partner spat in disgust, “Operation Balls!”

The second CIA man supplied the coda. “You can’t win ’em all, chum.”

Marshall and Julian emerged from the glass portal of J. C. Penney. Marshall was clad in a different shirt, his stripped-down battle jacket had been stowed away and was replaced by a brown and white leather windbreaker of unborn calfskin. On the back of his head he wore a tan cowpuncher’s ten-gallon hat.

But the greatest transformation had been worked upon Julian, for he was now wearing a shirt with
BUFFALO BILL
lettered across the chest, fringe buckskin trousers and coat. His glasses had been removed and in addition he was wearing a Buffalo Bill stetson. To complete the illusion, glued to his upper lip and chin was a Buffalo Bill moustache and goatee. He was carrying a toy rifle, and around his middle was a leather belt containing dummy cartridges and a pistol holster into which the Bubble Gun had been thrust. Minus his glasses, his carroty hair covered by the stetson, plus the costume, the goatee and moustache, he was practically unrecognizable.

Marshall no longer felt nude. He looked down upon Julian with a wide grin and said, “How’s that?”

Julian replied, “G-g-great. Is this what Buffalo B-B-Bill really looked like?”

“He sure did. You’re the spittin’ image. Okay, let’s go.” For he was now prepared to make the test.

They moved off. The cop at the intersection was still directing traffic, the patrol car containing two police was still there. Squatting on the sidewalk opposite the car was an old and wrinkled Indian man surrounded by articles of Indianware, rugs, beads and phony turquoise jewellery. Marshall leaned down and whispered something into Julian’s ear.

They approached the corner. Marshall said to Julian, “Get ’im, Buffalo.”

Julian pointed the wooden rifle at the Indian and said, “B-b-bang, you’re dead.”

The Indian looked up, smiled a cheerful, toothless smile and held out a colourful woven basket. “Indian basket. Fi” dolla. Very cheap.”

Julian drew another bead. “B-b-bang!”

They were level now with the prowl car. One of the cops leaned out of the window grinning and said, “Hey, there, don’t you shoot old Pete. Him once great big Indian chief Thunder Face, eh, Pete?”

The Indian offered the basket again. “Four dolla.”

Marshall winked at the policeman. “Old Buffalo Bill here, he just naturally shoots them pizen varmints on sight. C’mon Bill, you got ’im.” They moved on.

The policemen in the car smiled as they went and said, “Kids.” Marshall was satisfied.

They continued on threading their way through pedestrians. Julian said, “Say, they r-r-really thought I was B-B-Buffalo Bill, didn’t they?”

Marshall stopped dead so abruptly that Julian who was still holding his hand was almost yanked off his feet. “Listen kid, that goddamn stammer of yours.”

The sudden change in Marshall’s voice and expression was so startling that Julian looked up at him in alarm.

Marshall continued, “If anybody got suspicious of us that’s the first thing they’d nail you on. Do you have to do it?”

Julian said, “I d-d-don’t know.”

“It’s really a lot of crap, isn’t it?”

Julian said, “I g-g-guess—I guess so—if you say.” He was already half hypnotized by his worship and love for Marshall.

Marshall said, “Right. So, from now on we cut out the stammer. Let’s hear you say Bubble Gun.”

“Bubble Gun.”

“That’s great. Now say ding-dong-dell, pussy’s in the goddamn well.”

Julian repeated, “Ding-dong-dell, pussy’s in . . .”

Marshall stopped him with a wave of his hand, “See, there you are. Who needs it?

Julian said, “Okay,” and then with the casualness of the child who is utterly finished with a subject that is not likely ever to come up again, went on to the next. “Where do we go now?”

“You still want to go to Washington, don’t you?”

“Sure, what do we do?”

Marshall said, “Find the bus station. You’ve got your through ticket, haven’t you?”

“Sure.”

Marshall said, “Okay. They’re good from anywhere. Let’s go.”

C H A P T E R
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I
nnovation in crime, as both police and media know, invariably sparks imitators and as one grey head in a Los Angeles city room remarked in disgust, “Christ, a bus hijacked! Can you beat it? I suppose we’ll have one a week now.”