Read Online The Israel Bond Omnibus by Sol Weinstein - Free Book Online
Authors: Sol Weinstein
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our friend from YENTZ?”
Bond’s grey eyes gleamed as his quick mind prepared to hurl one of his famous jests.
“One can say,” he paused for telling effect, “that Mr. Achmed Jew is definitely in the soup!”
7 “This Can’t Be the Regular Group!”
For once, disposing of a body had proved relatively simple for Bond. Zvi, who had left the Cafe Aw-Go-Go-Already to come to the Catskills and work more closely with him, had wangled a part-time job as an animal trainer with the Ring-A-Ding Barton Brothers & Bill Bailey Circus and Smoker (“The earthiest show on earth”) touring nearby and had brought over a starving Bengal tiger, shoved it into the pool and calmly watched it dine on the Levantine.
Bond, a Raleigh dangling from his lips, commented: “You can always count on fast action, Zvi, when there’s a tiger in the tank.”
Grinning, Zvi again was overwhelmed by Oy Oy Seven’s trigger mind. How does he do it? And why?
“Boy, that tiger is doing a real job. I don’t think Agent D. could have handled this any better.” Then he bit his tongue.
“Agent D.?” A sharp look of interest was on Bond’s face. “Who is Agent D.?”
Zvi stammered. “Forget I ever mentioned Agent D. Please, Oy Oy Seven, please forget it. Means nothing really.”
Agent D.? Zvi apparently had gleaned something from one of M.’s top secret missives. But Bond decided to press the matter no further. His confrere was obviously embarrassed enough.
“Say, Bond,” said Zvi, changing the subject as quickly as he could, “how come you got all duded up in soup ’n fish to bump off this guy? What’s with this whole fashion plate bit anyway?”
Bond looked at him with some asperity. “Look, Zvi. This is a rotten business I’m in ... killing, maiming, stealing, bribing. But damn it, man, there’s no reason why I have to go through all of it like a slob!”
And he spun angrily on his heel, an unfortunate maneuver which released a knife that whizzed by Zvi’s head, lopping off an ear.
“Iz ... I’m sorry I offended you, old friend,” Zvi said to Bond’s departing back, the pain of thoughtlessly hurting a chum far exceeding the minor irritation emanating from the spot where his auditory appendage had been ensconced.
Understandably aggravated by Zvi’s vulgar diatribe against his wardrobe, Bond nevertheless shrugged it off. Zvi, a mere 113 rank holder, could not appreciate men of Bond’s class. Bond’s own idol had been Oy Oy One, a suave, nattily attired operative who had met the fate all Oy Oy holders were destined for—the end of an Arab rope. And faithful to his gentleman’s code, Oy Oy One had insisted that the Egyptian hangman use a Windsor knot. Truly a man to emulate, Bond vowed.
Ten minutes later, reverting to his cover role, Bond found himself delivering the speech to the organization mentioned in M.’s communication and then found himself dragged into yet another conclave by a spry, surprisingly powerful old matron in gold lame evening hip-hugger slacks and blouse, matched regrettably with brown and white saddles. He had given an abbreviated version of his speech to the group, the Molly Picon Golden Age Political Action Club, and with another of his typically gallant (and basically good-hearted) gestures—”Waiter, a bottle of your best Geritol for every lovely lady in the room”—had gained applause and reverence.
Still pain-racked from his mauling, the bored Oy Oy Seven strolled into the Litvak Luau Room where, before a jam-packed audience, West Coast comedy sensation Henny Benny Lenny was holding sway at the microphone, tossing glib patter:
“... geez, what a quiet bunch! I’ve gotten better reaction from a Schick test!”
(Nervous, somewhat light laughter.)
“My God, let’s all hold hands and try to communicate with the living!”
(Even lighter laughter.)
“Are you sure this is the regular group? So this guy falls off the Washington Monument and the cop says,
Bond’s grey eyes gleamed as his quick mind prepared to hurl one of his famous jests.
“One can say,” he paused for telling effect, “that Mr. Achmed Jew is definitely in the soup!”
7 “This Can’t Be the Regular Group!”
For once, disposing of a body had proved relatively simple for Bond. Zvi, who had left the Cafe Aw-Go-Go-Already to come to the Catskills and work more closely with him, had wangled a part-time job as an animal trainer with the Ring-A-Ding Barton Brothers & Bill Bailey Circus and Smoker (“The earthiest show on earth”) touring nearby and had brought over a starving Bengal tiger, shoved it into the pool and calmly watched it dine on the Levantine.
Bond, a Raleigh dangling from his lips, commented: “You can always count on fast action, Zvi, when there’s a tiger in the tank.”
Grinning, Zvi again was overwhelmed by Oy Oy Seven’s trigger mind. How does he do it? And why?
“Boy, that tiger is doing a real job. I don’t think Agent D. could have handled this any better.” Then he bit his tongue.
“Agent D.?” A sharp look of interest was on Bond’s face. “Who is Agent D.?”
Zvi stammered. “Forget I ever mentioned Agent D. Please, Oy Oy Seven, please forget it. Means nothing really.”
Agent D.? Zvi apparently had gleaned something from one of M.’s top secret missives. But Bond decided to press the matter no further. His confrere was obviously embarrassed enough.
“Say, Bond,” said Zvi, changing the subject as quickly as he could, “how come you got all duded up in soup ’n fish to bump off this guy? What’s with this whole fashion plate bit anyway?”
Bond looked at him with some asperity. “Look, Zvi. This is a rotten business I’m in ... killing, maiming, stealing, bribing. But damn it, man, there’s no reason why I have to go through all of it like a slob!”
And he spun angrily on his heel, an unfortunate maneuver which released a knife that whizzed by Zvi’s head, lopping off an ear.
“Iz ... I’m sorry I offended you, old friend,” Zvi said to Bond’s departing back, the pain of thoughtlessly hurting a chum far exceeding the minor irritation emanating from the spot where his auditory appendage had been ensconced.
Understandably aggravated by Zvi’s vulgar diatribe against his wardrobe, Bond nevertheless shrugged it off. Zvi, a mere 113 rank holder, could not appreciate men of Bond’s class. Bond’s own idol had been Oy Oy One, a suave, nattily attired operative who had met the fate all Oy Oy holders were destined for—the end of an Arab rope. And faithful to his gentleman’s code, Oy Oy One had insisted that the Egyptian hangman use a Windsor knot. Truly a man to emulate, Bond vowed.
Ten minutes later, reverting to his cover role, Bond found himself delivering the speech to the organization mentioned in M.’s communication and then found himself dragged into yet another conclave by a spry, surprisingly powerful old matron in gold lame evening hip-hugger slacks and blouse, matched regrettably with brown and white saddles. He had given an abbreviated version of his speech to the group, the Molly Picon Golden Age Political Action Club, and with another of his typically gallant (and basically good-hearted) gestures—”Waiter, a bottle of your best Geritol for every lovely lady in the room”—had gained applause and reverence.
Still pain-racked from his mauling, the bored Oy Oy Seven strolled into the Litvak Luau Room where, before a jam-packed audience, West Coast comedy sensation Henny Benny Lenny was holding sway at the microphone, tossing glib patter:
“... geez, what a quiet bunch! I’ve gotten better reaction from a Schick test!”
(Nervous, somewhat light laughter.)
“My God, let’s all hold hands and try to communicate with the living!”
(Even lighter laughter.)
“Are you sure this is the regular group? So this guy falls off the Washington Monument and the cop says,
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