Read Online The Israel Bond Omnibus by Sol Weinstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sol Weinstein
Ads: Link
magnificent Wahine Dining Room with his presence, the only dining room in the mountains that features high-calorie saccharine (more cheers) and—and a French mother dee!! Well, I ain’t up here to plug (chuckle) the Kahn-Tiki, your second home. I’m here to humbly present the greatest Jewish gentleman I ever seen—and, believe me, Schuyler Kahn in his role as owner of the best Class B hotel in the mountains has met them all... I have become personal, intimate, best friends with all of them… Al Jessel, Georgie Jolson, Sophie Bryce and Fanny Tucker, those ice-cold mamas… the Ritz Sisters, those wonderful Marx clowns; Frodo, Bilbo, Dildo, you name ‘em, I know ‘em. I say the greatest Jewish gentleman of them all is the gent I’m gonna present now. Without further ado, here is Dr. Lazarus Loxfinger!”
There was a glass-shattering roar. Bond looked blankly at the shards in his hand and the ice cubes in his lap.
Lazarus Loxfinger, trailed by a huge mulatto wearing a plaid kilt and a T-shirt with the letters “In my kilt I kill” and carrying a board on his shoulder, walked slowly onto the stage. He stood motionless during a fantastic, ten-minute standing ovation, hearing his name screamed over and over again: “Loxfinger! Loxfinger! Loxfinger!”
Several women fainted during the unimaginable din. An elderly matron next to Bond shrieked: “A Messiah he is; he should only live another thousand years! Now I know what the Catholics feel when they see their Pope!”
Then Loxfinger raised his right hand stiffly, palm out. The throng stilled.
Macaroon suddenly crossed in front of his leader, swung the board off his shoulder, held it by the end with his left hand, and with a frightening blur chopped his right hand down on it. There was a sharp crack; gasps sounded through the ballroom; the board, split in two, fell to the stage. Then the monster lumbered off.
And Loxfinger began to speak.
8 The Brave Bullring
Now it was two in the morning and Bond, still beset by the sense of unreality that had begun the instant he heard the voice of Lazarus Loxfinger, found himself unable to sleep. He lit a Raleigh in the dark, indifferently watching the flames from his tossed match creeping up the blanket toward him.
No doubt of it, the man was a spellbinder. In a few words he had reduced the crowd to tears, proclaiming he would never rest “until Israel has achieved the destiny I, Lazarus Loxfinger, envision for her.”
There was something unearthly about Loxfinger, the way the harsh, guttural yet strangely soothing music of his voice was seemingly able to lift his auditors to heights beyond the known, the way his incredible blue eyes blazed. Not imposing physically, he nevertheless seemed to grow before one’s eyes with each word, each gesture.
He had assured them the shooting was “the handiwork of a poor misguided unfortunate, a creature of the Creator as are we all, worthy of our pity and concern. But I have no ill effects,” he stated. “I shall go on as I always have until I find a final solution for Israel and her neighbors.”
At the end of his speech, Macaroon had reappeared to shock the crowd with another wood-splitting feat and led the doctor away to the accompaniment of another ovation.
The man can set people afire, Bond reflected. In fact, I’m on fire now.
As the flames licked at his swollen hand and singed his mangled shoulder, Bond phoned the desk. “My room’s on fire.”
“I see,” said the imperturbable clerk. The chap in 1818 was certainly proving an extraordinary guest. No doubt, he chuckled, the fire had been set by a polar bear!
“I’ll see if I can rustle up some help for you, Mr. Bond. In the meantime please make an inventory of all destroyed furniture and bedding—in triplicate, if possible. They must be charged to your bill, of course.”
His charred hand paining him, Bond, now dressed in a powder blue iridescent suit, Panama hat, string tie and Venetian bedsocks, pushed his
There was a glass-shattering roar. Bond looked blankly at the shards in his hand and the ice cubes in his lap.
Lazarus Loxfinger, trailed by a huge mulatto wearing a plaid kilt and a T-shirt with the letters “In my kilt I kill” and carrying a board on his shoulder, walked slowly onto the stage. He stood motionless during a fantastic, ten-minute standing ovation, hearing his name screamed over and over again: “Loxfinger! Loxfinger! Loxfinger!”
Several women fainted during the unimaginable din. An elderly matron next to Bond shrieked: “A Messiah he is; he should only live another thousand years! Now I know what the Catholics feel when they see their Pope!”
Then Loxfinger raised his right hand stiffly, palm out. The throng stilled.
Macaroon suddenly crossed in front of his leader, swung the board off his shoulder, held it by the end with his left hand, and with a frightening blur chopped his right hand down on it. There was a sharp crack; gasps sounded through the ballroom; the board, split in two, fell to the stage. Then the monster lumbered off.
And Loxfinger began to speak.
8 The Brave Bullring
Now it was two in the morning and Bond, still beset by the sense of unreality that had begun the instant he heard the voice of Lazarus Loxfinger, found himself unable to sleep. He lit a Raleigh in the dark, indifferently watching the flames from his tossed match creeping up the blanket toward him.
No doubt of it, the man was a spellbinder. In a few words he had reduced the crowd to tears, proclaiming he would never rest “until Israel has achieved the destiny I, Lazarus Loxfinger, envision for her.”
There was something unearthly about Loxfinger, the way the harsh, guttural yet strangely soothing music of his voice was seemingly able to lift his auditors to heights beyond the known, the way his incredible blue eyes blazed. Not imposing physically, he nevertheless seemed to grow before one’s eyes with each word, each gesture.
He had assured them the shooting was “the handiwork of a poor misguided unfortunate, a creature of the Creator as are we all, worthy of our pity and concern. But I have no ill effects,” he stated. “I shall go on as I always have until I find a final solution for Israel and her neighbors.”
At the end of his speech, Macaroon had reappeared to shock the crowd with another wood-splitting feat and led the doctor away to the accompaniment of another ovation.
The man can set people afire, Bond reflected. In fact, I’m on fire now.
As the flames licked at his swollen hand and singed his mangled shoulder, Bond phoned the desk. “My room’s on fire.”
“I see,” said the imperturbable clerk. The chap in 1818 was certainly proving an extraordinary guest. No doubt, he chuckled, the fire had been set by a polar bear!
“I’ll see if I can rustle up some help for you, Mr. Bond. In the meantime please make an inventory of all destroyed furniture and bedding—in triplicate, if possible. They must be charged to your bill, of course.”
His charred hand paining him, Bond, now dressed in a powder blue iridescent suit, Panama hat, string tie and Venetian bedsocks, pushed his
Similar Books
![Hillerman, Tony - [Leaphorn & Chee 03]](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/452618/thumbs/152x264/hillerman-tony-leaphorn-chee-03.jpg)
