Adventures Page 18

  “Tell me something, Reverend Jones,” said Calhoun, leaning against a tree and lighting up a pipe.

  “If I can,” I said amicably.

  “When Americans go crazy they beat up their wives and spend their life savings on booze, which at least keeps their women on their toes and puts a little money back into the economy. And when Irishmen go crackers, they go off and join the IRA and help keep down the population of a very crowded little island.” He paused thoughtfully. “So how come whenever Englishmen go nuts then run around naked in tropical climates?”

  I allowed as to how I didn't know, but it did seem to be the case, at least in my experience. He pulled out a small metal flask and offered me a swig, and we got to talking about one thing and another, passing the time of day very pleasantly, when suddenly we heard a horrible sound away off in the distance.

  “What is it?” asked Calhoun.

  “I can't rightly tell,” I answered.

  “Sounds like a bunch of savage voices screaming in fury,” he said, putting his flask away.

  A moment later we heard a noise overhead, and saw Bloomstoke dropping down from one branch to another until he finally landed right next to us on the ground.

  “Hurry!” he cried. “We've no time to waste!”

  “What are you talking about, Brother Bloomstoke?” I asked.

  “We've got to get out of here!”

  “But what happened?” I persisted.

  “They decided that I was a closet imperialist and threw me out of the party! Me, who brought them a fourteen-year agricultural recovery plan!”

  “What's he talking about, Reverend?” asked Calhoun.

  “I think he's saying that his visa's been revoked and he is in some danger of being deported,” I said, falling into step behind Bloomstoke as he lit out for the east. “Or worse yet, detained without right of counsel.”

  “Are you sure we have to run?” panted Calhoun, joining me.

  “I'm sure I have to run,” I replied. “You do whatever you think is best.”

  We made it to Calhoun's camp in about three hours. The gorillas lined up in a huge semi-circle just out of rifle range and kept screaming things at us, which Bloomstoke translated as “capitalist swine” and “war-mongering imperialists” and “running dogs". Every now and then one of them would call us “ugly naked apes who didn't have the brains to turn over a rotten log and find a handful of succulent grubworms,” at which Bloomstoke would smile and inform us that obviously the entire tribe was not yet radicalized.

  By dawn the next morning it was apparent that the gorillas weren't going to come no closer and that Bloomstoke wasn't going to let no one go hunting in his jungle, so Calhoun announced that we would be leaving for Nairobi in an hour or so. Bloomstoke gave out that peculiar scream of his, and a few minutes later old Goola came lumbering out of the jungle.

  “Don't shoot him,” ordered Bloomstoke, as Calhoun raised his rifle.

  “But he'll trample us!” said Calhoun.

  “Am I not Master of the Jungle?” said Bloomstoke with a confident smile. He raised his hand and Goola came to a sudden stop.

  “He does whatever you tell him to?” asked Calhoun, suddenly interested.

  Bloomstoke nodded.

  “You ever give any serious thought to appearing in the circus?” continued Calhoun.

  “I'd need thirty-eight thousand pounds,” said Bloomstoke.

  “Out of the question!” said Calhoun.

  “That would include the elephant.”

  “Let's see what he can do,” said Calhoun, scratching his head.

  Bloomstoke walked up to the pachyderm. “Goola—sit!” he commanded.

  Goola picked Bloomstoke up with his trunk and deposited the jungle lord on the back of his neck.

  “We'll work on that,” said Bloomstoke hastily. “Put me down, Goola.”

  Goola pawed the ground three times with his right front foot, while Calhoun snorted in derision and walked away.

  “I could be an aerielist!” Bloomstoke called after him. “I'm really good at swinging from tree to tree.”

  “I'll think about it,” said Calhoun.

  “Or a sharpshooter!” continued Bloomstoke. “I'm a crack shot with a bow and arrow. Damn you, Goola—put me the hell down!”

  Well, they spent most of the day dickering, but the upshot of it all was that Calhoun already had a flock of aerielists, and besides, it would cost too much to lug a bunch of trees and vines around the countryside and erect them under the big top. Also, people didn't pay top dollar to watch bows-and-arrow marksmen unless they were with a Wild West Show, which was one of the kinds of shows that Calhoun didn't run.

  “Tell you what I'll do,” said Calhoun at last. “You teach that elephant five tricks by the time we hit Nairobi and I'll pay you thirty-eight thousand pounds to go on tour with my circus for two years.”

  “And if I don't?” asked Bloomstoke.

  “Then I'll buy him outright for ten thousand, and you can hire on as an animal attendant for standard wages.”

  “Capitalist pig!” muttered Bloomstoke, but he shook on it.

  Well, I never saw an elephant not learn so many tricks in my life as I did during the month it took us to get from the Congo to Kenya. Bloomstoke would tell him to stand up, and he'd roll over. Bloomstoke would tell him to lie down, and he'd speak. Bloomstoke would tell him to speak, and he'd count with his foot. When we were two days out of Nairobi it was pretty obvious that Bloomstoke was going to come out on the short end of the deal, so I walked over to him after everyone else was asleep.

  “You been going about this all wrong, Brother Bloomstoke,” I said, taking him off to where we wouldn't disturb nobody.

  “What do you mean, Doctor Jones?” he asked.

  “Look, we all agree that old Goola, if he ain't out-and-out retarded, has at least got a serious learning disability, right?” I said.

  Bloomstoke nodded.

  “But he's also a good-hearted critter who's eager to please, even if he don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

  “What are you getting at?” asked Bloomstoke.

  “Why not give him commands in French or ape or some other foreign tongue?” I suggested. “Then, no matter what he does next, praise him and act like it was just what you had in mind.”

  “That's immoral,” he said sternly.

  “Well, personally I find it a lot less immoral than poverty,” I said. “But if you disagree, why, that's your right. Just forget I ever suggested it.”

  The next morning Bloomstoke called Calhoun over and gave Goola a dozen terse commands in apeish, and shortly thereafter signed a thirty-eight-thousand-pound contract.

  As for me, I left Bloomstoke and Calhoun and their animals behind me and, still loaded down with gemstones, went off to build my tabernacle in the fair city of Nairobi.

  Chapter 11

  THE BEST LITTLE TABERNACLE IN NAIROBI

  If you walk through present-day Nairobi and ask around, you can probably still find three or four old-timers who remember the Tabernacle of Saint Luke, and will be happy to talk to you about it.

  So I think, in all fairness, that you ought to hear my side of the story too.

  I entered town a couple of hours after I'd left Bloomstoke and Calhoun, and walked right into the first real estate office I could find, not that there were a whole mess of them cluttering up the place. In fact, except for the New Stanley and Norfolk hotels, there wasn't an awful lot of anything cluttering up the place.

  Anyway, I told the gent in charge that I wanted to purchase a little stretch of land somewhere near the center of town with the purpose of building my tabernacle there, and he explained to me that while he could certainly sell me the land, there was a lumber shortage and construction costs had shot up through the roof—or they would have, if anyone could have afforded a roof for them to shoot up through.

  “I got an awful lot of money,” I told him. “Of course, on the other hand, the Lord teaches us to be thr
ifty. It poses quite a little problem.”

  “There is an alternative, Doctor Jones,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “Why not purchase an existing structure?” he suggested. “It would certainly be less expensive than erecting a comparable building, and you'd have the added advantage of being able to take possession and move in immediately.”

  “Well, now, that's right good thinking, brother,” I said. “And I opine as to how I'll do just that. Why don't you hunt me up the biggest building that's for sale?”

  “Well, Doctor Jones, sir,” he said, “I'm thoroughly acquainted with all the property currently listed with our agency and I don't think the largest building is exactly the one you're looking for.”

  “Is the structure sound?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No termites or dry rot?”

  “No, but...”

  “Then I want it,” I told him decisively. “Have the papers ready to sign, and I'll be back as soon as I convert these here jewels and gems into coin of the realm.”

  And, as the Lord is my witness, that was absolutely all that got said by anybody to anybody.

  I mean, how the hell was I to know that the biggest building for sale in Nairobi happened to be the Cock and Bull Tavern and Lounge, or that the Cock and Bull Tavern and Lounge wasn't exactly what it appeared to be?

  In fact, the first inkling I had was when I moseyed over to it after signing the papers and damned near got trampled in a mad rush of British civil servants who were stopping off for a little refreshment on their way home from a hard day of running the country. A couple of ladies in high-necked dresses were standing just outside the doorway, passing out pamphlets and singing hymns.

  “Good day to you, sisters,” I said, walking up to them.

  “It won't be a good day until this sinful palace of depravity is closed forever!” said one of them. “Won't you take some of our literature, sir?”

  “No, thank you, sister,” I said. “I never read anything except the Good Book. But perhaps you might tell me why you've singled out this lovely building from amongst all the other buildings in Nairobi?”

  “It's not the building, sir,” said the other. “It's what goes on inside it: sin and more sin!”

  She raised her voice a little in her excitement, and as a result two men who were walking on the other side of the street heard her and made a beeline for the Cock and Bull.

  “Sinners!” cried the first woman after them. “Vile, depraved men!”

  “Listen, sisters,” I said. “Since I'm a man of the cloth, maybe I'd best go inside and see if I can put the fear of God into some of these sinners. But I want you to keep standing here by the door and telling everyone who comes by what a terrible den of iniquity this is.”

  “Oh, we will, Reverend!” they cried in unison

  “Especially the men,” I said.

  They nodded, their eyes aglow with a sense of purpose, and I walked through the doorway. The bar looked like any other bar in town, with lion and leopard and kudu and buffalo heads hanging from the walls, and a bunch of Maasai pots serving as spittoons. And being the uncannily sharp observer that I am, I didn't have to see more than six or seven ladies walking around in their unmentionables before I figured out that either the fans were broken or the Cock and Bull sold a little more than just liquid refreshments.

  I wandered around the main floor a little, enjoying the smells of perfume and incense that wafted on the air and admiring the velvet wallpaper that came with the building. Then I bumped into still another young lady who was dressed for extremely warm weather.

  “Good evening, sister,” I said.

  “You're wearing your Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes a little early in the week, aren't you?” she asked.

  “Don't let my clothes upset you none,” I said pleasantly.

  “If mine don't upset you, yours sure won't upset me,” she said. “What can I do for you, Padre—a little something in the missionary position?”

  “You might tell me how to find whoever's in charge here,” I said.

  “You must mean Mademoiselle Markoff,” she said, gesturing toward a room at the top of a nearby staircase.

  I thanked her, walked up, and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I opened it and found myself facing a blonde woman with a figure that Knute Rockne would have traded all four of Notre Dame's horsemen for. Her arms, thighs, shoulders, and neck all bore a right startling resemblance to those of Lord Bloomstoke's friends and companions. She was dressed, or rather wrapped, in a blue satin harem outfit which looked kind of silly and would have looked even sillier if she hadn't appeared so menacing. She was lying on her side on a fur rug, sipping a tall drink through a straw and holding a huge cigar in her free hand. A couple of young women, also done up in satin and wearing huge feathers in their hair, were standing behind her and waving ostrich-feather fans over her sweating body.

  “What is it?” she said in a very deep voice.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” I said. “I'm the Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones. How's the concierge business these days?”

  “Another reformer,” she said wearily, looking up from her drink.

  “Begging your pardon, Madam Markoff,” I said, “but what I mostly am is a landlord.”

  “Call me Mademoiselle Markoff. I'm too young and pretty to be a madam—or don't you agree?” she said ominously.

  “I agree absolutely, Mademoiselle,” I said, taking a step backward.

  “Good,” she said, simpering in A below middle C. “Now what's all this about being a landlord?”

  I pulled out the papers and showed them to her.

  “Oh, shit!” she said, tossing them back to me. “When will you want us to clear out of here?”

  “Mademoiselle Markoff, you cut me to the quick!” I said sincerely. “Tossing all them sweet innocent young ladies out into the cold would hardly constitute an act of Christian charity, especially considering how many customers we got lined up downstairs.”

  Her eyebrows shot up for just a second, and then she gave me a great big grin that started at one ear and ended just short of the other. “Doctor Jones,” she said, “it looks like you've bought yourself a whorehouse.”

  “I don't think so, Mademoiselle,” I said. “It just wouldn't appear right, me being a man of the cloth and all.”

  “I don't think I follow you,” she said, taking a deep drag on her cigar, blowing the smoke out through her nostrils, and sipping two-thirds of the drink up through her straw.

  “What I'm saying is that I just don't think a man in my position should own a whorehouse. Of course, as I see it, renting a whorehouse to someone else is a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “Ah!” she said, her grin getting even bigger, exposing a flock of gold molars along the sides. “And what will you be wanting?”

  “Well, I sure wouldn't want to appear greedy or nothing,” I said. “But first of all, I'll need a room downstairs for my tabernacle.”

  “And what else?” she persisted.

  “Half,” I said.

  “Damn!” she snapped. “You're no better than the last one! Listen to me, Doctor Jones: these are cultured young women here, performing a necessary if demeaning social service.”

  “And just what would it take to make them feel less demeaned?” I asked.

  “Sixty percent ought to do it,” said Mademoiselle Markoff.

  “Fifty-five,” I said.

  “Done!” she said.

  We shook on it.

  “How much do you get, by the way?” I asked while trying to urge a little blood back into my hand.

  “Half of their take,” she said without hatting an eye.

  “Well, the Good Lord teaches us to practice moderation in all things, so I guess that includes generosity for these poor, socially downtrodden young ladies,” I said.

  “You're cute,” said Mademoiselle Markoff, allowing a lock of blonde hair to fall provocatively over one beady little red e
ye.

  “Why, thank you kindly,” I said, backing off another step.

  “Come sit down next to me and have a drink, Doctor Jones,” she said, patting the rug beside her. “I have a feeling that you and I are going to get along just fine.”

  I was about to reply when two gunshots echoed through the building. They were followed by a bunch of screams and the sound of footsteps running up and down the corridors and stairs, and finally a tall, bearded man in a police uniform burst into the room.

  “Mademoiselle Markoff!” he bellowed. “He did it again! It's got to stop!”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, brother,” I said, “but what seems to be the problem?”

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones,” I said. “l happen to be the new landlord.”

  He looked at Mademoiselle Markoff, who nodded.

  “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Jones,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Lieutenant Nigel Todd of the Nairobi Police. Are you aware of the exact nature of the establishment you have just purchased?”

  “Everyone who works here is just doing what they can to uplift the spirit of Man, each in his or her own special way,” I said, taking his hand.

  “Not quite everyone,” said Todd grimly.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Surely them two ladies out front didn't come in and shoot the place up? I'll have to explain to them that the Good Book dwells upon numerous painted women with loving care and in considerable detail.”

  “It's your bouncer,” said Todd.

  “What's the matter with him?” I asked.

  “He keeps shooting the customers.”

  “Not before they've paid, I hope?” I said.

  “l must tell you, Doctor Jones,” continued Todd, “it's getting harder and harder to tolerate this kind of thing. I'm as liberal as the next man, but he simply can't be allowed to go around shooting people whenever he pleases. After all, this isn't the frontier anymore, and it is getting very difficult, to say nothing of expensive, to keep such unfortunate events quiet.”

  “Expensive?” I said.

  “Expensive,” he replied, putting his hand into his pocket and jingling his change, just like a high-class waiter or bellboy.