“Five hundred,” said Mortie. “And that’s absolutely rock bottom.”

Vantagio tried to walk away. Heller got him by the arm. “Look, real quarter-inch steel fenders and body. Look, Vantagio, real bulletproof windows! See those stars in them? They stopped real bullets just a while ago.”

“Two hundred and fifty,” said Mortie. “And that’s rock rock bottom.”

“Kid,” said Vantagio, “please, for God’s sake, let me go upstairs and call the MGB agency, let them send over a red sports car.”

“This cab,” said Heller, “is a real beauty!”

“Kid, let me call the Mercedes-Benz agency.”

“No.”

“Alfa Romeo?”

“No.”

“Maserati. Now, there’s a good car. A real good car,” said Vantagio. “I can get one custom built. Custom built and bright red, kid. A convertible. I’ll fill it full of girls.”

“No,” said Heller.

“Oh, che il diavolo lo porti, kid, you’re going to get me killed! I wouldn’t even dare put that in this garage! It’s just an ancient wreck!”

“It’s an antique!” cried Mortie. “It ain’t no wreck! It’s a bona fide antique!”

Vantagio stared at him. Then he went on pacing.

Mortie pressed on. “You put that cab in the Atlantic City Antique Auto Parade and it’ll win a twenty-five thousand dollar prize. I guarantee it! Antique cars are the rage!”

Vantagio stopped pacing. “Wait. I’ve just had an idea. If we put that car in the Atlantic City Antique Auto Parade…”

“And filled it full of girls dressed in costumes of the 1920s,” prompted Heller.

“And put guys on the running boards holding submachine guns,” said Vantagio.

“And prohibition agents in 1920 costumes chasing it,” said Heller.

“And painted ‘The Corleone Cab Company’ on the doors,” cried Vantagio, “Babe would LOVE it! Tradition! And a million bucks’ worth of advertising! Right?”

“Right,” said Heller.

“Now, you have to do what I tell you, kid. Right?”

“Right.”

“Choose this as the car.”

“Like I was saying,” said Mortie. “The price is one thousand smackers.”

“Five hundred,” said Vantagio, “providing you can get it to this address. And I’ll buy its cab license later from your company.” He was scribbling on the back of a card, Jiffy-Spiffy Garage, Mike Mutazione, Newark, N.J.

“Can I drive it and monkey with the motor?” said Heller.

“Oh, hell, yes, kid. It’s your car. Just so long as you make it available for the parade and just as long as you let Mike Mutazione put it in new-car condition before you park it in here. You see, I can tell people it’s for the parade and the UN diplomats will be happy on cultural grounds. They love to see tribal customs preserved.”

A new voice was heard. “Hey, where’d this battle casualty come from?” It was Bang-Bang.

“That’s the car you’re going to drive,” said Heller.

“Don’t try to snow me under, kid,” said Bang-Bang. “I’ve had a tough day trying to teach the Army the difference between their left feet and their (bleep).”

“Look, Bang-Bang,” said Heller, pointing to a star in the glass.

“Hey, that’s a 7.62-mm NATO round. See, it dropped down into the ledge outside. Belgian FN? Italian Beretta? Flattened the hell out of it. Bulletproof glass!”

“And fenders. Quarter-inch steel,” said Heller.

Vantagio tapped Bang-Bang. “As long as you’re working for the kid, go over to Newark with this cabby and tell Mike what to do. Use the same material but replace everything! New bulletproof glass, new upholstery, beat the body out, paint the whole car orange and put ‘The Corleone Cab Company’ on the doors. Make it all look brand-new. Even the motor. Tell him to do it in a hurry so the kid can have his car.”

“I ain’t supposed to leave New York,” said Bang-Bang.

“It’s Saturday night,” said Vantagio.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Bang-Bang.

“I’ll go, too!” said Heller.

“No, you won’t,” said Vantagio. “It’s going to be a busy night and I want you in the lobby for a while. And I told two South American diplomats you’d be pleased to meet them. And there’s something else you got to do.”

Vantagio was signing papers that Mortie had been holding out. He counted five hundred into his palm.

Mortie and Bang-Bang jumped into the cab and with a roar, smoke and clatter were gone.

Vantagio and Heller got back into the elevator. “Now we got to go up,” said Vantagio, “and phone Babe and tell her what a great idea I had. No, on the other hand, you phone her from your suite and tell her you thought it up. Tradition is the key to her character, kid. And when you mix tradition and sentiment, it’s a winner every time. Old ‘Holy Joe’ got his start running hooch in cabs just like that!”

“You’re a wonder,” said Heller.

“Yes, you do what I tell you and you’ll be in the money every time. Just remember that, kid.”

I was baffled, utterly baffled. What was Heller doing with two cars? He already had that old Cadillac being specially rebuilt and didn’t seem to be in any rush for it, yet here was this cab being rushed through. For once, some sixth sense — which you can’t do without in the Apparatus — told me that this went beyond the Fleet toy fetish. I writhed. (Bleep) him, he was going too fast! Too fast! He could finish up and accomplish something and ruin me!

Because I knew that on Sunday, coming right up, he was going to have his first Nature Appreciation class with Miss Simmons — who, I was sure, would do him in — I was not terribly interested in what happened to Heller the rest of that Saturday night and scanned him only lightly.

The two South American diplomats were completely unimportant. Vantagio brought them over to Heller and introduced them — they had names about a yard long. Heller was wearing a silk and mohair tuxedo with diamond cuff links and studs but these two South Americans put him to shame with black embroidery on their powder blue tuxedos and lace all over their chests: it heartened me to see Heller outdone.

They had an International Bank loan to build a lot of bridges and they’d heard Heller was a student engineer and they didn’t think the bridges would stand up. So they showed him some drawings and he told them to float both ends of the bridges so the earthquakes couldn’t affect them. He even drew them some little sketches to show their contracting firm. But I knew it was all silly — a bridge crosses water, you don’t stick its ends in the water. But South Americans are polite and they went away beaming. Riffraff.

The only other thing that happened was also disgusting. Stuffumo and the kris-wielding deputy delegate that Heller had unfairly disarmed sought him out where he sat behind some palm fronds — he sat there often as it half hid him from the door.

They had an ornate box and they were both holding on to it. Both speaking English in chorus, they stood in front of him and said, “Thank you for your mediation on the treaty subject of Harlotta. Our two countries have united to give you a token of appreciation. There has never been such peace.”

They opened up the box and there, in purple velvet, lay a Llama .45 caliber, large-frame automatic pistol finished in gold damascene and gold butt plates, with the coats of arms of their two countries intertwined with a heart. Some engraver had been working overtime at vast expense! It had extra magazines and fifty shells. It also had a back belt holster with a white dove of peace and Prince X engraved on it. Aside from the fact that it was all chased with gold instead of being black, it looked just like a gangster gun, an Army Colt .45.

Heller thanked them and they went away beaming.

It absolutely ruined my dawn sleep! The idea of getting a beautiful weapon like that for some petty, trifling, cheap trick! And he had obtained it unfairly, too! Masquerading under a false identity. “Prince X” indeed! He was just a Fleet combat engineer with middle-class origins like mine. I even outranked him! What an awful waste of a fine handgun!