A collection of somewhat odd tales from the famed A.A.F Mansion...

Part 5: Night run to Cal-Neva

(in which Funkraum and Duffin return to the mighty mansion)

all Funkraum's post...
 
 
"WATCH OUT FOR THE FREAKIN' SEMI-TRAILOR" screamed funkraum, sure he
was screaming his last.
 
<noise of Kenworth air-horn dopplering past the microphone>
 
Duffin spun the wheel of the '74 Eldorado Convertible through his hands as if it wasn't attached to anything, which it wasn't really,
and the tyres howled as the ninety-six foot length of the of the Eldorado made it back across the centre line out of the path of the
oncoming traffic.
 
"Funny," mused Duffin, recovering his composure, "in England, when you turn the steering wheel, it alters the direction in which the car is
travelling."
 
"OK - OK - just stay on the right side of the road and we won't need to change direction . . . NOT THAT SIDE !!!" funkraum's voice rising
to falsetto as Duffin headed across the centre line.
 
"You said the right side!"
 
"NO! THE OTHER SIDE!!"
 
"What ? The wrong side !?"
 
"YES !! YES !!! That's it, the wrong side. . . " funkraum's voice sinks as the strain of the adrenalin flow begins to wear him down and
Duffin guides the Caddy back across the centre line. With a sigh the funkraum dons a pair of Randolph sunglasses drawn from his top pocket
and reaches over into the rear for a bottle of Moosehead from the cooler. He then starts rummaging through the dashboard and talking at
the same time.

"Anyways. The plan is flawless. Springer knows his career is history the moment Tape 47 is made public. Least his career in mainstream,
that is. He'll do anything to get it back. We send the offer of a first appearance on a new TV show pilot involving a celeb-per-week
feature in a 'professional' setting, showing them involved in sports, hobbies, etc, anything unusual and demonstrating skills and abilities
that they are 'not publicly known for'." 

Funkraum holds what looks like a gnarled piece of stick up to the light, sniffs it, decides that it is a piece of Biltong and pro cedes
to chew a piece off. "We don't use the word blackmail, no need to get heavy: Just say we are keen to have a major media figure in the pilot.
He's so relieved to get out of his jamb that he signs right away without his lawyers or any more details. It's a major TV slot, so what
could be difficult, dangerous or unsavory ? Right ? He has no way of figuring that the show is the pilot for 'Pro-Celebrity Bomb Disposal'
and the 'professional setting' is the weapons disposal pit at the Frankford Arsenal. We give the contract to Blofelt who resells to a
syndicate of the biggest networks, all slavering at the sight of Springer's signature, for a billion dollars and up and we disappear
before Springer finds out that the entire world will be tuning in just to see him blown to dogfood. He'll do a runner rather than face being
exposed and crucified on his own show. Hell, he'll probably end up in the next villa up the coast from us, down in Costa Rica."
 
"Yeah ... but what if ..."
 
"But we'll be in Costa Rica with the loot. We'll make the Wang Brothers an offer for their 250GTOs that even -they- can't refuse and
have them shipped to Switzerland. And head up to Key West once a year for the Poker run. What could be finer ? What could go wrong?"
 
The funkraum continues to scrabble about in the glovebox "Hell, where is that bottle of tabs that I bought off that wierded-out Swiss
pharmaceuticals professor in Kathmandu ? I've been saving them for an occasion just such as this."
The funkraum scatters flotsam from the glovebox onto the floor as he peers into its depths and finally comes up with a small unlabeled tan
plastic bottle. "Ah-ha" he exclaims, holding it up to the light as if inspecting a fishing fly or something. "He said three were enough to
make a Tyrannosaurus-Rex hallucinate for week, so I should take it easy."
 
"We're here" announced Duffin as they sped up the road adjacent to the alt.autos.ferrari Club Mansion, the Caddy's V8 and TurboHydro sounding
a muffled turbine-like rush as Duffin planted his foot.

At the large wrought iron gates which flanked the driveway Duffin slung the wheel hard over and thundered up the driveway with a muffled
roar. Too late Duffin realised he was not going to make the hard left at the top if the drive and stabbed both feet at the brake pedal. The
Caddy ploughed across the lawn like bomber doing a belly landing and wheels locked, drove its bumper through the flowerbed, spraying clods
everywhere and boomeranging the unsuspecting funkraum over the windshield and into the shrubbery beyond, just as he was attempting to
stuff one of the tabs into his mouth.
 
"WOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooaaaaaarrrRRRRRRRRRR" yelled Duffin as he realised that the car was going to hack straight through the shrubbery and over
into the line of Ferraris parked infront of the stable block. Foliage sprayed over the radiator filling the cockpit as the Caddy carved a
logging road through the immaculately tended shrubs. There as a 'whump' like a jackrabbit hitting the front valence as the Caddy ran
over the prone funkraum, then bounced onto the apron and shunted into the back of a 308GTS QV with pink shagpile headlining and chrome pipe
extensions, shunting it into the wall. Duffin bounced back against his seat and stared through the windshield at the results of his
overestimation of the Caddy's cornering powers.
 
"Awwwwe..., I never did like that headlining anyway." he muttered contemptuously and jumped over the car door to dive into the shrubbery
and find the funkraum. A groaning noise from under the mixture of smashed-up shrubs and ploughed-up mulch drew Duffin's attention. He
rummaged in the debris and hauled on the collar of funkraum's duster, pulling his head and torso clear of the detritus. Funkraum's arms hung
limply as he groaned 
"Jeezus, those things are strong. I feel like . . . I feel like . . . like I've been run over."
 
"Mmmmmm.." agreed Duffin, quickly changing the subject "straighten out - we're here. And stay on your toes. Remember what the club President
threatened us with the next time we went off-roading in the Club grounds."
 
"Having to drive that Trabant pace car thing which they keep under the tarpaulin in the stable block to the visitors section at the next
Lamborghini Owners' Club meet while wearing a.a.f Club ties ?"
 
"No - that was if she found out we had anything to do with that business with Costello and Miller putting that 512S through the
Orangery windows and into the pool while re-enacting scenes from 'Le Mans' after a case of Bolly. - It was worse"
 
"Worse ?"
 
"Yes - worse even than that. Having to drive a Lamborghini to the next Lamborghini Owners' Club meet..."
 
"Sheee-it..."
 
 
The duo stumble across the superbly tended homogeneously green lawns toward the stone-turreted alt.auto.ferrari Club Mansion, with its
imposing Second Empire main elevation and French Renaissance wings and outlying blocks. A long line of Ferraris are parked on either side of
the sweeping driveway, the aprons of which are surfaced with pea-gravel, in contrast with the main thoroughfare, which is smooth
black, aggregate-less tarmac and despite signs that it is tended to as carefully as the lawns, it bears hefty rubber marks of varying widths,
lengths and sinusoidality.
 
In the gathering dusk, a warm glow shines from the lower windows of the Mansion as the duo stumble through the grounds toward the
entrance, the scents of exotic imported flowers and rare Alpine shrubs lingering on the airs surrounding them.
 
Duffin and the funkraum lurch into the foyer and through the colossal Bronze doors with the Prancing Horse shield cast into their center.
The entrance hall is a huge stone-vaulted affair lit by distant shafts of light from the celestory and an line of vast candelabra. Arrayed on
every side are flags, trophies, memorabilia, photographs, paintings and positioned centrally and in echelon are a number of historic
Ferraris.
 
Duffin hauls the staggering funkraum through a pair of tall side doors through which mess-jacketed waiters and tail-coated Butlers are
flowing and enter the brightly lit gaming room.
 
The funkraum appears to be holding a chest wound or similar but finally pulls out his hand from the inside of this jacket producing a
pair of Romeo y Julietta 'Churchill'. Duffin takes the cutter of the fumbling funkraum, whips out a Zippo with a huge flame and lights both
as if he was about to use them as flaming brands to set fire to a village full of grass huts, then stuffs one back into funkraum's
mouth.
 
As they crossed the threshold of the gaming room they were immersed in an effervescence of bustle and murmur, accompanied by the chink of
crystal champagne glasses. Through the windows the sound of the thoroughbred V12s and V8s could be heard arriving and departing,
punctuated occasionally by the raucous chorus of an uncorked straight-through system.
 
 
Surrounding the tables, clad in evening dress, men in black tie (including half the 00-rated staff in the Western hemisphere)
accompany ladies in evening gowns. The flood of fine tailoring, the rustle of chiffon and lace flattering the abundance of flesh exposed
by the long dresses, the very sybarism and opulence of the scene, floods the senses.
 
 
The duo pass the Baccarat table where a grey-haired gentleman sporting an eye patch and wearing a white dinner jacket dominates the scene and
draws the eye. The impression is deepened by his being flanked by two young ladies of most uncommon beauty: The blonde, clearly a Slav, her
pale flesh contrasting with the red silk of her halter neck backless evening gown. The brunette, high cheek-boned and crimson lipped,
wearing a fine black lace dress, her modesty preserved only by the black satin bustier worn underneath.
 
Both wore long black evening gloves with several very large diamond rings worn over the top.
 
Above the chink of glasses, the sound of the very tight Philippino dance band could be heard from the circular stairwell leading to the
music room.
 
The duo shuffled forward through those at the gaming tables, something of a contrast to their environs, and descend the helical stone
stairway to the Music Room.
 
The Music Room is more crowded and the duo shoulder toward the back, heading for a table in one of the alcoves formed by the thick stone
Romanesque-arched foundations of the Mansion itself. The funkraum spreads himself out and makes himself at home, crossing his legs and
resting his thin-soled Cossack dancing boots on the table. 
Duffin raises his hand and an insouciant-looking but highly attentive waiter materialises by it.
 
"Two Blue Blazers, a pair of Martinis, a pair of Pimms and a Magnum of '86 Mumm, if you please." Duffin instructs the waiter and bids him
lean closer, that he may communicate a confidence. He whispers a message in his ear, the waiter nods in understanding and disappears
through the crowd.
 
Upstairs in the gaming room, one of the butlers quietly positions a small silver tray supporting a folded note into the peripheral vision
of the man with the eye patch. Without removing his eyes from the Baccarat table, he picks up the note and holding it low and close to
his chest glances at it moving only his gaze. His bearing stiffens, subtly but noticeably. Placing the note in his jacket he continues to
play until an appropriate moment to pass the shoe and unhurriedly but with obvious purpose he turns and makes for the music room stairs
whereupon he is immediately flanked by a large and imposing but un intrusive aide sporting neat, close-cropped black hair and a neatly
trimmed Trotsky beard and mustache. The two young ladies remain at the table obviously understanding that their presence is not required.
Their countenances have broken from the severe and aloof to one of girlish conspiracy. Smiling at each other they order more champagne
and two Montecristo 'A'.
 
Back at the table the due are now draining the remains of the magnum and are clearly in buoyant mood. Blofelt appears beyond their table
and as he gains sight of them his gait pauses almost imperceptibly, as if having stepped into an invisible bubble which contained essence of
a refrigerator which once housed a six week old Sea Bass. He recovers his composure almost immediately and assumes a welcoming smile.
 
The funkraum, observes his arrival and motions with an inane alchohol-fuelled grin to a chair. Blofelt seats himself while his aide
remains to his left rear quarter as if Blofelt's shadow has becoming detached and has stalled where it was.
 
Blofelt sits upright in his seat, his back straight and his hands placed on the arms of the chair giving of an air of anticipation.
 
"It's done.." says the funkraum, with the air of confidence that only six Martinis can produce, and motions with his cigar to the aluminium
Zero-Halliburton attache case handcuffed to Duffin's wrist. Duffin picks up the case, turns it toward Blofelt and flips the catches,
lifting the lid. Inside, resting on the grey wave-foam surface is Tape 47. Blofelt's eyes light, a slow smile breaks out on his face and he
relaxes back into the armchair, crossing his legs and putting his hands together he interlocks his fingers.
 
"Excellent... excellent..." he breathes through a long sigh, and suddenly turning and motioning to the waiter, orders three shots of
Slivovich. "Next week, you deliver to me his contract for the TV series, and I immediately resell the world-rights to the syndicated
Networks and we close-out our position on the deal in entirety, for cash...." he purrs.
 
The shots of Slivovich arrive and raising his high he bids the boys raise their glasses in a toast to their success.
 
 
The duo appeared in front of the concierge's desk at the Mansion like a pair of gophers who had just surfaced. Funkraum, in his boots and
long duster had added to his motorcycle-gang disguise with a pair of MkVIII goggles, which had slipped down around his neck and a
long-haired straggly wig, which had now slipped to one side slightly.
The concierge, utterly unperturbed by the sight before him, without so much as a shadow of shock, horror, repulsion, mirth, interest or
hesitation, addressed each by name.
 
Duffin cleared his throat, and adjusted the knot on his immaculate Eton tie, which he was using to hold his trousers up. His wig made him
look like Keith Richards on a very bad day indeed.
 
"Our usual suites, please."
 
"Will that be with the usual services and...?"
 
"NO!" The duo interrupted simultaneously in indecent haste, interrupting the concierge and surprising each other.
 
Looking nervously at each other, the duo grabbed the keys and scuttled away to the elevators.
 
 
  Washed, clean-shaven and sporting their Tuxedos the duo skipped down the sweep of the Mewes et Davis main staircase and made their way down
to the lobby bar to have one for the road.
 
"OK - we'd better split before someone finds the remains of the Caddy." narrated the funkraum
 
"Uh - I managed to whack the 308 with the Caddy..." admitted Duffin.
 
"Hey - I knew that car would meet a bad end - something about the interior colour scheme. Oh, and that previous history of use in drug
heists, as well."
 
"You -WHAT- ? How do you know that ?"
 
"Errmmm... well it's a long story. Anyway, no problem: I left the 412 in stables."
 
"Nice one. I think I will get the 308 restored to original when I send it in this time. Oh, and get the interior voids checked too."
 
"Right. Now I suggest we blow town tonight. Let's head for the Cal-Neva. It just got reopened by one of the club members."
 
"Sounds good."
 
"OK, wait here. I bring the 412 around."
   
Funkraum halted the 412 in front of the entrance and opened the passenger door. Inhaling a lungfull of leather interior, Duffin
clunked the door shut and the funkraum bid the 412 pull away smartly, halting briefly at the gates, then pulling away hard, allowing a
slight power-oversteer to creep in, as befitted his euphoric mood. The Ferrari's quad rear lights bulleted into the distance like red tracers
. . .