THE WINGS AFFAIR
Act VII: "What Is The Meaning Of Life?"
After his morning classes Illya returned to the frat house to find it abuzz with activity. The new brothers were to be announced during the afternoon party preceding the Rush Dance. The agent blended in with the others in preparing the house and kept an eye open for Reggie.
Reggie returned, breathless, shortly after noon and oversaw the final house preps. He appeared to be his normal self now, and Illya's careful prodding revealed that Reggie had a completely different idea of where he'd been this morning; his trip to Lindt's office and points there after were completely absent from his memory and replaced with the alternate reality of sleeping in. Soon, the house was filled with Delts and pounding music as the celebration began.
The new brothers were called, given their jackets and a list of ordeals they had to endure to be official Delts. The football boys had physically challenging Keg Toss, the swim team hosted Bobbing for Beers and the baseball representatives monitored the mentally testing Man in the Box.
The Man in the Box duty was all Illya expected and more. The beer was expected. Playing guard to a drunk frat brother in a cardboard box was more than expected, but not really surprising. One by one the new brothers were ushered into the room and told to kneel in front of the Box, which was a good idea because by this time standing in itself was a questionable endeavor. The Man, hidden in the Box, would ask a mind stimulating question like "Have you ever made it past First Base?" and the Pledge would have to respond. The room had at first been packed with ball players suggesting questions and taking turns in the Box, but after awhile Illya was the only chaperone left. By the time the last Pledge was ushered in, the Man, accompanied by his own bottle of Jack Daniels in the now dilapidated Box, was completely unintelligible.
"Whadhesay??" The swaying Pledge slurred. "I can't unnerstan 'im."
Join the club. Oh, yes, that's the point of all this isn't it? Illya thought as he decided to stop this silly affair. "He asked 'What's the meaning of life?'"
The Pledge blinked slowly at the agent, then at the Box, where the sound of snoring could be heard. "Beer?" the boy guessed. "Girls?"
Illya grabbed the boy's elbow and ushered him to the bedroom door. "You got it. Congratulations." When they stepped into the crowded hall, Illya announced that the Man in the Box had left the party. No one seemed to care as 'Wild Thing' began to thrum the air.
With sunset coming soon, Illya slipped to his room and changed into a dark sweater and pants and tried to contact his partner. When there was no response, he contacted the San Diego office directly.
"We haven't heard from Mr. Solo since the pick up this morning," the woman replied professionally. Then with a questioning voice, "Is that the Beatles I hear?"
"I believe so," Illya replied, acknowledging the noisy background. "Did you get any information from the two that were picked up?"
The woman, back in professional mode, filled him in on the few bits of information they had gotten out of the pair. They were retrieving film from the office and were to take it to the Wings Corporation address.
"So the room was bugged. That means they know who we really are." He glanced at the bedroom door that was trembling from heavy knocking. "Inform Waverly that my cover is blown and these kids are now at risk. I'm getting out of here and am checking the Wings address. Kuryakin out." He didn't wait for a response and clicked the device closed.
"Hey!" A slurry male voice demanded from the hallway. "Whatcha doin' in there?" Female giggling accompanied the question. Illya calmly pocketed the pen as he opened a window and slipped out into the late afternoon.
The rooftop under his window was over the front porch and the window so frequently used as an exit that there wasn't even a screen on it anymore. The agent could hear the party under him and feel the vibrations of the music in his feet. He shook his head again in disbelief and made his way to the edge.
Suddenly he felt something zing through his hair followed by the familiar, muffled sound of a silenced gunshot. Illya dropped and rolled off the edge of the porch, his ungainly fall broken by a group of students. The girls shrieked first in fear and then in delight as the Russian untangled himself from the pair of boys he'd landed on. They didn't appear to have heard the shot; no great surprise with the volume of noise in the air.
"Excuse me," he muttered struggling to get to his feet. Young hands helped him up and he slipped away with a quick thanks going in the opposite direction of the shot. When he was away from the crowd, he prepared for a deadly game of cat and mouse by going over the layout of the area in his head. He eyed a car at the end of the alley, but as he moved to it another silenced shot nipped his arm.
I've got to get away from these kids before one of them is hurt, he thought, heading for the canyon he knew was one block over. The zing of another shot buzzed he ear and he began to duck and weave his way to the cover of the canyon. I just need to keep out of their way until dark, he reasoned, diving into the brush of the canyon. As he moved deeper into the cover of the thick mesquite, Illya calculated that the origination of the second and third shots indicated at least two, possibly three, pursuers. The ping of yet another shot off a boulder near his head made him dive deeper into the canyon, oblivious to the scrapes and scratches from the brush.
The bottom of the small canyon offered good cover and he moved parallel to the campus, away from the shots. He could hear faint music from the streets above, and shouts of men he assumed were the ones responsible for the shots. A glance at the sky between the towering eucalyptus trees above him revealed clouds edged in pink; sunset was near. He settled behind a large boulder to catch his breath and assess his wounds.
Only a flesh wound, the bullet had grazed his bicep and left a small hole in his sweater, which was edged in blood. The wound itself had stopped bleeding, but he couldn't say the same for the various and sundry scrapes on his exposed skin from the brush. He even found cactus spines in the fleshy part of his palm, which kept him busy as the sun set.
With the darkness on his side, Illya moved back up to the canyon rim. He saw at least three figures moving in the darkness peeking into the canyon from the rim, and was thankful he'd changed into the black sweater and pants. Slipping between watchers, he found his way down an alley and worked his way between two houses until the street was in sight.
A happy group of students on the other side caught his attention, and he quickly combed through his hair with his fingers, flinching at the pain in his bicep. Glancing around, he stepped onto the lighted sidewalk from the dark alley between houses and immediately noticed the foot traffic. On the street cars honked and cruised slowly, boys shouted and whistled while girls greeted each other. Music blared from everywhere, and everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction. The Rush Dance, he thought.
The agent also noticed a pair of solemn men stationed at a corner just as they noticed him and began to move. One spoke into his hand and kept his eyes locked on Illya. Keeping his distance, he crossed the street between cars and was immediately greeted by a group of girls and pulled into their company as they moved across a small lawn to the Rush Dance.
"We were wondering when you'd show!" squealed one.
"Oooh, you look so sophisticated in black!" Crooned another who hooked his elbow.
"You here with anyone in particular?" A third one breathed in his ear.
"Ladies! Good evening. Ah, yes, in fact I'm supposed to meet her inside." He glanced back and saw his followers joined by three more, their eyes intent on him. "And I'm late!"
"Well, then, let's go," the girl on his arm pouted. "I'd be very upset if I was your date and you missed me!"
"Uh, yes." Was all he could think to say.
"Maybe we can change your mind!" A fourth squealed as they moved along. The others agreed heartily.
Illya allowed the gaggle of giggling girls to surround him and move him like an amoeba into the dance hall via a small side door. The crowd was in the midst of swaying to the Doors' 'Light My Fire' with throbbing strobe and black lights accenting the pounding decibels. The place was packed, and a banner proclaiming the Rush Dance flashed in refection to the strobes.
The girls couldn't resist and began to dance as soon as they hit the crowd allowing Illya to slip away to the side crowd with a smile. The girls simply shrugged, some throwing a kiss, and began dancing with each other.
Illya found a corner where he could see if the goons had followed him. 'Light My Fire' gave way to Mick and 'Ruby Tuesday' and the bodies slowed to the sway of the slower tune enabling the agent to see the half-dozen burly men as they waded though the crowd towards him. Eyeing the double doors of the main entrance he quickly calculated that he could just make it to the doors ahead of the thugs. What happened then would have to be decided when he got there. He moved that direction, his white blonde hair starkly visible with each flash of the strobe.
As he made his way through the pressing crowd Illya felt hands on his face and body as he moved along and simply ignored the cooing girls and forward suggestions. It was difficult to be polite, especially when one hip-hugger clad, braless, bare-midriffed blonde beauty pressed right up against his back and squeezed his buttocks in appreciation as she whispered a suggestion in his ear followed by a tickle with her tongue.
Non-plussed, Illya simply stopped, turned and gently but firmly moved her back with his hands on her shoulders. She batted her eyes at him as he said, "Sorry. Look me up in another decade," and melted back into the crowd as her pink lower lip poked out in a pout. "They must take a class to learn that behavior because I'm sure they didn't learn it from their mothers," he mumbled as he reached the double doors.
The opening rift of 'These Boots Were Made For Walkin'' followed Illya out the door, Nancy's voice still clear outside when the doors closed where a different kind of crowd gathered. There were several clusters of kids, smoking, drinking and laughing in more private conversations. Illya hatched an idea the second he saw a loud circle of football frat brothers off to one side of the large front lawn that included his new friend, Buck. He headed in their direction.
"Hey, brother!" They greeted, shoving a beer in his hand. Their dates, clinging to their massive arms, smiled brightly at the blond agent and passed giddy glances to each other. Illya glanced to the doors and saw the first of the goons push his way out as Nancy Sinatra sang, "These boots are made for walkin' and that's just what they'll do…"
"Hey," Illya said to Buck, who happened to be the biggest guy there. "I heard the Arizona guys talking about this year's team," he started.
"They expressed lots of FEAR, I'm sure!" Buck boasted to the roars of his buddies as he slapped Illya on the back.
Managing to keep his feet, Illya joined the laughter for a second then said, "Well, no, not exactly. In fact, they said the defensive line looked like a bunch of .. um, what was the term? Oh, yes, I remember: Chorus girls."
"WHAT?!" Roared the beefy letterman. "We pounded them into the ground last season!" His cohorts agreed lustily.
"Where are those chumps?!" A second large guy growled.
"Well," Illya turned to look and waved vaguely at the front doors. "Just inside. They also said your game book looks like a kindergarten reader so you'd understand it. Oh, there they are now!"
Brushing the girls off their arms like so much lint and dashing the beers to the grass, the lettermen huddled with Illya in the center.
"We'll show those jokers defense!" Barked Buck. "Shuttle Formation, move on three! BREAK!" With a unified roar and clap they made a line on the grass between Illya and the regrouping Thrushmen.
"Looks like they don't think you can hurt them," Illya noted. "Look!"
About nine Thrush goons had gathered into a line, their eyes locked on Illya, who had stepped slightly aside to be clearly visible. The Thrushies grinned wolfishly as they began to move in his direction.
"HUT!"
The goons blinked in surprise, their attention diverted. "You keep losin' when you ought to not bet!"
Emitted from the dance hall.
"HUT!"
They stopped in confusion, their eyes now on the hunched linemen. "What's right is right, but you ain't been right yet!" Nancy wailed on.
"HUT!"
The line charged with a collective roar as the goons' mouths dropped in unison. They froze like deer in headlights as the wall of muscle and letterman jackets pounded towards them. Illya allowed himself a satisfied grin as the players mowed over the hapless Thrush, reversed, and did it again. He dashed into the darkness to the sound boisterous cheers, howls and squealing girls and Nancy saying, 'Are ya ready boots? Start walkin'!'