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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 31 'Our beloved hajj-' the Wazir's radio-telephone message came to Jihad, the flagship tanker idling in the strait, 'is menaced with imprisonment. . .' The little searobber faces ran in their metal corridors. Far fore of the swollen oil belly a hatch was pried open. Hardly more than a dumbwaiter, a small ship's elevator ran. A French rocket poked out its nose. '0 Grand Wazir we are at firing readiness. . .' The missile would make the tiny flight uprange to Miami Beach, targeted at Collins and Arthur Godfrey Boulevard We would lose three relish girls at the Doral, and the Yiddish desk clerk at the Atlantic Towers would die, and there would be havoc in a group-sing down the street in the little open-air amphitheater. Shecky Greene, performing a mile from the epicenter, at the Playboy Club, would survive to leave town badly shaken. Dory drives along the old highway. And coming hard by him a Ford with no lights, they pass, and the car goes into a showy, sliding U-turn as taught by the Bondurant School of Driving. Trailing headlights behind Dorian Clayton. Sinister, covert movements, and an individual in the shrubbery of Howard Johnson's, peering in the window, charcoal-smoked glasses, whey-face, and all this so peculiar because of the bold U.S. Government lettering on the man's car. |