Hail, Cigaros!

By Jack Young

The island republic of Cigaros faces ruin when magnate Prescott Bullard, Junior vows to end the financial support given by his late father. Bullard Junior dispatches the under-performing Warren Hornsby to deliver the bad news. Smitten with the island's eccentric customs (as well as with the daughter of the brothel owner), Hornsby realizes that he wants to stay on Cigaros... even as an American warship looms on the horizon. The confrontation that ensues will test the mettle of the fledgling republic, its proud citizens, and perhaps most of all, Hornsby himself.

From Kirkus Reviews

"A first-rate humorist emerges in this assured, ambitious, and unapologetically entertaining satire."

Full review

Young's (Faraway Green, 2015) second novel follows an impotent employee sent by his company to tell an island nation that its funding is being cut off only to be ensnared in the schemes of the eccentric, sex-crazed natives.

Prescott Bullard Jr., head of the Federal Cigar Corporation, is furious that his father has for years paid exorbitant prices for third-rate leaf tobacco from the tiny island of Cigaros, despite the father's long-ago dalliance with a local. The day after his father dies, Bullard vows to correct this, sending Warren Hornsby—a hapless chemist known mostly for developing a "delay cream" for premature ejaculation—to break the news. Hornsby, suffering from an uncooperative member and an unhappy lover, welcomes the distraction, and he's soon negotiating the island's difficult terrain (literal, cultural, and otherwise). The large cast includes obsequious and silver-tongued El Presidente, who distrusts Hornsby's intentions, as well as his Communist, bloodthirsty brother and rival, Raoul, who wants nothing more than to kill Hornsby out of mere principle. For good measure, author Young also throws in a 200-year-old voodoo priest, a dyspeptic general, and a redemptive love interest named Rita Panatella. Young takes clear delight in giving his characters Pynchon-esque names (e.g., Marco Insertaglio) and allowing them ornate, over-the-top language that might be tiring were it not so consistently funny: "But you, oh great swordsman, are known to frequent the Bordello with a regularity that bespeaks great dedication! It is small wonder your men proclaim loudly that they would follow you anywhere! You are usually on your way to the Bordello!" Although some readers may object to the frequency with which Young's jokes revert to the sexual and scatological, they will nevertheless admire the creativity and surprises that fill his tense, well-crafted plot.

A first-rate humorist emerges in this assured, ambitious, and unapologetically entertaining satire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Young
• Release date: Aug 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393521907

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Mid-morning sunlight, already intense, punishes the tiny island with stifling heat. The island responds with passive acceptance of its wretched climate. This is no tropical paradise. A white rooster crosses the softened asphalt square with long, deliberate strides, beady eyes fixed on the open door of the Presidential Palace. On the wide portico it pauses, then enters the hallway. A raucous squalling fills the morning, and the call of the proud chanticleer signals the beginning of another day.

It is 1980 and, many miles away, the powerful nations of the world are locked in a grinding cold war. But this tiny island has issues of its own, problems that must be faced and solved. It will not be simple.

Minutes later a small, round man, suited in dazzling white, appears in the doorway. He throws his arms out to this new day, breathes deeply, and smiles. He is joined momentarily by a grizzled man, garbed in combat boots, black shirt and red beret. They are brothers, and though very different, they are somehow alike. They greet each other warmly.

Across the square, a flag is being raised, limp and lifeless in the humid air. Could its emblem be discerned it would show a crossed saber and cigar, both black on a field of electric blue. It is symbolic, truly, and represents the essence of this State.

Survival.

The two men stiffen and place hands over hearts as a recording is amplified to fill the baking square. An American might recognize the strains of the stirring march, Hail, Columbia! The Gem of the Ocean! But for Columbia, insert Cigaros. The rest of the lyric, with minor alteration, is borrowed intact.

The man in the suit dabs his eyes as the music fades, while the other broods for a long moment, stoic, but no less moved.

For they are, above all, patriots.

In their hands lies the future of this Island Republic.

CHAPTER I

Prescott Bullard swiveled around to peer out at the snow falling heavily on the city, obscuring in its descent his view across the East River. From fifty-three stories up, the office of the director of Federal Cigar Corporation commanded a sweeping panorama that only important money could buy. Bullard would never settle for less. At forty-two he was medically obese, but his impeccably tailored three hundred pounds spoke much more forcefully of wealth and power than of any actuarial hazard. He carried his smooth, sleek bulk with an air of satisfied arrogance.

A nervous, cadaverous man in his thirties hovered near the huge desk, seeking desperately to read Bullard's mood. He cleared his throat softly. The chair swiveled back, and Bullard faced his administrative assistant.

I don't like snow, Pimms, he grumbled. It screws things up. People get distracted by it. Like a bunch of stupid kids. Lose their concentration. That's part of what's wrong with this country, you know. Too damn many distractions. People can't keep their minds on the job.

I'm sure you're right, sir, agreed Pimms.

I put in a fourteen-hour day and think nothing of it, Pimms. I'm no reactionary, but dammit, this country has been going downhill ever since the forty-hour week. I read history, you know. And America wasn't built with one eye on the clock, Pimms. It was built, and built right, dammit, with a day that lasted as long as the job took. When a man dropped in his tracks, maybe it was time to take a break. His head began to nod in appreciation of those finer days. And sure, everybody knocks child labor, Pimms, but you tell me. Was there a big problem with drugs and street punks in those days?

Wilfred Pimms had no answer.

You're damn right there wasn't. We've lost something, Pimms, something good. Something American. The country's gotten fat and lazy. I see it everywhere. The worst of it is, dammit, it's even happening to us. And, by God, I'm going to change it.

Pimms hesitated. He lived in a precarious setting. He wondered if Bullard was about to announce a new crash diet.

We've got too much fat around here, Pimms. Corporate fat. That's what I'm going to change. We're going to become a hard muscle operation here, Pimms. Lean and mean. And I'm finally in a position to start trimming the lard off this outfit. I had a call at home last night. From Madrid. Old Prescott Bullard Senior died in his sleep.

The secretary gasped. I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir! Please accept my deepest condolences. Your father was a wonderful man.

Bullard peered narrowly at his assistant. He was massive pain in the ass, Pimms. He's been holding this company back for the last thirty years. A womanizing old fool and a family embarrassment. Died between the sheets with some young, money-grubbing prostitute. God, I hope the papers don't get that item. Speaking of that, see that there's a good picture of me ready for the press. Sure, let them eulogize the senile old bastard, but let's also tell the world that P. B. Bullard Junior is in sole control of Federal Cigar and its fourteen subsidiaries. And with me at the helm this ship is going to dump its ballast, trim its sails close, and plow the financial waters with a whole, new right-sized look.

Lean and mean, sir, offered the assistant.

Bullard stared at him. The hackneyed phrase sounded even worse coming from Pimms. Something like that. Now get me a printout, everything from last year, on that banana republic we own.

That would be Cigaros, sir.

I know the name of the wretched place. I just don't like to say it. Pimms scurried across the room, and the whirring of the laser printer began. In seconds he was back, offering the sheets in a tentative extension.

With a screaming, garbled expletive, Bullard swatted the sheets out the trembling hand. Get that stuff away from me! I know what's in there, goddammit! I can count every misspent dime we've sunk into the steaming stink-hole! Well, it's over, Pimms! The free ride is grinding to a stop!

Pimms stood frozen in place, waiting for the storm to pass. And it did. Bullard rose, breathing noisily, and began a rolling sort of pacing. He stopped in front of a portrait of his late father. For a long time he stared, while the shrewd, long-faced man in the frame looked back at him. There was humor in the old man's eyes, the beginning of a tolerant smile at the mouth, yet the laws of genetics were nowhere evident in the glowering face of the son. Bullard turned away.

I never knew my mother, he muttered, still bitter. She died in a plane crash on the Russian-Indian border two months after I was born. I was a little baby, Pimms, with a father out whoring around Europe and a mother who was… his voice cracked a bit …gone. I missed out on so much. I often wonder how I held together.

Pimms ventured an observation. It certainly is to your credit, sir. I've read that breast deprivation, for example, can be…

Bullard wheeled on him. Never, never speak of my mother's breasts!

Pimms paled and shrank within himself. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, of course! I had no intention…

With a wave of the hand and a pouting, self-pitying grimace, Bullard silenced him. What does it matter? It's my grief and it's a burden I'll carry through life. And you know, my father could have done so much more for me. He could have remarried and given me a mother. But no. He travelled all the time…chasing loose women. Everywhere. He hunched forward to peer glumly out at the hated snow. Just before the war, the navy built a gun emplacement on that same rotten island. They were putting them everywhere. My father had joined up and was sent down there to man it. He and six others. And because he could never keep his pecker in his pants he wound up screwing half the bimbos on the island. Claimed those were the happiest days of his life. Revolting.

Bullard drifted back to the chair and settled carefully into it. After the war, his uncle, my great-uncle Lloyd Bullard, left him a controlling interest in Federal, and it looked like he might settle into a normal life. Then he started buying leaf tobacco from that stinking tidal swamp. Terrible stuff. So bad we couldn't use it. We either burned it or dumped it. Hell, sometimes it wouldn't even burn. But always…we paid. Top dollar. And all because the old fool said we had to. Still shelling out money for some easy women he got during the war.

He paused, speaking very precisely now. Do you know how much money we dump into that cesspool every year? And get absolutely nothing for in return?

Pimms knew, but wisely held back.

Cigaros was tricky terrain for conversation.

Six point seven million dollars per year, choked Bullard, fighting back an emotion beyond simple rage. Six point seven million dollars…just down the chute. God! Giving away money like that, Pimms. It's…obscene!

The assistant grew slightly bolder, and nodded.

But as of today, with next to nothing in writing and the old man off the scene, that pile of tropical birdshit goes off the dole. This will be my finest hour, Pimms. The Schwartz brothers with their Castro ass-kissing are dog meat. Those unscrupulous bastards have had it. Let them rule their gooney bird island without Federal picking up the check. In three weeks that pesthole will be deserted. And for the first time in several days, a smile warmed the heavy features of Prescott Bullard.

How will you be…notifying them, sir?

Bullard appraised a manicured thumbnail. Naturally, I've thought of that. I've decided to forego the considerable pleasure of announcing it myself. It occurred to me that we could get a bit of a black eye, maybe even litigation if we just cut them off. What I came up with was a phase-out plan…or actually the appearance of one…where we send in a man to give them the bad news and then aid them in gearing their agriculture toward new markets.

Pimms looked worried. Excuse me, sir, but Cigaros can really produce nothing besides a very poor-quality tobacco.

What the hell do I care! roared Bullard. I told you, Pimms, this is cosmetic only. Now, what I need is a man to go down there. A man from within the family. Someone who's well-spoken but not overloaded with insight. A man who'll go through the motions of helping these leeches without digging too deep into the mechanics. Nonpolitical, of course. And without any idealistic, do-gooder tendencies. Some background in agriculture would be useful…but not essential. We can hoke up any credentials we need. And someone who's available. Don't pull anyone off a useful job. Find me a solid company man…who's not involved in anything important.

Pimms looked confused. What you're describing, sir, seems to be…

…half the employees in our corporate family. I know that. But there should be one particular man. Some blatant free-loader who's been taking big money for doing next to nothing. I want that man, Pimms. And trust my instincts that I'll know this bozo when I size him up. Now feed all that stuff into the computer and get me some names. Good Anglo-Saxon types. And I want those names this afternoon, Pimms. I'll talk to him tomorrow.

Pimms bobbed his head, then glanced at the wall clock. He opened a gold humidor on the desk and selected a thick Federal Invincible. Time for your morning cigar, sir.

Bullard grunted, took the cigar, and rolled it slowly between his stubby fingers. Then, with a muffled snort, he snapped the cylinder raggedly in half. The old man is gone, Pimms. he intoned. And these disgusting things are gone with him. Never, never let me see another of these vile weeds in this office. He shook his head, scowling down on the leafy wreckage. Filthy habit, he growled.

By three-thirty the snow had changed to freezing rain, compounding the usual tangles that beset vehicular New York. Bullard noted the changeover with satisfaction. Nobody gets giddy over freezing rain. Pimms stood before the massive teak desk, waiting for some signal to hand over the results of the computer's search. All right, Pimms, let's see who you've got for me.

The secretary cleared his throat. Actually, sir, there are two names that came up. A man and a woman.

Bullard looked up, blinked twice, and stuck out a chubby hand. Give me the woman's file.

The assistant selected the proper folder and handed it to his superior. Bullard placed the folder neatly in front of him on the polished desk, then with his eyes boring in on Pimms, he swept the folder and its contents flying off across the room. The sheets settled quickly on the deep pile carpet. It seems you are constantly handing me material I don't want to read, Pimms. I distinctly told you that I was sending in a man.

Sir, the computer doesn't always distinguish…

But I do! roared Bullard. This is a man's job. There's heavy responsibility here. Sure, I can tolerate a handful of misguided women sneaking a few rungs up the corporate ladder. We have to allow that sort of nonsense, you know. Damned federal bureaucratic meddling is all it is. But a woman's place is in the home, dammit, serving the needs of her husband. And I mean from the kitchen to the bedroom. That's my vision of America, Pimms. He ran a hand over his thinning hair. That's pretty much the way it is in my household. Except, of course, when Phoebe is away buying antiques.

Pimms swallowed hard. Yes, sir. Phoebe Bullard averaged two months a year in New York, and her steamy liaisons were both widely flung and, excluding Bullard, widely known.

Your wife work, Pimms?

No, sir, mumbled the assistant. She's at home.

Good. Glad to hear it. You understand what I'm talking about then. Give the little woman my compliments.

Pimms shuddered, thinking about the healthy, apple-cheeked farm girl who had taught him the meaning of love, the one he'd married and brought to New York…now a hulking, florid-faced club woman who brutalized his daily life, and taught him the meaning of fear.

Let's have that other folder, Pimms. This is going to be our man. You go ahead and tell me about him while I check this file over. Bullard was a painfully slow reader.

Well, as you can see, sir, his name is Warren Hornsby.

By God, I like that name, Pimms. Real apple pie. Sounds like good, solid Middle America. What else do we have here?

He's forty-one…and divorced.

Bullard grunted. I don't approve of divorce, Pimms. You know how I feel about those old-fashioned values. Still, we live in changing times, you know. Sometimes it's necessary to adapt. And I'd say that if a man finds himself trapped in totally empty, miserable and meaningless marriage then he'd be a gutless fool to stay in it. Right, Pimms?

The secretary closed his eyes, swallowing hard. Of course, sir.

Not every man who ties the knot is as lucky as we are, Pimms. But, it's more than luck, dammit. It's because we wear the pants and call the shots. It's the natural order of life. It's in the hormones. That's why it works.

Pimms winced. I'm sure you're right, sir. Should I go on? Bullard made a circular motion with his hand, and the secretary continued. He came to us six years ago. We actually lured him away from Oceanside Products. He'd been with their pharmaceutical division. Research and Development. He received some recognition when, in the course of his work, he was able to synthesize a…a delay cream.

A what?

Pimms cleared his throat. Oceanside markets certain products of this particular…adult nature, sir. A delay cream is applied to the…ah…penis to prevent premature ejaculation. There was an attempt to promote it under the name 'Mopey Dick,' but apparently it met some resistance.

Terrific, muttered Bullard.

Two years after joining our American Cinnabar subsidiary he formulated a rather remarkable herbicide, specific for poison ivy. It was called 'IVX'. Rather than being applied to the foliage, the product was added to the soil. His goal was to ignore the quick kill and produce a release of the toxin over a period of three years.

Sounds like that delay cream again, said Bullard. So how did this stuff work out?

Pimms gave his narrow head a brief shake. Well, sir, the final report says the results were…mixed.

I know the kind of lingo those research people use, Pimms. When they say 'mixed' they mean 'screwed up'. What happened?

Well, across the street from our New Jersey plant there's a small park on the river. There was quite a bit of poison ivy coming in and we apparently offered to remove it on a sort of test basis. And the first year it worked quite nicely. But the following spring…well…

Dammit, Pimms, don't trail off that way! It's irritating! What happened the second year?

Every living thing in the park died, sir. The city brought suit and we were forced to compensate them by buying more land at a premium price and building a new park for them. We used some local connections to sell the original park back to the city as a site for a sewage disposal facility.

And how much did this fiasco cost us?

Pimms breathed a bit more easily. We actually made a bit of profit on the whole business, sir. We have some very sharp people in New Jersey.

Bullard mumbled his satisfaction. Still, Pimms, the picture that's emerging here is pretty sorry. This Hornsby sounds like a classic bungler. Why do we keep him? And what's he done for us lately?

He's been kept on, sir because his IQ is quite high… and he is creative. The fear was that if he left us he might contribute something worthwhile to a competitor. And for the last roughly three years, sir, he's actually done nothing.

Bullard stared. Nothing?

That was one of the reasons why the computer came up with his name, sir. You didn't want any real work interrupted.

A fat fist pounded on the desk. Well dammit, Pimms, this goldbricking bastard is going to get his chance to contribute to Federal Cigar! Enough of this screwed-up pecker paste or whatever else he's been farting around with! And he'd better not botch this assignment. Why, Pimms, why is everything connected with that miserable pile of gull shit such a rotten mess? Even a simple job like this gets complicated. And this loser has a bad smell to him. I just wish there were someone else.

In a flash of boldness that frightened the man himself, Pimms shot out a breathy offer. I'll go, sir!

Bullard looked up at his assistant, then laughed, scornfully. Don't be ridiculous, Pimms. You're gutless. Those Schwartz boys would eat you alive. You're a born 'yes man’, and dammit, I need that. Besides, I wouldn't take you away from your lovely wife. Now, have this Hornsby up here by three P.M. tomorrow. I'll put the fear of God in him.

Pimms turned away, his thin face a frozen grimace of bitter disappointment. What might have been a tear appeared behind one polished lens.

Yes, sir, he said.

CHAPTER II

I'm sorry, Tanya, said Warren Hornsby, naked and disconsolate, I can't understand why this just keeps happening.

The woman turned her slender model's body away from the mirror, tightening the sash of her burgundy robe. She tossed her pale blonde hair and looked at Hornsby with mingled pity and distaste. You use your own language wrongly, darling. It does not keep happening. Nothing is happening. You have become useless.

Hornsby groaned. Tanya Takova's strong Russian accent could be equally effective in exciting or demeaning him. He buried his head in the pillow, his bony frame with its oversized hands and feet, seeking refuge from her withering comments. I was doing pretty well for a while…

Four times of the last five times we have been to bed…you have failed me! You leave me frustrated, Hornsby! There are certain limits to the patience of the aroused woman!

He rolled to a sitting position, the big hands massaging two scrawny thighs. I understand that, Tanya, but what can I do? The doctor says there's nothing wrong physically, so…

So you should agree to see Marco! she snapped. If you would wish an end to this sorry spectacle you would rush to him! Let Marco restore your shriveled manhood! I have made yet another appointment for you. This one you will keep…or we are lovers no longer!

Hornsby looked forlornly at her, noting the high cheekbones, the wide-set eyes of some indeterminate color, the sensual mouth now fixed hard in her anger. Tanya, Tanya, how many times have I told you that I can't…

You can! And you will! Marco Insertaglio is the finest therapist of sex in New York! Look what he has done with me!

We have different problems. And I don't want to know what he's doing with you.

Tanya clutched her hands together under her chin. He has released the animal in me, Hornsby! He has made me intensely aware of those pleasures I crave! Marco has roused me from a deep sleep! Marco…

I don't want to hear any more about Marco! Hornsby was yelling now. That's all you've talked about for the last two weeks! Marco says this! Marco says that! I'm sick to puking death of your oily fraud! Maybe he can work those slimy techniques of his with women, but I'm a man…

"Are you, Hornsby? Thank you too much for reminding me! It has been so long since you have shown that proof of you! Ah, but Marco is truly a man, Hornsby! He has filled my mind with visions of how the making of love should be! I close my eyes and see a powerful gladiator