Union Bust Read online

  “He’s out.”

  “That tells me where he isn’t, not where he is. Where is he?”

  “I can’t say any more. Do you want to leave a message? Where you can be reached?”

  “No. I’m coming up.”

  “You can’t do that, sir. The elevator won’t stop and the stairwells are locked.”

  “See you in a minute.”

  Actually it was closer to five minutes. Remo took his time walking up the steps. The stairwell lock to the eighteenth floor was reinforced by a freshly installed, super-strength padlock.

  Remo took the bolts out of the hinges and opened the door from the other side. He handed the startled guard bolts.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said.

  “You can’t do that. That’s breaking and entering.”

  “They wouldn’t have a name for it if it couldn’t be done,” said Remo. The guard tried to grab Remo’s shoulder, but the shoulder wasn’t there. He tried to grab the shirt collar but that was suddenly just out of reach. He tried to crack the head with a rosewood billy club. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his chest, a heavy sinking to the floor, and then he felt nothing.

  Remo surveyed the hallway. Jethro was probably in the end room. The reasoning behind this deduction impressed Remo himself. Jethro was the most important man in the driver’s union. He would, therefore, have the biggest suite. The biggest suites would have windows looking out on two streets instead of one. Therefore, the Jethro suite would be at the end of the corridor. Remo cracked open the locked door at the end of the corridor.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, staring at a middle-aged man with tousled jet-black hair on his head and graying hair on his crotch. The middle-aged man was on his back and mounted by a svelte young redhead.

  “Hi. What can we do for you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I’m looking for Gene Jethro.”

  “Where’s Jethro?” the redheaded girl asked of her mount.

  “You get out of here or I’ll call the guard,” yelled the middle-aged man.

  “Your position’s wrong,” said Remo.

  “Bye, sweetie,” said the girl.

  Remo shut the door. If Jethro were not at the end, then it stood to reason he would be in the middle.

  There were five doors in the hallway. Remo opened the third from the end.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said to the tangle of arms and legs that he judged to be four people, three women and a man. He stepped into the room to examine the man’s face. Moving aside a rather pendulous breast, he saw the hard-lined face of a man who was not Gene Jethro. The man had the happy grin of a cocaine high. Remo returned the breast and left the room.

  He tried another door. Another orgy. Three rooms, three orgies. One room would have been whoopie. Two rooms, an epidemic of whoopie. But for three rooms, there was a plan behind this. It was simple numbers. And if Remo knew who the men were, he would know why the activity. They were obviously supplied women. Three random men just don’t happen to orgy score at the same time. The women were probably assigned to keep them in their rooms.

  Remo looked down the hallway. The crumpled figure of the guard began to stir. They were probably the other union chiefs, kept nice and safe and occupied here in Jethro’s suite until tomorrow’s announcement of the superunion. And if Remo did not succeed, they would all become gristle and cracked bone between a fallen beam and platform.

  The guard staggered to his feet.

  “What hit me?”

  Remo trotted to him, grabbing him by the collar. He pressured nerves in the neck until the guard emitted a little helpless groan.

  “Where’s Jethro’s apartment?” Remo asked.

  “Second from the end.”

  “Why that one?”

  “It’s the biggest suite,” said the guard.

  “Oh,” said Remo and put the guard to sleep again.

  Jethro’s suite was indeed the largest. The plushly carpeted living room, draperies at the windows and paintings on the wall, contained the kind of furniture that could wreck a bank account.

  “Is that you, honey?” It was a woman’s voice, muffled by a door.

  “Yes,” said Remo, since he felt very much like a honey at the time.

  “I’ve got soap in my eyes. Will you hand me a towel?”

  Of course, Remo would hand her a towel. He wasn’t a sadist.

  He opened the door whence the voice came and immediately was hit by steam. The mirrors were fogged. The tile walls dripped, and a shower ran full and hot. A delicate hand poked from behind the shower curtain. Remo put a towel in it.

  “How did it go today, dear?”

  “Okay.”

  “It looks as if it’s all going to work out, doesn’t it? I mean you won’t have any more trouble from that rotten, awful man.”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “What does he want from you anyway? You’ve done everything you’re supposed to.”

  Remo cocked an ear.

  “What?” he said.

  “What does he want from you anyway?”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think I’m talking about? Mick Jagger? You know, Nuihc.”

  So there was someone else. So maybe it wasn’t this driver leader who designed the building. Why would Remo ever think that a Western man born into Western technology would ever be able to construct a building that defended against a force he knew nothing about?

  “Did he phone?” Remo would get his whereabouts if he could.

  The hand crumpled the shower curtain. A wet, blond head peeked out. It was a beautiful head, with smooth cheeks and blue eyes and voluptuous lips now turned into a smile. The left breast was well formed, too. Firm and rising with symmetrical, light-pink nipple.

  “You’re not Gene,” said the woman. The smile went.

  “I see you got the soap out of your eyes.”

  “Get out of here. Get out of here now.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Remo.

  “Get out of here or I’ll call the guard.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Guard. Guard. Guard,” shrieked the woman.

  “My name’s Remo, what’s yours?”

  “You won’t be around here long enough to find out. Guard. Guard.”

  “Until he comes, tell me your name.”

  The beautiful young face was anger and frustration. No guard was coming.

  “Will you get out of here? Will you please get out of here?” Now she put on her stern face. It was also beautiful.

  “Look. I don’t know what sort of kicks you get from watching women bathe, but would you please get out of here?”

  Now the supplicating, pained face. Still beautiful.

  “All right. What do you want?”

  Now the businesswoman.

  “Who’s Nuihc?”

  “I can’t tell you. Would you go please?”

  Remo shook his head.

  “Aw c’mon, mister. If Gene conies back and finds you here, he’ll kill you.”

  “Maybe he’ll tell me who Nuihc is.”

  “You wanna find out who Nuihc is, there’s a building just outside the city. He’s there.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “Bullshit, you’ve been there. I know you haven’t been there, wise guy. Now get out of here before Gene comes back.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Chris. Now get out of here. At least, let me get dressed.”

  “Okay, you can get dressed. I’ll be outside.”

  “Gee, you’re generous,” said Chris.

  Remo stole a kiss on her wet cheek, ducking a roundhouse left. He waited in the living room, and waited in the living room, and waited in the living room.

  “Are you coming out?”

  “Just a second. Just a second,” said Chris.

  The door opened and Chris, her blond hair flowing like gracious silk, her body sheathed in white transparent filament, floated into the room. Exquisite.

  “I can see
more of you dressed than in the shower.”

  “Drives you up a wall, doesn’t it?” said Chris triumphantly.

  Remo cocked his head. He thought a moment.

  “Yes,” he said. “Be nice and I’ll make love to you.”

  “Don’t you wish you could?”

  “I can.”

  “Don’t you wish I’d help you?”

  “You will.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “It’s part of the biz, sweetheart.”

  “Want a drink?”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  “I’d offer you something to eat but nobody can go in or out without Gene’s okay.”

  “We can.”

  “No. The whole place is sealed. Until tomorrow at noon, when everyone’s going over to that building that you say you’ve been to.”

  Remo nodded. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Are you kidding? Italian.”

  “I know a great Italian restaurant in Cicero.”

  “We can’t get out of here.”

  “Lasagna, dripping with cheese and red sauce.”

  “I don’t like lasagna. I like spaghetti in clam sauce and lobster fra diavolo and veal marsala.”

  I know a place where the clams swim in garlic butter and the veal melts wine—tasty in your mouth,” said Remo.

  “Let’s kill the guard,” said Chris laughing.

  “Put some clothes on over your clothes.”

  “I was only joking,” said Chris.

  “And the lobster swims in a bath of red sauce.”

  “I’ll wear a coat,” said Chris.

  When they passed the guard in the hallway, Chris put a delicate hand to her soft lips.

  “I didn’t mean that about the guard.”

  “I know,” said Remo. “He just went to sleep for a little while.”

  They tiptoed laughing down the steps like youngsters playing hookie. Remo “borrowed” a car in the hotel garage by jumping the wires.

  “You’re awful,” laughed Chris. “When Gene finds out, are you gonna get it. Am I gonna get it.”

  “The bread crackles when you break it to soak up the sauce,” said Remo.

  “I know a shortcut to Cicero,” said Chris. “I was born there.”

  They talked as they drove, Remo checking his watch. Chris loved Gene, loved him more than any man in her life. She had known many. But there was something just, you know, nice about Gene. Like Remo was nice in a way but too much of a wise guy. Could Remo understand that? Remo could. She had fallen in love with Jethro before he started to change, and when he did start to change about two months ago, she loved him anyway. She couldn’t stop loving him. She wanted to stop loving him after the…

  “Yes.”

  “Never mind. It’s something I don’t want to say.”

  “Okay,” said Remo. They drove in silence until Chris continued.

  “You know I never used to wear clothes like this. Gene started liking them about two months ago when he started doing those funny things like breathing exercises and all sorts of nonsense.”

  “Does he scream when he lets out the air?” asked Remo.

  “Yeah. How do you know?”

  “I know,” said Remo. “I know too well. All too well.”

  “Well, I don’t like wearing these clothes,” said Chris, unaware of Remo’s remark. She was too much in herself. “I like to keep myself for Gene. But he likes to show off too much. Like I’m another piece of jewelry. I don’t like that.”

  “Then dress the way you want.”

  “He said I’d dress the way he wants or he’d walk.”

  “Then you don’t need him.”

  “Oh, I need him. I need him more than any man in my life. Especially now. You don’t know the way he makes love. No man makes love like him. It’s more than beautiful; it’s so great, it’s horrible.”

  They found the restaurant, and Remo had water while Chris went through second helpings of linguini. On the way back, Remo parked beside the road. Before she could say no, he slid a smooth hand across her stomach, then covered her lips with his. Working his hand to her thighs and his mouth to her breast, he brought her to slow, inexorable passion, brought her, undressed, to demanding him, begging for him, screaming for him, groaning for him, until he was inside her, her passionate body throbbing with exquisite, unbearable desire for fulfillment.

  “Ohhh. Ohhh.” She groaned and her head pressed into the car door, her writhing body making wet marks on the vinyl seat. “Ahh. Ahhh.” Her fingernails bit into his back and neck, her eyes closing and opening, her mouth open for groaning and air, and biting. She kicked the steering wheel and banged her fists against his head, and cried and yelled, and slammed her hips upward begging for more and more. And when she reached her heights, Remo with two quick, masterful strokes brought her to sobbing, shrieking conclusion.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. More. Give me more. I’m here.”

  She softened to limpness and was kissing his ear when Remo ran his tongue down her neck, across her shoulder and down to the hardened nipple. His right hand caressed her hip and then imperceptibly he began to build tension in her again, and fire it, and build it, until she was banging her own head against the door guard, begging for more and faster. Then Remo moved faster, with speed and friction rare for the untrained, but creating a wild heat within her so that she suddenly became stiff and rigid and could not move, just stayed stretched like a bolted board, until her face suddenly contorted, her mouth opened, and there was no scream. Just a sinking down into the car seat where she cried with delirious happiness. It was a good few moments before she spoke and when she did, she was hoarse.

  “Remo. Oh, Remo. Oh, Remo. No one was ever like that. You’re beautiful.”

  He caressed her gently and helped her on with her clothes, and covered her with her coat, and she snuggled into him as they drove back to Chicago. In the inner city, they passed a small, pocket park.

  “Want to walk?” said Remo.

  “Yes, dear. But we can’t here. It’s a terrible neighborhood.”

  “I think we’ll be all right,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Chris, worry on her face.

  “Do you trust me, honey?”said Remo.

  “You called me ‘honey,’” said Chris, beaming.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Oh, yes, Remo. Yes.”

  They walked into the park. It was littered with broken bottles; its trees were scarred; its bushes uprooted, and its jungle gym was bent and cracked. A dark, drunken hulk was sleeping one off under a scarred bench.

  Chris smiled and kissed Remo’s shoulder. “This is the most beautiful park I’ve ever been through. Just smell the air.”

  Remo smelled only the drifting odor of garbage dumped from a window because someone didn’t bother to walk to a garbage can down the hall.

  They sat down on a bench, and Remo wrapped her with an arm, bringing her warm, close, and secure.

  “Darling,” he said sweetly. “Tell me about yourself and Jethro and the union and the men in those rooms and Nuihc.”

  And she talked. She told of how she first met Gene Jethro, and Remo asked when he started having money. She talked about Gene’s change in temperament, and Remo asked if Nuihc had supplied the money. She talked about the building outside of the city that took so much of Gene’s time, leaving her alone, and Remo asked if she had a key to the building. He noted that it must be hard on someone as sensitive as herself to share a floor with those horrible men. Oh, those men weren’t horrible. They were Gene’s friends. They were the presidents of the three other unions which would join with Gene’s, but Remo knew that already, didn’t he?

  Yes, Remo did. He even knew they were going to make the joining tomorrow. Those men, however, were unfaithful to their wives. Chris knew that and she knew the wives also. Remo wouldn’t be the unfaithful kind, would he? Of course not. Could Remo have made love like that if he didn’t love her deeply? By the way, did s
he know where to reach the wives? Yes, she did. She was also Gene’s personal secretary. She was chosen for this because she could file things mentally instead of on paper.

  No really? She couldn’t do that, could she? Remo would like to see her reel off some things.

  And so it went until Remo had the full web, the interlocking arrangements of one union with another, the monetary cement that bound closer than blood and tighter than concrete. Did Remo really love her? Of course he did. What sort of a person did she think he was?

  Suddenly, footsteps in the night, scuffling footsteps kicking the broken glass before them. Remo turned around. There were eight, ranging from a youngster with afro and comb still in it, to one in his mid-thirties. Eight men with nothing to do at 8 p.m. on a hot spring night in the inner city.

  “Oh, my God,”said Chris.

  “Don’t worry,” said Remo.

  Two of the taller men in undershirts and bell bottoms, with multicolored high-heeled shoes and floppy pimp hats angled over their afros, came close. The others surrounded the white couple. Remo could see the black muscles glint in the street light.

  “We out of our lily-white neighborhood tonight, ain’t we?” said the man on the left.

  “The zoo was closed,” said Remo, “so we thought we’d drop in here.” He could feel Chris pinch his arm in terror.

  “Oh you funny, man. Thank you for the white meat. White meat just love black meat.”

  Remo’s voice was cold and remorseless. He did not wish to do anything without giving full warning of the consequences.

  “You bring it out,” said Remo. “It’s coming off.”

  “Wrong, honkey, yours is coming off,” said the one on the left. He flashed a shiny razor. The one on the right had a bowie knife. The older man unveiled a chain. The youngster who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, unveiled an icepick. Remo felt Chris’s body grow limp. She had fainted.

  “Look. Last chance, fellas. I got nothing against you.”

  “You can run, honkey. Leave the white pussy for the black brothers who know what to do with it. She just gonna love it.” He smiled a white-toothed, glinting smile. The smile lasted only a second, and then it was a mass of blood as Remo moved through it with a left hand. The knife on the right went into the air. The chain went around a neck, and suddenly bodies were scurrying, running, fleeing out of the park. The youngster, swinging his pick wildly, suddenly realized he was alone.