Union Bust td-7 Read online

  "The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.

  Bluntly, he told her he thought her husband was the victim.

  "Bullshit. He's a bastard and he always will be," said Mrs. Loffer.

  If Mr. Loffer would leave town this very morning, Chicago police would drop charges.

  "You may, but I won't. The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.

  By 4.30 a.m. Remo had three angry wives in the back seat of the car. The first wife helped convince the second, and the third was dressed and ready to go before Remo had a chance to explain that it wasn't her husband's fault.

  At 4.30 a.m. just outside the city limits in a new building with some of the plaster still drying and the plumbing just beginning to work, Gene Jethro sat beside a pool in an indoor garden listening, nodding, working his hands nervously, and perspiring profusely.

  "Can't we just ignore the guy?"

  "No," said the other person in a high, squeaky voice.

  "Look. I don't have anything against him. So he walked with Chris. She was just another broad, anyhow."

  "It is not that he has taken your woman. It is not that he is most dangerous. It is that proper precautions indicate he be dead."

  "We used the truck. It didn't work. The guy gives me the creeps, Nuihc."

  "This will work."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know what will work on this man. And once he is gone, then the other person will go."

  "Oh, we can take the little gook, I mean Oriental gentleman."

  "Did your three men, as you say it, take the gook?"

  "I'm sorry for that expression, sir."

  "Let me tell you something. Neither you nor your men nor your children, given weapons of the utmost ferocity, given coordination beyond your pitiful imagination, could, as you so crudely say it, take that little gook."

  "But he's an old man. He's ready to die."

  "So you say. And so you have lost three men. You think your eyes can tell you truths, when you cannot see. You think your ears can tell you truths, when you cannot hear. You think your hands can tell you truths, when you do not know what it is you feel. You are a fool. And a fool must be told in detail what to do."

  Gene Jethro listened and watched the long fingernails as they made arrows in the air.

  "In your Western ambush, you are very blunt. You arrange that weapons begin their assault at the same time. This you think is most effective. It is not, especially against one man who knows the bare rudiments of his craft. Rather a more subtle ambush is in order, two layers of surprises beyond the initial trap. Now, let us take a normal ambush, four sides or three it does not matter. Guns firing here. Guns firing there. And guns firing there. Impossible to escape, right?"

  "I guess so, sir," said Jethro.

  "No. Not in the least. With speed one can eliminate one point before the others really become effective. What I'm talking about are fractions of your seconds. But we are assuming our target is not as clumsy as you. So, he destroys a single point and then begins to work on the others or runs or whatever he wills. This sort of ambush works only against amateurs. So, but let us say that each point is an ambush. Let us create firing patterns around each individual firing pattern, and these patterns stay quiet until that point is attacked."

  "It's like doubling the chances," said Jethro.

  "No. It is increasing the effectiveness nine times. Now we're assuming he will attack the points if he has been trained correctly. Remember now, the secondary level does not fire at him originally—only when he attacks the primary level. Secondary must hold its fire. Now you set up a third level for the second level. And you increase your effectiveness, not by nine times, but nine to the ninth power. You use only twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven men for an infinitely large effectiveness than three times three times three."

  "Yeah, but where are we gonna set this thing up? The Mojave desert?"

  "Don't be absurd. A hotel is perfect. Perfect. With their rooms and hallways, perfect. The lobby of his hotel. Even you could figure out how that would work."

  "I'm scared."

  "There's this or, if you prefer, a puddle."

  "You need me. You can't do what you do without me."

  "And who were you when I found you? A shop steward. If I can make a shop steward into the Gene Jethro of today, I can do it with anyone. I have taught you to love as no Westerner can love. I have given you a gadget weapon designed for your incompetence that dissolves your worst opponents. I have made you Gene Jethro, and I can do the same for someone else. I do not need you. I use you. I am surprised you have not figured this out by now."

  "But you said you just wanted to help me. You said you saw so much potential in me that it was a shame I was wasting it."

  "A pretty little song for a foolish little head."

  Gene Jethro sighed and stared at a hanging palm, then down at his hands.

  "What if this older Oriental gentleman should decide to come here after us, if he's as good as you say."

  "He has been here and left. We need have no worry about that gentleman. He is not a fool."

  "Twenty-seven you say? In his hotel lobby?"

  "Correct. Three protected by three, each protected by three."

  "I better get going then."

  "Call your people to you. I'm afraid you're not leaving here."

  "But the convention. The 17th. This is our biggest day."

  "It shall come to pass," said the man with the flat Oriental voice. "It shall come to pass. Who would have thought that I could build this structure in two months? Who would have thought I could raise you to a presidency in two months? It shall come to pass, for you see, my friend, it is written both in the stars and in my mind. Our little white adversary whom you fear will be dead before another sun sets. You will be the most powerful labour leader by another sunset. And I shall have what I want."

  "What do you want?"

  The flat Oriental face smiled. "One thing at a time. First the whiteling. Of course, he might escape."

  Nuihc took joy in the sudden shock on the face of his whiteling.

  "He could escape this ambush," said Nuihc.

  "But…"

  "If he knows the scarlet ribbon. But do not add unnecessary worries to your heart. No white man could ever comprehend the scarlet ribbon, any more than you."

  Remo reached Jethro's headquarters hotel. Surprisingly, the entrance was easy. No reinforcements—the door hadn't even been repaired. Chris waited downstairs out of sight in the car parked a few blocks away.

  The women climbed the flights of steps, driven by anger and rage, panting, stumbling, pressing forward, mumbling, "Wait'll1 get him."

  They paused on the eighteenth floor. The door was still open at the hinges. Remo opened it wider for the women. They pushed through, panting. When the guard saw Remo, he hurriedly pressed the elevator button. Jumping up and down in fear, he looked nervously at the indicator dial and then back at Remo and the women. The door opened and Remo could see him lunge for the close button. He let him go. The quartet stormed to the far door.

  "It's open," said Remo. "There was some trouble with the lock breaking. They just don't make things the way they used to." Snores could be heard from inside.

  "That's him," said Mrs. Loffer. 'I know that snore," Remo eased the door open. The other women watched. One whispered:

  "Cut out his heart."

  Remo followed. Mrs. Loffer stared at the bed, illuminated by a small night light, a middle-aged man with a redhead snuggled in his arms.

  "She's a perfect size ten," sobbed Mrs, Loffer, her voice cracking. "A perfect size ten."

  She tiptoed to the bed. Remo could smell the nausea of stale champagne. Mrs. Loffer leaned down, close to her husband's ear.

  "Joey. Honey. I heard a noise downstairs."

  Still snoring. The redhead turned over, her mouth wide open in a grinding rasp of a nasal symphony.

  Mrs. Loffer nudged her husband's hairy shoulder.

  "Joey. Honey. It's time for coffee. Go downstairs an
d get the coffee, honey. Gotta make the coffee."

  Snores. The redhead size ten opened her eyes, saw Remo, saw the woman, and started to scream. Remo had his hand over her mouth before the sound could begin.

  Joseph Loffer, leader of the best-paid workers in the world, pilots whose average salary topped $30,000 a year, awoke, presumably to go downstairs to start the coffee.

  He opened his eyes, kissed his wife, and suddenly became totally awake when he saw that his wife was dressed, and that a man was holding the mouth of his nude paramour. He was about to launch a desperate explanation when Mrs. Loffer clobbered him. The blow took off from the floor and ended in his testicles. As he doubled over, Mrs. Loffer caught him with a knee in the face, then an open hand slap to the cheek, then fingernails to the eyes. He tumbled back on the bed, Mrs. Loffer on top.

  It was not a bad attack at all and Remo wondered at the capacity of some people, whether by instinct or through rage, to execute an almost perfect interior line attack. Of course, there were no fatal blows, but still Mrs. Loffer kept up the unrelenting pressure along the center of her body and Joey's, She sustained well, she executed rather well, and all in all, Remo had to admit she was doing a fine job.

  "See if you can get the elbows into it. Very nice, Mrs. Loffer. Very nice. Let me say, for someone without training, superb. That's it, keep up the pressure, very nice. No, no roundhouse blows. You've got a nice interior-line attack going there, and I wouldn't spoil it now," said Remo.

  Mrs. Loffer, tired, rolled off her husband, who lay stunned and bleeding slightly. She sat on the edge of the bed, lowered her head into her hands, and sobbed hysterically. Her husband managed to raise himself on his elbows and then, with a mighty effort, pushed himself to sitting position.

  "I'm sorry." he said. "I'm sorry."

  "You bastard," said Mrs. Loffer. "You bastard. Get packed. We're going."

  "I can't go."

  "You tell that to the policeman. You were doing such awful things, even the morals squad got involved."

  "There's no law, dear…"

  "You'll see from my lawyer whether there's a law or not."

  "I can't go."

  Remo released the redhead.

  "Better get dressed and out of here," he said.

  She shot him a dirty look.

  "You're a private detective, aren't you?"

  "Get dressed," he said. 'And you, Mr. Loffer, I want you dressed and out of this city in half an hour."

  Remo took the next wife to the center room. She emptied two ashtrays on the pile of bodies and hit every limb, buttock, and face her nails could reach. Her husband cowered in the corner. Remo threw him his clothes.

  "Be out of Chicago in a half hour or you're in jail."

  The third room was less of a battle. The wife burst into tears when she saw her husband entangled in a melange of female parts. She put her head into Remo's chest and began to cry. A tingle of guilt crossed Remo's emotions. Yet, it was either get them out of town or between a beam. The nation could not survive what they were about to do to it.

  This husband was furious. How dare his wife break in on him? How dare his wife have him followed? How dare his wife not trust him?

  Remo explained that the husband was violating a morals ordinance, which Remo conveniently made up. Granted, the ordinance was written in 1887, but it still holds true today, as it did when the Chicago forefathers passed it unanimously.

  "Yeah. Well, it ain't constitutional," said the president of the dockworkers. "I can get it thrown out of court."

  "You're going to fight it in the courts?"

  "You're damned right I am."

  The president of the International Stevedores Association had a very interesting lower right rib. Remo readjusted it. The gentleman, amid a loud wail, reconsidered his legal course and agreed to get out of Chicago.

  There was a mass exodus from the hotel that morning as the first faint red lines appeared in the gray Chicago sky. First the ladies of the evening. Then, the husbands and wives. But Remo, leaning against a lamppost, waiting to make sure, was not really sure at all as he saw the last husband engage the attention of the other couples. At the end of the block they flagged down a squad car. The two other husbands and all the women suddenly pretended they did not know this man, as he spoke to the two policemen in the squad car.

  When Remo saw the driver laugh, he knew his little ploy had been shot. The third man had not been panicked by the situation. He had kept his head. Checked out an ordinance. Found out it was nonexistent, and through his coolness of action was going to get himself and his companions killed today - a beam would go hurtling down on a row of union delegates who knew no such morals law had been passed in 1887. Unanimously. The way they would have to die.

  It was a bad report for Smith. Extreme actions are to be used when you have lost everything else. Only fools, madmen, and losers resort to them. As Remo ducked out of sight, he knew he was in the latter category.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The plan was simple. And it was safe.

  Rocco Pigarello explained it again to the twenty-six other men. He wasn't asking anyone to get killed. He wasn't asking anyone to commit murder. He was asking the men merely to make some money. He wasn't even going to mention that these men were the least important in the entire union because they were muscle and muscle could be bought cheap anytime. No. He wasn't going to mention unpleasant things because he had a very pleasant proposition and he did not wish to mar its sweetness.

  "What I want from you guys is a little common sense and that you should defend yourselves if attacked or if anyone attacks one of your driver brothers. Right?"

  A few suspicious mumbles of 'right,' 'yeah,' and 'okay' emanated from the twenty-six men sitting sullenly sleepily in the large auditorium that smelled of fresh paint. They had been awakened in the motel rooms and hotel rooms in the wee hours and hustled to this new building just outside Chicago. In some cases it was the president of the local who woke them. In others it was another delegate or a business agent. It was always someone in direct command over them. And they were not asked to get up early, they were told to do so. Or else.

  As soon as the auditorium started filling, the men recognized each other. Muscle. From Dallas, San Francisco, Columbus, Savannah. Twenty-six men with special reps. They saw each other and they knew there would be blood, and they didn't like it because this convention was to be one of their rewards for loyal service, not some more work.

  The Pig continued. "I know many of you guys think it unfair to bring you here at this hour. I know many of you guys think you ought to be back asleep. But let me tell you, you're here because… because…" Pigarello thought a moment. 'Because you're here."

  Angry mumbling from the men.

  "Now I am asking you to protect a brother driver. I am asking you to protect a fellow union member from vicious goons. I'm gonna tell you all your places. If you see anyone attacking a fellow driver, shoot him in defence of that fellow driver. We have the lawyers ready and we foresee no trouble. No trouble, okay."

  Angry mumbles.

  "Now, it is my suspicion that this company goon, this strong-arm man, will attack me with a pistol. I am sure all of you will see this. You will see the attack with the pistol. Once you hear a shot, it will mean he has begun to attack a brother driver. You will defend that brother driver. This is the picture of the man I expect to attack me." The Pig raised a glossy, magazine-sized photograph above his head.

  A few mumbles of shock. The recording secretary. They were going to do a job on the recording secretary.

  "Now. Any questions?"

  A delegate from a Wyoming local rose. He was as tall and lean and raw-boned as his cowboy ancestors.

  "How many men is that gentleman going to bring? I mean we have twenty-seven men, Pig, and I don't hanker to go up against no fifty or a hundred of Abe Bludner's boys."

  "Bludner is on our side," said the Pig.

  Mumbles of approval.

  "You mean to say,
this Remo Jones is going up against you without his president's approval?" asked the Wyoming delegate.

  "You heard me."

  "Where's he getting his support?"

  "He ain't got none."

  "You mean to tell me he's all alone and he's going up against you, Pig?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don't rightly believe that."

  "Yeah, well you better rightly believe it, shit-kicker, because this guy is gonna do just that. Now sit down. Any more questions?"

  Three hands raised.

  "Take 'em down," said the Pig. "Questions are over."

  Remo hailed a cab.

  "How much time do you have left on your shift?" he asked.

  The cabby looked puzzled.

  "How much time are you willing to work today?"

  The driver shrugged. "Usually people ask are you willing to go this far or that far, not how much time."

  "Well I'm not usual people and I've got some unusual money."

  "Look, I've had a good day. I'm not interested in anything shady."

  "Nothing shady. You want to earn twelve hours?"

  "I'm beat."

  "A hundred dollars."

  "I feel refreshed."

  "Good. Just drive this lady around Chicago for twelve hours and don't stop for more than ten minutes anywhere."

  Remo eased Chris into the back of the cab.

  "Honey. You get your rest right here in the back of the cab," he said. He ostentatiously handed Chris a wad of bills, letting the driver know there was money to be paid.

  "But why can't I go to your hotel with you, darling?" said Chris.

  Remo whispered in her ear. "Because we're marked people. You're a target. I'd bet on it. I'll meet you at O'Hare International Airport at six or seven tonight. The bar is the best restaurant. Whatever it is. If I'm not there, wait until midnight. If I don't come, run for your life. Change your name and keep going. In two days stop."

  "Why two days?"

  "Because it's been worked out that two days is an ideal time in a run pattern like this, and I don't have time to explain.

  "Why can't I just book a six-hour flight out and a six-hour flight back if you want me to keep travelling for twelve hours?"