Holy Terror Page 5

  “His neck was shattered.”

  “He fell.”

  “In an American desert from which there was no great height.”

  “He tripped then,” said the maharaji.

  “The neck was shattered, not broken. Shattered by…”

  “Enough,” said the maharaji. “I’ll see you alone.” He clapped his hands and rose from his golden pillows. He left to the sounds of the heavy chanting with his arch-priest close behind him.

  When they reached his game room, he noticed there was a new electronic device for him, called interplanetary. It was lit, and the little blips of light were dancing around the screen.

  “All right. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, not in front of the faithful. What are you telling them horror stories for?”

  “But, O Perfect…”

  “Shut up. Are we or are we not in the happiness business, yes or no?”

  “But…”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, we give the fulfillment of the happiness human beings were meant to have.”

  “So if we’re happiness, why are you laying all these horror stories on the troops?”

  “But we face danger.”

  The maharaji flipped a switch full throttle and sent a blip directly across the screen through weaving obstacles. A board above the screen lit up, signifying a win.

  “If you go fast, you get through safely. If you go slowly…” The maharaji eased back on the throttle, and the blip immediately collided and was sent back to the right of the screen. The board above lit up a “crash.”

  “I have heard tales of men who can shatter a neck with their hands,” said the arch-priest.

  “Maybe they had a machine,” said the maharaji.

  “No machine. They saw only footprints around the body.”

  “So they did it with their hands. What’s their price? We probably can get them cheaper than one of our ministers.”

  “They have not been found. I worry. For the men who could do this, I know, have been in India before, hundreds of years before, I believe in times before your great grandfather received his enlightenment. Our people were not always hill tribesmen. The Ilhibad once lived prosperously in the valleys. We served a great mogul, and one of our leaders thought, why should we who are the strength of the mogul, why should we who die for the mogul, why should we who are the foundation of the mogul, take crumbs from his table instead of filling our bellies on the sweetmeats?”

  “You never get to the point, do you?” said the maharaji.

  “And our ancestors planned that on the night of a great feast, they would slay the mogul and his sons and take his table and his women, his wealth and his power. But on that night our leader died. In a tent surrounded by faithful, he was found, his neck not only broken but shattered. And a new leader stepped forward and planned the assault on the mogul for the next night. But on the next night, he too was dead, his neck but skin covering jelly.”

  “C’mon, c’mon, get to the point.”

  “And a third leader…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. His neck too, right? So?”

  “So the great mogul called the Ilhibad to his palace, and in ranks he stood us before him. And he told us that while we thought we were warriors, we were but babies with swords. And he called the best swordsman forward. And he called the best lancer forward. And he called the strongest-muscled of us forward. And he said to us that when the tiger is away, the monkey thinks he is king. Here, he said, is a tiger. And before all, an Oriental appeared, a yellow man. And the mogul promised that if any of our best could slay this man, he could have the mogul’s lands and women and table.”

  “And they didn’t do it, so go on,” said the maharaji.

  “Ah, but how they failed. The swordsman’s hands were severed. The lancer’s eyes were plucked, and the back of the strong man was shattered, and so fast were the hands of this one Oriental that none of my ancestors could see them move. And then to each of the three dead men he went, and with a movement so slight it looked like a touch, he shattered their necks. And the mogul said that here was the tiger and that since we were monkeys, we should go where monkeys went. To the hills. Any man who stayed would have to face the Master. The mogul called this Oriental the Master. And he said that any of my ancestors who returned to the valley would have to face the Master. And that is the story, and not until this day, O Perfection, have I heard of one who slays like that until our follower was killed in the state of New Mexico, America.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem, O Perfection, is that on the day the black man of God died, the earth shook, and I now fear what comes from the east.”

  “You’re afraid of some Chinaman, right?”

  “Someone of the east.”

  “Tell me, what’s your name, how did you ever get down from the mountain? I mean most of your people are still up there.”

  “I served your father, Precious One.”

  “Yeah, but why? I mean, why did you venture down?”

  “Because your father freed me. He was the truth that freed me, and I and my many brothers, of all my people, ventured forth down from the mountains to Patna. We are the only Ilhibad who dare wear the silver mark on our foreheads while in the valley.”

  “Well, as good as my father was, I’m better. And if I’m not as good, then your proof is not as good. Therefore, get back to work and keep the Baptist ministers happy, okay?”

  “My essence knows not to fear, but my stomach, O Perfection, does not heed my essence.”

  “You had a classy hit man who did the job on a whole tribe, so we’ll buy us some hit men of our own. What’s the grief or trouble? We’ll get assassins to protect us from your stupid legend.”

  “I shall seek the assassins myself.”

  “You won’t do anything of the kind. I wouldn’t trust you and your brothers to chew gum right. I’ll do it.”

  “But, Perfection, hiring killers is against the law in Western countries.”

  “It’s against the law here too.”

  “But you know the laws of India are hopes, while those of those faraway places are mean and cruel rules, enforced whether a man be maharaji or untouchable.”

  And to his arch-priest, Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor gave this command:

  “Get lost, and this time don’t fuck up advance preparations. Kezar Stadium’s a fortune to rent. And don’t play with the Baptist ministers. You already killed one.”

  “We have others, O Blissful Master.”

  “Yeah, a crumby half dozen.”

  “Many of them proved difficult.”

  “Everything is difficult for an asshole.”

  “We have another who is dying, I regret to say.”

  “Shit,” said the maharaji. “I have to do everything myself.”

  So he went down to the hospital and was allowed past barred doors by a bowing guard-priest and spoke in turn to each of the Baptist ministers. His words were brief, but always reassuring, that of course the ministers had done the right thing. Hadn’t the god they worshipped made their bodies? Did their bodies lie to them? Did they think God wanted them to be unhappy? And besides, who had brought them here, but the will of their god?

  To the minister who was dying, the Blissful Master asked why he did this to himself. Why did he not enjoy his life?

  “Your way is death,” gasped the man, his pale face haggard, his eyes red, his white hair matted on the hospital pillow. The maharaji dismissed the handmaidens waiting on the minister. He pulled back the pale gray blanket with Divine Bliss Mission, Inc., on it and saw the handcuffs and leg irons were still attached. The man had been here a week and was still in stage one. Dor knew that the human body could not stand stage one for a week. Already there were deep dark rings beneath the red eyes. He felt the chest with his fingertips. It was not a strong heartbeat.

  “You’re dying,” said Dor.

  “I know,” said the man.

  “Tell me, w
hy did you resist your body? What made you do this foolish thing? The others did not resist.”

  “I know that.”

  “Why you?”

  “I’ve been here before.”

  “In Patna?” asked Dor.

  “No. Narcotics. I was a pimp once. I was a gambler. I was a burglar, a whorer, a murderer, and a thief. The lowest of the low. And I know a fix when I get one. I’ve turned girls out onto the street like that. The sex and the fix and they’re yours, and the longer they stay, the stronger the habit of staying gets, and then you don’t even need the fix.”

  “I didn’t know it was so common. That’s interesting. I thought it was a formula invented by my great grandfather.”

  “The devil is not new.”

  “Yes, but the combination. The withdrawal of a person’s sense and the substitution of the senses you want.”

  “Old hat.”

  “But this drug isn’t heroin. We use a symphony of drugs along with the talk.”

  “Heroin, booze, pot, even a cigarette if a person wants it badly enough. Anything will do. Food will do if your man’s hungry enough. Old hat, buddy.”

  “Then why didn’t you go along?”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s old hat,” said the maharaji.

  “He is new, and I will see him fresh.”

  The young man rubbed his moon face and thought, then said, very slowly and very carefully:

  “Do you know we bring peace of mind to thousands? And without drugs too? Thousands. Drugs are just for special cases—that we need something special from.”

  “You bring false peace.”

  “You reformed scumbags are impossible to deal with,” said the maharaji.

  “Praised be the Lord.”

  “Thank you,” said Dor absent-mindedly and then realized the man wasn’t talking to him.

  “Tell you what,” said the Blissful Master. “I think I can save your body. Let’s make a deal.”

  “No deal,” said the man. Both eyes began to twitch. Dor knew the end was near now.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want if you can recommend a hit man to me.”

  “A what?”

  “A professional killer.”

  “No, I am gone from that life. I don’t deal with those people.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got five other Baptist ministers here. Five. I’ll let one go if you give me the name of a good killer. I mean good. Most people are incompetent. Give me the name of a competent one, and I’ll give you back one of your people to your god. How about it? A guaranteed Christian for you, against the life of some target who’s most likely a heathen. Maybe even a Catholic or a Jew. You hate them, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought all you people hated each other.”

  “No.”

  “If there’s one thing that abounds, it’s misinformation. What about it? I’ll give two. I’ll be down to three Baptists then. You can’t leave me with any less.”

  “All of them.”

  “All right. All of them.”

  “Release all of them from your evil ways, and I will, God forgive me, give you the name of a hired killer.”

  “Done. You have my word on everything that’s sacred to me. The word of the Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor, the perfection on earth, the Blissful Master. My secret bond. Where can I reach the guy?”

  The dying minister told of a river called the Mississippi. Up that river from New Orleans were many towns. Some were settled by the French. In one of those towns was a family named De Chef, although they used the name Hunt now. From father to son, this family had passed on its methods. They were the finest marksmen in the world. But this was twenty-five years ago. He did not know if they were still in business.

  “Once in the rackets, always in the rackets,” said the maharaji. “What’s the name again?”

  “De Chef or Hunt.”

  “How far upriver from New Orleans? I said, how far?”

  Dor placed his hand on the man’s chest. He could not feel the heartbeat. He put his ear to the pasty flesh, which felt cool. Nothing. He quickly lunged to the foot of the bed and grabbed the minister’s chart, which was an unbroken line going down. There was a ballpoint pen attached to the clipboard. In a rush he wrote down the name. De Chef.

  He ripped the sheet from the chart and walked to the door. In the corridor outside was one of the former Baptist ministers.

  “O Blissful Master, I heard your promise to send me back to my former ways. Please don’t do this. I have found truth here.”

  “What makes you think I would kick you out?”

  “Because of the promise you made to the unenlightened one.”

  “Oh, to the stiff. In the room back there, right?”

  “Yes. You promised by everything sacred to you.”

  “I’m sacred to me. You’re sacred to me. We are sacred to us. That rotting carrion back in the room was unenlightened, and therefore he is not sacred. One does not desecrate sanctity by bonding it to the profane. Therefore there was never a bond in the first place.”

  “Praised be your eternal truth,” said the man, and he covered Dor’s feet with kisses. Which was hard because the Blissful Master was walking at the time. Very quickly. You had to keep a good pace or they’d get your instep all sloshed up with saliva.

  “What do we have in New Orleans?” asked the Blissful Master of one of his arch-priests. “We got to have a mission there. It’s a major market area. I know it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE DIVINE BLISS MISSION on Lorky Street in San Diego stood like a fresh-washed face in a lineup of bums. Its windows were sparkling clear, its walls white with fresh paint. Around it, crumbling clapboard houses settled into their dry wooden frames, gray wood exposed like nude corpses waiting for the grave. Grass grew on Lorky Street, the last surviving remnants of what had been lawns before the neighborhood had fallen prey to a government housing policy of helping people to buy homes with no money down and with no prospect of keeping up the monthly payments. The “buyers” had lived in the houses a year or less, let them decay, then skipped on the unpaid mortgage bills, and the decayed houses stayed empty. And decayed more.

  Remo looked at the street in the afternoon sunlight and sighed.

  “I shipped out to Vietnam from this city. I went with a girl who lived on this street. I remember this street. It was beautiful once. I thought I was fighting so that someday I would own a home on this street. Or on one like it. I used to think a lot of things.”

  “A girl would go out with you the way you looked before I found you?” asked Chiun.

  “I used to be a good-looking guy.”

  “To whom?”

  “Girls,” said Remo.

  “Oh,” said Chiun.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering what Americans found attractive. I must tell this to Sinanju when we return. That is Smith’s promise, and you cannot break the promise of an emperor.”

  “You never told me that. You always told me that what an emperor did not know about you was always in your best interest.”

  “Unless,” said Chiun, “it is a decree. Smith has decreed that we will go to Sinanju.”

  “We’re going to board the sub by tomorrow morning. I promise. I just want to clear up a couple of things. Before we go to Patna, I’d like to find out if I can settle this thing right here in the states.”

  “And what if it takes days and weeks?” asked Chiun. “I go without my luggage, without my special set that makes pictures. I go like a wanderer.”

  “Your fourteen steamer trunks and your television set are on board the sub.”

  “Aha, but until we are aboard the submarine, I am without those necessities that make Life less burdensome for a weary man who longs for his home. It has been many years.”

  “Since when are you weary?”

  “It is always tiring attempting to enlighten the invincibly ignorant. Do not be proud of your triumph.”


  A coughing roar of motorcycles intruded down the street and a phalanx of black cyclists with skulls painted on their silver jackets turned the corner of Lorky and drove imperiously in front of Remo and Chiun. Ordinarily, this would have been a simple brushback with an old man straggling to jump for his life and the younger man tripping over his own feet. The Black Skulls could do this well. They called it “slicing Whitey,” and a week did not go by without one of the group getting his bones, which really meant encouraging some white to jump in such a way that he broke an arm or a leg in the fall. You could always get your bones with the older whites because they were more brittle than the younger ones.

  The Black Skulls were getting many bones this summer because of a new policy of police community relations under which, instead of arresting the cyclists for assault, they were called in to discuss white racism and how the San Diego Police Department could overcome it. Invariably, the prescription was, “Stop hassling us, man.”

  Thus, unhassled by police, the Black Skulls made many bones that summer, although not in Italian neighborhoods whose unenlightened racial policies led the Black Skulls to a unanimous decision that “You don’t mess with the guineas.” Sometimes, the Black Skulls would work on black but only when the day had been unfruitful of white victims.

  This day, the last cyclist looked back to see if he got both the old man with the beard and the funny yellow robe, and the white dude with the gray slacks and blue turtleneck sweater. They seemed unbothered, so Willie “Sweetman” Johnson and Muhammid Crenshaw signaled the pack to wheel around and make another pass.

  This time Willie “Sweetman” Johnson, who had been called a failure of the San Diego school system—his last teacher had failed to teach him to read, possibly because she was being raped at the time by Sweetman himself and the alphabet came unclear through her bloody and battered lips—this time, Sweetman chose a closer path. Like right through the hips of the younger honkey. And he missed. The honkey was there in front of the built-up chrome bar on top of the front wheel guard, and then the honkey was not there.

  “You see that boy move?” asked Sweetman, whirling around at the other end of the street.

  “Ah hits da yella one,” said Muhammid Crenshaw. “But he still dere.”