Bloody Tourists td-134 Read online

The bartender looked stricken. He didn't understand why this was happening, but suddenly, with perfect clarity, he knew how it was going to end.

  Grom left as the stomping became deadly.

  He pulled out his little black book. With regret, he found the entry for that night's batch and penned in next to it, "Imperfect."

  Chapter 9

  The quartet of sky marshals scowled at Remo Williams. They scowled at the nervous young lady at the checkin desk. They scowled meaningfully to one another to make it appear they knew what was going down.

  But they didn't have a clue.

  "You sure there's no problem here?" the head sky marshal asked the airline ticket puncher for the third time.

  "They say everything is fine," she protested.

  "What about the complaints?"

  "The passengers issued an apology through a spokesman," she explained reluctantly.

  "Since when do a bunch of passengers have a spokesman?" the sky marshal demanded.

  "I guess they're traveling together," she said. "A tour group from Paris."

  Uh-oh, thought Remo, who now had an inkling as to what was going on aboard the 737 that had just landed. Its pilot had relayed a passenger-disturbance complaint minutes before landing. That brought the sky marshals in a hurry, but after the aircraft landed the pilot called back to say the complaint had been retracted. The sky marshals weren't buying any "retraction."

  "Let me get this straight;" the head sky marshal said to the ticket puncher. "This tour group issues a complaint against another passenger and asks for law enforcement. Then the passenger apologizes, so the Paris tour group says no hard feelings and expects us to just drop it?"

  The ticket puncher seemed to shrink into herself. "Not exactly, Officer."

  "Marshal."

  "Not exactly, Marshal. From what I understand, the Paris tour group apologized to the passenger. You know, the one they issued the complaint about."

  "Well, why'd the bejeezus they do that?"

  Remc knew the answer. The answer strode out of the debarking door, scowling. The scowl became worse by degrees when Remo approached.

  "Bad flight, Little Father?"

  "Do you know what was on that flight, Remo? Can you possibly guess?"

  "Hmm. When you screw your face up that tight, it's got to be, oh, French?"

  "Yes!" Chiun exclaimed, pleased to share his outrage. "They spent the entire flight behaving like French. They spoke French. They smelled French. I was harassed for hours."

  "It's a fifty-minute flight."

  "They gave me no peace. They insulted me in their hideous tongue, thinking I could not understand their meaning. It was a mob of uncivilized nonbathers against a frail but hygienic elderly man. I was on the verge of being physically assaulted."

  "You were lucky, I guess."

  "Excuse me," asked the sky marshal, "where are the rest of the passengers?"

  "There was some trouble with the lavatories after landing, Marshal," Chiun said, croaking out the words like the weak, failing senior citizen he wasn't. "Apparently a great many of them became wedged in the lavatory cubicles."

  "Oh, my Gad!" the sky marshal said. "How did that happen?"

  Chiun looked at the floor, a sad and pathetic old man. "They are French. Who can say with the French?"

  CHIUN THE ELDERLY, Chiun the Frail, Chiun the Dying became Chiun the Obstinate when he was informed that he was to board another aircraft at once. His wrist bones, as brittle as sun-dried pine needles, nearly broke when the old Korean master illustrated his displeasure by backhanding the motorized cart that had just transported them to a two-engine prop plane.

  The airport staffer on the cart knew his little putt-putt vehicle couldn't possibly go as fast as it was suddenly going, and it sure the hell couldn't do it in reverse. He was still trying to figure all this out a half second later when the cart stopped against the protective concrete pillar at the base of the airport gate. It was hours before he thought about anything again.

  "Do you have my trunks?" Chiun demanded.

  "Yes. The Reigning Master of Sinanju is faithfully jockeying all six of your trunks."

  "The Master of Sinanju Emeritus expects no less," Chiun replied with an off-hand wave. "See that they are not scratched."

  "They're not scratched," Remo said.

  "You handle them irreverently," Chiun complained.

  "Hey, you were lucky I grabbed those things just when you were sending the poor driver halfway across the tarmac. They'd have been scratched and dinged and who-knows-what all."

  "Dinged?" Chiun stopped on the third step up into the charter plane. "You shall not allow my trunks to be dinged, or scritched or danged or any other thing."

  "I didn't, no thanks to you."

  "Of course there are no thanks to me," Chiun said with a sniff. "There have never been thanks to me, especially not from the adopted son to whom I have given everything." Chiun was speaking now for the benefit of the flight attendant who awaited them inside the doors at the top of the steps.

  "I gave him my title. I gave him an education and a vocation," Chiun explained to her. "I gave him what orphans the world over dream of. What do I get in return?"

  "Bellhop service for life," Remo answered.

  "Disdain." Chiun's quivering head shook sadly.

  "Oh, dear," the flight attendant murmured, her mechanical smile melting into genuine sympathy.

  "Don't believe a word of it," Remo warned.

  "You poor man."

  "Ask him how poor," Remo called from behind. "He could buy this airport."

  "Poor in the currencies that matter. Loyalty. Understanding. Respect."

  "Yo, Emeritus! We got places to go."

  Chiun leaned close to the young woman in the starched navy blue uniform. "You see how it is for me," he whispered, his lungs, weary from a century of breathing, were barely able to get the words out.

  The flight attendant wiped away a single drop of moisture from the corner of her eye and tenderly embraced the little man's crippled body in her arms, then gently assisted him to the window seat. When she was sure he was comfortable-as comfortable as his weak, failing body could possibly be-she turned and shot a lethal look of disgust at Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju.

  THE FLIGHT WAS chartered for just the two of them, and in no time they were taxiing to a stop at a tiny regional airport. A rental car was waiting, and Remo followed the directions that had been faxed to him, with a hand-drawn map, from Folcroft. Remo still felt disoriented by the three words that were printed in neat block letters at the big X that indicated their destination. He knew what "Saloon" meant. What was "Big Stomp?" Was Smitty experimenting with some more code words? If so, Remo missed the meeting. Or he'd missed paying attention at the meeting. Did Big Stomp indicate he was supposed to go in and assassinate everybody in the place? He was thinking he'd better call Upstairs and clarify the message before he actually carried out such instructions.

  His destination came into view in the form of a massive lighted sign, fifty feet off the ground, bright red with white letters. Then he understood the words on the map.

  "Big Stomp Saloon is the name of a bar?"

  "The Big Stomp?" Chiun said, perking up from his introspective sulk. "Is it the Big Stomp Saloon?"

  "Don't tell me you've heard of the place?" Remo asked as they parked amid squad cars and unmarked vehicles.

  "Hey, you!" said a state trooper just inches from the driver's-side window.

  "Who has not heard of it?" Chiun asked as they stepped from the car.

  "Mister, I been waving you off since you started up the drive," the trooper said. "Now you tell me, you blind or just stupid?"

  "I'm with the federal government, so you make the call," Remo said, pulling out an ID and giving it a quick glance before presenting it to the trooper. "Remo Baggins, National Tobacco, Firearms and Alcohol Association."

  "From who now? You mean ATF? Partner, this ain't a federal case. No nationwides are invited."
/>   "There was something in the booze that caused it, so that makes it the business of the booze bureau."

  The trooper's lips went tight. "You wait right here." He scurried off, never noticing the pair was silently tailing him, but the Masters halted when a white limousine turned into the lot and rolled to a stop on crunching gravel.

  "Do you see, Remo? People of wealth come here. It is a place of importance in musical history."

  "Yeah." The limo received personal service from one of Tennessee's finest. A trooper chatted with the driver, but Remo was more interested in the figures behind the dark glass in the back seat. "You mean they aren't reopening tonight?" asked a voice from the rear. Whoever he was, he was hidden behind the bulk of a bodyguard.

  The trooper chuckled politely and explained that it would take hours to process the crime scene and, no, the place would not be reopening tonight. The figure in the back stared past his hired muscle, taking it all in. Then he stared fixedly at Remo-it was the voyeur gaze of a man who knew he could see but, behind the dark glass, not be seen.

  But this time he was wrong. Remo adjusted his vision to compensate for the refraction of the flashing light that turned the windows into mirrors, at the same time adjusting the angle of his face so that the headlights of the nearest squad car put his own face in shadow.

  But the man in back never moved out from behind the bodyguard. Remo saw only the eyes.

  Then the limo rolled away.

  REMO AND CHIUN FOUND the cavernous interior of the Big Stomp crowded with uncollected corpses, shattered furniture, and the stench of spilled beer turning sour under hot crime-scene lights.

  "Yeesh. The Big Stomp is a big dump," Remo said. "So how come you've heard of it?"

  "It is renowned throughout the world," Chiun said.

  "Which world we talking about?" The stark white police lights hid none of the shabbiness of the peeling wall paint, the scratched floor or the water-stained ceiling tiles.

  "This is where the career of Wylander Jugg blasted off," the old Korean explained.

  "Launched?"

  "Before she became a star, the comely Wylander was performing here without appreciation of her marvelous talents, until a musical agent came to see her show. Even in this foul place her brilliance shone, and the musical agent took her under his wing."

  "Ah. Many things now makes sense to me about Wylander Jugg." Remo looked down at a body inside a chalk outline. The broken end of a beer bottle protruded from the stomach of a man with a week's growth of shaggy beard.

  "Nasty, ain't it?" asked the man taking pictures.

  "Looks like a prop from a Patrick Swayze movie," Remo commented.

  The photographer screwed up his face. "Dirty Dancing?"

  "I wish. Who did all this running amok?"

  "Who didn't?" the photographer said. "The whole place went nuts. Started out with one little fight on the dance floor, and next thing you know everybody was brawlin' everybody. We had five bodies when we got here and we musta sent fifty wounded to the Methodist hospital."

  "Were they lucid?" Remo asked.

  "Were they who?"

  "You know, were they thinking clearly? Or kind of confused?"

  "Oh. Definitely more like kinda confused. None of ' em seems to know what happened. None of 'em even knows who did the killin'."

  "Can I help you?" demanded a county official with a sheriff's badge pinned on his rumpled white shirt. "You federals are not supposed to be here."

  "Just asking a few questions," Remo said. "Won't take long."

  "Let me see your identification:"

  Remo thrust his badge at the sheriff. "Where's your witnesses?" he asked the photographer.

  "Don't answer that, Aberle!" the sheriff snapped. "What about him? You gonna try and tell me he's ATF, too?" The sheriff nodded at Chiun, who watched stoically with his hands tucked neatly in the sleeves of a scarlet kimono. .

  Remo tried to remember what Chiun's ID said. "Who're you with again, Little Father?"

  "CLECIC," Chiun chirped without hesitation. Remo and the sheriff were equally befuddled. "Huh?" the lawman demanded.

  "Congressional Law Enforcement Corruption Investigation Committee," Chiun explained in his pleasant singsong.

  "There ain't no such thing!" the sheriff insisted. "Let me see your damn-"

  The sheriff stopped talking and stopped moving. His mouth hung open, ready to complete the expletive. The photographer found it very curious. He also found it curious that the little Korean man was now holding the sheriff by the earlobe. "What just happened?" he asked the skinny Caucasian ATF agent.

  "We were being rudely interrupted. You're done blathering, right, Sheriff?"

  The sheriff had tears rolling down his face, but he managed a terse nod.

  "Okay. Now tell me about the witnesses."

  The photographer looked questioningly at the sheriff, who gave his permission with very emphatic head jerks. "Okay," the photographer said. "Well, there was just one witness. The bartender."

  "Yeah. He among the living?"

  "Oh, yeah, not a mark on him. He got out. Went into the manager's office and locked the door behind him, then watched the whole thing through the peephole."

  "What about the manager?"

  "He's at a restaurant trade show in Chicago."

  "Wait staff?" Remo asked.

  "Two beer gals usually, but tonight one of them called in sick, and she's lucky she did. The only serving girl who was working the place is over there."

  He nodded at a nearby mess of flesh that had erased its own chalk outline with spreading blood.

  The photographer expected a gag or a gasp, but Remo just sighed.

  The little old Korean man rolled his eyes. Then he strolled to the long, L-shaped bar and gingerly lifted a plastic beer mug, sniffing the contents.

  Remo, too, had noticed the odd aroma that permeated the place. Even masked by the stench of spilled beer, the smell was obvious and alien. Chiun looked puzzled.

  They left the sheriff with the photographer and found the bartender still in the manager's office giving his statement, and the tale came so automatically it was clear he'd gone through it all several times.

  "Relax," Remo told the good-cop trooper and his hulking, silent partner, the bad-cop trooper. "We're Feds. We'll just listen in."

  "Like hell," growled the bad-cop trooper, a colossus who knew he didn't even have to stand up to be intimidating-so he didn't bother. His shoulders were powerful, his arms massive under the specially tailored uniform. "This ain't your jurisdiction until I hear otherwise. Amscray."

  "No, thanks." Remo nodded pleasantly, hoping the good-cop trooper would continue the questioning. The colossus got to his feet. He did it slowly, as if moving his monstrous frame into a standing position required a mighty challenge to the forces of gravity. "Don't make me go local on you, U.S. boy," he growled.

  "Okay, Unincredible Hulk, you made your point. You're big and tall. Ooh. Ahh. So what. Sit down." The trooper with the notebook went white. Wrong thing to say! he communicated to Remo Williams silently.

  Remo Williams didn't care. He wasn't here to make friends. In fact, he didn't know what he was here for. Upstairs had him running around doing all this lookinto-this stuff and investigate-that stuff. He wasn't experiencing job satisfaction and he wasn't running into a lot of friendly, cooperative people. Even the cops were giving him crap.

  So when the hand the size of a manhole cover made a grab at his collar, he broke it.

  Even the giant didn't get it at first. He thought the skinny little guy had simply batted his hand away. Then he felt the sensation of shattering bones and the pain that traveled up his arm like a flood tide. With a bull-sized bellow he went for a full body tackle, and stopped midair. The skinny guy from the federal government caught him in the chest with his palm, and it should have sent the little guy flying halfway across the state. Somehow it was the giant state trooper who crashed to the floor.

  "The bigger they are, the smarter t
hey are not," Chiun observed.

  "But they are louder," Remo added, groping around the back of the giant's neck and making a small adjustment. The bellow ended.

  "Ah, peace and quiet."

  "What'd you do?" the good-cop trooper demanded.

  "Don't worry, I just hit the mute button. Please carry on."

  "But he's wounded! He's paralyzed!"

  "Criminy!" Remo opened the door and gave the giant a nudge with the bottom of one expensive Italian shoe. The paralyzed trooper rocketed out the door and down the short hall, still moving fast when he hit the messiest of the corpses. Sliding on blood, he actually seemed to pick up speed. Remo didn't bother to watch the dramatic end of the wild ride. grabbing the pen and notebook from the hands of the other trooper and tossing them out the door, as well. The trooper stared at Remo dumbfounded.

  "Well? Go fetch."

  The trooper nodded sadly and left.

  The bartender was, if anything, mildly amused.

  "I hate to do this to you again, but could you tell us what happened here?" Remo asked.

  "Hell, sure. You two are the first law enforcement I seen all night that act like they could actually do something about it." The bartender quickly related the events that led up to the violence. "That door saved me," he said. "It's like a safe door. Solid steel. Anything less they would have got me and killed me for sure. When they couldn't get in, well, it was like they had to take it all out on somebody. They started fighting each other. Somebody would go, 'Hey, ain't you the bartender?' and they'd go after one of the other customers and kill him and then do it again."

  "That's sort of unusual, isn't it?" Remo asked. He knew the guy was telling the truth, but it sure made no sense.

  "Weirdest damn thing," the bartender agreed.

  "The one who purchased the intoxicants for your patrons was gone by this time?" Chiun asked thoughtfully.

  "Yeah, he left right after he sicced everybody on me."

  "But you don't know who he was or what his home address is or anything like that?" Remo prodded, knowing he was grasping at straws.

  "Naw. You know, you don't ask questions like the other cops."

  "Yeah, this ain't my gig," Remo explained dejectedly.

  "He is not skilled at speech or thought," Chiun added helpfully.