Bay City Blast td-38 Read online

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  "Shang-tu had to go back to see the king once more and the king made profuse apologies and blamed the failure to pay on one of his ministers and in the presence of the Master, he had the Minister executed. And he told the Master to go home bcause now, surely, the payment would be there at Sinanju. And Shang-tu went back to Sinanju, but the payment did not come, and now many children had been sent home to the sea and the people of the village raised their voice against Shang-tu." Chiun's right hand was again moving toward the box of ping pong balls. Remo slightly tensed his body. Chiun's hand moved away again.

  "So Shang-tu went back to Siam again," Remo said.

  Chiun looked up sharply. "That is correct. Did I ever tell you this story before?"

  "No."

  "Then please do not interrupt. So the Master Shang-tu went back to Siam again. This time, with the blood of many children on his head, he did not listen to the king's honeyed words, but instead he slew the king and carried back the treasure himself. And that is an important lesson for all assassins and we are indebted to Shang-tu for teaching it to us. Hail Shang-tu."

  "Don't trust anybody, even kings," Remo suggested.

  Chiun shook his head. "Don't you ever listen?"

  "I listened. I listened. It sounded like don't trust anybody."

  "Really, Remo, you're hopeless." He raised his hands to show how hopeless Remo was. He moved a few inches to the left so that his body was directly

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  in front of the box of ping pong balls. When he lowered his hands, he slid them behind him so that either hand could reach the box.

  "Trust anyone you want, but make sure you get paid," Chiun said.

  "That's the lesson?" Remo asked. He tensed his body again. He didn't know which hand the ping pong ball would come at him from. He divided his balance between both feet so he could move easily in either direction.

  Chiun's hands were moving behind his back as he spoke.

  "Of course," he said. "Nothing is more important to an assassin. And although Emperor Smith is a lunatic, he pays on time. If his wishes are for you to call yourself a bodyguard, call yourself a bodyguard." He winked and Remo knew the ping pong assault was only a split second away. "The inventive assassin can always find a way to turn any job into his own special art, and emperors never know the difference."

  Suddenly, both Chiun's hands came out from behind his kimono. Remo lowered himself into an at-ready crouch. His hands came up toward his face. Chiun's hands moved at a blur. They lifted toward Remo, then opened. Remo peered intently for the flash of the ping pong ball. But there was no ball. Chiun's hands dropped to his sides.

  He smiled again. "Sometimes the threat of an attack is more powerful than the attack itself," he said. "A ping pong ball would not hurt you. But you could be killed by being off balance and tense."

  "I liked my explanation of the legend better," Remo said. "You can't trust anybody."

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  He turned away from Chiun. As he did, he was hit in the back of the head with a ping pong ball. It rebounded of! his skull against the wall with a hard piercing rap.

  "If you trust no one," Chiun said, "then you never have reason to be surprised."

  Remo sighed. "Let's go see Rocco Nobile and start being bodyguards."

  As they left their room and walked toward the rented white Lincoln Continental, a burly, dark-haired man with muscular sloping shoulders bulging through his Qiana shirt stepped from a room two doors away from theirs.

  He called to Remo.

  "Hey, you."

  Remo looked at the man. His eyes were dark and his lips were fish-thin. He had big hands which he had clenched tightly at his side. A man under tension, Remo thought.

  "You mean me?" Remo asked.

  "Yeah, you. You finally finished with that ping pong game?"

  "Ping pong? Ping pong?" Remo said. He remembered the exercise. The sound of the balls hitting the wall. "Yeah, we're all done," he said.

  "Good thing," the man said.

  "Why?"

  "Because if you didn't stop, I was coming over to shove those paddles up your ass."

  "It's harder to hit the ball that way," Remo said.

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Sure. Think about it," Remo said. "You do think, don't you?"

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  "You're a wise guy, aren't you?" the big man said.

  Remo looked into the car at Chiun. Chiun shrugged and Remo thought of Rocco Nobile and said mildly, "Some other time, pal. Some other time."

  "Any time," the big man said. He brought his two ham fists together and began cracking his knuckles.

  "I won't forget," Remo said as he got into the car, closed the door and drove from the motel lot.

  Mark Tolan watched the car go. Ping pong. What kind of faggots played ping pong in the daytime in a motel room? For exercise? Yeah, he'd give them exercise. Yeah. He went back inside his own room where Sam Gregory sat at the window table, drawing maps and charts and tables of organization and plans.

  Al Baker was sprawled on the bed watching a television game show whose major premise seemed to be that terminal retardation could be fun. Its minor premise was that all the people on the show were terminally retarded and its conclusion, therefore, was that the show was fun. Al Baker never missed it. He watched three young men, hiding behind a screen, trying to be glib and clever as they were asked questions by a young woman who couldn't see them. Baker fantasized being on the show, sitting on one of the high stools.

  "And if we went out together, Number Three, what would we probably do?"

  "I'd give you a beef injection, lady," Baker saw himself saying. The girl squealed. "Ooooooh."

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  "When I'm done with you, you'll be halfway into the cracks on the floor."

  At this time in his fantasy, the girl always gasped. "Quick, get rid of the others. I want Number Three. And I want him now." Then she fainted.

  Baker never missed a game show. He pictured himself on all of them, writing new scripts, always winning women and money.

  "You still watching that crap?"

  Baker looked toward the door, where Mark Tolan hulked menacingly.

  "Yeah. What's it to you?"

  "I hate that show," Tolan said.

  His face was twisted into a death's head snarl. He frightened Baker. Tolan was obviously a homicidal maniac and Baker couldn't understand why Sam Gregory had recruited this ding-a-ling.

  "I like it," Baker said. Tolan's face twisted some more.

  'Til change it if you want," Baker said. "It's almost over anyway."

  "Is there a war movie on?"

  "No."

  "Then watch anything you want, creep. Maybe you'll get smart if you watch enough shows."

  "Will you two stop bickering?" Gregory said, looking up from the table.

  "When are we gonna start doing something except sitting around here, listening to some faggots play ping pong next door and watching you draw maps?" Tolan demanded.

  "We're waiting for The Lizzard to return," Gregory said. He had taken to calling Nicholas Lizzard "The Lizzard." He thought it gave the operation

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  more of a touch of glamour. He called Al Baker "The Baker." He wanted to give Mark Tolan a name too. It wasn't that he couldn't think of one. He had a lot of them in mind. The Mutilator. The Extincter. The Avenger. It was just that he was afraid any one of them might rub Tolan the wrong way and he might wind up wasting everybody on the team. It wouldn't do for the members of the Rubout Squad to be rubbed out by one of their own. Especially The Eraser, Sam Gregory himself. He had to live. Bay City was just the first. He was going to go on, across the country, town after town, city after city, tracking the mob down in its lair, wherever he found them. They would learn to fear The Eraser.

  "What the hell do we need Gizzard for?" Tolan said. "He's as worthless as tits on a bull. Let's get going. Let's go kill somebody."

  "Tomorrow," Gregory said quickly. "I'm working up the plans now."

&n
bsp; "We going after Nobile?"

  "Not yet. First we're going to hit one of those mob businesses that The Baker infiltrated today."

  "He couldn't infiltrate a phone booth with a dime," Tolan said, sneering over at Baker who was envisioning himself lying on the beach at Waikiki with the girl from the game show.

  Baker didn't answer. He was wondering if the $493 he had in the bank would get him to Hawaii.

  Gregory said, "The Baker has found a drug factory on River Street. We're going to hit it tomorrow."

  "Good," said Tolan. He turned toward the motel room window and pointed his finger at passing cars,

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  squeezing an imaginary trigger and going "Bang, bang" softly under his breath. He could imagine the first shot hitting into a driver's temple, killing him instantly. The second shot took out the right front tire, throwing the car out of control, across the center divider into the oncoming lane. Cars piled up by the dozens. Bodies littered the streets. Some cars caught fire. A few exploded. Burning gasoline flew into the air and droplets fell on passersby with flammable clothes. A baby carriage burned.

  Tolan smiled.

  "How come I don't have no name?" he asked.

  the window.

  Gregory said, "What do you mean?" He knew very well what Tolan meant.

  "You're The Eraser. You call that creep The Baker. You call the drunk The Lizzard. What are you going to call me?"

  "You mean to your face?" Baker called out.

  "Funny," Tolan said grimly.

  "How about The Lunatic?" Baker suggested.

  Tolan wheeled around. His eyes blazed hatred. Baker tried to bury himself deeper into the mattress.

  "That ain't funny," Tolan said. "I'd like to put you away, television man."

  Baker coughed. "Don't try it, buddy. I've got a lot of connected friends. They'd be on you like a coat of paint."

  "You ain't connected to you ass," Tolan said.

  "No? You'll see," Baker said.

  "Send 'em on," said Tolan. "Send 'em all on. I want them all. All your ginzo friends."

  "Stop it, you two," Gregory said. He met To-

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  Ian's eyes and tried not to shudder. "What name would you like?" he asked.

  Tolan thought for a moment. Yeah, he thought. He wanted a name. Yeah. Some thing that would strike terror into the hearts of the bugs of the Mafia. They were all bugs, yeah. Bugs. "Bugs," he said * softly.

  "Sounds good to me," Baker said. " 'Bugs.' "

  "Shut up," Tolan said. Yeah, they were bugs and he was the man who was going to take care of all of them. Live huge. Yeah, he would live huge, and kill bugs. "The Exterminator," he said.

  He looked at Gregory and a small smile creased the lines around his mouth.

  "Yeah, that's it. The Exterminator." <

  "All right. The Exterminator it is," Gregory said.

  "I liked Bugs better," said Baker.

  "When we're done here," Tolan said, "you and I are going to have it out." He looked at Baker who waved a hand at him in disregard. Baker wasn't that worried. He had it figured out. He had never killed anyone in his life and, if truth be told, he could never remember throwing a punch at anybody in anger. But this time, it would be different. Tolan was going to get him when they were done? Well, exactly ten minutes before they were done in Bay City, Baker was going to put a bullet in the back of Tolan's head. Nobody could fault him for that.

  Gregory spoke again. "The Eraser and his Rub-out Squad: The Exterminator, The Baker and The Lizzard. Sounds good to me. And tomorrow we're going to hit this drug factory. I've got the plans

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  worked out now. We're going to pick away at all the goons in this city and then we're going to get Rocco Nobile." He paused. "It's time for another note."

  He looked around and found a yellow pad but couldn't find another pencil. "I need more pencils," he said.

  Tolan was still staring out the window, pointing his finger at passing cars. "I'll get 'em. Any special kind?"

  "The ones that write," Baker said.

  "Yellow wooden ones," Gregory said quickly. "With an eraser. If you can get Eberhard Faber Mongols, get them. You got money?"

  Baker heard money mentioned and sat up in bed. "I'll go," he volunteered.

  "I'm going," Tolan said. "And I've got what I need." He walked from the room.

  While he was gone, The Lizzard returned to the room. Or was returned. He was spilled out of a taxicab by the driver. His gray wig was on sideways and he could barely stand. Walking was out of the question.

  Gregory saw him through the window and called, "Baker. Go get The Lizzard. He seems to be having some trouble."

  Baker went outside. The Lizzard recognized him and smiled. He batted his remaining single false eyelash.

  "Hiya big boy," he said thickly, in a high-pitched squawk. He winked. "Wanna get it on?"

  "Oh, shut up," Baker said. "You're slammed up again." He threw an arm around The Lizzard's back and helped him toward the door.

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  " 'S'not true. Not drunk," said Lizzard. ' "]

  "Bullshit," said Baker.

  Inside the room, Gregory said, "You're drunk."

  "Just a pose," Lizzard said. "So no one recognize me." His wig now had slipped so far down on his face that it covered his eyes. He kept swatting at it and missing.

  "Did you get the apartments?" Gregory demanded.

  "Got one. Sherioush houshing shortage in Bay City. Had to look very hard. Got good leadsh for tomorrow. Men want to buy me drinksh all the time."

  "Put him in bed," Gregory said.

  Baker pushed Lizzard toward the bed. He fell like a solitary tree, hacked down in the middle of an open field. He was asleep before he landed.

  "When he sobers up," Gregory said. "We'll find out where the apartment is. We may need it tomorrow when we make our daring daylight raid on that drug headquarters."

  Baker nodded. He wished he could remember what address he had said housed the drug operation. Maybe he could get some more money tonight from Gregory for a pre-attack reconnaissance operation.

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  I

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Tell him Remo is here," Remo told Denise, the receptionist in the mayor's outer office.

  "Yes sir," the young woman said. She smiled at Remo. "You want to stand here alongside me while I telephone him?" She motioned to a spot behind the desk, next to her right side.

  "Sure," said Remo.

  "Where will I stand?" Chiun asked the young woman. "I am here too."

  "I thought you might prefer to sit, sir," Denise said.

  "No. I want to hear too," Chiun said. "I will stand there." He pointed to her left side and came over to stand alongside her.

  The pretty woman dialed three digits. "A Mr. Remo is here to see you, sir."

  She nodded.

  "Yes, sir." She replaced the telephone. She

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  smiled up at Remo as she said, "You may go right in."

  "Thank you." Remo turned away and the girl grabbed bis left hand. "Wait," she said. "I'll show you in." She stood up, "When you're done, would you like a tour of City Hall?"

  "I don't think so," Remo said.

  "I have time. It's almost my lunch hour," she said.

  "It's three o'clock," Remo said.

  "I take late lunches. Really. Honest. I could show you around. It'd be no trouble at all."

  She pressed her chest against Remo.

  "No trouble at all," she said.

  "He does not want to go," Chiun said. "That should be obvious to you. But ask me. Perhaps I will take this wonderful tour."

  "Yes, sir," the girl said unhappily. "This way, please."

  She ushered them past the mayor's personal secretary and a man who sat outside the door, with his arms folded, leaning back in his chair against the wall. He looked at Remo and sneered as Remo walked by. Remo stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. The man's hand moved toward his right pocket. Chiun brushed again
st the man and his fingertips touched the man's right bicep. The man's right arm stopped moving toward his pocket, frozen in position as if it had just been sprayed with liquid hydrogen.

  He looked at Chiun in surprise, then at his arm. He gritted his teeth as he tried to move his arm, but he could not. He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and tried to force his arm down but it

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  would not move. His eyes glittered with panic and he tried to calm himself because he had heard that if you stay still after having a stroke, your chances of survival are better.

  The receptionist showed Remo and Chiun into the mayor's office. They stood inside the door and waited for the heavy oaken door to close behind her.

  "I'm Remo."

  Rocco Nobile put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. He reached behind him to a large walnut AM-FM radio and turned it to a rock station. He turned the volume up loud. "Lock the door," he told Remo. Remo locked the door and Nobile motioned them forward to his desk, and rose to come around to talk to them.

  "The radio's in case anybody's got this office bugged. It messes them up. Glad to meet you, Remo."

  "I am Chiun." "And you, Chiun."

  "You've been expecting us," Remo said. "Right. I was told you'd be coming. You know what's going down here?"

  Remo was surprised to hear the voice of Wardell Pinkerton the Third come out of the face and body of Rocco Nobile. The mayor looked like the head-waiter in a Greek restaurant but the voice that came out was Ivy League and soft.

  "Yeah, we know," Remo said. "We were told to keep you alive."

  "By whom?" asked Nobile.

  "By Emperor . . ." Chiun began. Remo inter-

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  rupted him. "It's probably best, Mayor, if you don't know that"

  Nobile nodded. "All right. What do you think?"

  "I think we've got to stay as close to you as the smell of garlic," Remo said.

  "I might have trouble with my other bodyguards," Nobile said.

  "Was that one outside the door?" Chiun asked. Nobile nodded.

  "You will have no trouble with him," Chiun said. "He is very worried about his arm."

  "Where's the other one?" Remo asked.

  "He stays at the apartment to make sure nobody plants anything."

  "He can keep doing that for a while," Remo said. "Just give us a cover story. Nobody has to know who we are."