Created, the Destroyer Read online

  “Is it very important?” she asked.

  He was a kiss away from her lips now. “Yes.”

  “Maybe I can get the guard down here and you could go in for a minute.” To hell with the supervisor.

  He was smiling so beautifully. “Would that be all right?” she asked.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “I’ll phone him. You get in one of those elevators and hold the door open so he’ll have to use the other one to come down. The night nurse takes her break now. I’ll keep the guard here until I go off…about twenty minutes. Then I’ll phone to the floor and you hold an elevator there. When the other one comes up, come back down here to me. I’m getting off then. But don’t tell a soul. Promise?”

  “I promise.” He had such beautiful eyes. It wasn’t until he had disappeared into the elevator that the receptionist realized her husband would still be in bed when she got home. She’d work out something later.

  Remo pressed the fourth floor button and watched the elevator doors close. So Chiun had been right. Some women could sense a man’s control of his body. They could be attracted by what he called the hia chu charm, knowing within that the man had such perfect timing and rhythm and highly developed senses that he could arouse them every time.

  “Man can love. Women live. They are like cattle that feed the body. Their main concern is their safety, nourishment, and happiness. The devotedness that passes for love in the man’s mind is really the woman’s instinct for protection. She wins that protection by simulating love. She, not the man, is responsible for the life of the human race. A most wise choice.”

  But how had Chiun been so certain? He had never called for women himself at Folcroft. But he had said: “In your mind, she will respond.”

  Remo had not intended to use Chiun’s method. But then, nothing had turned out the way he expected since the meeting with Smith, that tea-drinking filing cabinet back at Folcroft.

  How could CURE with all that superior personnel be so stupid about the special unit’s methods. Of course, they were not supposed to know much, but the ignorance he had faced in just getting out was beyond reason.

  First they had wanted to load him up with a bulky revolver. Then the armament man displayed a raft of pipe pistols, pen darts, poison dropping rings, all stuff from Charlie Chan movies.

  He had been taught how these devices worked in order to know what he might have to face. But carrying around an arsenal was like wearing an advertisement. He had said no and the armament clerk shrugged. If he were to enlist an unwitting ally, then he would call for a drop of one of these instruments. But for himself, Remo knew, his hands could do all the work necessary without having complications from the local bulls.

  He had kept the Remo Cabell identification and asked for an increase of only one thing: money. His allotment had been $3,000. He asked for $7,500 and got it. One thousand in small bills and the rest in hundreds.

  This was wrong, too much for an assignment, he had been told. It would just draw attention to himself. But then they believed he’d be operating with CURE for the rest of his life.

  “Take just what you need.” Well, if he were that obsessed with remaining unnoticed, he never would have used the receptionist. He would have come in through the hospital’s emergency room and looked as if he belonged there. That was another thing Folcroft had taught him. Remo smiled as he thought of the course in just looking as though you belong, the way to ask questions, the manner, the gait of the walk. Yet, they had kept saying, “Master this and you can forget most of the rest we teach.”

  Well, he could forget most of what they taught. He wasn’t going to find himself in a death cell again for doing his job, or waiting like MacCleary for one of his own to dispatch him. Remo had had it. The world had taught him and he had almost gotten killed before he learned. Not again…not ever again.

  He would call for a drop of cash in two days, saying he was on Maxwell’s tail, then hit a drop with a note that he couldn’t even get close, and then for the rest of his life follow the last order from the organization: “Disappear.”

  But first MacCleary. With MacCleary out of the way, no one would bother him again. The elevator door opened slowly, almost silently.

  The hall was quiet in the pre-dawn darkness. A table lamp burned at the vacant desk of the night nurse. Remo walked down the hall. He glided silently on crepe soles…407, 409, 411…no guard. Without breaking stride, he entered the room. He had already made an eyecheck of the hall. But if someone should have been in a shadow, his even stride and quick entry might have confused them as to the room he entered.

  He pressed the door closed behind him. He had decided MacCleary would probably have a broken rib from the fall. All he had to do was press one into the heart and no one would think of murder. The room was dark but for a pin light above MacCleary’s head. The light reflected off a metal object on the bed. It was the hook. The room smelled of ether. As he moved closer he saw tubes stretching down to the dark form like lines of thick spaghetti.

  One leg was in traction. He moved a hand along the warm wettish cast until he felt the plaster around the rib cage. He didn’t want to crack it. That would leave signs. He’d have to adjust it, carefully, carefully, the rib cage pivots and…

  “Hey, buddy,” came the faint voice. It was MacCleary. “That’s a hell of a way to make an identification. You didn’t even check the face.”

  “Shut up,” Remo said.

  “I’ve got a lead on Maxwell.”

  “Yeah, sure. Sure. Just a minute.”

  “Okay. You want to finish me without getting the lead, it’s your business. But I think you’re going to crack the plaster. Bad evidence.”

  Why didn’t he shut up? Why didn’t he shut up? How could he kill him while he was talking and knew what was going on? Remo’s hands carefully left the plaster intact. He had to put them back. He had to do it.

  “I’ve got a better way,” MacCleary said.

  “Shut up,” Remo said.

  “C’mere,” MacCleary said.

  Remo glanced at the hook arm. It was free. The other was in a cast. So MacCleary was going to bring the hook from behind when Remo leaned forward. Good. Let him. Then he’d just smash him in the throat, rip out a couple of tubes and to hell with the whole mess. He’d be free.

  “Okay,” Remo said. He leaned forward, balancing to catch the hook from behind with the sweep of his right hand.

  MacCleary’s face was fully bandaged, too. Only his lips showed.

  “I couldn’t penetrate,” MacCleary said. “But I did get to a man named Norman Felton. He owns the apartment they pitched me out of yesterday. That’s Felton with an F like Frank. He’s Maxwell’s middleman. The syndicate knows him but a lot of them think he’s the eliminator. Only the real top guys must know about Maxwell. No wonder we’ve never been able to get a line on him.”

  The hook remained still. Remo concentrated on it out of the corner of his eye.

  “I saw Felton for just a minute. It was his penthouse I was thrown out of. This damned hook caught on a couch and he was on me with a couple of goons before I knew it. I got one of them, I think.”

  Remo saw the hook rise. He was ready for it but it just fell back down.

  “The goons came out of the walls. Watch the walls, they’re inhabited. They all slide every which way. Before they came out, I had Felton backed to the garden windows that lead to his terrace. He was scared, but not enough to talk. Call for drugs at a drop, I don’t think he’ll break with pain.

  “Felton’s pretty classy. He’s a millionaire by now and he uses that as a cover. I don’t even think the local bulls know he’s in the rackets. He’s got only one interest. That’s his daughter, Cynthia. She’s at Briarcliff, this fancy college in Pennsylvania. Doubt that she knows what Daddy does for a living. I don’t know how you could use her but that’s a weakness of his. Maybe you could use her to break him.”

  The hook moved slightly, but only slightly. Then it was still.


  “I guess I screwed up pretty badly. I knew we never should have gone after Maxwell. Not enough facts. That’s fatal in our business. But we were stuck with the job. Now you’ve got to end him. I don’t know how, but try something I haven’t. I tried to go directly toward him and I’m just another victim.

  “Good luck, Remo. Have somebody say a mass for me.”

  Remo turned and started to walk away.

  “Where are you going?” MacCleary hissed. “You’ve got to finish something.”

  “No,” Remo said.

  “For God’s sake, Remo, you’ve got to. I can’t move. I’m drugged. They took my pills. I can’t do it myself. Remo. You had the right idea. Just pressure the rib cage. Remo. Remo!”

  But the door slowly closed on Room 411 in East Hudson Hospital and it was quiet except for the scratching of a hook on a cast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  REMO HAD BEEN IN THE BAR FOR HOURS. The receptionist had muttered something about her husband, finished her drink and left. He was the only one drinking. The bartender just refilled his glass whenever he nodded. A mess of bills soaked up the spilled liquid. The bar was dark and slightly overheated. It was too big and too empty.

  Occasionally, the bartender complained about how business had left when the burlesque nearby closed down. It was a tourist bar that had had to go local and couldn’t make the switch. Prices were still eighty cents a shot. The bartender never bought one back, as was the custom in New Jersey.

  The hospital was about ten blocks away. It was the wrong place to stay, as he had been taught, and it was the wrong thing to be doing. But he was there and he was drinking and he would keep on drinking until he bought a bottle and brought it to a hotel room where he wouldn’t be rolled for the cash.

  Remo nodded and the glass filled up with a double shot of imported Canadian whiskey. He wouldn’t even register at the hotel. He would keep on drinking until he could not think, until he could not feel or know and then he would be rolled undoubtedly and then thrown in jail and then CURE would find him and they would end it all.

  They would do a good swift job, as fast as an electric chair, maybe faster. And then the judge’s sentence would be carried out and may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Remo nodded again and the glass filled again and some more bills disappeared again and by the white lighted clock over the bar it was one p.m. or something or was it one a.m. or something?

  There was sun in the street out there, too much sun and light. People played in the light, didn’t they? They were the day people. And the whiskey was good. It was doing its job. “Whiskey,” Remo mumbled, “can contain without taste traces, small amounts of cyanide, any amount of arsenic and various toxic chemicals.”

  “What, sir?” the bartender asked.

  “Toxic chemicals,” Remo said.

  The bartender, whose greasy graying hair gave him the appearance of an Italian count gone broke, said: “No, this is good stuff. We don’t lace it. You’re drinking the best.”

  Remo raised the glass. “To the best. To Chiun.”

  “To what, sir?”

  “Take the money.”

  “All of it?”

  “No. Just for the drink.”

  The bartender made a sloppy snatch on the extra bill. He’d never pass a CURE test.

  “What, sir?”

  “Another.”

  “You haven’t finished that.”

  “I will. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.” Maybe he should kill the bartender, then he’d be safe in jail. Maybe life. Life. Life. But jail walls didn’t stop CURE. Oh, no. Not the team. Protect the team. The team must be safe at all times.

  “You played on a team, sir?”

  “I played on the best.” Damned stool. Remo grabbed the bar ledge. “No one ever got through the center of the line. I lost three teeth but no one ever got through the center of the line. Ha, ha. Until now. I open the gate for them all.” Oh, Remo, you’re so brilliant. You’re so smart I never knew you were so smart. “They’re all going through now.”

  “Yeah,” said the bartender, making an even sloppier snatch. “They’re all going through now.” He had an evil Italian face. It wasn’t a Scotch, Irish, Indian, German or who knew what else face, like Remo’s beautiful face. It was ugly. Ugly as Remo’s face.

  Italians: the image of a people addicted to crime is an improper one and should not be accepted by CURE members. Italian-Americans have one of the lowest crime rates per capita in the United States. The existence of organized crime and its heavy participation by those of Italian descent distorts the picture. There is a cultural trait, however — a mistrust of authority — which appeared during the 1940’s. This was brought over mainly by the Sicilians, a people often occupied by foreign powers. The image of the Italian criminal has been enhanced by news coverage of the fewer than three hundred who participate in the upper echelons of organized crime.

  In other words, they got caught. Remo remembered the lecture almost in toto. He remembered too much. The glass filled again.

  “Just a minute,” he said, grabbing the bartender’s hand. “That was poorly done.” He slapped the hand and three wet bills dropped to the puddle.

  “You made the mistake of keeping the area wet so the bills stick together. Keep it dry. Dry is the secret. You have greater manipulation with the dry object. Here watch this.”

  Remo took a few dry tens from his pocket. He made a fast snatch that marvelled the bartender, then quickly stuffed the bills in the bartender’s shirt pocket. “See. Dry.”

  The bartender grinned with an embarrassed smile and shrugged with his palms turned upward. An Italian gesture.

  Remo slapped his face. The crack echoed through the empty bar. The man stumbled back against a shelf of bottles. They jingled but didn’t fall. He clasped his left hand to his right cheek.

  “Never try such a sloppy job on me again,” Remo said. The man waited a few moments, breathing hard and staring at Remo who smiled and nodded. Then the bartender checked the bills in his pocket and found they were gone. The customer’s hands had just moved too quickly. Even drunk, the speed had been blinding.

  “Muscles. I’m training your muscles. Want to try again?” Remo offered the dry bills, but the bartender just backed away.

  “I oughta call the cops,” the bartender whined, moving toward a part of the counter that Remo judged held the bar stick.

  “By all means, do that,” Remo said. “But first another double, my clumsy man of the untrained muscles.”

  “One double coming up,” the bartender said as he moved back to Remo. He kept close to the bar with his left hand beneath it, an advertisement of a weapon. By the time he reached Remo, his pace and balance telegraphed that he would bring some sort of stick up in an arc over the counter toward Remo’s head.

  The bartender stopped, the stick came in a sweep. As fast as it moved downward, Remo’s hand moved upward. His hand smashed against the middle of the stick, stopping it, but acting as a pivot against which the top of the stick kept moving. The stick cracked and the bartender quickly yanked his swinging hand to his chest. The vibration had stung.

  Remo nodded for another drink and from then on he was not disturbed. Maybe he could tour the country, doing tricks. Then CURE would be more hesitant about tailing him.

  Hell with it. He was sentenced to die by a judge and he was going to die. A good thought occurred to Remo. He let himself down from the stool and went to the men’s room. When he got out, he slumped into a booth and motioned the bartender who brought his drink and all his money. There wasn’t a cent missing. Remo gave the man a ten spot.

  At first, the bartender refused to accept it, but then slowly, cautiously, conceded to Remo’s whim. “For your honesty,” Remo insisted. Then he began his serious drinking.

  He came to at the same table. Someone was shaking his shoulder. The bartender was yelling, “Don’t touch that guy. He’s murder,” and the shaking continued.

  Remo looked up. The bar was darker. His head felt a
s if it were closing in a vise, his stomach existed only by the pains in it. And he was going to puke. And the shaking stopped.

  Remo glanced up, briefly up, mumbled thanks and stumbled to the bathroom where he dry-heaved for an eternity until he saw an open window. Standing on his tip toes, he sucked the fresh air into his lungs in a rapid pace, then faster and deeper until his body was consuming twice the amount of oxygen a running man consumes. Into the base of the groin, hold, out full, the whole essence of your being out, into the base of the groin, hold, out full, the whole essence…

  His head still ached when he normalized his breathing. Remo splashed some water on his face, combed his hair, and rubbed the back of his neck. He would walk in the fresh air for an hour or so and then eat, something like…like rice.

  The bartender and the man who had shaken him awake were talking as he picked up his money from the table.

  “You recover pretty fast, Johnny,” the young man said, shaking his head. “I thought you’d crawl out.”

  Remo forced a smile. He said to the bartender: “Anything I owe you?”

  The bartender backed away, his hands raising slightly in a defensive position. He shook his head. “No, nothing. Everything’s fine. Fine.”

  Remo nodded. The bartender seemed too scared to have checked his papers. They had been in order and the thin strip of tape on his wallet had not been disturbed, when he checked his cash.

  “I hear you’re full of tricks,” the young man said. “Karate?”

  Remo shrugged. “Ka-what?”

  The young man smiled. “From what I heard, you were doing karate tricks in here this morning.”

  Remo glanced outside. It was dark. The light from a newspaper office’s sign shone into the street. He must never reveal himself like that again. He’d be remembered at the bar, maybe for a long time.

  “No, I don’t know anything like that.” He nodded to the young man and the relieved bartender. “Well, good night,” he said and headed toward the door.

  He heard the bartender mumble something about his being “a wild one,” and the young man answered: