Murder's Shield

by Warren Murphy

  “All right, goosy fingers, you got him,” McGurk yelled. He lowered his carbine and turned to another Maquis who had been firing rather poorly in practice. “You’re next.”

  Duffy sidled up to McGurk and said in a hushed voice:

  “Bill. Stop this now.”

  “No.”

  “Dammit, this is murder.”

  “That’s very right, Frankie. Now button your lip, or I’ll put you in the shooting line too.”

  The German guards were dispatched in short order and only the French drivers were left. McGurk waved another Maquis up the hill. He refused to go.

  “I will not kill Frenchmen,” he said.

  “I don’t see how you little shits could tell the difference if it wasn’t for the uniforms,” said McGurk.

  Suddenly, a Maquis standing nearby raised his carbine and walked it into McGurk’s lean stomach.

  “We will not kill Frenchmen. “

  “Okay,” said McGurk. A sudden broad grin appeared. “Have it your own way. I was just testing you.”

  “We are now tested and you know we won’t kill Frenchmen like dogs. “

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to be too rough on you. Hell, it’s war,” said McGurk warmly. He draped an arm over the Maquis as the carbine lowered. “Friends?” he said.

  “Friends,” said the Frenchman.

  McGurk shook hands and scrambled up the hill, pushing an angry Frank Duffy before him. Eight seconds later, the Maquis with the carbine was cut in half by the explosion of a grenade on his belt. McGurk had pulled the pin when he embraced him. From the top of the hill, McGurk unloaded his carbine at the French truck drivers who were still curled on the road. Bam. Bam. Bam. Heads exploded. No misses. There was quiet on the noon road as the bodies lay motionless; the Maquis band looked up in terror at this maniac American.

  “All right, let’s pull out,” yelled McGurk.

  That night, when McGurk was bedding down, Duffy threw a punch at his head, knocking McGurk into a wall. McGurk bounded back and Duffy caught him with a knee, square in his moon face. McGurk shook his head.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Because you’re a sonofabitch,” said Duffy.

  “You mean because of shooting the prisoners?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, as your leader, I could have you shot right now with incredible justification?”

  Duffy shrugged. He didn’t plan on living through the war anyway. McGurk must have sensed this, because he said, “Okay, we’ll go cleaner in the future. Hell, I don’t want to kill an American.” McGurk staggered to his feet and offered his hand.

  As Duffy reached forward for it, he kept going into McGurk’s stomach. McGurk emitted a gasp. He backed away, putting his hands in front of him.

  “Hey, hey, I meant it, friend. I gotta have someone I can’t kill. Now, stop it.”

  “You can’t take it, can you?” Duffy said arrogantly.

  “Can’t take it? Kid, I could wipe you up in a second. Believe me. Just don’t come at me again. That’s all I ask.”

  Either from youthful wildness or contempt, Duffy went for McGurk again. He remembered throwing one punch and he awoke with McGurk pouring water on his face.

  “I told you I could take you, kid. How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know,” said Duffy, blinking. Throughout the war, Duffy remained the one person McGurk could not kill. Despite logic and moral training, a deep affection grew in Frank Duffy for Bill McGurk, the man who could not kill him. He came to look upon McGurk’s cold passion for death as a sickness and, as with any friend who was sick, he felt sorry for him; he didn’t hate him for it.

  Duffy became wary of picking up slights from anyone, lest McGurk find out about it and shred the person. After the war, it was the same way. When Frank Duffy was running for assemblyman, some hecklers began shaking the speakers’ platform. McGurk, then a uniformed sergeant in the police department, formally arrested the offenders for disturbing the peace. Later, they were also charged with assaulting a police officer. On the way to the station house, out of sight of the political rally, the offenders did attempt with hand and fist to strike Officer McGurk about the head. The offenders were admitted to Beth Israel Hospital with fractures of the cranium, facial contusions, and hernias. McGurk was treated for bruised knuckles. McGurk was godfather to Duffy’s boy. The two families even managed to get along well enough to share a cabin outside Seneca Falls, New York, where Duffy on this early autumn evening had landed with the dozen bottles of Jack Daniels and a very big problem.

  Driving to the cabin in the stillness of the dark country road, the United States congressman opened one of the bottles, took a swig and passed it to the Inspector in charge of Manpower Deployment for the New York City Police Department. McGurk took a swig and passed it back to Duffy.

  “I don’t know where to begin, Bill,” said Duffy. “It’s monstrous. On the surface, it looks like a benefit to the nation but when you understand what’s happening, you realize it is an incredible danger to everything America stands for. “

  “Communists?”

  “No. Although they’re a danger too. No. These people are like Communists. They believe the end justifies any means.”

  “Sure as hell does, Frankie,” said McGurk.

  “Bill, I need your help, not your political philosophy, if you don’t mind. What’s happening is this. A group of people are taking the law into their own hands. Massive vigilantes. Very thorough, almost military. Like those police in South America a few years ago. Trying to fight liberal politicians and lenient judges with bullets.”

  “Judges here are too lenient,” McGurk said. “Why do you think decent citizens can’t walk the streets? The animals have taken over. New York City is a jungle. Your district too. You ought to go down and talk to your constituents some time, Frankie, You’ll find them hiding in their caves. “

  “Come on, Bill, let me finish.”

  “You let me finish,” McGurk said. “We opened the doors to the ape house in New York and now decent people venture onto the streets at their own risk.”

  “I’m not going to argue politics or try to cure your racism, Bill. But let me finish. I think policemen are doing the same thing in America now that they were doing in South America a couple of years ago. I think they’re organized.”

  “You got an informer?” asked McGurk. He took the bottle as he turned onto a dirt driveway. The car bounced over the dirt road as McGurk refused to be intimidated by the narrowness and unevenness of its surface.

  “No,” Duffy said.

  “Then why do you think police are doing it?”

  “Good question. Who’s getting killed? The people that the policemen ordinarily can’t touch. I recognized the name of Elijah Wilson. You told me about Big Pearl yourself. Remember years ago, you said the law couldn’t touch him?”

  “Yeah. Everybody knows Big Pearl.”

  “Everybody in your business, not in mine. Well, that got me thinking. Even a racist like you admits that a man like Big Pearl is smart. He doesn’t put himself in a position where he’s going to be killed. The average pimp lasts two years. He was going for fifteen. How? By making it profitable for people not to kill him. So the motive had to be something other than profit, right?”

  “If you say so, Sherlock,” said McGurk.

  “Okay. Then we get the financier in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Maybe he made enemies. In heroin, that’s possible.”

  “Right.”

  “But he operated like Big Pearl. He paid. And made it unprofitable to kill him. And the judge in Connecticut was another one on the take. His life was very profitable to the Mafia.”

  “Maybe he took and didn’t deliver,” said McGurk. He wheeled the car sharply into the darkness and stopped. He turned off the lights and an outline of a small cabin could be seen from the car.

  Duffy grabbed two bottles and McGurk grabbed two bottles and they stepped gingerly over the rock-strewn earth to the cabin entrance. Mc
Gurk turned on the lights and Duffy got the ice.

  “You look at the judge’s record,” Duffy said. “He always delivered. The Mafia had a good reason to keep him alive.”

  “Okay. It wasn’t the mob. Maybe it was some nut.” McGurk twisted the plastic ice cube tray, sending ice skittering across the formica table top. He gathered handfuls of the ice and filled two large mugs Duffy brought forth.

  “Nuts don’t work that well,” Duffy said. “I know that. Fill the tray. We’re going to be out of ice soon if you don’t.”

  “Oswald didn’t work that well. Sirhan Sirhan didn’t work that well. There are two dead Kennedys because of nuts who didn’t work well. I’ll fill a couple on the next tray.”

  “Those were one-hit affairs, Bill. These things aren’t. There’s a string of them. Bam. Bam. Bam. They get in. They get out. Over and over. That’s not nuts; that’s competence any way you want to slice it. Fill the tray now.”

  McGurk raised his mug and smiled.

  “To two dumb donkeys—us,” he said.

  “To two dumb donkeys—us,” said Duffy.

  They clinked mugs and drank and walked into the living room, letting the remaining ice cubes melt in the tray.

  “I’d have two choices for who’s doing these killings,” said Duffy. “Soldiers or cops. Somebody professional.”

  “Okay, soldiers or cops,” said McGurk.

  “Cops,” said Duffy. “Soldiers couldn’t find their rectums if not located near toilet seats.”

  McGurk smiled broadly.

  “Okay, cops. Why haven’t there been identifications? Cops’ faces are known around their cities, especially in cities under a half-million.”

  Duffy leaned forward on the torn leather couch. His face broke into a grin, one former professional making judgment on current professionals.

  “That’s the beauty of it. I figure it’s reciprocal hits.” He put his mug down on the wooden floor and reinforced his explanation with his hands. He put them out wide to either side, then crossed them to the far sides. “New York cops make a hit in Harrisburg. Harrisburg makes a hit in Connecticut. Connecticut cops make a hit in New York or what have you. The locals set it up; the outsiders hit. It’s foolproof. You know the hardest thing in an assigned hit is finding the sonofabitch of a target. If it weren’t for the Maquis that knew France, we couldn’t have found our way into Paris. “

  McGurk shook his head.

  “You Fordham guys were always so fucking smart. We could always tell a Fordham guy. He read books.”

  “So what do you think?” asked Duffy.

  “I think you’re right. What do you have to do with this?”

  “I’m going to be on the list for hits soon. I don’t want to die. “

  McGurk looked puzzled. “Frankie, you’re a congressman. An honest congressman. We’ve been talking about the scum of the earth. Pimps. Heroin financiers. Whore recruiters. Crooked judges. Mafiosi button men. Where does that come up to you? Where does that even come close to you? What the hell is the matter with you, Frankie?” McGurk’s voice became throbbing angry, a pleading disgust. “Look at the facts, dammit. You’re not some cock-a-doodle-doo broad out of a consciousness-raising session where they come in looking to jerk themselves off. You’re a liberal but you think. You deal in facts. But this time, you’ve got nothing. No facts. You might as well be out in a street screaming slogans. Stop the killing. Stop the killing. Stop the killing. “ McGurk’s voice hit the rhythm of the streets, the mindless chanting of demonstrators. But there was no smile on Duffy’s face, as McGurk had expected when he made a good point. Suddenly, surprisingly, there were tears and Frank Duffy was crying for the first time in McGurk’s memory.

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Frank Duffy and lowered his head to his hands.

  “Hey, Frank, what’s wrong? C’mon, stop that. Stop that, will you? C’mon,” said McGurk. He comforted his friend with his arm.

  “Oh, Jesus, Bill,” said Duffy.

  “What’s the matter, dammit? What’s the matter?”

  “Mafiosi button man is the matter. “

  “Yeah?”

  “I never mentioned Mafiosi button men. I never mentioned one. So you killed him, too. You had your people kill him too. “

  McGurk threw his mug across the room where it shattered against the pine wall with a splat. He rose in anger, punching the palm of his hand.

  “Why do you have to be so smart? Why do you Fordham guys have to be so frigging smart? Frankie, why do you have to be so smart?”

  Duffy saw the ice cubes and water begin to stain the wooden floor. He rose and tapped McGurk on the back.

  McGurk jumped, then said,“Oh,” when he saw the offer of Duffy’s mug.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Duffy.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, smart Fordham guy. You stop your investigation and if any of the people come near you, I’ll powder them like sugar cubes is what we’re gonna do.”

  “You knew about the investigation?”

  “And other things. We’re good and we’re growing. We’re gonna give this country back to the decent people. The hard-working people. The honest people. This country has been turning into a cesspool long enough. We’re just gonna get rid of the crap.”

  “Impossible, Bill, you can’t do it. Because you start with crap and then you move onto anyone else who gets in your way. What’s going to be the check on you? What happens when your people start taking money to miss? Or start free-lancing?”

  “We’ll take care of them too.”

  “It’s the we who’ll be doing it, and who’s to stop them?”

  “If that happens, I’ll turn on them.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll be too happy doing what you love best.”

  “And you might even be president then. Did you ever think of that?”

  Duffy took back his drink. “We have any ice left?”

  “Yeah. Plenty. Plenty.”

  “Okay, I’ll get some more. Look, I want to phone Mary Pat and tell her goodbye and… uh, I want to say goodbye to my son. I don’t imagine you’ll let me reach a priest. “

  “What is this talk?” said McGurk angrily.

  “You’re going to get orders to kill me tonight. You left word where you can be reached?”

  “Not at the department.”

  “No. With your real boss. Whoever you’re really working for now. He couldn’t let his killer arm go wandering around out of touch for any length of time. You are the killer arm?”

  “That’s right. So what do you have to worry about? You’re the one person I can’t kill. You’re golden, sweetheart. “

  “I’m dead, Bill. Dead meat. “

  “Okay, dead meat. We may have some frozen hamburgers. You want one?”

  “No.”

  They drank in silence as the hamburgers sizzled. A few times, McGurk attempted jokes. “How does it feel to be dead?” or “Wow, are you lucky. I haven’t killed you for five minutes.”

  The phone rang, a ting-a-ling upstate ring so strange to people from New York City.

  “It’s for you, Bill. It’s your boss,” said Duffy without rising.

  The phone continued to ring.

  “If it isn’t my boss, will you relax?”

  Duffy smiled. “They’re the only ones who know you’re up here. No one knows where I am. So it’s them. And they’re going to tell you to kill me. Probably make it look like a suicide to discredit my investigation. “

  McGurk laughed. “Why should I even answer the phone? You know everything. “

  His hand was on the phone and he lifted it to his ear. He was still smiling as he said,”Yes, yes, yes.” And, “Are you sure?” But the smile was different at the end of the call. It had become a mask.

  “How you fixed for another drink?” asked McGurk.

  “I’ll get it. You never fill the ice cube tray,” said Duffy.

  In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door. Using that as a shield, he eased open th
e kitchen door, and slid out, onto the gravel; then he was running to the car. He didn’t make it. He was tackled from behind and before he could get his hand around to ward off any blows, he slipped into deep darkness, realizing that at last he was paying the final price for tolerating McGurk’s brutality for so long.

  On his way to the last sleep, a strange thing appeared to Duffy’s mind. It was a vision; he was told that he would be forgiven his transgressions and given the reward of a good life. And in that brief moment at the threshold of dark eternity, he was told that a force of nature would take up standards against his killers and that from the depth of human strength would be unleashed a terrible shattering force.

  And then the brief moment was over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HIS NAME WAS REMO and as he stood on the platform high in the darkened tent, he felt that his body was one with the forces of nature and he was the depth of all human strength.

  The animal smells of the empty arena below were strong eighty feet above the sawdust. The outside breeze slapped at the tent. It was cold in that little high pocket where he stood and the swinging bar felt cold as death under his hands as he flipped it back in a long smooth arc.

  “Has he done it yet?” said someone down below.

  “You have not been paid to witness but to provide this area which you are not using now. Begone,” responded a squeaky Oriental voice below.

  “But there are no safety nets.”

  “You were not asked to supervise safety,” came the creaky Oriental voice.

  “But I gotta see this. There’s no lights up there. He’s at the top of the high trapeze with no lights.”

  “One finds seeing things difficult when one’s face is buried in the ground.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me, Pops? C’mon, old man.”

  Remo stopped the bar. He yelled down to the cavernous arena.

  “Chiun. Leave him alone. And you, buddy, if you don’t get out of here, you don’t get paid.”

  “What’s it any skin off your nose? You’re committing suicide anyway. Besides, I already got my money.”

  “Look,” yelled Remo. “Just get away from that little old man. Please.”