Death Check

by Warren Murphy

  “You can’t explain it to me?”

  “No. No, I can’t,” Remo said, and he was not smiling or enjoying what he said. “I can only say that violence has all the virtue of a cut into flesh. Done to cure — to heal — it is good. Done to harm, it is bad. The act itself is neither good nor bad. Just painful.”

  “But don’t you see, Mr. Pelham, that for violence to be employed for good or bad is impossible. There is no good or bad.” Doctor Brewster sat with limbs close to body and smiled as if he had a belly full of warm milk.

  “You are full of shit,” Remo said.

  “And you are another fascist functionary who dribbles righteousness until I cross your palm with silver. The good guys and the bad guys. Law and order versus the people in black hats. It is not that way, Mr. Pelham.”

  “It can be no other way, Doctor Brewster,” Remo said and he caught his jaw trembling. Goddam it, it was the peak. More than three months of it and he was coming apart at the seams. Sitting here, trying to talk sense to this liberalistic lunatic. Brewster was still talking:

  “Please. We really just cannot afford this here, of all places. I am willing to discuss anything you wish, but please no overreaction. You have a job to do, such as it is, and I have a job to do. We’re here together, let’s make the most of it.”

  “What makes you think McCarthy was killed?” Remo said, calm again.

  “I knew you would come back to that. I think he was killed because he is not the sort of man to use heroin. To use heroin, you must have a basic dissatisfaction with your role in life. McCarthy never had enough imagination to be dissatisfied. He was a bear-in-a-saloon type, Knights of Columbus, worry about mortgage. Very nice fellow, indeed. And frankly, I prefer him to you. McCarthy was a realist.”

  “And knowing or believing he was murdered, you didn’t give your suspicions to anyone?”

  “And have this place crawling with law enforcement types?”

  Brewster sucked on his pipe with finality, a man who saw the world in clear light while the rest muddled in the fog. The Remo Pelhams of the world who comprehended nothing, even of such an elemental subject as violence.

  Through the English glass windows of the office came a distant roar that rather rapidly became louder, then a symphony of belching exhausts that rode into the circle, and then round and round the small blue fountain.

  The motorcycle riders looked like refugees from the SS. They had black leather jackets, high peaked caps, and swastikas on their backs. Unlike the SS, however, they were unshaven, and there was no uniformity to their cycles, green and red and yellow and black, festooned with ribbons, banners and skulls, leather pieces flowing over highly polished chrome.

  Brewster went to the window, Remo behind him. Out of the cottages, the office-homes that surrounded the circle, came the department directors of Brewster Forum. There was Father Boyle and Professor Schulter. There was Ferrante, and on the right was Ratchett. And there was a fifth. She came from the farthest cottage. A young woman who could have been twenty or thirty. Her high cheek bones and strong aristocratic nose were ageless. Her dark hair flowed down over her shoulders like a royal mantle. Her lips were etched deeply in milk-smooth skin.

  While her colleagues hovered by their doors, she went to the edge of the gravel. The leader of the motorcycles aimed at her and charged her headlong, swerving sharply at the last moment.

  She smiled. Remo thought, she’s amused.

  Another cyclist circled behind her and still she did not move. The pack roared around again, and this time the leader drove into a skid stop that sprayed gravel at her feet. Still smiling, she turned and walked back calmly to her office.

  Remo smiled to himself. She was a rare one. If she had tried to run, the group would have been at her like a pack of dogs. But she waited until the leader temporarily turned off the aggression by sliding into that skid stop and then she just walked away. She disappeared as an attack object. Quite a performance.

  Now Ratchett waddled out to the leader so rapidly he appeared to be skipping. His hair flowed behind him and his tiny fingers tickled the air excitedly at the farthest reaches of his arms. He whispered into the gold-ringed ear of the leader who grabbed the collar of Ratchett’s velveteen shirt and began to twist, as Ratchett’s face grew pink, then red. When Ratchett managed to get a roll of bills out of his pocket, the hand loosened. Ratchett kissed the wrist of the hand at his throat; then the leader released him and he stood like a little boy hiding his privates in a public shower.

  The leader strode the sidewalk, his boots galonking on the pavement, his followers’ boots adding support to the galonk, galonk, galonk toward Brewster’s office.

  Brewster turned to Remo. “Now I don’t want any trouble. Remember violence begets worse, etc. We can just ignore the whole thing.”

  Remo went back to his chair.

  “Hey cop,” yelled the leader of the gang. “Come out here.”

  Remo stage-whispered to Brewster: “I’m doing nothing, sitting right here.”

  “Good.”

  “Hey, Pelham. You straight shit. Get out here.” The leader was over six-feet-six and massive. But the bulk was weightlifter’s bulk. His walk was a pose. His challenge was a pose. Mr. Six-Foot-Six had won most of his battles by posing menacingly. His major weapon was fear in the hearts of the timid.

  Now he nodded and a follower threw an object — yes, it was a rock, judged Remo, just before it crashed through the window and broke into the natural rhythm of Brewster’s nose. Brewster spun and gasped and shrieked and covered his nose. Then he looked at his hands. They were dressed in blood, flowing down his wrists into his tweed jacket.

  “Oh, no. The bastards. My nose.”

  Indeed, the nose was broken, a rapidly spreading red glob that released large amounts of blood. Broken it was, tragic it wasn’t.

  “It’s broken, that’s all,” said Remo. “Keep your hands away from it. Only the splinter can be dangerous.”

  “Oh, no. The pain. The blood. You’re security officer. Do something. I order it. I even give permission. Do something. Call the police. Call a doctor.”

  “Call the oppressive, trouble-creating counterforce?”

  “Don’t be so smartass, Pelham. I’m bleeding. Go out there and thrash the scum. If you have a gun, use it. Kill the little bastards.”

  Remo walked to the window. The seven-man gang was growing restive. Their next step would be to walk into Brewster’s office, and that might wind up causing damage to Brewster’s files and the work of the forum. Remo would have to go out and work in front of witnesses.

  “Excuse me,” he told Brewster. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  He pushed open the door to the courtyard, and stood there a minute telling himself, no matter how many months he had been at peak, he’d better not slip and kill one of these lugs.

  The head lug took Remo’s momentary hesitation for fear.

  “Come over here, you fag bastard,” he called.

  Remo walked up to him, gauging the distance, exactly three and one half feet away, the precise distance for the toe kick to the kneecap.

  “Did you call me, sir?” he said to Six-Foot-Six as the other half-dozen cyclists lined up behind their leader. From left to right in the row, they were carrying chains, lug wrench, knife, chain, chain and knife.

  The leader posed. He brandished his size and weight.

  Ratchett was far down the courtyard, masturbating by rubbing his hands inside his pants pockets. None of his colleagues noticed, their eyes were on Remo.

  “Yeah, I called you, fag. What do you think of that?”

  “What do I think of what, sir?” Remo drew his right hand closer to his side, and slightly turned it palm facing front. The fingernails would be good for two eyeballs when the second row made its move.

  “You’re a fag. And you like to cheat people at games.”

  “Very true, sir,” Remo said. He bent his left elbow slightly. He must be sure the elbow would hit the nose; an inch too low an
d the blow could be fatal.

  “You like to cause trouble.”

  “Very true, sir,” Remo said. He extended the fingers on his left hand, then pulled his thumb back against the palm, almost like cocking a revolver.

  Mister Six-Foot-Six was becoming confused. “You’re a fag,” he insisted.

  “Well, sir,” Remo said. “I’ve really enjoyed our conversation, but I must be about my business. Unless there’s something else you’d like to ask me.”

  “You’re a faggot. A fairy. A queer. Do you like being that?” Six-Foot-Six was getting desperate now. Time to end the nonsense.

  “No, I don’t like being that,” Remo said. “You know what I like?”

  “What?”

  “I like being called names by shitfaces like you. Because it justifies all the painful things I’m going to do to you. And these turds that hover around you, like flies around a pig’s ass.”

  Ratchett clutched in awesome excitement at his organ.

  “I don’t want to have to look at your ugly pimpled face anymore or hear that belching that you call words. Now step forward, shit. Step forward one inch, and I’m going to fix you so that you’ll never walk again without the pain reminding you of me. Come on. Just one inch.”

  The leader laughed. But his followers didn’t. They waited, and their silence shouted at him, and accused him, and finally, in frustration, he stepped forward, just one inch, and then he moved himself into something very fast that seemed to plunge a knife into his kneecap, and then there was a wrench, and then the sky, and then that awful tearing, and he was staring at the sky and it became dark, then black, then nothing.

  Remo worked the others rather lightly. The right hand fingernails took care of an eyeball each on chain and knife at the right end of the line.

  The elbow took care of chain at the left, and Remo was pleased when it neatly smashed the nose like a dried cracker, without slipping off toward the potentially fatal upper lip. The edge of his left hand cracked like a baseball bat against the forehead of lug wrench, second from the left, and he dropped in a heap.

  This wouldn’t do. Five of them were down, and Remo still hadn’t moved from the spot. All that was left was knife and chain in the middle.

  If Remo had raised his arms and shouted “boo,” they would have run. But Remo needed them. He didn’t want it to look too easy. He backed up a step, encouraging knife and chain to charge. He moved around between the two of them, lunging, blocking, making it all look very hard, and then suddenly he didn’t give a shit who was watching, and he busted an ear drum on each one of them.

  So there they were, seven of them groaning on the gravel. Ratchett spent, Brewster, who had come to the door, on the verge of a scream of gratitude, and Remo holding his head. Remo was holding his head because he had collected some blood from one of the seven and he put it on his head to show a wound. Then, still bent over, he forced his mind onto his blood vessels — out, in, circulation — very strong thoughts of fire, oppression, sweltering sun taking his fluids, and was finally able to work up a sweat.

  “I love you. I love you,” yelled Ratchett. Then he ran inside, presumably, Remo thought, to change his pants.

  “That ode’s still bovid,” Brewster called through his broken nose. “Kick hib or sobthid.”

  “You kick him,” Remo said.

  “I deed a doctor,” Brewster said and vanished indoors.

  With the exception of their leader whose knee cap had turned suddenly to jelly, the cyclists were capable of driving away. They carried Mr. Six-Foot-Six.

  Then something very surprising happened. The staff of Brewster Forum — the faces in the pictures, the new intellectuals — crowded around Remo like school children, congratulating him. There was Ferrante. And Schulter. There was even the forum’s chess instructor, who said something about “a game some time.”

  But Remo wasn’t paying attention. He was looking for one who wasn’t there, the black-haired beauty who had vanished into the last cottage as soon as the fight ended.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS NOON, AND AS HE DID every day, Remo checked Dial-a-Prayer in Chicago. The Reverend Sminstershoop was still in Psalms.

  Genesis would have begun a get-ready countdown. Ecclesiastes would have given Remo a day to finish his assignment. Deuteronomy meant all plans out the window, wipe out the place and split.

  But Psalms just meant another day at peak readiness. Yea, though he walked through the valley of death, he could not relax, let the tension drain, recoup his powers. He feared only the evil of diminishing every day. Already, if he were to risk the cat fall, he knew he would not just make a sound, he would probably get a concussion.

  So he spoke a number into the tape recording. The number was of his telephone booth with the area code placed last, the traditional way of destroying as many links as possible, even if those links were to your own people, monitoring incoming phone calls for people they did not know.

  And he hung up, not by returning the receiver, but by leaning his phone arm down on the cradle. He kept it there five minutes while chattering away to no one. On the first buzz before the bell engaged in the first ring, Remo released the cradle.

  “It’s me,” he said, that being enough identification. At one time he had a number, but he could never remember it, and Smith finally told him to forget it. “Look, I spoke with everyone but the woman here. And I don’t believe the pictures. Were the photos possibly phonys?”

  “No. We got the original negatives. We matched the grains right from the beginning. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wanted to be helpful.”

  “Don’t be helpful. The photos aren’t your primary purpose there. Have you arranged for… for whatever might be necessary?” Even on a scrambled phone that could not be tapped, Smith was cautious.

  “That’s all done,” Remo said. “This is a togetherness joint. Every night, all the boys gather around the recreation room. Give me five minutes and I can rig the air-conditioning to do the job.”

  “How about individuals?”

  “No problem there, either. I can talk them all to death.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny? What the hell is the matter with you. You’re getting… unstable.”

  Remo knew that was the second worst word in Smith’s vocabulary. Worst was “incompetent.”

  “I want to go off peak.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re on a job.”

  “I’m losing my edge.”

  “Don’t give me that gymnasium talk. Edge this, peak that. Just stay in shape.”

  “I’m slipping.”

  “You’ll do.”

  “I’m going slowly crazy.”

  “You always were.”

  “I think I’m getting incompetent.”

  “Would one day help?”

  “Yes.”

  “One day might be all right. Yes. Take it if you need it. But don’t make it a big day. We don’t know what the sister agencies might come up with, and when you might have to move.”

  “Okay.” Remo changed the subject before Smith had a chance to change his mind. “Did you get the package I sent you? The wallets?”

  “Yes. We’re working on them, but they’re difficult to trace. By the way… ”

  “No more ‘by the ways’.”

  “By the way,” Smith persisted. “Have you found out what they do there? I mean… their little plan?”

  “You wouldn’t understand it if I told you,” Remo said, hanging up. He was already halfway toward becoming an intellectual, the main ingredient being to have someone around to be a non-intellectual.

  Maybe that’s what the forum was all about. An elaborate hustle. Remo didn’t believe that any of the scientists at Brewster Forum, up to and including its founder, could have produced a plan to conquer a phone booth. Not one of the scientists had given even a hint of doing any kind of work the government might possibly think was important. And Remo had talked
to all of them, except for the dark-haired beauty, Dr. Deborah Hirshbloom.

  Strangely enough, he already liked them. Very smart, Remo. Now all you have to do is to fall in love with Dr. Deborah Hirshbloom. That would really be smart.

  Perhaps if he had been trained to work up a hate. Professional football players do it. Why not him? Because, sweetheart, you were taught to work up a nothing. Start hating and that’s the next best thing to loving for making you incompetent. Shit, next thing you know, you’ll be a human being. And then look where all that wonderful money would go. Down the drain. All that money that was spent to make you the wonderful nothing you are. A man who can hold his arm extended, absolutely motionless, not one shake, for fifty-three minutes. Let’s hear it for the geniuses who run this country. Let’s hear it for CURE. Hush. Hush. Hush.

  Staying at peak does wonders for the mental processes. Yes, Remo, talk to yourself. Let’s hear it for CURE. Hush. Hush. Hush.

  You’ve heard of the right hand not knowing what the left is doing. Well, our cuticles don’t know what our knuckles are doing. Let’s hear it for CURE. Hush. Hush. Hush.

  Okay, pal, slow down. That lady in the car saw you laughing to yourself. Slow it down. Move the oxygen around. Go back to that room they gave you during training. You remember the room. The quiet room. Remember every detail, just how it felt. Quiet room. Black carpeting. The couch.

  “You can always come back to this room in your mind,” Chiun had said. “This is your safety, your retreat. When your mind or your body needs rest, come back. You are safe here. And loved here. No one may enter whom you do not invite. Just send your mind back here.”

  And Remo went back to the room and just sat with Chiun as he had sat before. And his mind cooled and some strength returned. The woman’s face was familiar. Or was it? People are recognized more by the way they walk or hold their head than by features. Features are only the final, the last, proof of recognition.

  It was a hard face, a very old thirty-five, under smooth flaxen hair. She rested a bare arm on the window opening of the convertible.

  “Hi there, fella. How are you?”