Union Bust td-7

by Warren Murphy

  "Yes, sir. Can I help you?" asked the clerk.

  "Yeah," said Remo. He turned to Jethro. "How big were the men?"

  "Why do you ask. Ah, forget it. One 5' 10", one 6' 1", and one 6' 6"."

  Remo ordered three trunks, one very long.

  Chiun wanted to be a writer. He pondered upon the possibility of this career during a commercial. He would tell the world of a man who wished to be alone with beauty. A man whom the moons of time had made desirous of only the gentlest beauty. A man who asked little for himself and gave much. A man who saw in a wild and boisterous land a glorious art form which thrilled the soul. This poor old wise and beloved man wanted nothing more than to be allowed the few precious moments of peace in which to spend his declining years appreciating the beautiful stories of 'Edge of Dawn."

  "As the Planet Revolves," and 'Dr. Lawrence Walters, Psychiatrist."

  Then upon this wonderfully sweet and most gentle man did thoughtlessly burst in three crude and cruel villains. They cared not for the beauty of drama. They cared not for the few meager pleasures of this sweet, wise, beloved old man. They cared only for their villainous, cruel and despicable schemes. They stole light from the box which gave the art. With disdain, they pressed the button which made beauty no more. With cruel heartlessness they stole the beloved wise man's only little joy.

  So what could this beloved creature do, but arrange as best he could to watch the show in peace?

  Ah, but the story was not finished. Would an ungrateful, lazy student understand this? Would he care that the Master of Sinanju, who had given him knowledge beyond that of any white man, lost the one true meagre pleasure of his sparse life? No. He would not. He would concern himself with who picked up this piece of something. Or who picked up that piece of something. Or who did which cleaning chore or the other. That is what the ingrate would concern himself with. That was his nature. That was his character.

  Ah, if only Chiun could tell this story to the world in word pictures. Then, others might understand the plight of a sweet, beloved old man.

  The door to the hotel suite opened. The Master of Sinanju would not lower himself to petty haggling. The door slammed shut.

  "Chiun. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. If you kill 'em, you clean 'em up," said Remo.

  The Master of Sinanju refused to be drawn into the haggling.

  "What with the Supreme Court decision, there's now only one crime in America punishable by death. Turning off your sloshy little soap operas."

  The Master of Sinanju would not be provoked to name-calling.

  "Will you answer me? Did you do a job on these guys because they turned off your soap opera?"

  The Master of Sinanju refused to indulge in recriminations.

  "Chiun. This has got to stop. I mean it."

  The Master of Sinanju would overlook the disrespect shown.

  "Will you help me get them into these trunks?"

  The Master of Sinanju refused to do cleaning chores of a woman after being thoroughly insulted.

  "Sometimes, Chiun, I hate you."

  The Master of Sinanju had known this all along, otherwise why should the ungrateful pupil care so little for the few meagre pleasures of an old man. Ah, to be a writer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At 12.12 p.m. in Chicago that day, two men reported upstairs. Remo open-coded Smith over the telephone, informed him that he saw an alternate to the extreme plan and would like to proceed.

  "I think I can get to the core of the apple and manipulate the seeds without having to make the whole thing into apple sauce," said Remo.

  "Go ahead," said Smith.

  Gene Jethro had received the report from Pigarello and Negronski.

  "I didn't even hear him get in the car, and I was driving," said Negronski.

  "Two good men were in the cab of that truck," said the Pig. "Good stand-up guys. They knew what they were doing, too. They lowered the plate real good. I had some guys check later. Everything from bottles to garbage cans was mashed in that alley. Except the kid, that Remo Jones."

  "So what are you telling me?"

  "I'm telling you I don't want to go against that guy again."

  "Same here," said Negronski.

  Jethro played with his love beads. He had lost three men on the nutritionist, too. It was weird. It approached powers he could not handle. He thanked Pigarello and Negronski, saying he would get back to them later. He made a fast dash by car to the new building. He said the proper words and was let in. He took the elevator to the main basement floor by pressing the combination of numbers.

  The sign under the map was illuminated with spots from the ceiling. If the far wall were slid open, as it could be when the last electrical wiring was fixed, it would open to a meeting room just smaller than convention hall.

  Jethro did not see the need for such a secure hall at such an expense, but thoroughness was thoroughness. Now was not the time to alter plans.

  His footsteps clicked on the new linoleum as he walked past the special room, hardly giving it a glance. Just before the sliding wall was a door. Jethro knocked three times. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing.

  He opened the door and entered a small oasis of greenery, of pleasantly tinkling air chimes, of cool incense wafting to his senses. A waterfall over carefully placed rocks gurgled into a pool. He shut the door behind him and searched the indoor garden. Nothing. Artificial sunlight without heat illuminated the room with a bluish cast. Jethro blinked his eyes.

  "You have eyes, but cannot see," came a voice.

  Jethro peered into heavy shrubbery near the waterfall.

  "Ears, but cannot hear."

  Jethro tried to follow the voice.

  "Over here by the pool."

  Jethro looked again, surprised that he had not seen him the first time. He sat, his legs crossed, on a large rock. A book was in his lap. He wore a conservative gray suit, with white shirt and striped tie. Jethro should have spotted him immediately. The face was flat and smooth and Oriental.

  "Uh, I came to tell you we can't go at that guy Remo again. We'll just have to live with him."

  "Did he accept your offer?"

  "No."

  "Then why do you come here?':

  "To tell you."

  "You were supposed to enlist him or eliminate him. You have not been able to enlist him, so really you have only one other course of action."

  "We failed."

  "Then try again. What success was ever achieved without a failure? I tell you success comes from learning what will not work. If every man surrendered to the happenstance of fate, we would all be living in caves because the first house fell down."

  "I'm afraid of this man."

  "Good. It shows you have a mind."

  "I do not wish to send men against him again."

  "You mean you find it unpleasant."

  "Yes."

  "So is birth and so even are the better forms of love at some point in love-making. I tell you there is nothing of worth that does not try your soul. Go ahead and do this thing. Earn the power you will receive."

  "Yes, Nuihc," said Jethro, but while the words made sense they did not convince his heart. "Yes, Nuihc. I will do as you say, as always."

  Sigmund Negronski morosely played with his iced sherbet as Jethro told the assembled wives of the driver leadership that 'behind the man who is behind the man who drives the truck is the woman."

  "A union wife is one of the most important assets an officer of a local can have. She is the one to whom we look to make the International Brotherhood of Drivers the most successful union in the history of the labour movement. I thank you."

  Applause, at first polite then growing, then resounding.

  Gene Jethro, draped in beige polka dots, blew the women kisses. They blew kisses back.

  He sat down near Negronski on the speaker's dais, still smiling at the driver wives.

  "Pretty good, huh, Siggy?" he said, still smiling and blowing specific kisses to specific wi
ves. His own girl friend had worn a modest sheath, the consistency of cheesecloth, and she was braless. She smiled silently at his side.

  "I'm worried. What do we need this Remo guy for? Those guys they pulled from the horse of the tractor trailer had their heads crushed."

  "I know… I know. I don't want him, either."

  "Then let's forget about him."

  "We can't."

  "We gonna go at him again?"

  "We'll have to."

  "But why? He seems as though he is willing to be left alone. He doesn't bother you unless you bother him."

  "I know. You're right. I think you're 100 percent absolutely correct. I'd like to ignore him also."

  "Then why don't we."

  "Because we can't. We got to do what we got to do. And don't think I'm not a wee bit scared now, also."

  Jethro rose again and, blowing kisses, yelled:

  "Love ya. Love ya all."

  A waiter made his way behind the speaker's dais. He carried no tray. His hands were at his sides. He slipped Gene Jethro a crumpled piece of paper.

  "Telephone message, sir."

  Jethro took it, and the artificial smile became suddenly warm and real.

  "Siggy. We don't have to go at him again," Jethro said. "He says he wants to join."

  Dr. Harold Smith threw up his lunch and part of what he believed was his breakfast. He staggered back from the sink in his Folcroft office to the television set, then pressed for a rerun of the news show. That done, he pressed for a rerun of the three major network news shows. Then he ran back to his office bathroom. He flooded his mouth with a strong disinfectant and played the Thursday evening news shows again, just to make sure he had not gone insane and was hallucinating.

  Unfortunately, he was sane. There, flickering on the screen, the man who was executed so that he would not exist, the man who was under orders to kill immediately anyone who might recognize him despite the face operations, the killer arm of the organization to whom public knowledge meant total defeat of itself and a way of government, was standing before microphones, yelling into microphones, the center of attention of an entire convention. The new recording secretary. The new look in the drivers' union. One of the new young mods, according to one announcer, Remo Jones. And Remo Jones was saying a mouthful.

  Remo Jones felt that old unionism was dead.

  "The day of the muscleman and the bought contract is over," said Remo. "The day when the driver was considered the big dumb servant of an industry is over. The day this nation took for granted the services of so many loyal workers is over. There is a new driver and he is a professional. There is a new union member and he will not settle for the crumbs of the industrial table any more than his father settled for the whips and the guns of the corporate goons.

  "I say to you, fellow drivers, fellow officials, and fellow Americans, that we have attained a new consciousness in Gene Jethro, one born of struggle, nurtured in wisdom and harvested in faith, faith that we drivers are only part of a gigantic transportation complex that must work together or die separately. Ask not what your union can do for you, but what you can do for your union."

  The convention rose as one man to hysterically applaud the new recording secretary. Gene Jethro hugged him. Remo hugged Jethro. They hugged each other. They faced the cameras left. They faced the cameras right. They faced the cameras center, their outside arms raised to the ceiling of convention hall.

  Those little lights flashing were cameras. Those many little lights flashing were cameras taking Remo's picture for distribution over the world.

  Smith groaned. This was to have been the solution. This was to have been the plan to avoid committing the extreme plan. Remo was to penetrate the high command of the drivers and stop the formation of the monster union from within the key union, the International Brotherhood of Drivers. Remo was to take a post, not parade in it.

  At the time, it seemed like a better solution than the murder of four union officials. Smith had allowed it. Encouraged it. But what he had not encouraged was this sudden streak of exhibitionism. Smith flicked on one of the still shots. There was the secret human superweapon happier than Smith had ever seen him, like a publicity junkie on a fix. The man who had been publicly executed so that he would not exist!

  Smith should have suspected this possibility. A man who did not exist, who could not even keep one face for more than a year. Give him a little public recognition and he would be delirious with new-found joy. Hadn't he complained about the face changes, longing to return to his original appearance? That was a sign. The hostile expression of his humanity. That was a sign. And now this.

  Dr. Harold Smith looked at the beaming face, and for a moment felt a winsome pang of warmth for Remo, a very small and very distant wish that this man who had served the organization so well, could some day indulge himself in his human desires.

  This pang was very fleeting, however. Remo was going to get them killed. Exposure meant death. That had been built into the organization. There would be no living witnesses but the President.

  Dr. Smith gazed at the face, the exuberant joy, the open, delicious enjoyment of fame, and Dr. Smith turned away from the set.

  Then he remembered to turn off the set, and made a pencil note to himself that the set should be rigged to turn itself off automatically. After all, imagine if someone were to enter this office and see that face frozen on the screen. Why Remo wasn't even allowed ever to return to Folcroft.

  The very thought of all the precautions taken depressed him.

  The special line rang.

  "Yes sir," said Dr. Smith.

  "It seems as if nothing has happened to delay what I feared," came the voice famous to millions of Americans, the voice they heard in State of the Union messages, on national addresses, the voice that told them their nation had a leader.

  "It will not come to pass, sir."

  "I would have hoped that it would have been stopped by now."

  "Anything else, sir."

  "No. That's all."

  "If it will make you feel any better, sir, we will have the danger removed before the planned announcement tomorrow."

  "Then they are going to create that union, aren't they?"

  "Sir, good-bye."

  Dr. Smith hung up. He checked his watch. Two more minutes. He flicked on the computer readout. The first paragraphs dealt with a stock swindle by a major corporation. In all his years as director of the organization, he privately estimated that big business stole more than seventeen times the amount that outside organized crime did. But business was easier to handle. A leak to a newspaper columnist would stop the richest and most powerful business in the country. A set of engineering plans for a faulty car that one corporate giant had failed to recall, hoping the flaw would not be exposed, lest the call-back cut into profits. That one had been fun. It was addressed to a famous muckraking columnist but delivered to the desk of the motor company president. He scarcely had the envelope open before he ordered the call-back.

  In the sight of the organization, a faulty car was mass murder.

  The telephone rang.

  "Hello there, fella," came Remo's voice, brimming with new joy. "Did you catch the evening news?"

  "I did," said Smith dryly.

  "I have to say it. I was fantastic. I had them eating out of my hands. What did you think of the speech?"

  "Routine," said Smith.

  "Routine, hell. A standing ovation of seven minutes. The head of the American Legion only got three minutes and Jethro himself barely got eight minutes on his inauguration speech yesterday. You see the way Jethro hugged me on the podium. He had to. Couldn't let me walk away with the convention."

  "If I may interrupt your political career for a moment, how do we stand on the survival of the nation?"

  "Oh, that. Don't sweat. Will do. They have yet to present a problem which our resources cannot overcome. They have yet to build the barricade we cannot storm, the wall we cannot scale, the weapon we cannot smash. We are
a new generation, born in…"

  "You have until tomorrow," said Dr. Harold Smith and slammed down the phone. Remo had gone from assassin to politician without ever stopping at human.

  Remo heard the click of the phone. He hung up the receiver and looked at Chiun. Chiun had thought his song was beautiful, confessed that when he was young in Sinanju he had daydreamed of becoming a great political leader. Chiun rose and mounted a hotel bed. His arms waved and he began an oration, the rough translation being, "Drive the villainous oppressors from sacred Korea."

  "That's pretty good," said Remo. "Did you give it often?"

  "I gave it not at all. You see we assassins of Sinanju usually worked for the oppressors. My father heard me once in a field, practicing, and he explained that the oppressor put food on our table. The oppressor put a roof over our head. Without discord and violence, the entire economy of Sinanju would be bankrupt. In many ways, Sinanju is a little corner of the rest of the world."

  "The greatest assassins who have ever lived, Master of Sinanju," said Remo.

  Chiun bowed politely, accepting the accolade which was naturally due from anyone wise enough to perceive such a truth.

  "I got work tonight. I'll be out. You want me to bring back something?"

  "Bring back victory in your teeth," said Chiun, and Remo laughed. They would sometimes watch movies on television and the violent ones were the funniest. One of the lines in a war movie was, "Bring back victory in your teeth." It was so amateurish, Chiun never forgot it.

  "I'll bring back some wild rice, perhaps. And maybe some cod."

  "Cod is oily," said Chiun. "Try and do some work with the elbows tonight."

  "Why, am I losing something?"

  "No. It's just good to work the elbows from time to time. Try haddock. Don't forget. We had halibut Monday."

  "Yes, little father."

  And Remo left Chiun orating to himself on the bed, about the poor man throwing off the shackles of the oppressor until all men walked in peace and freedom and beauty.

  The building was not hard to find. It was surrounded by an electric fence twelve feet high, lit by yellow floods in a muggy gray night, smelling of fresh-turned sod and new-planted trees. Remo set the double-wrapped bag of fish behind a small bush, and up-jumped, right hand high, to one of the pole tips supporting the fence. He balanced on the tip, his right arm straight beneath him, his legs outstretched to avoid the electric current. It was the nature of electric fences that the supporting poles were insulators, thus making the fences effective barriers against only those people who did not normally practice getting through them. An electric fence, thought Remo, was a filter to keep out the harmless.