The hand crumpled the shower curtain. A wet, blond head peeked out. It was a beautiful head, with smooth cheeks and blue eyes and voluptuous lips now turned into a smile. The left breast was well formed, too. Firm and rising with symmetrical, light-pink nipple.
"You're not Gene," said the woman. The smile went.
"I see you got the soap out of your eyes."
"Get out of here. Get out of here now."
"I don't want to," said Remo.
"Get out of here or I'll call the guard."
"Go ahead."
"Guard. Guard. Guard," shrieked the woman.
"My name's Remo, what's yours?"
"You won't be around here long enough to find out. Guard. Guard."
"Until he comes, tell me your name."
The beautiful young face was anger and frustration. No guard was coming.
"Will you get out of here? Will you please get out of here?" Now she put on her stern face. It was also beautiful.
"Look. I don't know what sort of kicks you get from watching women bathe, but would you please get out of here?"
Now the supplicating, pained face. Still beautiful.
"All right. What do you want?"
Now the businesswoman.
"Who's Nuihc?"
"I can't tell you. Would you go please?"
Remo shook his head.
"Aw c'mon, mister. If Gene conies back and finds you here, hell kill you."
"Maybe he'll tell me who Nuihc is."
"You wanna find out who Nuihc is, there's a building just outside the city. He's there."
"I've been there."
"Bullshit, you've been there. I know you haven't been there, wise guy. Now get out of here before Gene comes back."
"What's your name?"
"Chris. Now get out of here. At least, let me get dressed."
"Okay, you can get dressed. I'll be outside."
"Gee, you're generous," said Chris.
Remo stole a kiss on her wet cheek, ducking a roundhouse left. He waited in the living room, and waited in the living room, and waited in the living room.
"Are you coming out?"
"Just a second. Just a second," said Chris.
The door opened and Chris, her blond hair flowing like gracious silk, her body sheathed in white transparent filament, floated into the room. Exquisite.
"I can see more of you dressed than in the shower."
"Drives you up a wall, doesn't it?" said Chris triumphantly.
Remo cocked his head. He thought a moment.
"Yes," he said. "Be nice and I'll make love to you."
"Don't you wish you could?"
"I can."
"Don't you wish I'd help you?"
"You will."
"You're pretty sure of yourself."
"It's part of the biz, sweetheart."
"Want a drink?"
"I'm on a diet."
"I'd offer you something to eat but nobody can go in or out without Gene's okay."
"We can."
"No. The whole place is sealed. Until tomorrow at noon, when everyone's going over to that building that you say you've been to."
Remo nodded. "What's your favourite food."
"Are you kidding? Italian."
"I know a great Italian restaurant in Cicero."
"We can't get out of here."
"Lasagna, dripping with cheese and red sauce."
"I don't like lasagna. I like spaghetti in clam sauce and lobster fra diavola and veal marsala."
"I know a place where the clams swim in garlic butter and the veal melts wine-tasty in your mouth," said Remo.
"Let's kill the guard," said Chris laughing.
"Put some clothes on over your clothes."
"I was only joking," said Chris.
"And the lobster swims in a bath of red sauce."
"I'll wear a coat," said Chris.
When they passed the guard in the hallway, Chris put a delicate hand to her soft lips.
"I didn't mean that about the guard."
"I know," said Remo. "He just went to sleep for a little while."
They tiptoed laughing down the steps like youngsters playing hookie. Remo 'borrowed' a car in the hotel garage by jumping the wires.
"You're awful," laughed Chris. 'When Gene finds out, are you gonna get it. Am I gonna get it."
"The bread crackles when you break it to soak up the sauce," said Remo.
"I know a shortcut to Cicero," said Chris. "I was born there."
They talked as they drove, Remo checking his watch. Chris loved Gene, loved him more than any man in her life. She had known many. But there was something just, you know, nice about Gene. Like Remo was nice in a way but too much of a wise guy. Could Remo understand that? Remo could. She had fallen in love with Jethro before he started to change, and when he did start to change about two months ago, she loved him anyway. She couldn't stop loving him. She wanted to stop loving him after the…
"Yes."
"Never mind. It's something I don't want to say."
"Okay," said Remo. They drove in silence until Chris continued.
"You know I never used to wear clothes like this. Gene started liking them about two months ago when he started doing those funny things like breathing exercises and all sorts of nonsense."
"Does he scream when he lets out the air?" asked Remo.
"Yeah. How do you know?"
"I know," said Remo. "I know too well. All too well."
"Well, I don't like wearing these clothes," said Chris, unaware of Remo's remark. She was too much in herself. "I like to keep myself for Gene. But he likes to show off too much. Like I'm another piece of jewellery. I don't like that."
"Then dress the way you want."
"He said I'd dress the way he wants or he'd walk."
"Then you don't need him."
"Oh, I need him. I need him more than any man in my life. Especially now. You don't know the way he makes love. No man makes love like him. It's more than beautiful; it's so great, it's horrible."
They found the restaurant, and Remo had water while Chris went through second helpings of linguini. On the way back, Remo parked beside the road. Before she could say no, he slid a smooth hand across her stomach, then covered her lips with his. Working his hand to her thighs and his mouth to her breast, he brought her to slow, inexorable passion, brought her, undressed, to demanding him, begging for him, screaming for him, groaning for him, until he was inside her, her passionate body throbbing with exquisite, unbearable desire for fulfilment.
"Ohhh. Ohhh." She groaned and her head pressed into the car door, her writhing body making wet marks on the vinyl seat. "Ahh. Ahhh." Her fingernails bit into his back and neck, her eyes closing and opening, her mouth open for groaning and air, and biting. She kicked the steering wheel and banged her fists against his head, and cried and yelled, and slammed her hips upward begging for more and more. And when she reached her heights, Remo with two quick, masterful strokes brought her to sobbing, shrieking conclusion.
"Oh. Oh. Oh. More. Give me more. I'm here."
She softened to limpness and was kissing his ear when Remo ran his tongue down her neck, across her shoulder and down to the hardened nipple. His right hand car- essed her hip and then imperceptibly he began to build tension in her again, and fire it, and build it, until she was banging her own head against the door guard, begging for more and faster. Then Remo moved faster, with speed and friction rare for the untrained, but creating a wild heat within her so that she suddenly became stiff and rigid and could not move, just stayed stretched like a bolted board, until her face suddenly contorted, her mouth opened, and there was no scream. Just a sinking down into the car seat where she cried with delirious happiness. It was a good few moments before she spoke and when she did, she was hoarse.
"Remo. Oh, Remo. Oh, Remo. No one was ever like that. You're beautiful."
He caressed her gently and helped her on with her clothes, and covered her with her coat, and she snuggled into him as they drove
back to Chicago. In the inner city, they passed a small, pocket park.
"Want to walk?" said Remo.
"Yes, dear. But we can't here. It's a coloured neighbourhood."
"I think we'll be all right," he said.
"I don't know," said Chris, worry on her face.
"Do you trust me, honey?" said Remo.
"You called me "honey,"" said Chris, beaming.
"Do you trust me?"
"Oh, yes, Remo. Yes."
They walked into the park. It was littered with broken bottles; its trees were scarred; its bushes uprooted, and its jungle gym was bent arid cracked. A dark, drunken hulk was sleeping one off under a scarred bench.
Chris smiled and kissed Remo's shoulder. "This is the most beautiful park I've ever been through. Just smell the air."
Remo smelled only the drifting odour of garbage dumped from a window because someone didn't bother to walk to a garbage can down the hall.
They sat down on a bench, and Remo wrapped her with an arm, bringing her warm, close, and secure.
"Darling," he said sweetly. "Tell me about yourself and Jethro and the union and the men in those rooms and Nuihc."
And she talked. She told of how she first met Gene Jethro, and Remo asked when he started having money. She talked about Gene's change in temperament, and Remo asked if Nuihc had supplied the money. She talked about the building outside of the city that took so much of Gene's time, leaving her alone, and Remo asked if she had a key to the building. He noted that it must be hard on someone as sensitive as herself to share a floor with those horrible men. Oh, those men weren't horrible. They were Gene's friends. They were the presidents of the three other unions which would join with Gene's, but Remo knew that already, didn't he?
Yes, Remo did. He even knew they were going to make the joining tomorrow. Those men, however, were unfaithful to their wives. Chris knew that and she knew the wives also. Remo wouldn't be the unfaithful kind, would he? Of course not. Could Remo have made love like that if he didn't love her deeply? By the way, did she know where to reach the wives? Yes, she did. She was also Gene's personal secretary. She was chosen for this because she could file things mentally instead of on paper.
No really? She couldn't do that, could she? Remo would like to see her reel off some things.
And so it went until Remo had the full web, the interlocking arrangements of one union with another, the monetary cement that bound closer than blood and tighter than concrete. Did Remo really love her? Of course he did. What sort of a person did she think he was?
Suddenly, footsteps in the night, scuffling footsteps kicking the broken glass before them. Remo turned around. There were eight, ranging from a youngster with afro and comb still in it, to one in his mid-thirties. Eight men with nothing to do at 1 a.m. on a hot spring night in the inner city.
"Oh, my God," said Chris.
"Don't worry," said Remo.
Two of the taller men in undershirts and bell bottoms, with multi-coloured high-heeled shoes and floppy pimp hats angled over their afros, came close. The others surrounded the white couple. Remo could see the black muscles glint in the street light.
"We out of our lily-white neighbourhood tonight, ain't we?" said the man on the left.
"The zoo was closed," said Remo, "so we thought we'd drop in here." He could feel Chris pinch his arm in terror.
"Oh you funny, man. Thank you for the white meat. White meat just love black meat."
Remo's voice was cold and remorseless. He did not wish to do anything without giving full warning of the consequences.
"You bring it out," said Remo. "It's coming off."
"Wrong, honky, yours is coming off," said the one on the left. He flashed a shiny razor. The one on the right had a bowie knife. The older man unveiled a chain. The youngster who couldn't have been more than nine or ten, unveiled an ice-pick. Remo felt Chris's body grow limp. She had fainted.
"Look. Last chance, fellas. I got nothing against you."
"You can run, honky. Leave the white pussy for the black brothers who know what to do with it. She just gonna love it." He smiled a white-toothed, glinting smile. The smile lasted only a second, and then it was a mass of blood as Remo moved through it with a left hand. The knife on the right went into the air. The chain went around a neck, and suddenly bodies were scurrying, running, fleeing out of the park. The youngster, swinging his pick wildly, suddenly realized he was alone.
"Shit," he said and waited courageously for the onslaught.
"What are you going to do with that?" asked Remo, pointing to the ice-pick.
"Gonna cut yo' head off if you don' move back."
Remo moved back.
The young man was delightfully surprised, yet still suspicious. One of his elders managed enough courage to yell from across the street.
"Get outen there, Skeeter."
"You' ass get outen heah. I got the honky. You move, Charlie, you dead."
"I'm not moving," said Remo.
"Less yo' has bread."
"You won't kill me if I give you my money?"
"Gimme," said the youngster, his hand outstretched.
Remo unfolded a ten-dollar bill.
"All."
"No," said Remo.
"You gonna get this in you belly," Skeeter waved the ice-pick.
"Ten dollars. Take it or leave it."
"I take it," said Skeeter. He folded the bill into his chest pocket and sauntered from the park.
"Thet honky ain't so tough," he yelled to his hiding friends. The older man promptly smacked Skeeter in the head, knocking him into a trash can. Another held him down while the third grabbed the ten-dollar bill. They left the youngster bloodied, hanging on to the edge of the trash can.
Chris slept in unconsciousness. Remo went over to the youngster, and stuffed two twenties in his shirt.
"That was pretty stupid going back to those guys with ten bucks," he said.
The youngster blinked and staggered to his feet.
"Those my bruthas and one's my old man, I think."
"I'm sorry," said Remo.
"You white honky shit, I hate you. Ah'll kill you," arid the youngster went tearing at Remo who sidestepped and walked back to Chris, leaving the kid swinging wildly in the street.
Remo kissed her awake.
"Oh," she said. "They took me while I was unconscious."
"Nobody touched you, honey. It's all right."
"They didn't take me?"
"No."
"Oh."
"C'mon, dear. We've got some phone calls to make and the numbers are in your beautiful file cabinet," he said and he kissed her forehead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wives of the presidents of the three other transportation unions were scattered around Chicago in motels. They had been told their husbands were to be working straight through Friday, April 17. They could reach their husbands by phone, but so secret were the negotiations they were conducting, they could not see them.
The wives had ample spending money and constant surveillance. This according to Chris.
"Gene figured that the chance to whoop it up free of interference from their wives was another strong inducement for them to join with the drivers. He said you'd be surprised how many major decisions were made for minor self-indulgences."
Remo and Chris sat in the car parked in front of the 'The Happy Day Inn," which boasted, as did all Happy Day Inns, a big marquee. This one said; 'Welcome Drivers. Truck Stop."
"I can't see the union chiefs making risky decisions like that for, well, some female companionship."
"Oh, no," said Chris. "Gene knew they wouldn't do it for that reason. They got money personally, plus he gave them good deals, higher guaranteed base salaries for their union members. You know with a national union like that, they don't have to bargain for a wage, they submit it. They've got to get what they want or the country starves."
"Did he think Congress wouldn't pass a law?"
"Oh, Congress could pass a la
w. But Congress can't drive a truck or fly a plane or unload a ship."
"Why didn't he bring the seafarers' union in on this?"
"He didn't need them. They'd only be more of a burden. They got to bring the stuff in. As Gene explained it, the seafarers are pretty much at the mercy of the dock-workers. The dockworkers go on strike and the seafarers can just go play with themselves. It's the delivery to the heartland of America that counts."
"And this Nuihc figured it all out."
"Right. He's a creepy little twirp. But he knows what he's doing."
"What does he look like?':
"A skinny gook."
"Oh, great. Now we have it down to a third of the world's population. Stay here. I'm going in."
"Room 60," said Chris.
"I remembered."
"It's just a precaution. Most people can't remember real good."
"Thanks," said Remo.
It was 3 a.m., the night was still and quiet. A floodlight lit the Happy Inn sign, and small orange lights outside each door in the courtyard burned a pungent chemical, obviously to keep away bugs.
Remo found 31 and knocked. A man cradling a long pole—Remo peered closer—no, it was a shotgun, turned the corner and approached him.
"Why are you at that…" the man said and then suddenly was saying no more. The gun clanked to the cement walkway. The door opened. A head awash in a collection of curlers and a sea of cold cream poked out of the open door.
"Mrs. Loffer?"
"Yes."
"My name is Remo Jones, moral squad, Chicago police."
"There's no one in here," said the sleepy woman. 'I'm alone."
It's not you, ma'am. It's some bad news about your husband;
"Can I see your badge?"
Remo reached into his pocket and with his right hand grabbed a half-dollar. With his left, he removed his wallet from his jacket. Then with hands covering the movement, he presented to the woman what appeared to be a wallet open with a shiny badge of some sort. In the dark, it worked.
"Okay. Come in."
Detective Sergeant Remo Jones told Mrs. Loffer the sad and true story of her husband and underage girls.
"The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
He told her the girls were sick and probably even seduced her husband.
"The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
He told her how the girls were probably being used in some national union manipulation and that her husband should probably not be blamed at all.
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