“You have a lot of negativity, you know. May I ask you if it is doing you any good? Because it isn't, you know. I can help you be as happy and free as me. Would you like that?”
“No,” said Remo.
“May I read you the letter, then, and then slip it under the door?”
“Nope.”
“It's a beautiful love letter,” said the Powie. She knew what she was up against: guard types were chosen just because of their unflagging slavery to negative forces. And what could be more negative than force that wanted to limit the freedom of Poweressence?
“'My dearest Ralph, my love forever,' signed 'Angela,'” said the Powie.
“Not good enough. Rewrite it.”
“But it's his love letter.”
“I don't like it. I don't like Angela. And I don't think I like you,” said Remo.
“How can you be so negative?”
“Easy. I like it.”
The Powie stepped back and yelled at the house.
“Ralph. Ralph. I have a letter for you. It's from Angela, but your guard won't let me give it to you.”
Remo opened the door. “Want the letter, Ralph?”
“You going to throw me back in the closet?”
“No,” said Remo.
“Then I don't want the letter. Angela was a dumb Powie I used to sleep with.”
“Powies are not dumb,” said the young girl.
“They're all dumb,” said Ralph. “And I was the dumbest of them all. I stole the alligator for them.”
“Ralph, don't you even want to read your letter?”
“That's just what I don't want,” yelled back Ralph. Remo shut the door. The next day Ralph testified that under the instructions of Beatrice Dolomo, he did upon a certain night at a certain time purchase one alligator, Exhibit A, now sloshing around in a large glass pool brought into the courtroom for the viewing of the jury. The jury, watching the alligator's teeth chomp around for a day and a half, convicted the Dolomos of attempted murder.
At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold W. Smith heard the verdict and despaired. This had seemed like the perfect witness to be attacked by a loss of memory. And he was not attacked. They had nailed two petty crooks for national fraud, and the American justice system still hung vulnerable to a strange new force. On the same day the head of the California rackets was acquitted when his chief accuser, a former strong-arm man, could not remember enough to validate notebooks full of testimony.
That same day, Angelo Muscamente thanked the justice system of the United States, his lawyer, his mother, a statue of the Virgin Mary, and the proud new force that had brought success to his life. He joined the famous actress Kathy Bowen and other celebrities in saying, for the benefit of the press, that the saddest day for American freedom was the day the Dolomos were convicted of a crime.
“It will shame America, the way Jesus' death shamed the Roman empire, the way Joan of Arc's death shamed the French, the way Moses' death shamed someone or other,” Angelo announced on the courthouse steps. “I am free but these good people now are in jail.”
“They're out on a million dollars bail,” a television reporter told Muscamente.
“Yeah? A million dollars bail?”
“They put it up in cash.”
“Well, they got the dough,” said Muscamente, who went back to his well-guarded home to confront his astral negativity and rid himself of a little more of it. And why shouldn't he? he thought. He had paid a half-million to reach Level Twenty, and at that spiritual apex no court case could ever harm him. It was guaranteed, money back if not delighted. As he explained to his bodyguards, “Don't knock what fuckin' works.”
Chapter 5
The trap had failed. Smith told Remo he did not blame him. Chiun apologized for the failure anyhow.
“Let us stop him from embarrassing you further, O great Emperor Smith,” said Chiun into his end of a threeway telephone hookup in the Miami condo.
“It's not his fault, Chiun,” said Smith. “It's mine.”
“Never,” said Chiun. “Thy radiant wisdom is a success the moment it leaves your magnificent lips.”
“Things don't work sometimes,” said Smith.
“Smitty, stop reasoning with him. You're not in the right century for that. The operation failed. What do we do now?” asked Remo.
“We stop blaming our gracious emperor,” said Chiun. “We stop right now. How can we blame our emperor when we are not at correctness?”
“What do we do now, Smitty?”
“Why don't you take a look at the people who got off. Find out how they're doing it. Who are they paying? And try not to leave bodies, all right? We're not a revenge outfit.”
“Right, Smitty.”
“No revenge?” said Chiun.
“No. No. We're not here for revenge.”
“You have another plan?”
“We have many plans, Chiun, but revenge is never one of them.”
“Begging your gracious pardon, why?” asked Chiun.
“We don't believe in it.”
Chiun was silent. Remo glanced into the other room, where Chiun was holding the telephone, dumbfounded. Remo got the information and then hung up. Chiun stood stunned, clutching the receiver in his hands. Remo hung it up for him. Chiun did not move.
“Did I hear correctly? Did Emperor Smith say he did not believe in revenge?”
“That's what he said. He's not here for revenge.”
“An emperor known not to seek revenge is one who is dead by the morning. Revenge, known public revenge, is what keeps civilization from chaos.”
“Well, he's doing something else.”
“It is a disgrace to work for an emperor who will not use revenge. How can he employ the premier house of assassins of all time and not use revenge? Would you buy a car and not drive it? Marry a woman and not make love to her? Walk through a rose garden and not breathe? How can he say he will not use revenge when the House of Sinanju stands ready to glorify him?”
“Good questions, Little Father,” said Remo.
“That means you're not going to answer me,” said Chiun.
“You're catching on,” said Remo.
* * *
William Hawlings Jameson celebrated the court's verdict of innocence in grain-market manipulation with a party so lavish it consumed almost ten percent of his illegal profits from those manipulations. At the party he was beaming. Everyone could understand that. He had just escaped ten to fifteen years in the federal penitentiary.
But his wife said he had been feeling that way for weeks before the trial. She told this to a very attractive dark-eyed man with high cheekbones. He was very interested in Bill. No, he didn't work for Bill, but he wanted to speak to her husband.
“He is so high on life, I don't think he could speak to one person alone. It would be a downer to him— like having only one bank account. Wasn't that court decision wonderful? Isn't it miraculous?”
Mrs. Jameson was one of those women of advanced middle age whose wrinkles could be formed into something attractive only with the massive amount of cosmetic talent that lots of money could buy. She smiled a lot to keep the wrinkles up. Remo estimated she had had two face lifts already. Her teeth, of course, gave her away. Teeth aged in almost everyone, everyone he knew except Chiun. And now, of course, himself. He did not know why this was so about him and Chiun, but he did know that the greater truths, the more basic reasons for things, were just as much a mystery as the far side of the universe.
“Is there something caught in my teeth?” Mrs. Jameson asked.
“You're sixty-two, right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Maybe sixty-three.”
“That's rude,” said Mrs. Jameson.
“I'm right, then,” said Remo.
“Young man, that was uncalled for.”
“You're right,” said Remo. “I'm really in a foul mood.”
“Well, you certainly know how to ruin a party,” she said.
“You
ain't seen nothing yet, sweetheart,” said Remo. Somehow that made him feel a little bit better. Mrs. Jameson called the butler. He would politely ask the gentleman to leave, and if he did not leave, the butler should use whatever force was required.
“Whatever force,” she repeated.
She did not see her butler again that evening, but she did see the rude young man. He seemed enraptured with Bill's explanation of his new religion.
“Yes, I know there's a lot of stories about cult hustles and Poweressence, but the proof of anything for me is in the pudding,” said Bill Jameson, a portly man with the sharp executive face of success. He didn't have to wear a tuxedo and a gold Rolex to show he had money and power. Wealth was reflected in his eyes and the sure set of his head. His smile was the smile of a man who gave approval and didn't need it for himself.
“Bill, isn't Poweressence that thing founded by a science-fiction writer? If it's so successful, how come he and his wife were just convicted of attempted murder? They also have three counts of mail fraud and conspiracy to extort. This doesn't sound like Billy Graham or the pope to me,” a guest said.
“You've got to understand Poweressence. A force so good has to attract evil. The evil the Dolomos attract keeps it away from the followers. They are really suffering for us, so to speak. That's the way it was explained to me, and dammit if it didn't work out that way.”
“Maybe you had a good lawyer.”
“I had the best, but he couldn't shake my secretary's testimony. They had me. I was gonzo. And then I believed.”
“What did it cost you?”
“He who has, does,” said Jameson with a knowing smile.
“A half-million?”
Jameson laughed again. “That's the initiation fee. But look, they said they would give it back if my life didn't improve. If I weren't found innocent. You don't knock success.”
“I do,” said the young man in his early thirties with dark eyes and high cheekbones. “I knock it a lot.”
“Who are you?”
“The success knocker, Jameson. I want to talk to you,” said Remo.
“I am busy talking to friends.”
The young man put a friendly arm around his shoulder but the shoulder didn't feel a friendly arm. The shoulder felt like it had been connected to a wall outlet. He couldn't even scream. He could only nod. He would go wherever that hand wanted him to go, in this case a study off the main ballroom. The door shut behind them and the tinkling noise of his freedom party was shut out.
The room was filled with rich dark wood shelves and warm yellow lighting and solid polished wood chairs. It smelled faintly of rich cigars and old brandy.
“Excuse me, I don't know many important corporate executives so I've got to use my own humble working-class ways to speak with you,” said Remo.
“What did you do to me?” Jameson gasped, trying to shake life back into the shoulder the young man had seemed to electrify with just a touch.
“That's nothing. Will you listen?”
“There isn't much else I can do.”
“Good,” said Remo. Then he slapped the president of international Grains, Carbides, and Chemicals on the cheek hard enough to move him two feet to the side. Then he slapped him again.
“That's hello,” said Remo.
Jameson emitted a pitiful grunt, then quickly emptied his pockets of cash, took off his watch and held it toward Remo.
“I'm not the crook. You are.”
“The court found me innocent,” said Jameson.
“Bring your lawyer in. I'll work him over too,” said Remo.
“What do you want?”
“Now we're talking. Who turned the witness for you? Remember Gladys? Your secretary. Told the world all the nasty things you were doing, and you thought because you paid her so much she would keep quiet. Who's the one who made her forget?”
“What do you mean?”
“This party isn't for your birthday,” said Remo.
“It was the positive forces of the universe which were unlocked for me. That's what got me freed.”
Remo slapped him again. “That's my positive force.”
“I didn't bribe anyone. I didn't reach anyone. I just joined Poweressence when everything else seemed to fail. And then my life became positive again. It became good again.”
Remo put Jameson's right wrist between his fingers and turned so that the arm would turn at the socket. It was not like turning a solid iron knob. The wrist and elbows were weak joints and they could snap at any moment.
Jameson wept in pain.
“Tell me how good your life is, Jameson,” said Remo. “I want to hear about the good forces of the universe.”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Wouldn't understand? I am the force of the universe, jerk.”
“Please...”
“Forget it. You're not lying.”
Jameson cradled his damaged arm in the other as he leaned forward, crying.
“Are you the agent of darkness?”
“What's this agent-of-darkness stuff?”
“The stronger the forces of good are, the stronger positive forces are, the more they bring out negative forces. If you join Poweressence and people see you are happy, they begin to knock Poweressence. They can't live with your happiness. So they have to call Poweressence a fraud. It takes the form of jealousy. Good things always attract bad.”
“Are you saying I'm bad?”
“No. No. It's just that you're so powerful. And you have turned that power against me, against my positive forces.”
“I'm a good person,” said Remo.
“Yes,” said Jameson immediately. He shielded his face with his good arm. “You are a good person. A good person.”
“Sometimes I have to use methods you might not like,” said Remo.
“Right,” said Jameson.
“But I am a good person.”
“Right,” said Jameson.
“Now, are you going to sit there and tell me you're innocent? You robbed America. You robbed every American farmer. You robbed every citizen in the country who depends on the farmers you robbed. It is not a good thing that you got off scot-free. So why don't you and I work out a deal?”
“Sounds fair,” said Jameson. He sat very rigid in the chair, with his backbone as far away from the young man with the horror-dealing hands as he could.
“You did commit crimes, correct?”
“I did. True.”
“You got off free.”
“I've donated to charity, to religions.”
“That thing with the Mickey Mouse forces of the universe won't do. You don't even understand the forces of the universe. They're not in some cult. They're in the universe. No, I'm thinking of an agreed-upon punishment for you, so you don't quite enjoy your life knowing you escaped. Because that's what you did, Jameson.”
“What do you suggest?”
“How about not walking again?”
“No.”
“One of your arms is damaged already.”
“No, not my arms.”
“Tell you what. One night, maybe sooner, maybe later, I'm going to come back and make you pay for your crimes,” said Remo.
“What are you going to do?”
“I'll just have to decide when I get to it. But wait for me. I'm coming back,” said Remo, and he walked out of the room into the party, thanked Mrs. Jameson for inviting him, and asked her again if he weren't absolutely correct about her age.
Remo thought it was a fitting punishment, tormenting the executive with the fear that Remo would return to inflict damage upon his body. Of course, he wasn't going to come back, but the executive didn't know that. The constant terror would be the best punishment of all. It was enough, and Remo hadn't done it so much for the country as for himself. It was just too wrong for someone that bad to escape so freely to a life that good.
And besides, Remo was in a foul mood.
* * *
The second lucky recipient of an a
cquittal lived very well also. He had an estate that covered miles of Oklahoma prairie land, a magnificent home more like a castle than a house. He had servants and he had bodyguards, range riders, tough men with carbines and Bronco land cruisers, ten-gallon hats, and weathered faces.
When Remo unweathered a few of the faces, they brought him right to their employer, a man who had swindled thousands of people out of their savings in a diamond-investment scheme. It was as old as fraud itself. He paid the first investors back handsomely with the profits from ensuing investors, and when he had enough people pouring their nest eggs into his bank accounts, he stopped paying everyone and headed toward Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with America. He didn't make it and was charged with fraud. His accountant, whom he had planned on leaving behind, prepared the entire case for the government. In fact, he was glad to help because his employer, Diamond Bill Pollenberg, had arranged it so the accountant signed all the incriminating documents.
It was an airtight case and the accountant, happily anticipating his revenge, could not be reached. Until that day when he forgot everything after his first college course in double ledger entries.
And then Diamond Bill Pollenberg went free. He went back to his vast rangelands to enjoy nature. And he enjoyed it right up until a thin man with thick wrists told him that if he didn't explain some things right now, he was going to embed a horse's hoof in Mr. Pollenberg's rectum, and he was going to leave the horse attached.
Bill Pollenberg knew the time to use reason when he saw it. What he saw this day was two of his toughest range hands with their wrinkles rearranged on their faces, and tears of pain in their eyes.
“Howdy, podner,” said Pollenberg, offering the stranger a pot of coffee off the campfire. Pollenberg wore a ten-gallon hat, Levi's, and boots, which offset his $200,000 diamond pinkie ring perfectly. It was the only real diamond he had ever owned.
“Where'd you pick up this 'podner' stuff? I got you down as having been born on Mosholu Parkway in the Bronx.”
“I am a reasonable man. Let us reason together.”
“How'd you turn the witness?”
“I didn't do anything, friend. Have some coffee. Get with the positive forces. Unleash yourself. Become your real self.”
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