Murder's Shield td-9

by Warren Murphy

  McGurk paused; he was thinking; then he said carefully, "Like to have you aboard. You've got some talent."

  "It's how I make a living."

  "I thought you were a gambler," McGurk said.

  "No. I'm a hit man. And I pay well just so that I don't get hassled by the bulls every time somebody loses a hubcap."

  "Whatever you get, come with us and I'll double it," McGurk said.

  "How?" Remo asked. "By selling tickets to the policemen's ball?"

  "Don't worry about that, Bednick. We can afford you. We've been planning to get a pro in anyway."

  McGurk, a moment ago, had been thinking.

  Now, Remo noticed, he was talking rapidly, forcefully. He had something in mind.

  "We? Who's we?"

  McGurk grinned. "Me and my associates."

  "Well, you'd better tell me about your associates," Remo said.

  And there, behind a bush in Remo's front yard, McGurk told him. About the forty cops around the country who now served as a killer squad, to mete out justice to those for whom the law's justice had been ineffective. And he told him about the Men of the Shield, a national organization of policemen, that was going to fight crime and that could someday be the nation's most powerful lobby.

  "Just think of it… nationwide power at the ballot… somebody who could work for law and order for real," he said. A grin cracked his face. "If you come with us now, Bednick, you'll be safe. If you don't, the Men of the Shield will get you. Sooner or later."

  "You the boss?" Remo asked.

  "As far as you're concerned." He stood looking at Remo, meeting his eyes straight on. Remo's turn to think. Unless he wanted to kill McGurk, he'd have to go along. And he didn't want to kill any more cops. And how could Smith complain if he infiltrated the organization? Isn't that what he was supposed to do?

  "You got a deal, McGurk," Remo said. "But one thing."

  "Which is?"

  "The girl is mine. You never had a chance with her anyway. You listened to what those long skirts told you, and didn't pay any attention to what those tight blouses said. She's mine."

  McGurk shrugged. "She's yours."

  He picked up his revolver and slid it back into his holster. Later, leaving the yard, he was glad he had decided not to shoot the punk with the small .25-caliber pistol he had also stashed in his pocket.

  McGurk had a better plan now for Remo-one that would solve his problems with the leadership of the Men of the Shield and with Janet O'Toole. He would learn no more about the Men of the Shield than would be necessary for him to die.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The policeman lunged, waving the knife before him. Remo stepped aside and brought the heel of his hand, down on the wrist to which the knife was attached. The knife fell onto the wooden platform with a clank.

  Remo moved in and grabbed the policeman's hand in his. He pressed the man's fingers into his hand and the man screeched and dropped to his knees in submission.

  Remo released him and turned and looked away to the three other policemen sitting on the edge of the stage. He opened his own hand and extended it forward for the men to see. In his palm was a six-inch-long piece of highly polished wood, shaped roughly like a dog bone.

  "This is it," Remo said. "The yawara stick. The quickest way I know to cause pain."

  "Why that?" The question came from one of the policemen sitting on the stage. He stood up and repeated it. "Why that? Why not a toe in the balls or a fist in the kidneys? There are a lot of ways to cause pain."

  "That's right," Remo said. "There are a lot of ways and most of them stink. If you hit the guy too square in the cubes, they'll have to cart him off in an ambulance. Pound his kidney too hard, and he'll be riding a hearse. That's assuming you don't just miss and he doesn't smack the crap out of you. But in close, the yawara stick can't miss. You just grab his hand, squeeze the ball of his thumb up against one of these knobs, and that's it. That's because the nerves of the hands are so sensitive to pain. Pain, but no injury. That's why."

  The policeman who was standing shrugged. He was a tall raw-boned cop from St. Louis with flaming red hair and a jutting jaw and an absolute absence of humour. He shrugged as if to say "chickenshit bullshit," and then said, "Chickenshit bullshit. It worked 'cause you had him."

  "Look, pal. Why don't you just take it on faith? I'm your training officer. That's why McGurk has me here."

  "Training officer or no training officer. You keep your funny little piece of wood. I'll settle for a right cross anytime."

  "All right," Remo said, walking up close to the man. "Let's see the right cross."

  Without warning, the policeman swung, a short hard right hand at Remo's nose. The fist would have gone through wood, but it had no chance to prove it. Remo grabbed the fist in the air with his left hand. He brought his right hand over and pressed one of the bumps on the yawara stick down upon the back of the policeman's hand. His fingers opened wide and Remo pressed the stick against the base of the thumb, and the cop screeched with pain.

  "Enough, enough," he yelled.

  Remo kept pressing. "You a believer now?"

  "Yes. I'm a believer."

  "Oh no, not just a believer. Are you a true believer?"

  "I is the truest believer."

  "All right," Remo said, releasing his hand after one final squeeze. "Now cut out the 'chickenshit bullshit' and try to learn something."

  So it went for the better part of the day, Remo-now McGurk's training officer-teaching the four policemen to defend themselves, to use force, to learn how to use that force to get information. He had been instructed by McGurk not to get into killing; these men were going to be investigators for the Men of the Shield when it "went public." They just had to be toughened.

  It was boring work, lessons that Remo had mastered years ago in those first sessions with Chiun at Folcroft. Remo wondered why police departments spent all those federal funds buying tanks and foam sprayers and water cannons, none of which they ever used, instead of hiring somebody to teach their policemen to be effective. Maybe he and Chiun could incorporate. Go to work for the general public. Assassins Inc. Put an ad in the Village Voice. Defend yourself. Hassle a pig. They'd be rich. Chiun would be ecstatic. Think of all the money he could send back to Sinanju.

  No, on the other hand, there was probably some reason why he couldn't do it. Some five-hundred year-old proverb would make it impossible for Chiun to advertise in The Voice or to work for anyone except a government. Official assassins cannot work unofficially. That's that.

  Another good idea shot to hell.

  The training session lasted from 9:00 a.m. until noon. Occasionally, Remo saw McGurk stick his head out of the office in the rear of the big gym and watch Remo perform on the stage that had been erected in front of the firing dummy. McGurk would just watch, saying nothing, occasionally nodding in satisfaction, before pulling his head back inside.

  It was close to lunchtime when Janet stuck her head out of the office. She moved into the doorway, wild and ripe in a short leather skirt and tight white sweater, and she crooked an imperious finger at Remo, directing him to her and Remo said, "Okay, men, that's enough for now. A long lunch and be back at two o'clock."

  "Right. Okay. See you." They mumbled agreement and Remo hopped down off the stage and walked to the back where Janet O'Toole waited in the doorway.

  "You called, madam?" he said.

  "I called. And when I call, you come."

  Remo looked down. "Many are called but not all come."

  "That's because they haven't met me. Bill wants to talk to you," she said. "And when he's done, I think you and I ought to talk."

  "Is the closet ready?"

  Remo smiled at her, trying not to show his pleasure too openly. He had really brought the girl on. A week ago she was an emotional basket case. Now she was a tart. Was that plus one or minus one? Maybe it's what the political scientists called zero gain.

  "What are you smiling about?" she demanded.

&n
bsp; "You wouldn't understand."

  "Try me," she said, and her tone was not inviting; it was cold and imperative.

  "After I see McGurk," Remo said and walked past her, through her office, into McGurk's office in back. He was on the telephone and he motioned to Remo to shut the door and raised a finger to his mouth, cautioning Remo to be quiet.

  Remo closed the door and stood inside, listening.

  "No, sir," McGurk said.

  "No," he said a moment later. "I've looked very carefully into the killing of Big Pearl. I can't find a thing that would support Congressman Duffy's killer cop theory."

  And then, "No, sir, I wish I could. I'd like a crack at those bastards myself, but they just don't exist.

  "Yessir, I'll keep looking. If there is such a thing, I'll find it. Yessir. After all, Duffy was my friend too.

  "Bye."

  He hung up the phone and smiled at Remo. "The Attorney General," he said. "Wondering if I've been able to find out anything about some kind of super-secret police killer organization. But of course I can't. There ain't any such animal."

  "Naturally."

  "Naturally."

  McGurk smiled. "How's it going?"

  "Great," Remo said. "As thrilling as watching ice melt. When's payday?"

  "Tomorrow," McGurk said. "You'll get paid in full. Tomorrow."

  He stood up behind his desk, after glancing at his watch. "Lunchtime," he said. "Join me?"

  "No thanks," Remo said.

  "Dieting?"

  "Fasting."

  "Keep your strength up. You'll need it," McGurk said.

  Remo walked out with him and stood alongside as McGurk stopped at Janet's desk.

  "Are you going to lunch or should I bring something back?" he asked.

  She glanced at Remo, realized he was staying and asked McGurk to bring her back an egg salad sandwich and a chocolate milk shake.

  The door had barely closed behind McGurk when Janet was on her feet, moving to the door and locking it.

  She turned on Remo, her eyes glistening.

  "I motioned to you this morning," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "And you ignored me. Why?"

  "I didn't know you were calling. I thought you were just waving hello," Remo said.

  "You're not supposed to think," she said. "You're supposed to be there when I call. Maybe some of those other women expect you to think, but I don't."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "You'll be sorrier," she said. "Take off your clothes."

  Remo acted flustered. "Here? Now?"

  "Here and now. Now! Hurry."

  Remo obeyed, averting his eyes. All right, so he felt sorry for her but enough was about enough. Mental health wasn't really worth it. Just this one last time and then no more games.

  Remo removed his slacks and shirt.

  "I said all your clothes," she commanded.

  He obeyed, Janet watching him, still standing with her back to the door.

  When he was naked, standing amid his pile of clothing in the middle of the floor, she walked forward to him. She put her hands on his hips and looked into his eyes. He turned his face away.

  "Now, take off my clothes," she said.

  Remo reached behind her to begin pulling her sweater up over her head.

  "Gently," she cautioned him. "Gently. If you know what's good for you."

  Remo was not at home when the special telephone rang in the Folcroft office of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  With a sigh, Smith picked up the receiver.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "Has that person accomplished anything yet?" the familiar voice asked.

  "He is occupied with it, sir."

  "He has been occupied with it for one week," the voice said. "How long will this take?"

  "It is difficult," Smith said.

  "The Attorney General advises me that his efforts to find out anything about these assassination teams have been unsuccessful."

  "As well they might be, sir," Smith said. "I would urge you to leave it to us."

  "I am trying to do just that. But you realize, of course, that it is only a matter of time before the regular agencies of government become involved. And when they do, I will not be able simply to withdraw them. That could result in your organization being compromised."

  "That is a risk we live with, sir."

  "Please try to expedite things."

  "Yessir."

  And Remo was still not at home later that night when Smith called for the second time. He spoke instead to Chiun, probing, trying to find out if Remo mght be dragging his feet on this assignment, still reluctant to go after policemen.

  But Chiun was, as always, unfathomable on the telephone, answering only "yes" or "no" and finally, in exasperation, Smith said:

  "Please give our friend a message."

  "Yes," Chiun said.

  "Tell him America is worth a life."

  "Yes," Chiun said and hung up. He knew that years before, Conn MacCleary, the man who had recruited Remo, had told Remo that before asking Remo to kill him to preserve CURE'S security.

  Foolish white men. Nothing was worth a life.

  There was only the purity of the art. All else was temporal and would too pass away. How foolish to worry about it.

  And when Remo finally returned home, hours later, Chiun had decided not to tell him Smith had called.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Tonight's the night, Remo," McGurk said.

  Remo lounged in the chair across from McGurk's desk.

  "Tonight's what night?"

  "The night we start making this a crime-free country.'' McGurk began to peel the paper from a small filter-tipped cigar. "When we start putting the policeman back on top where he belongs."

  In the outer office, a mimeograph machine kerchugged as Janet O'Toole ran off press releases. Remo tested his ability to hear the cigar cellophane crinkle despite the overwhelming racket of the mimeography. He looked away so his ears would not be aided by his eyes watching the cellophane.

  "Tonight, our forty-man core group is going to meet here at eight o'clock. I'll introduce you as our new training director. That'll only take a few minutes, and then we have a news conference slated for 9:30. All the press will be there, and we'll announce the formation of the Men of the Shield."

  "You're not going to introduce me to the press?" Remo said.

  He heard McGurk begin to roll the cellophane between his fingers, turning it into a hard little tube. "No," he said, "that's about all we don't need. No. Your involvement's going to be our own secret."

  "Good, that's the way I like it," Remo said. He slid his chair back slightly, ready to stand.

  "There's just one thing," McGurk said.

  Remo sighed. "All my life, there's been just one thing."

  "Yeah. Mine too. This one thing is important." McGurk stood and walked to the door. He opened it, assured himself that Janet was still working at the mimeograph machine, her ears outgunned by the noise. He closed the door tightly and returned to sit on the edge of the desk near Remo's feet.

  "It's O'Toole," he said.

  "What's with him?" Remo asked.

  "He's ready to blow the whistle."

  "Him? What the hell can he blow the whistle about?"

  "I guess it's time to level with you, Remo," McGurk said. "This whole thing… the special teams… the Men of the Shield… the whole thing, it was all O'Toole's idea."

  "O'Toole? That psalm-singing liberal twit?"

  "None other," McGurk said. "And now, like liberals always do, he's getting cold feet. He's told me if I don't cancel tonight, he'll expose the whole thing himself."

  Remo nodded. That explained a lot of things, such as why McGurk, even though still a policeman, seemed to have all the time he needed to work on the Men of the Shield.

  But O'Toole? Remo shook his head. "He'll never blow the whistle," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because it requires him to do something. Liberals are no go
od at that. They're good at talking, zero at doing."

  "You're probably right, but we can't afford to take the chance. So…"

  "So?"

  "So you've got your first job."

  "Quite a job," Remo said.

  "Nothing you can't handle."

  "When and where?"

  McGurk went back behind his desk. He picked up the tube of cigar cellophane and began to fold it neatly into quarters.

  "O'Toole's a creature of habit. Tonight, he always eats dinner at his home with Janet. Get him there. Dinner time. I've got the key to the place for you."

  "And what about the girl?"

  "I'll keep her here working late. She won't be around to bother you."

  Remo thought a minute. "Okay," he said. "One last thing."

  "Yeah?"

  Remo rubbed his fingers together. "Cash."

  "What's your going rate for this kind of a job?"

  "For a police commissioner? Fifty big ones."

  "You got it."

  "In advance," Remo said.

  "You got that too."

  McGurk opened the safe on the other side of the room and took out a metal strongbox of money. He counted out fifty thousand and gave it to Remo who slid it inside his jacket pocket. "Another thing, McGurk. Why me? Why not one of your teams?"

  "I want it done by one man. No teams. No involvements. And besides, it's a tough assignment to give a police team… to get another cop."

  Remo nodded. He knew the feeling. It was hard to kill another cop. He stood up to leave. "Anything else?" he asked.

  McGurk shook his head. He gave Remo a key and O'Toole's address. "Good luck," he offered.

  "Luck has nothing to do with it."

  McGurk watched him leave, then struck a match and lit his small cigar. He touched the match to the folded cellophane on the desk and watched it brown, bubble, and then burst into flame.

  Outside, Remo realized that McGurk had not told him what he should do after the O'Toole hit. Well, no matter. He'd be back here for the eight o'clock meeting. It wouldn't do for the new training director not to show. He smiled appreciatively at Janet's mini-clad behind as he walked through the office, but she did not see or hear him leave.

  There were three hours left before Remo had to go to O'Toole's house and he drove slowly back to his own home in the beige Fleetwood, thinking.