Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  Roy said, "Where the devil's Jet?"

  Ferd answered wearily, "He sold out to the Graf. Mary Ann caught him reporting. Evidently, he'd promised to finger you."

  Les took off, accelerating rapidly.

  "Damn," Forry said angrily. "I didn't expect any of the team to get the gimmes this soon."

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  Les said to Forry, "Where are we going?"

  And Forry said, "I don't know."

  They all looked at him blankly.

  He said impatiently, "Don't you get it? None of us knows where we're going now. So at least we're sure that the Graf's gang won't be there waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing, from now on we have to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as possible, but with Roy available to the media. He's got to give interviews, issue statements, keep in the public eye. We can buy media time, but that doesn't mean that we can ignore free publicity. So, any ideas?"

  For a time, as they sped across the country, all were blank.

  Billy Tucker said hesitantly, "I was thinking in terms of getting a couple of mobile homes and keeping on the move. Just turning up from time to time for broadcasts."

  Roy objected, "Then we'd be hiding from the news people as well as the Graf and we'd miss all that free publicity Forry's talking about."

  "And that's going to get your message across even faster than your own talks," Mary Ann said.

  Dick Samuelson said, "I hope the organization is grinding out our pamphlets fast enough to meet the demand."

  "They won't have to," Forry said. "But never fear, profit-making publishers will get into the act. If there's a market, before the next week is out, you'll see more material on the Wobbly program than you ever suspected could exist. But to get back to it. Where do we go?"

  Ron Ellison said hesitantly, "I know a big hotel in Miami where they've got a king-size penthouse.

  "I worked there once," Ron told him. "I know the place. It wouldn't take much to secure it. There's only one private elevator, with a steel door. And there's another steel door at the only stairway. The place was originally built with the idea of attracting South American politicians who'd taken off with their country's treasure, or Syndicate men, or maybe Tri-Di stars who wanted to get away from their fans."

  Forry said sourly, "There are quite a few places in southern Florida of that type. Anything special about this one?"

  "Well, yes," Ron said. "When I was working there, there were three or four other Wobblies besides me. Hotels are automated to hell and gone, these days, but you've always got to have some staff."

  "I get it," Roy said. "Having our own people planted in the hotel means that much more security. They might be able to spot something offbeat and report it to you."

  "That's right," Ron said nodding. "You'd be surprised how fast gossip goes through a big hotel. Suppose one of the Graf's men turned up claiming to be from the phone company and wanting to get into the penthouse for repairs. The hotel electrician, a chum-pal of mine named Larry, would spot him in a minute. Either that or he'd tag along with him, just to be sure, as long as he was in the hotel."

  "I'm sold," Forry said. "Ron, get on your transceiver and find out if that penthouse is available. If so, rent it in your name. Don't mention anything about Roy or me. Say you'll pay in advance daily but don't let on that you have endless funds. Say you're coming in tonight."

  While Ron was making arrangements, Forry said to Roy, "If I know this type of hotel penthouse arrangement, there'll be a private entrance, probably at the rear of the hotel. Ron will know. We'll go in that way. You and I will have scarves around our heads, on the off chance that somebody who saw the broadcast might spot us. We want to be organized in that place before our coming-out party to the news syndicates."

  "Right," Roy said. He took a deep breath. "How long do you think I'll last, Forry?"

  The other took time to light a smoke before answering. He said, trying to keep feeling from his voice, "I don't know. Probably longer than anybody thinks. There are some aspects of this one that the Grafs boys haven't run into before. In the past, the suckers who signed the Deathwish Policies to have their fun and spend their credits did it in public—nightclubs, restaurants, bars, shops, theatres. They were sitting ducks. We're going to present them with a whole new set of problems."

  They pulled up before the looming beachside resort hotel an hour later and were met at the private entrance by the manager. Monsieur Pierre Boucherer was a product of the best Swiss hotel management school, therefore, a whiz at fawning.

  He fawned. He welcomed their party of eight with pure enthusiasm. He saw nothing untoward in the heads of two men swathed in scarves. He saw nothing untoward in the party insisting on taking up their own luggage to their extrav-agantly expensive skytop rental. He would have seen nothing untoward if they'd all had live coral snakes for neckties. He alone accompanied them to the penthouse.

  It took two trips in view of their number, the amount of luggage, and the fact that the elevator was only medium-size. But at last, all of them were gathered in the spacious living room.

  "Jesus," Billy Tucker said, looking around, taking it all in. He had obviously never been in a luxury hotel apartment.

  Monsieur Boucherer fawned, even as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "And now, how may I serve you?"

  Forry, still masked like a Moslem virgin, looked over at the bar. He then sent his eyes around to his companions. "What's your favorite guzzle?" he said.

  They looked at him in mild surprise for a moment, but then: "Medium dry sherry," Mary Ann said.

  "Whiskey," said Roy, who was also still swathed, but then, "No. Make that Scotch."

  "Yeah, Scotch," Ron said.

  "Bourbon," Dick said. "Real hundred-proof sour mash."

  "Me, too," Bill said.

  "I'm a beer man—but none of this synthetic stuff," Les said.

  "Brandy," Ferd said, running a small tongue over his fat lips. "French cognac."

  "Cognac for me, too," Forry said. And then, to the manager, "Send up two cases each of sherry, Scotch, bourbon, and cognac, and ten cases of Pilsner Urquell. All of the best quality the hotel cellars provide."

  The manager gaped at him blankly. He said, "But sir, the bar is automated, either for individual drinks or by the bottle…"

  "Send up the cases," Forry said. "This penthouse has a kitchen, of course, and a large pantry, deep-freeze and all?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "I want it completely stocked within a couple of hours, from your stocks on hand, with enough food to last us a month or more. The very best, mind you."

  Monsieur Boucherer was too taken aback to remember his fawning. He opened his mouth to protest, to declare the abilities of the hotel's chefs, but then closed it again. "Yes, sir," he fawned. "And what else?"

  Forry said, "This room is going to be converted into, uh, something of an office. We'll want a half dozen desks and the standard equipment to go with them—TV phones, voco-typers, library boosters for the National Data Banks. All of this should be up here in the next couple of hours."

  The manager blinked. "Yes, sir."

  Forry pressed on. "I understand that there's a stairway, steel-doored at both ends, leading up here. I want the door at the other end kept closed and two hotel security men posted at it twenty-four hours a day. They are to pass no one."

  That, evidently, was not an unknown desire on the part of guests registered in the penthouse. Monsieur Boucherer was able to make with a fawn again. "Certainly, sir."

  "Two guards are to be stationed at the elevator as well, twenty-four hours a day. No one outside this party is to be allowed to pass without my okay. My name is Brown."

  "Very good, Mr. Brown."

  "For the moment that's all. I'll see you in the morning about the credit transfer to cover all this. It will be on a Swiss International Numbered Account."

  "Of course, sir."

  When the manager was gone, the little ex-
newsman sighed and unwrapped his scarf; Roy Cos did the same. Forry sent Ron and Dick to double check the doors. Les Bates made a beeline for the bar, calling over his shoulder for orders.

  The others slumped into seats, all suddenly weary.

  Roy said, "What's the idea of ordering all that guzzle?"

  "And all the food, for that matter?" Mary Ann nodded.

  Forry said, "Anything we order tonight is probably safe. It's unbelievable that the bogeymen know we're here. But after tomorrow morning, when we let it out where we are, nobody in this team is to drink or eat anything that doesn't come from our private stock. Don't dial for drinks on the autobar, don't have any food sent up from the kitchens. From now on, we're poison-conscious. Also conscious of the fact that a bottle can be gimmicked with explosives. Take off the cap and wham."

  "Yeah," Roy said in resignation. "From now on, we've got to assume that anything that could possibly kill us, will."

  Mary Ann glanced over at him, her eyes sad, but she said nothing.

  Roy glanced at his diminutive manager. "What was that about you asking the IABI for protection? And about the guns? I didn't know you'd requested gun permits for the boys."

  "I haven't," Forry told him. "But it sounded good over the air. Bring home to the viewers the toughness of the spot you're in. At that stage, it was just as well the IABI didn't know where we were, even if they did want to guard us. They're undoubtedly infiltrated by the Graf's organization, and we'd have put ourselves on the spot. And asking for gun permits for them would have revealed the fact that Ron, Billy, Les, and Rick were lined up with you and that might have led to tracking us down. If the IABI denied we'd asked for protection, nobody would believe them."

  "You're quite a Machiavelli, Forry," Ferd wheezed.

  Les had served them drinks and they settled back in satisfaction. They all felt the tensions of the past few days.

  Forry said, taking out the last pack of cigarettes he had bought in Nassau, "I hope that soapy manager can come up with tobacco as well. I'll have to order that, too, before the night is out. That's all I'd need, some doped cigarettes."

  He looked over at Ron. "You know this place better than any of the rest of us. Go around and decide what rooms each of us should have. Give Roy the most strategically located one—you know, the one that's furthest from both of the elevator and staircase."

  Dick stood and walked over to the French windows that opened onto the hotel's roof. There was an extensive garden, largely of potted plants, a swimming pool, a sun deck, tables, and folding chairs. He said, "What's to prevent a chopper from settling down out there with a few of the Grafs lads in it?"

  "Nothing," Forry growled. "We're going to have to post a full-time guard outside."

  Dick turned and looked at him. "There's only four of us."

  Forry nodded. "I know." He looked at Roy Cos. "We're going to need another four of your Wobblies. Have you got four more like Ron, Les, Dick, and Billy?"

  The Wobbly national organizer sighed. "There aren't as many of us as all that, you know, and we're not all young, unattached, strongarm types. And probably a lot of the membership don't even agree with what I'm doing."

  "All right," Forry said sourly. "But we need at least four more guards, preferably familiar with guns."

  "Guns? What guns?" Dick said bitterly. "Just one of the Graf's pros with a shooter could blow the asses off us all."

  Forry looked at him. "By tomorrow we'll have guns. You can buy anything in this country if you have enough credit, and as of tomorrow, we'll be openly spending Roy's million a day. As an old-time crime reporter, I have a few contacts. Gyrojets all right?"

  "Yes," Dick said, happier now. "Both handguns and assault rifles."

  Roy said, "I'll get together with the boys and we'll try and pick four more guards." He turned to Mary Ann and Ferd and said, "How'd the broadcast go over?"

  Mary Ann said, "Well, good and bad." She glanced over at Forry. "For one thing, his presentation isn't too good. His appearance is, well, poor. A hero can't be pale and dumpy."

  Forry ran his eyes over the Wobbly organizer, who was grimacing, and nodded. "I should've thought of that. There're injections these days that can darken his complexion, or we could use a sunlamp. And we can have him massaged and dieted down to the point where he doesn't look so lardy."

  "Hey," Roy said in protest.

  They ignored him.

  "There's another thing," Ferd Feldmeyer said. "That first speech was good enough, perhaps. It summed up the Wobbly program. But we can't just repeat it over and over again. We've got to have fresh material."

  "Like what?" Dick asked, in rejection. "I thought it was swell. Gave the movement's stand exactly. That's the point of the whole thing."

  The speechwriter shook his head. "You can't just keep hitting the viewers over the head with a flat statement of what you want. You've got to come up with new, exciting stuff; something to keep them coming, wanting to listen in to future programs."

  Ron said, "But we've got nothing else to say."

  Ferd took another pull at his cognac. "Then we've gotta find some exciting details. Almost anything that's a current issue, something they aren't doing right under this so-called welfare state.

  "Take VD—various drugs have been developed up over the years to combat venereal diseases. First the sulfas. They were tremendously effective when first discovered, but in a few years, new strains of gonoccocci had developed that were immune to sulfa. Then the antibiotics like streptomycin came along, but the germs adapted to them and eventually thrived. Well, suppose we put our scientists to work on a whole series of new antibiotics. Then, on D-Day, everybody in the country would take the new antibiotic, whether or not they had ever had any venereal disease. Every man, woman, and child, including the president and Roman Catholic cardinals. Later, one of the other new antibiotics would be given everybody, to nail the germs missed that first time. And from then on, nobody would be allowed into the United States of the Americas until they'd had their antibiotics. This is a half-assed description of an idea some researcher wrote, and I may have some of it wrong. But I know smallpox was eradicated. I bet VDcowWbe."

  "Great," Roy said, "but it has nothing to do with fundamental social change. It could be done under any system."

  "But the thing is," Ferd said patiently, "to get to the people, you've got to participate, take a strong stand on everything from pollution and depletion of natural resources to ending war, women's rights, race problems, and all the rest. Your stand should sound more sensible than anybody else's, or else more Godly. And you've got to sound off about it, louder and more insistently than anybody else. If you're ever going to get a following, that'll be how."

  The identity screen on the door buzzed. Ron and Billy popped to their feet.

  "That'll be the first load of food and guzzle," Forry said. "You boys supervise it. Roy and I'll go into our rooms so that nobody'll recognize us."

  "I'm going to bed anyway," Roy said. "I'm bushed to hell and gone and I've got a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow'll be a busy day." He paused and added in deprecation, "I've got a suspicion that the rest of my life is going to be a busy day."

  It was a half-hour later that a knock came at Roy Cos's bedroom door. He was lying on his back in bed in his pajamas, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, on the night table, was a drink he had brought from the living room. It was untouched.

  He looked at the door and said, "Come on in."

  Mary Ann was clad in a simple white nightgown and sturdy bedroom slippers. She carried a half-empty bottle of Scotch. Her hair had been combed out and her face glowed as if freshly washed—or freshly made up.

  Roy said, his tired hazel eyes puzzled, "Hello, Mary Ann. Something up?" He came to one elbow.

  "That should be my question," she smiled, and closed the door behind her. Her face had a flush which, Roy decided to his surprise, brought a wistful beauty to her ordinary plainness. Mary Ann Elwyn would never be thought of as a p
retty girl but her femininity was there, now that she had discarded her brisk office efficiency.

  She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. "I thought you might be lonesome," she said, her voice low.

  Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary nightclothes she wore couldn't disguise the healthy womanly body. Her breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly long. Roy hadn't noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the Mary Ann equipment.

  For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman. It had probably been one of the Wobbly members.

  Roy said, after running a hand through his faded brown hair, "Sit down, Mary Ann."

  She sat on the edge of the bed and again avoided his eyes.

  He said, "Look, there's obviously no future in me. If we happen to get caught up emotionally—well, I won't be able to feel grief.''

  She didn't say anything to that.

  He said, an edge in his voice, "I don't want charity, Mary Ann."

  She looked up at him. "Then you're a fool. I do, Roy. I'm lonesome, too."

  He said quickly, "I'm not exactly the romantic type. I know what I look like, what I am. Those four boys guarding me are more nearly your own age. And they're all good, healthy…"

  "Oh, shut up," she said. She threw back the bedclothes and squirmed herself in beside him, after tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the bed and kicking off her slippers. "I'm not interested in boys. I'm interested in a loving man." She flicked off the night table light. "And you're the most loving man I've ever met, Roy Cos."

  Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell

  Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and started up the street. As in practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.

  Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, "Cobber, you look like a regular toff in those new duds. A little on the Frenchy side, gawdstrewth."