Mugger Blood td-30

by Warren Murphy

  "Ah don' like dis place," he said. "Too dark."

  "Somebody made it that way for us," Remo said. "Are they there, Chiun?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. "Across the street."

  "How many of them?"

  "Many bodies," Chiun said. "Perhaps thirty."

  "Wha' you talkin' 'bout?" Tyrone asked.

  "Tyrone," Remo explained patiently. "Somebody just busted all the streetlights to make this block dark. And now whoever did it is hiding around here, waiting… don't look around like that, you dip… hiding around here waiting for us."

  "Ah don' like dat," Tyrone said. "What's we gone do?"

  "What we're going to do is Chiun and I are going up to see Spesk. You're going to stay down here and see if you see Big-Big whatsisface. And when I come down, you point him out to me."

  "Ah don' wanna."

  "You better," Remo said. They left Tyrone standing at the curb and followed a small single light upstairs into a large office that had a desk at the far end of the room.

  Behind the desk sat Tony Spesk, good old Tony, appliance salesman, Carbondale, Illinois, AKA Colonel Speskaya, NKVD. His gooseneck lamp was twisted so it shone in his visitors' faces.

  "We meet again," Spesk said. "Ingrid is dead, of course."

  "Of course," Remo said. He took a few steps forward into the room.

  "Before you try anything foolish," Spesk said, "I should advise you that there is an electronic eye in this room. If you attempt to reach me, you will break the beam and set off a crossfire of machine guns. Do not be foolish."

  Chiun looked at the walls of the vacant room and nodded. On the left wall, there were electric eye units starting six inches above the floor, and then one each foot higher until they stopped eight feet above the floor, one foot below the ceiling. He nodded to Remo.

  "Now, have you considered my offer?" Spesk said.

  "Yes. Considered and rejected," Remo said.

  "That's a shame," said Spesk. "I would not have thought you were patriots."

  "Patriotism has nothing to do with it," said Remo. "We just don't like you people."

  "Russians have been worthless since the time of Ivan the Great," said Chiun.

  "The Terrible, you mean," Spesk said.

  "The Great," Chiun insisted.

  "He paid on time," Remo explained.

  "Well, then I guess there's nothing more to talk about," Spesk said.

  "One thing," said Remo. "These two weapons you're after. What are they?"

  "You don't know, do you?" asked Spesk after a pause.

  "No," said Remo.

  "The old man knows though. Don't you?"

  Remo looked over to see Chiun nod.

  "Well, if you know so much, Chiun, why didn't you tell me?" Remo asked.

  "Sometimes it is easier to talk to Tyrone," Chiun said.

  "Tell me now. What two weapons?" Remo said.

  "You," said Chiun. "And me."

  "Us?" Rerno said.

  "We," Chiun said.

  "Sheeit. All this for that."

  "Enough," said Spesk. "We cannot deal and that is that. You may leave and later I will leave. And perhaps we will meet again someday."

  "We're the weapons you wanted?" Remo asked again.

  Spesk nodded, his thin blond hair splashing about his face as he did.

  "You're a jerk," Remo said.

  "Time now for you to leave," Spesk said.

  "Not yet," Remo said. "You understand it's nothing personal but, well, Chiun and I don't like too many people to know about what work we do and who we work for. And you know a little too much."

  "Remember the electric eyes," Spesk said confidently.

  "Remember the Alamo," said Remo. He rocked back onto his left foot, then moved forward toward the invisible strings of light reaching from left wall to right wall. Three feet before reaching the beams, he turned toward the wall, reached up high with his right foot, followed with his left foot and launched his body upward. His stomach came within an eighth of an inch of hitting the ceiling as he turned onto his back, floating over the topmost beam as if it were the bamboo pole at a high-jump event. Then Remo was over the lights, onto Spesk's side of the room. He landed on his feet soundlessly.

  The Russian colonel's eyes opened wide in shock and horror. He got heavily to his feet behind the desk, his left knee still defective where Remo had damaged it.

  He moved away from Remo.

  "Listen," he said. His Chicago middle-America accent had vanished. He spoke now with the thick guttural rasp of a native Russian. "You don't want to kill me. I'm the only one who can get you out of here alive. It's a trap."

  "We know that," Remo said. "We'll take our chances."

  He moved toward Spesk and Spesk dove for the desk drawer. His hand was into the drawer closing around a gun, when Remo snatched up the gooseneck lamp from the desk and looped it over Spesk's head, around his throat, and yanked him back from the revolver. He tied the gooseneck in one large knot and dropped Spesk's body to the floor. So much for the Russian spies; so much for the secret weapons.

  As Remo was vaulting back over the electric eyes, now visible in the pitch-black room, he said, "Why didn't you tell me, Chiun? About the weapons?"

  "Who can explain anything to a white man?" Chiun said. He was already at the door and going down the steps.

  Except for the sucking of air by people who didn't know how to breathe correctly, the street outside the Iron Dukes' was silent when Remo and Chiun came through the door and stood on the sidewalk.

  "Still say thirty?" Remo asked.

  Chiun cocked his head to listen. "Thirty-four," he said.

  "That's not bad. I hope one of them is the one I want. Where the hell is Tyrone?" Remo said.

  "One of the thirty-four," Chiun said, just as they heard a roar. Tyrone's roar.

  "There they are. Get dem. Get dem. Dey kidnap me and everyfing."

  Like predatory animals whose coats blended in with the grass, the black youths of the Saxon Lords rose up out of their protective coloration of night and with a full-throated roar charged across the street toward Remo and Chiun.

  "When I get that Tyrone," Remo said, "I'm going to fix him good."

  "Back on that, are you?" Chiun said, just as the first wave of attackers reached them, brandishing clubs and chains, knives and tire irons.

  Chiun blended a four-armed lug wrench into the thoracic cavity of one bruiser and drifted to the left, his black robe swirling about him, as Remo went toward the right.

  "Damned right," Remo called. "He needs a good lesson. Where are you, Tyrone?"

  The air was filled with rocks being thrown by the Saxon Lords, hitting only other Saxon Lords. One thought he saw Remo drifting by him and slashed out wildly with his seven-inch bladed hunting knife, neatly severing the carotid artery of his cousin.

  "Where the hell is he?" Remo's voice rang out. "Now I know how Stanley felt looking for Livingstone."

  Remo ducked under one flailing tire iron and came up with the tips of his fingers into a throat.

  He went around two more of the gang who had started to fight with each other because one had stepped on the other's new platforms and scuffed the leather.

  "Tell me if you see Tyrone," Remo said.

  "Tyrone, he back dere," said one of the young men, just before his head was laid open by a chain swung by his comrade-in-arms.

  "Thank you," Remo said. To the other he said, "Good form."

  He was in the heart of the gang now, moving away from the Iron Dukes' building, working slowly across the street.

  And on the sidewalk across the street, Big-Big Pickens saw the Saxon Lords disorganized and dropping. He craned his neck to look over the crowd but could see no sign of the white man or the old Oriental. But every few seconds, two more Saxon Lords would drop and he could tell where they had been.

  He decided that Newark was really nice this time of year and stuck his icepick back into the protective cork and put it into his rear pocket, then turned and walked
away.

  "There you are, Tyrone," Remo said. Tyrone was standing alone at the fringe of the crowd. "You've got one helluva nerve."

  Tyrone put his hands up to protect himself, just as Chiun arrived.

  "Here I thought we were friends and all," Remo said.

  "We is. I just findin' Big-Big for you. Dere he goes."

  Tyrone pointed to a huge black figure running down the street.

  "Thanks, Tyrone. Chiun, you keep an eye on him."

  Remo was off then, running after Big-Big Pickens.

  The big man heard the roar of the street fight behind him and glanced over his shoulder. He felt a tingle of fear in his shoulders as he saw the thin white man, wearing the black slacks and tee shirt, running after him, gaining on him. Then he stopped.

  He nothing but some skinny honkey, he thought. He ducked into an alley, moving back into the shadows, waiting for Remo to enter. He took his pick from his pocket and held it over his head, ready to bring it down into the base of Remo's skull when he entered the alley.

  He heard Remo's footsteps approaching on the run. Big-Big coughed, with a smile on his face, just to let the white man know where he was. In case he hadn't seen Pickens enter the alley.

  The running stopped. And then there was no sound.

  Pickens pressed his back against the brick wall of the building, waiting for Remo to be silhouetted in the dim light at the alley's entrance. But he saw nothing.

  He waited a few long seconds that seemed like minutes, and then took a step away from the wall. Remo must be lurking outside the alley waiting for him to come out. Well, they would see who would outwait the other, he thought.

  Big-Big Pickens felt a small touch on his shoulder. He wondered what it was. It turned into a tap.

  Pickens wheeled around. Remo was standing there, a broad smile on his face.

  "Looking for me?" he asked.

  Big-Big recoiled in shock, then slashed down with the icepick he remembered holding over his head. Remo moved back slightly, seemingly no more than an inch or two, but the pick missed.

  "You're Pickens?" Remo said.

  "Yeah, mufu."

  "You're the one who did in the old lady? Mrs. Mueller?"

  "Yeah. Ah did it."

  "Tell me. Was it fun? Did you enjoy it?"

  "Nots much fun as giving you dis," said Pickens, running forward like a bull, the pick held close to his stomach, waiting to close on Remo so he could bring one heavy hand up and bury the point deep into Remo's belly.

  He looked up and stopped. He could not see the white man. Where was he? He turned. The man was behind him.

  "You're really garbage, you know that?" Remo said.

  "Ah garbages yo", said Big-Big, charging again.

  Remo moved out of his way and tripped the huge man. Pickens sprawled across the alley. The rough concrete surface scratched his cheek.

  "You know," Remo said, standing over Pickens. "I don't think I really like you. On your feet."

  Big-Big got to his knees and put a hand down to steady himself and lift himself to his feet.

  Then he felt a foot smash into his broad nose. He could hear the bones crack and a whoosh of blood come pouring down through his nostrils.

  His head snapped backward but he recovered and got to his feet.

  "You're the big pick man on the block, huh?" Remo said. "Is your pick as sharp as this?"

  And Pickens felt what seemed to be a knifeblade in the left side of his stomach. He looked down for the blood, but he saw nothing. Only the white man's hand slowly pulling away. But the pain. The pain. It felt like a hot poker was lying on his skin, and he knew that hurt, because he had done it to someone one night.

  "As sharp as that?" Remo taunted.

  Holding his icepick, Pickens turned, flailing about with his right arm, trying to find his tormentor.

  But Remo was behind him. And Pickens heard the voice again, mocking him. "As hard as this?"

  And there was a blow into Pickens's back. He could feel it stowing in his ribs on the right. And then it was repeated on the left side and more ribs went.

  "Did the old lady scream when you killed her, Pig-Pig?" Remo asked. "Did she scream like this?"

  He tried not to but the pain in his neck demanded nothing but a scream. There were fingers on his neck and they felt as if they were tearing through his skin and flesh to get to his adam's apple, Pickens screamed. And screamed again.

  "Do you think it hurt this bad, Pig-Pig? When you killed her?"

  He wheeled around, his hands clutching out in front of him, but they grabbed nothing. His arms closed on empty air. He felt himself being propelled backwards and he crashed into the brick wall like an overripe tomato and slithered to the concrete. His icepick fell from his hand and clattered onto the ground.

  There was a terrible pain where his right leg used to be. He tried to move it, but the leg no longer responded. And there was more pain as his left leg gave way with a snap. And then his stomach felt as if it were being torn apart by rats; he could feel what seemed like giant pieces of it being torn away, and he screamed, a long, long, lingering scream that celebrated agony and welcomed death.

  And then there was a white face right in front of him and it was leaning close to him, and it said, "You killed her with the pick, animal, and now you're going to learn what it was like."

  And then there was a ringing black starshine of pain at his left eye where the icepick was stuck. He could not see left anymore. And then the pain stopped and the big black man fell forward, his head smashing onto the concrete of the alley with a dull empty thud. The last thing he'd seen was that the white man had clean fingernails.

  Remo spat down at the body and stepped out of the alley, back onto the sidewalk as a car came roaring down the street past him. It was followed by two more cars.

  Remo looked down the street where the Saxon Lords were involved in a massive free-for-all, as it was suddenly illuminated by the onrushing headlights. Coming down the block the other way were three more automobiles.

  The cars screeched to a stop and men jumped out. Remo could see they were carrying weapons. And then he heard a familiar voice. It was Sergeant Pleskoff.

  "All right. Shoot 'em. Shoot the bastards. Shoot 'em right in the whites of their goddam eyes. We'll show 'em. America's had enough of this goddam violence. Kill 'em all. No survivors."

  Remo was able to pick Pleskoff out. He was waving his arm over his head in a passable imitation of Errol Flynn's passable imitation of General Custer. He was wearing civilian clothes. So were the other dozen men who began firing into the mob with Police Specials and, shotguns.

  Then Chiun was at Remo's side, with Tyrone in tow. Tyrone was looking back over his shoulder as the streets began to fill up with fallen bodies.

  "Did you want him?" Chiun asked Remo.

  "No. Not any more," said Remo.

  Tyrone turned toward Remo, his eyes wide with fright.

  "Ah doan wan' go back there."

  "Why not?"

  "It gettin' dangerous on de streets aroun' here," Tyrone said. "Can ah hang out wif you?"

  Remo shrugged. Down the street the orgy of bulleting was slowing down. The screams were dying away. Few people were left standing. Pleskoff's voice kept roaring: "Shoot 'em all. We'll straighten this town out."

  Chiun turned toward the voice also.

  "I've created a goddam Wyatt Earp," Remo said.

  "It is always the way when a man deals in vengeance," Chiun said. "Always the way."

  "Always the way," Remo repeated.

  "Allus de way," Tyrone said.

  "Shut up," Remo said.

  "Shut up," Chiun said.

  Back at the Plaza, Chiun fished into one of his large lacquered trunks for a scroll of parchment and a bottle of ink and a large quill pen.

  "What are you doing?" Remo asked.

  "Writing for the history of Sinanju," Chiun said.

  "About what?"

  "About how the Master brought wisdom to his disci
ple by teaching him that vengeance is destructive."

  "Be sure to write that it feels good too," Remo said.

  He watched as Tyrone peered over Chiun's shoulder and then, behind Chiun's back, looked into the open trunk.

  Chiun began writing. "You must see, Remo, that it would have done nothing to act vengefully against Tyrone. He is not responsible. There is nothing he can do about what he is."

  Tyrone at that moment was slipping out the front door of the apartment.

  "I'm glad you feel that way," Chiun," Remo said.

  "Ummmm," the old man said, writing. "Why?"

  "Because Tyrone just beat it with one of your diamond rings."

  The quill pen flew upwards and stuck in the plaster ceiling. The bottle of ink flew off in another direction. Chiun dropped the the parchment scroll and moved quickly to his feet to the trunk. He bent forward, burying his head inside it, then stood up. His face was pale as he turned to Remo.

  "He did. He did."

  "He went thataway," Remo said, pointing to the door. But before he finished the sentence, Chiun was already out into the hall.

  It was 11:30 p.m. Time to call Smith at the special 800 area code number that was open only twice a day.

  "Hello," said Smith's acid-soaked voice.

  "Hi, Smitty. How's it going?"

  "I presume you have a report to make," Smith said.

  "Just a minute." Remo covered the mouthpiece of the telephone. Outside the door, down the hallway near the elevator, he could hear thumping. And groans. And somebody weeping. Remo nodded.

  "Yeah," Remo said. "Well, Spesk is dead. The guy who killed Mrs. Mueller is dead. There are at least a dozen New York City cops who are beginning to do something about criminals. All in all, I'd say a fair day's work."

  "What about…"

  "Just a minute," Remo said as the door to the suite opened. In walked Chiun, polishing his diamond ring on the black sleeve of his kimono, blowing on it, then polishing.

  "You got it back," Remo said.

  "Obviously."

  "No vengeance, I hope," Remo said.

  Chiun shook his head. "I suited the punishment to the crime. He stole my diamond; I stole his ability to steal again for a long time?'

  "What'd you do?"

  "I reduced his finger bones to putty. And warned him that if I ever saw him again, I would not treat him so kindly."