Total Recall td-58

by Warren Murphy

  "I'm interested in why the boy killed his parents, and who killed the boy afterward."

  "I can't help you with that, mister. I ain't no cop."

  Remo caught the look Boffa was giving him then and said, "I'm not a cop either, but I'd still like to ask you a few questions."

  "What are you, private heat?"

  "Something like that."

  "I don't know much," the foreman said with a shrug.

  "You knew Martin, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, like I know my other workers. There was something, though."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, the last few months, Al Martin seemed a little jumpy, you know? Like something was really bothering him."

  "Did you ask him about it?"

  "Once, yeah. I'm interested in anything that keeps my men from working at peak efficiency, you know?"

  Remo cast a dubious glance at the men on the assembly line and said, "That's obvious. What did Martin say it was?"

  "Nothing. He said nothing was wrong at all."

  "You didn't press him?"

  "He did his work. If he wanted me to mind my own business, that was okay with me."

  "Did he get a big raise anytime during the past few months?"

  "A raise? You kiddin'? If he had gotten a raise, do you think he would have been so jumpy? Naw, ain't nobody around here gotten a raise in months, and nobody has gotten a big raise in years. That just ain't company policy."

  Remo was about to cut off the conversation when he thought of something else.

  "These cars you're working on now— where are they being shipped when they're done?"

  "This lot?" the man asked. He consulted his clipboard and said, "They're earmarked for New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles."

  Remo nodded and said, "You mind if I talk to some of your men?"

  "As long as you don't keep them from their work."

  "I'll try not to," Remo said wryly.

  "As a matter of fact, if you try that section there," the foreman said, pointing, "they're just about ready to go on a break."

  "Thanks for your help."

  "Sure."

  Remo walked over to the section the foreman had indicated and saw that three or four men were pulling off their gloves. He decided to follow them into the lounge.

  He loitered outside the door, waiting for the men to get settled, and then entered the lounge. The four men had paired off at two different tables, which was all right with him. He didn't want anyone's uncooperative attitude rubbing off on anyone else.

  "Excuse me," he said, approaching two of the men, who were holding Styrofoam cups of coffee. The two at the other table were passing a flask back and forth.

  "What can we do for ya?" one of the men asked.

  "I'm looking into the death of Al Martin and his family, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions."

  "What's to ask?" the other man asked. He was the bigger of the two, with a scar that bisected his shaggy right eyebrow. The other man was smaller and rail thin. "Al and his wife was killed by their kid, and nobody knows— or cares— who killed him."

  "I care," Remo said. "I'd like to know why Billy Martin killed his parents."

  "We can't help you," the man with the scar said, looking down into his coffee.

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Take your pick, mister," the thin man said. He looked at Remo for a moment, then nervously averted his eyes. Remo was sure that it wasn't he who was making the man nervous, but his questions.

  He decided to try the other two men before forcing someone to talk to him. "Thanks," he said to the men, who merely grunted in return.

  Remo left them to their coffee and walked to the table where the two men were sharing a flask. Both of these men were much like the man with the scar, large and not very bright looking. He didn't expect to have better luck with them, but he was willing to give it a try.

  "Excuse me," he said. When the two men looked at him quizzically, he tried the same opening gambit on them.

  "Can't help ya," one of the men said, and the other man nodded his agreement.

  "Aren't you interested in why Martin was killed?"

  "He was killed by that crazy kid of his," the man said, while his buddy continued to nod. "Now, look, get out of my face. I'm trying to talk with my friend here."

  He reached out to accept the flask from his friend, but Remo got to it first.

  "How do you think an inspector would like to find out that you men are drinking on the job?"

  "You're looking for trouble, mister," the man said, standing up, "and I'm just the guy that can give it to you."

  The man was much larger and heavier than Remo and obviously felt that this gave him a distinct advantage.

  "Is this your flask?" Remo asked.

  The man seemed surprised at the question. "Yeah, it's mine."

  "Nice one," Remo said. "Sturdy, isn't it?" As he said it, Remo poked a hole in the metal container with his little finger, and the whiskey started to run out onto the floor.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I guess it wasn't as sturdy as I thought."

  "What the hell…" the man said, taking the flask back and studying the hole. "How'd you do that?"

  "I've got sharp nails," Remo said.

  "You ruined my flask!" the man said aloud, and the other two men in the room looked up.

  "You need help, Lou?" the man with the scar called.

  "This guy's a wise guy," Lou answered. "He's asking a lot of questions, and he ruined my flask."

  Remo heard two chairs scrape back behind him but kept his eyes on the man named Lou. "Look, fellas, all I need is a few simple answers to a few simple questions. I don't want any trouble."

  "Mister, that's just what you bought," Lou said, prodding Remo's chest with his forefinger. His friend stood up and nodded his agreement.

  "That's not a nice thing to do," Remo said, looking down at the man's finger, briefly considering breaking it. "How would you like it if I did that to you?" he asked.

  To demonstrate, he showed the man his forefinger and then poked him in the chest with it. The man shot back across the room as if yanked from behind by a rope and crashed into the coffee machine. He fell to the floor in front of it, and the machine dumped a cup with heavy cream and sugar on his head in alternate streams of black and white.

  "Hey," Lou's friend said, speaking for the first time. The two men behind Remo each grabbed an arm, and the third man pushed the table out of the way so he could front Remo.

  The rail-thin man had taken hold of Remo's left arm, so Remo lifted his arm and hit the man in front of him with the thin man as if he were a club.

  "Jesus," the man with the scar said. Remo looked at him, and the man released his right arm in a hurry.

  Remo's right hand shot out and grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground. "Now let me ask my questions again, and we'll see if I can't get a couple of answers. Okay?"

  The man tried to nod, but that only tightened the grip Remo had on his throat.

  "Do you know anything about Al Martin coming into a lot of money over the past few months?"

  "I can't tell you nothing, mister," the man rasped.

  "Can't or won't?" Remo asked.

  "I can't! I don't know nothing, I swear!"

  "He doesn't know anything," the man named Lou said, using the coffee machine to help himself to his feet. "Neither do they."

  "Oh, really?" Remo said. He opened his hand and allowed the man with the scar to fall to the floor. "What about you? What do you know?"

  The man averted his eyes and said hastily, "Me— I don't know nothing either. Uh, none of us does. If Al Martin was flashing a lot of money, we don't know nothing about it."

  "And nobody else came into a lot of money?"

  "I guess not."

  "Why was Martin nervous the past few months?"

  Lou shrugged and said, "Maybe he was worried about that crazy kid of his. Maybe he knew the kid was planning to murder him. Who kn
ows?"

  "Yeah," Remo said, "Who knows?"

  Remo looked around the lounge, where three men were still on the floor and Lou was leaning on the coffee machine.

  "You guys better clean up," he said. "Your break must be just about over."

  On the way out he had to pass Lou and the coffee machine, so he asked one more question. "Where do you think Al Martin could have gotten a lot of money?"

  "Jesus, mister," the guy said, "maybe he made some overtime, or maybe the company gave him some extra pay because nobody died in one of the cars he worked on. You know, incentive pay?"

  "Incentive pay," Remo said. "Maybe you can get the company to give you some incentive pay, Lou. You know, to buy a new flask with."

  He turned to the other men in the room, said, "Gee, thanks for all your help, guys," and left.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Remo left the National Motors plant, touching the pretty receptionist in a way she wouldn't soon forget as he returned his badge. Then he grabbed a cab and instructed the driver to keep his meter running and wait for orders.

  "Jessir," the Puerto Rican cabbie said, happily switching the meter on.

  It wasn't long until the end of the shift. Remo kept his eye out for his old friend Lou. Pretty soon he saw Lou behind the wheel of an expensive-looking sports car, and knew that he'd made the right decision.

  "Follow that car," he told the cabbie.

  "The jazzy red one?"

  "That's the one."

  "Jou got eet," the cabbie said, and roared away from the curb.

  "Don't lose him, but don't let him know we're here, either," Remo said.

  "Don' jou worry."

  In about twenty minutes Remo found himself in a neighborhood reminiscent of the one the Martin family had lived in. He watched as Lou pulled his car into the driveway of a neat little house, and then told the cabbie to pull over and wait.

  "Jou not gonna keel him, are jou?" he asked Remo.

  "No, I'm not going to kill him. Why?"

  "If you keel him, it's double the meter."

  A law-abiding citizen, Remo thought, "I won't be long," he said.

  "Take your time."

  Remo approached the house that Lou had gone into and walked to the side, searching for a window to look through. He found himself on a huge patio that had obviously cost a small fortune to build, and peered into the house through a large picture window.

  He watched as Lou kissed his wife hello and asked her what was for dinner, and then he saw a kid about fifteen years old come into the room and immediately get into an argument with his old man. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out that Lou was in exactly the same situation that Allan Martin had been in, and he wondered if good old Lou was afraid of ending up the same way.

  Making his way back to the cab, Remo knew that his logical next move was to find out where Lou had been getting his money, but he had to do it without arousing any more suspicion about himself.

  That meant Smitty.

  Remembering a pay phone on the corner next to a small deli, Remo waved the cabbie to keep waiting and walked down the block to the phone. From there he could still see the house while he talked to Smith.

  Remo dialed the digits for Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, and then waited to be put through to Smith.

  "It's Remo," he said when Smith came on the line.

  "I hope you haven't run into a problem," the lemony voice answered.

  "You know us, Smitty," Remo said. "Problems we handle by ourselves. I called to ask you a favor."

  "What is it?"

  "I need somebody checked out. You'll have to get his name from his license plate number."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "I want to know where he's getting his money." Briefly, he told Smith what they had found inside the Martin house, then said that he felt that the man named Lou was in the same situation.

  "He's showing more money than he should, and I want to know where it's coming from. Feed it into those computers of yours and see what they come up with."

  "I'll take care of it."

  "Good. I'll get back to you for the answer. There's another thing."

  "What?"

  Remo told Smith about the cars that were being shipped to New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles by National Motors.

  "Those towns ring a bell with you?"

  "They certainly do. I'll run the information through the computers and see what they come up with."

  "Yeah, thanks. Stay tuned for further details."

  Before Smith could answer, Remo hung up.

  Lou's kid was leaving the house.

  Harold W. Smith addressed himself to the Folcroft computers, feeding in the cities of New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles and the information Remo had given him. He programmed the machine to report on any common bond that existed between the three major cities. It took only a few moments for the mechanical marvels to come up with an answer, and the response puzzled him.

  Why should drug arrests and drug activities be down in all three cities? He double-checked the information he had fed into the machines but the computers still came back with the same answer. Drug arrests in all three cities were down, and down dramatically over recent years.

  Smith took off his jacket, seated himself in front of the terminal, and set about trying to learn the connection.

  When Remo reached his cab, he woke the driver and said, "Follow that car."

  "The red one again?"

  "Wait."

  They watched as the kid got into the car and pulled out of the driveway.

  "That's the one," Remo said. "Hit it."

  They followed the kid for about fifteen minutes before the cabbie said, "Uh-oh."

  "What's the matter?"

  "I don't like where this cabrone is heading," the cabbie said. "Bad news, bro."

  " Where's he heading?"

  "I think he's heading for the ghetto. No fun there, boss."

  "Just keep following, buddy. You're getting rich off me; that ought to be worth a risk or two."

  "Triple the meter," the cabbie said, stepping on the gas.

  After ten more minutes, Remo didn't need the cabbie to tell him where they were. White faces were at a premium on the streets they were now driving through, and the cabbie was becoming increasingly nervous.

  Abruptly, the kid pulled his car over to the curb and stopped.

  "This guy is loco en la cabeza if he leaves that car there, boss."

  "Just pull over, friend."

  The cabbie pulled over to the curb a few car lengths behind the kid, who was getting out of his car.

  "I don't think I'll be needing you anymore," Remo said, sliding over to the curbside. He gave the cabbie a hundred-dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said.

  "Jou loco too, boss, if jou gonna walk around here."

  "I'll take my chances. Adios."

  "Vaya con dios," the driver said, and peeled out.

  Remo started trailing the kid through the streets, while the denizens of that area gave them both hard looks. The boy didn't seem to notice at all, and Remo just ignored them..

  When the boy finally turned down an alley, Remo figured that the kid had reached his destination. Now maybe he'd turn up something he and Chiun could go on.

  But when Remo turned to enter the alley, he stopped short because the kid he was following was standing very close to another kid, this one black. They were obviously transacting some business, so he pressed back against the wall and watched.

  The conversation got hot and heavy for a few moments, and then an exchange was made. The kid Remo was following handed over an envelope, and the black kid handed over money. It looked like just one thing: a drug deal.

  Good old Lou's kid was selling drugs. So that was the connection, Remo thought. Could that have been where Lou was getting his extra money? Had Billy Martin also been dealing in drugs? And was it just the kids, or were the parents involved as well?

  As he watched, both kids continue
d down the alley and then disappeared around a corner. Remo was surprised because the alley appeared to be a dead end. He sprinted after them, and when he reached the corner, he saw that there was a wooden fence with some of the slats missing. The two kids had obviously beat it through there.

  Squeezing through the narrow opening, he found himself on a side street. There was no sign of either of the two kids. Cursing, he looked across the street at the buildings, wondering if one or both of the boys could have gone into any one of them. A sign above one of the doorways suddenly caught his eye, and he stared at it in surprise.

  It said: THE CHURCH OF MODERN-DAY BELIEFS.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lorenzo Moorcock was on the podium, delivering an energetic sermon to a somewhat less than energetic-looking flock. Some of them, looking as if they had only come inside to keep warm, were huddled in the rear pews. The more interested flock members were in the front three rows, listening in rapt attention. Remo stood in the back, next to the door, and scanned the pews for any sign of either kid. When he came up empty, he started to listen.

  "…must always remember, dear brothers and sisters, that the old ways are dead. The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Bible— they are all things of the past and should stay in the past."

  Remo wondered why he bothered calling this place a church. Wasn't that an "old" word?

  "In the future, we will not even call our meeting place a church," Moorcock said, as if he'd read Remo's mind. "This will simply be the place of meeting."

  Catchy, Remo thought.

  He went on to talk about something he kept calling "The Satan." In order to modernize their beliefs, he said, they would believe in everything "The Satan" did not believe in. They would advocate free love, abortion, collectivism, and communism. They would look upon the Ayatollah Khomeini as a great man, a great humanitarian, a true leader of the world.

  It didn't take Remo very long to figure out that "The Satan" was the United States. It was a term that Khomeini himself was fond of when referring to the United States, and Moorcock was obviously a big Ayatollah booster.

  "…I know I have given you all much food for thought this evening, so I ask you now to go to your homes and contemplate everything I've said. I must also ask you all to stop at the collection plates in the center aisle on your way out and give from your heart. A minimum donation of five dollars is suggested, but feel free to give more."