Dr Quake td-5

by Warren Murphy

  Gummo the Pipe Barussio smiled. He kissed Don Fiavorante's hand lavishly.

  "This may seem like a flippancy, Don Fiavorante, but I have a premonition of a swift death. And I believe it. Thank you. I had dreams of hands moving faster than arrows in the air. Faster than that. Thank you."

  "Each man's foolishness on the outside is his real truth on the inside," said Don Fiavorante. And before he discharged Gummo the Pipe Barussio, he gave him the names of the two men he must talk to.

  One was an ancient, dying Oriental. His name was Chiun.

  The other was a department store owner. If the stories could be believed, a-how-you-say?-fairy.

  His name was Remo.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The custom-built Cadillac convertible spewed gravel as it rolled up the winding driveway to the home of Remo Blomberg, department store entrepreneur.

  The car's white nylon top was up, warding off the California sun. The air conditioning was on full blast, chilling the left knee of Freddy Palermo, the driver, and the right knee of Marty Albanese, the front seat passenger.

  Nevertheless, Gummo the Pipe Barussio, sitting alone on the soft glove leather of the back seat, was sweating. He was a big man and wrinkled, but his wrinkles had the character of prunes and his bigness was not the fat of pork. His hair was cut close to his head and even though he was in his early fifties, there was not a single gray strand. His hair was still shiny and blue-black and his skin was tanned, the olive-tan of Mediterranean people who know how to tan without drying out.

  But still he sweated. He wiped his forehead carefully with an expensive white linen handkerchief which had been pressed into knife-sharp edges when they had left, but which was now sodden and damp with the sweat of one hundred nervous miles.

  He was pretty sure now that he had made a mistake in bringing along Freddy Palermo and Marty Albanese. Sure, they were street tough, but they were young, inclined to be flip and to look for trouble when trouble was not really inevitable. They would have been fine in the old days in Chicago. But this wasn't Chicago and today the Mafia flourished by avoiding trouble.

  But could you tell that to these punks? Could you tell them that it was better to convince someone with talk than with muscle-even though Gummo the Pipe Barussio was not afraid to use muscle? His nickname did not refer to his smoking habits.

  You could try to tell them that, but they didn't listen. None of the old ways, the old beliefs, was good enough for them. He had made the mistake on the drive over of telling them about his premonition of hands moving faster than arrows and they had both chuckled. Someday they might learn, but for today they were the wrong men.

  Yet they were still the sons of his two sisters, and family meant something when you picked the people for the good jobs-the big, important jobs.

  Barussio was grateful that Don Fiavorante had seen fit to change his assignment. That premonition had been very real. But even with his new assignment- the old Oriental and the fairy department store owner-he felt a vague unease. He would be very happy to be back home at poolside.

  "Listen," he said, leaning forward over the soft red leather of the front seat. "Keep your mouths closed. No wiseass stuff. I'll do the talking."

  "Okay, Uncle Gummo," said Palermo. Albanese just grunted.

  The car rolled to a stop in front of the large double doors that were the front entrance to the Blomberg home.

  He slid out. He did not hold the door for Barussio. The door slipped back, and Barussio stopped it with his foot, pushing it open again to get out. Yes, Albanese was a mistake. Not only hot-tempered, but no manners, no discipline. As he got out, Barussio hissed to Palermo: "Keep an eye on Marty, so he don't cause no trouble,"

  "Gotcha," Palermo said.

  Palermo got out on his side of the car and joined Barussio in the walk to the front door. Albanese had already jabbed the bell nervously and Barussio elbowed him away from the front of the door.

  Gummo the Pipe rang the bell again. He heard it tingle inside. He listened closely but heard no footsteps. Then, noiselessly, the door swung open and he was faced by an aged Oriental, wearing a long, blue, brocaded robe.

  The Pipe suppressed a smile of relief. He was glad he had asked not to have to hassle the wet backs. This way would be easier. This old man? Why, he was easily eighty years old and could be no more than five feet tall. He would never see one hundred pounds again.

  His nails were long and pointy. Little tufts of hair on top of his head and stringing from his chin made him look like the owner of a curio shop in a cheap movie.

  "Did you come on the sightseeing bus? Is that why you gawk?" the old man said.

  "I'm sorry," Barussio said quickly. "I was expecting someone else."

  "I am no one else; I am only me."

  Albanese snickered loudly and Barussio glared at him before speaking again.

  "Is your name Chan?"

  "My name is Chiun. Chan is a Chinese name." The old man spit into the gravel alongside the front porch, barely missing the toe of Albanese's right shoe. Barussio blinked in surprise.

  "I have business to discuss with you. May we come in? It's hot out here," Barussio asked.

  "You are the leader of this group?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you may come in. Your servants may wait outside. Particularly the ugly, impolite one." He bowed to Albanese.

  "Certainly," Barussio said and stepped through the door.

  Albanese's eyes narrowed. Well, Marty Albanese didn't have to put up with that. Being called a servant by a dink. Ugly and impolite too. And that old has-been uncle, Barussio, agreeing. Why didn't he speak up? Albanese was definitely unhappy. He stepped toward the door to enter behind Barussio. Then his stomach suddenly hurt and he clutched it as the old dink shut the door behind Barussio.

  "Wotsa matter?," Palermo asked.

  "Don't know. Little cramp or something," he said, clutching his stomach. "It's all right now. Snotty little gook. Be a pleasure to take some of the starch out of him."

  Inside, Barussio was escorted into a cool living room and motioned to a seat on a blue suede sofa.

  He sat and Chiun stood facing him. Their eyes were still almost level.

  "Now, your business."

  "I don't quite know how to say this," Barussio began.

  "Try saying whatever comes to your mind."

  "Well, Mr. Chiun, a friend of mine is having trouble because of you."

  "I?"

  "Yes. The workers, you see, are very superstitious. There was a minor earthquake the other night, and now they are refusing to work because you have come to town. They say you bring some kind of Oriental curse, if you'll pardon the expression." Barussio had stopped sweating. He was relaxed now and he leaned back casually against the soft suede cushions.

  Chiun only nodded, but said nothing.

  Barussio waited for a comment, but when none came, he said; "They also feel that your employer ... is his name Remo?"

  "Yes, Remo," Chiun interjected.

  "Yes. Well, the workers feel he too has some kind of power and they refuse to work."

  "And so?" Chiun asked.

  Dammit, he was exasperating. He gave nothing.

  "So we would like you and Mr. Remo to accompany us to the grape farm and to tell the workers that there is nothing special about you. Just let them see you, so that they know you're not some kind of ghosts or something."

  Chiun nodded and folded his hands under the broad flowing sleeves of his robe. He walked to the front window and looked out at where Palermo and Albanese leaned on the front fender of the Cadillac.

  "That is all?" Chiun said.

  "Yes," Barussio said, and he chuckled. "It's really kind of a silly thing and you and Mr. Remo would have a perfect right to think it was stupid, but it's very important to my friend because it's harvesting time and if his workers don't work, his vineyards will be ruined. Just a drive of a few minutes." Yes, he was glad he didn't go the other route; that he had convinced Don Fiavorante of the sen
se of doing this.

  "Will you do it?"

  "I will," said Chiun. "But I don't know if Mr. Blomberg will."

  "Is he here? May I ask him?"

  "He is here. I shall ask him. Please wait here."

  Chiun turned and shuffled away, his hands still hidden inside his sleeves, his feet noiseless, even on the stone floor. He walked slowly up the two small stairs to the dining room, and then slid open a floor-to-ceiling glass door and stepped out into a suddenly-sunny yard.

  Barussio watched him walk away. The hot wedge of air that had slipped through the glass door before Chiun closed it now marched across the dining room, into the living room, and hit Barussio in the face. He did not even reach for his handkerchief; he had nothing to sweat about anymore.

  Chiun walked across the gray flagstone and slate patio to the large kidney-shaped swimming pool. He stood on the edge of the pool and looked down accusingly, like a meticulous housewife trying to stare away an unexpected spot.

  The crystal waters of the pool were motionless. Through them, at the bottom of the pool, eight feet below his feet, Chiun could see Remo, wearing bathing trunks, lying on his back, his hands grasping the lowest metal step. He saw Chiun and waved.

  Chiun crooked an imperious finger toward him and motioned for him to surface.

  Remo waved at Chiun to go away.

  Chiun again summoned Remo with his index finger.

  Remo rolled over on the bottom of the pool, his feet fluttering just enough to keep him down, and he turned face down so he could not see Chiun.

  Chiun looked around and on a side table he spotted a giant chromium machine-nut, used as a decorative ashtray, and picked it up. Carefully, he extended the heavy nut over the pool ladder, then dropped it. It hit the water with a splash, then sloshed down, and hit the back of Remo's head.

  Remo spun around, saw the gadget, picked it up and shot to the top of the pool.

  He was shouting as soon as he broke through the surface of the water.

  "Dammit, Chiun, that hurt."

  "You are like the proverbial jackass. You perform well, but first it is necessary to get your attention."

  Remo hung off the ladder with his right hand and looked at the watch on his left wrist.

  "You really screwed me up," he said. "Five minutes and twenty seconds. This was the day I was going to make six minutes."

  "If I had known that Dr. Smith sent you here to practice for the Olympics, I would not have disturbed you. But because I thought you had something else in mind, I thought it worthwhile telling you that we have visitors."

  Remo pulled himself up to the flagstones. "Visitors?" he said. He dropped the metal nut to the stone deck where it hit with a sharp clack.

  "Yes," Chiun said, "visitors. I think they represent your country's criminal element."

  "What do they want with us?"

  "They want us to go convince Mexicans to pick grapes."

  "Why us? I ain't Cesar Chavez."

  "Apparently the earthquake and our arrival in this community have caused some fears among these Mexicans. They think we are some kind of gods."

  "I think we should go," Chiun said, "and tell them the truth."

  "Which is?'

  "Which is that I am but a frail old Oriental servant and you are a champion swimmer in training. And we should see what else these criminals may want from us."

  "As you wish, little father," Remo said, bowing from the waist

  "Get your clothes on, honourable son," Chiun said.

  Chiun went back through the glass door into the dining room, while Remo went through another set of glass doors into his bedroom to dry and dress.

  Barussio looked up as Chiun approached.

  "He agrees," Chiun said.

  Barussio was relieved. "My friend will be very happy," he said. "It is important to him."

  Chiun was silent.

  After two minutes, Remo came padding quietly into the living room. He wore white leather tennis shoes with no socks, white slacks and a white knitted short-sleeved shirt.

  "Hello, I'm Blomberg," he said, extending a firm hand to Barussio, before remembering that it should have been limp.

  Barussio stood up. "Has your man explained things to you?" He didn't really look like a fairy, Barussio thought. Good handshake too. Still, you never could tell. Particularly in California. Suntans can hide anything, he thought.

  "Yeah," Remo said. "He explained. It didn't make much sense, but it's a nice day to take somebody for a ride."

  Barussio's ears picked up at the phrase but Remo Blomberg was still smiling insipidly. He meant nothing bv it.

  Chiun led the way out the front door and Palermo and Albanese stood up next to the car when they saw the three men coming. Albanese saw Remo come out last and put his hand to his mouth. "Look at Doctor Kildare," he said in a stage whisper, meant to be loud enough for Remo to hear.

  Barussio glared. Chiun looked on with equanimity. Remo walked up to Albanese and said, "Hiya, fella. How's tricks?"

  "Oh, tricks are just fine," Albanese said. "Just fine."

  With a mock curtsey, he opened the Cadillac door and waved the three men in. Chiun got in first, then Remo and as Barussio stepped by Albanese, he hissed: "Any more shit, I'm gonna pull your eyeballs out and squash 'em against a wall like grapes."

  Albanese's face dropped. He'd have to watch his step. He got quietly into the car. Palermo got behind the wheel.

  "Where to, Uncle Gummo?"

  "To Bob Gromucci's farm," Gummo the Pipe Barussio said. The motor started and the air conditioning came on. It was not really necessary. Barussio was dry and cool. Why not? There was nothing to sweat about.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  But across town, in the office of the First Aquino Trust and Development Corporation, Lester Curpwell IV was sweating.

  He faced two men. He had known they were trouble when they came in, without an announcement, without an appointment.

  The tall man leading the way wore a dark blue suit that was hand-tailored. But even the tailor's art failed to conceal his muscular bulk. He almost rippled when he walked.

  The man who followed him wore a brown suit with white shadow stripes. He had a face that was rat-like and twisted into a grim smile, as if he alone knew a joke that no one else had heard.

  The burly man sat down in the chair facing Curpwell. The other man stood against the office door, his back to it, not too subtly shielding the office from intrusion.. With a penknife, he began to clean his fingernails.

  "Why don't you have a seat?" Curpwell said to the man facing him, who was already seated.

  "No thanks. This one'll do fine," the man said.

  "Well, now that you're in here, suppose you tell me what you want," Curpwell said.

  "Sure. I'll make it simple, Curpwell. You're a businessman, right?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Well, I'm a businessman too. So no fancy-schmantz around the bush. I want to know your earthquake secret. I'll pay for it."

  "Earthquake secret?" Curpwell said. His stomach turned over. Harris Feinstein was right. Curpwell should have gone with him to Washington. It was only a matter of time before the thing got out of hand. That's what Feinstein had said. He had been right. It was out of hand now.

  "Yeah. Earthquake secret. I want to know how you do it so that you're able to shake down the people around here."

  "I'm afraid, Mister. . . ." Curpwell waited for the man to fill in the blank but there was no response, so he went on: "that I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any earthquake secrets. If you want to know about earthquakes, go see Doctor Quake at Richter Institute. Sign up for one of his seminars. But don't waste my time with nonsense."

  "Curpwell, it can be easy or it can be hard. Have it your own way," Manny the Pick Musso said. "I want to know how you do it."

  "And I don't know what you're talking about," Curpwell said, lowering his eyes to the desk where he had been reading a stack of financial reports showing that the
Curpwell empire was in deep financial trouble. He did not look up, so he did not see the burly man in the blue suit nod to the man at the door. He did not see the coming of the blow against the back of his head.

  And because he was unconscious, he did not see the big man in the blue suit slide a shiny ice-pick from his inside jacket pocket and carefully remove the cork from its gleaming dart-sharp point.

  The aide wished that he had made his report to the Presidential aide a little more danger-filled. Perhaps the government would not have just disregarded the whole thing. Perhaps they would have assigned someone to check it out. Someone who could have done something.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The white Cadillac rolled between the banks of shade trees, along the red dusty road, kicking up sprays of grit that looked like powdered blood, which settled over and coated everything with the granular talcum of Southern California.

  Off to the right, Remo could see a string of small tarpaper shacks-perhaps fifteen of them-and the rubble where other shacks once had stood. In front of the shacks, adults sat or stood and talked, and children ran in and out of their legs, playing with ropes, twigs and bits of ribbon.

  The car screeched to a stop, rocking back and forth on over-soft springs. Albanese was out of the car before it stopped rocking.

  The others stepped slowly from the cool, air-conditioned car into the heat of summer California. Albanese was already twenty-five feet away, talking to a wiry man with a drooping black moustache wearing dirty white pants and shirt of some rough, canvas-like material.

  The pants and shirt were the right length but they drooped off the man as if they had once been tailored to fit, but-comfortably inside-the man had proceeded to lose thirty pounds.

  The Mexican took off a natural coloured straw hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his waist.

  He listened to Albanese. Then he shrugged, a shrug that spoke of centuries of labour on someone else's land, turned and walked away toward the string of cabins, calling out names in Spanish as he went.

  Albanese came back to meet Remo, Chiun and the two others as they slowly walked toward him, their toes kicking up small swirls of red powder.