Sweet Dreams

by Warren Murphy

  The conference was getting underway that night.

  Don Salvatore swore softly under his breath. The story meant that he would have very little time to negotiate with Wooley before Grassione would have to be turned loose on the man. And if the television networks showed any interest in Wooley’s invention, as they surely would, it would certainly drive Wooley’s price up out of Don Salvatore’s reach. And other people’s involvement meant that the secret of Wooley’s invention was just that much more vulnerable to public disclosure.

  Don Salvatore snapped the paper closed and leaned forward to check in the rear-view mirror. Grassione’s car, driven by that strange looking Oriental who had accompanied him, was still behind the Don’s as they pulled into the closed boatyard and arrived at Massello’s tied-up yacht.

  He politely offered Grassione and his men the use of his yacht as their headquarters and home while in St. Louis, as custom required.

  “No, Don Salvatore,” Grassione said. “We’re going straight to the campus to look it over for the hit.”

  “If there is a hit,” Massello reminded him.

  “Of course, Don Salvatore,” Grassione said. “But if there is to be a hit, I want to know everything I can about this college and all, so we can do it and get out without trouble.”

  Massello nodded his approval as Grassione’s car turned and drove off. On his way from the boatyard, Grassione sank deeper into the seat and thought that Don Salvatore was very bright, but he didn’t know everything.

  For instance, he didn’t know that Grassione’s uncle, Don Pietro Scubisci, had personally visited Grassione the night before to tell him that Don Salvatore seemed “to be getting too big for his own good” and that an accident to him would not be looked on unfavorably by the national council.

  No. Don Salvatore didn’t know everything. There would not be one hit; there would be two. And neither of them was a maybe.

  Definite.

  As definite as bang, bang.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IF GOD HAD CREATED A HUMAN VESSEL for worry on earth, its name was Norman Belliveau. He had been born in France on D-Day and grew up in the United States to be the living embodiment of worry. He worried about how he looked, which was tall and thin with sunken cheeks and a hooked nose. He worried about how he dressed, which was after the fashion of college drama teachers: lousy.

  He wore loud jackets and fuchsia or purple or pink shirts, with an ascot. To keep up with the changing theatrical world, however, he wore Levi’s and Hush Puppies.

  But he usually bought a new pair of jeans after the first wash. Levis always faded and Norman thought faded Levis looked tacky. So now everyone on the Edgewood University campus knew when Norman was coming by the swish-swish-swish of his too new jeans.

  Norman Belliveau inherited his worry from his mother who named him Norman because the allies landed in Normandy and she thought naming her son that would bring him good luck.

  And when it didn’t, and their home was destroyed by an erring artillery shell, and Norman’s father killed by stepping on a forgotten land mine, she tried various other methods: stuffing rabbits’ feet in Norman’s pockets, throwing salt over his shoulder constantly, and not allowing him to step on cracks in her presence.

  But nothing worked and Norman worried about that, but now he had more important things to worry about.

  Like the rooms.

  It was bad enough that Professor Wooley had gone ahead and scheduled the conference on some kind of technological breakthrough without telling anyone. That was bad enough. Suppose no one came? The university would be a laughing stock.

  But people came. Oh, how they were coming, and where was Norman going to put them all?

  This new interruption was the last straw. Imagine being dragged away from a very important classroom lecture to have to personally inform somebody that there was no more room. Hadn’t he told the guard to allow nobody else in?

  Norman worried about why guards never followed instructions. They had ignored his orders when that television reporter, Patti Shea, had shown up.

  Norman had heard of her and her catty reports on the odd and unusual gatherings all over the world. He could not understand what she was doing at a technical conference in Missouri and he told her so.

  “Just get me a room, will you, bub?” she said. “I’ve got a migraine you wouldn’t believe.”

  She had rubbed a delicate hand on her forehead, highlighting her springy breasts under a tight yellow turtleneck. She let her right leg bend under her purple miniskirt and posed for an imaginary camera as “Woman in Pain.”

  Norman Belliveau checked the lists of representatives arriving and dormitory rooms still vacant. He stammered that there was very little room left.

  “Oooh, that looks nice,” said Patty, pointing to a small cottage with one hand while rubbing Belliveau’s thigh with the other. She had to bear down to be felt through the stiff denim.

  Norman stopped going through the lists.

  “Uhhhh,” he said, feeling lightheaded, “I don’t see why we couldn’t put you there…I mean, uhhh, I wouldn’t mind.”

  And he didn’t really. After all, it was his cottage and if he wanted to lend it to somebody, why not? And the dorm rooms really weren’t that bad. He could stay in one for just a few days, even with all that horrid music all night long and the dirty students.

  But he had only one cottage to give and now he was called to the gate again, where the guard had been given strict orders to admit no one who did not have a room already.

  What a waste of his time. If he wanted to do something besides teach his class, there were plenty of things he could do. He could go to the cafeteria and make sure that they could get the student’s macaroni-and-cheese dinner out in time, to bring in brisket of beef for the university’s guests.

  Norman was worried that the beef brisket wouldn’t thaw out in time. He worried that it might cook up dry. He worried that the delegates to the conference wouldn’t like it.

  He worried about his health when he saw the huge black limo parked just inside the gate.

  He stopped a full twenty feet away, blinked, and stood staring.

  Outside the car stood a Chinese, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, and a big ugly man in a suit that didn’t seem to fit because of the lumps between his chest and his arms.

  Norman Belliveau worried about whether to run or not.

  The man froze him in place with a growl. “Are you Bellevue?” he asked.

  Norman worried about whether he should correct the man’s pronunciation. He just nodded.

  The big man tapped the black back window which was sealed off from the outside world by a curtain.

  Belliveau worried about getting his pension in fifteen more years.

  The back door of the Fleetwood opened and Belliveau heard a song ring out:

  “Meet George Jetson!”

  A head followed the sound.

  “His boy, Elroy!”

  The face was impassive and the dark eyes under the neatly combed hair seemed to bore into Belliveau.

  “Jane, his wife!”

  The fading strains of a highly orchestrated “chopsticks” disappeared. The green glow that had illuminated one side of the man’s face faded as he leaned out of the car, away from its built-in television set.

  Arthur Grassione looked at Norman Belliveau and said simply: “You’re going to find room for me and my men.”

  Norman worried whether the new guests would like the rooms he had picked for them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TUESDAY’S PUB WAS NOT just any old bar.

  When it had been called the St. Louis Tavern, it was any old bar. When it was the St. Louis Tavern it served the beer that made Milwaukee famous on tap to the bums that made St. Louis famous.

  But then some smart cookie downtown figured that since it was near the train station and across the street from the Greyhound bus stop, and not far from the airport, the St. Louis Tavern was the perfect place to renovate int
o a modern watering hole.

  So as the sodden regulars continued trying to see their gray futures in the golden liquid in their dusty glasses, the old interior was transformed into the smooth plastic decor of Tuesday’s Pub.

  The only problem was that it hadn’t worked. The neighborhood had turned into a slum faster than the tavern could be turned into a cocktail lounge and now the owners were left with a joint with a fancy name, new but ripped plastic seats and an even tougher clientele than the ones they had tried to chase.

  When Dr. Harold Smith arrived, he was almost overcome by the pervasive stench of camaraderie that only dead drunks have for each other. Wood, urine, plastic, all combined their smells in an olfactory welcome, which was not shared by the people at the bar.

  Standing inside the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, Dr. Smith with his precisely creased gray suit, white shirt and regimental tie, and his gray two-suiter that was guaranteed to withstand a fall from the top of a twenty-story building, drew a lot of attention from the regulars of Tuesday’s Pub.

  “Hey, hey, look at the honkey,” someone called from the bar.

  “Woowee, he look like a professor. I bet he think he in the city museum.”

  “No,” Smith said aloud. “Not a museum.”

  He walked past the bar to the back room, where he saw Remo and Chiun sitting at a table. Remo was counting ceiling tiles and Chiun was watching a dart game in progress.

  Smith eased himself into an empty chair across from Remo, who continued to look at the ceiling.

  “Nice places you bring me to,” Smith said.

  Remo still stared at the ceiling. Chiun nodded to Smith.

  “Remo, it is Emperor Smith. Emperor Smith is here,” he said.

  Without looking down from the ceiling, Remo said, “Did you bring the money?”

  “Into this place?” Smith said.

  “Don’t weasel-word me,” Remo said. “Have you got the money for my house?”

  “I can get it in ten minutes,” Smith said. “Now what is all this about a house?”

  While Remo tried to explain, about how he was discontented even though perfect, Chiun turned and watched the dart game.

  The board was an old-fashioned American dart board, a large pie divided up into twenty equal slices. Each wedge-shaped slice was cut up again into three arc-like pieces. The largest one, closest to the center of the board, counted one point; the next, red arc, counted two points, and the smallest arc, another white one on the outside of the board, counted three points.

  The two men were playing baseball with each man taking turns throwing three darts at the sections of the board number one through nine.

  A man with an electrified Afro was leaning forward over the shooting line, when he sensed Chiun’s eyes on him, and he rocked back on his heels and turned to the aged Oriental.

  “Whuffo you staring at me?” he demanded.

  “I was just watching you throw those needles,” Chiun said pleasantly.

  The man nodded as if vindicated and turned back to the board.

  “And wondering why you do not learn to do it correctly,” Chiun said.

  “Heh, heh,” the man said. He looked at his playing partner who chuckled too, and explained to Chiun: “Willie’s the best in the bar.”

  “Maybe the best in town,” Willie said.

  “Think how much better you would be if you knew what you were doing,” Chiun said.

  “Chiun,” Remo said, “will you stop fooling around? The least you could do is pay attention to what we’re talking about.”

  “I already have a house,” Chiun said. “I’m sure that you and the emperor will make everything come out all right. I am just trying to help this awkward one. Willie.”

  Ting. Ting. Ting.

  Formica chips flew on the table as the three wooden darts slammed through the covering and buried themselves in the wood beneath.

  “There you go, old man, you so smart, you show me.”

  Remo reached over and pulled the three darts from the table. He snapped the pointed metal tips off each one and then tossed them back to Willie.

  “Stop fooling around,” Remo said. “Can’t you see I’m buying a house? Why don’t you go to the welfare office? Today’s check day.”

  Remo turned back to Smith. “No house, no work, that’s it, case closed,” he said.

  Smith shrugged. “You realize, of course, that your security will be greatly compromised by a house. That was part of the program in the first place, your continuing to move around, from place to place, so no one would be able to track you down. That’s why you’re not supposed to ever return to Folcroft.”

  “It’s different now,” Remo said. “Suppose somebody does track me down? What are they going to do?”

  “Kill you,” Smith said.

  “Damn right, I kill you, honkey. You ruined one sweet set of darts on me,” Willie said, approaching the table.

  Remo shook his head at Smith. “Nobody can kill me,” he said.

  “I kill you, honkey,” Willie shrieked. “Them was good darts.”

  Remo turned toward him. “Will you go away? Can’t you see I’m talking business here?”

  He turned back to Smith. “See, my safety’s not a problem anymore, so all you’ve got to worry about is security for the organization. We’ll do everything under a fake name.”

  Smith sighed and shrugged.

  “So it’s settled?” Remo said.

  “I’m gonna settle you,” Willie yelled.

  Remo said, “Now I’ve been very nice with you, Willie, so far. Don’t make me spoil my good record.”

  “Who gonna pay for my darts?” Willie’s yelling had started to attract a crowd, as men, glasses in hand, moved away from the bar and toward the back room.

  “Settled?” Remo asked Smith again.

  Smith nodded.

  Remo turned away. “I’ll play you for your darts, Willie,” he said.

  “Give ’em here,” he said.

  Willie tossed the three tipless darts onto the table and Remo picked them up. It had been a dozen years or more since he had thrown darts, back when he had been a policeman on the Newark police force. He was pretty good then but now as he hefted the darts, he realized he had known nothing then. He had gotten pretty good at the game by making his mistakes consistent, not by learning to throw darts correctly.

  “One inning,” he said to Willie. “If you win, I’ll give you fifty dollars for your darts.”

  “Twenty dollars,” Smith said.

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for your darts if you win,” Remo said. “And if I win, we just forget it.”

  “All right,” Willie said, with a slow smile washing over his face. “Clarence, you go get some darts from the bar.”

  Three more brand-new wooden darts were brought to the back room. Willie looked them over then handed them toward Remo.

  “You first,” Remo said. “I want to see what I have to beat.”

  “Okay,” Willie said. “I pick the inning. We shoot number four.”

  Willie leaned over the shooting line, and carefully threw the darts at the board. The first two landed in the red ring; the third in the outside white ring.

  “That seven points,” Willie said with a smile.

  He pulled the darts from the board and handed them to Remo who remained sitting at the table, facing away from the board.

  “That’s all right,” Remo said. “I’ll use these.”

  “Hey, dummy, those darts ain’t got no points on ’em,” Willie said.

  “Never you mind. I’ve got to beat seven?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Remo twisted in his chair, to face the board, and then fired all three darts at once in a wide sweeping motion of his right hand.

  Later on, people in Tuesday’s Pub would say the skinny white man threw the darts so fast no one could see them.

  The three darts hit the heavy board with a thunk. Side by side in the white arc of the number four wedge, th
ey hit, with such force that their snub noses smashed through the heavy cork and stopped only when they reached the wall behind.

  “Nine points, I win; leave me alone,” Remo said.

  Willie looked at Remo, at the dart board, and at Remo again.

  Remo stood up, along with Smith and Chiun, who whispered to Willie: “He is a showoff. It is better if the darts have points.” Chiun looked down and took the three darts Willie had used from the young man’s hand. He looked at the board once, then tossed all three darts with one easy motion of his right hand. The darts each buried themselves into the back end of one of the darts Remo had thrown. “Practice,” Chiun said. “You will get better.”

  He turned to follow Remo and Smith. No one bothered them as they left Tuesday’s Pub.

  · · ·

  In the Volkswagen Smith had rented at the St Louis Airport, he outlined their plan.

  Smith would go on to the conference at Edgewood University and see what Dr. Wooley’s “television breakthrough” was all about.

  Remo and Chiun would wait for Smith until he contacted them.

  He had arranged a place for them to stay.

  In a hotel.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHATEVER DR. WILLIAM WESTHEAD WOOLEY had done, it had hit a nerve, and his simple technological conference had turned into an event.

  Hundreds-from the media, from scientific foundations, from industry-babbled amidst the remnants of their fruit cup, broiled brisket of beef, and snow peas dinner.

  The booze had been flowing since the welcoming cocktail party. Dr. Harold Smith had found himself standing next to a greasy-looking man who was escorted by a six-foot-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound goon type and an Oriental in a black suit, who made the color look like a social judgment. The man insisted upon talking to Doctor Smith about how NBC’s second season wasn’t as good as ABC’s season and CBS didn’t have anything on the air that was any good at all, not counting Rhoda and Archie Bunker, and if he had something to say about it, there’d be game shows at night, because that was how you found out how people really acted, by taking real people and waving money in front of them.