Union Bust

by Warren Murphy

  “Shit,” he said and waited courageously for the onslaught.

  “What are you going to do with that?” asked Remo, pointing to the icepick.

  “Gonna cut yo’ head off if you don’ move back.”

  Remo moved back.

  The young man was delightfully surprised, yet still suspicious. One of his elders managed enough courage to yell from across the street.

  “Get outen there, Skeeter.”

  “You’ ass get outen heah. I got the honkey. You move, Charlie, you dead.”

  “I’m not moving,” said Remo.

  “Less yo’ has bread.”

  “You won’t kill me if I give you my money?”

  “Gimme,” said the youngster, his hand outstretched.

  Remo unfolded a ten-dollar bill.

  “All.”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “You gonna get this in you belly,” Skeeter waved the icepick.

  “Ten dollars. Take it or leave it.”

  “I take it,” said Skeeter. He folded the bill into his chest pocket and sauntered from the park.

  “Thet honkey ain’t so tough,” he yelled to his hiding friends. The older man promptly smacked Skeeter in the head, knocking him into a trash can. Another held him down while the third grabbed the ten-dollar bill. They left the youngster bloodied, hanging on to the edge of the trash can.

  Chris slept in unconsciousness. Remo went over to the youngster, and stuffed two twenties in his shirt.

  “That was pretty stupid going back to those guys with ten bucks,” he said.

  The youngster blinked and staggered to his feet.

  “Those my bruthas and one’s my old man, I think.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Remo.

  “You white honkey shit, I hate you. Ah’ll kill you,” and the youngster went tearing at Remo who sidestepped and walked back to Chris, leaving the kid swinging wildly in the street.

  Remo kissed her awake.

  “Oh,” she said. “They took me while I was unconscious.”

  “Nobody touched you, honey. It’s all right.”

  “They didn’t take me?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “C’mon, dear. We’ve got some phone calls to make and the numbers are in your beautiful file cabinet,” he said and he kissed her forehead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE WIVES OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE three other transportation unions were scattered around Chicago in motels. They had been told their husbands were to be working straight through Friday, April 17. They could reach their husbands by phone, but so secret were the negotiations they were conducting, they could not see them.

  The wives had ample spending money and constant surveillance. This according to Chris.

  “Gene figured that the chance to whoop it up free of interference from their wives was another strong inducement for them to join with the drivers. He said you’d be surprised how many major decisions were made for minor self-indulgences.”

  Remo and Chris sat in the car parked in front of the “The Happy Day Inn,” which boasted, as did all Happy Day Inns, a big marquee. This one said: “Welcome Drivers. Truck Stop.”

  “I can’t see the union chiefs making risky decisions like that for, well, some female companionship.”

  “Oh, no,” said Chris. “Gene knew they wouldn’t do it for that reason. They got money personally, plus he gave them good deals, higher guaranteed base salaries for their union members. You know with a national union like that, they don’t have to bargain for a wage, they submit it. They’ve got to get what they want or the country starves.”

  “Did he think Congress wouldn’t pass a law?”

  “Oh, Congress could pass a law. But Congress can’t drive a truck or fly a plane or unload a ship.”

  “Why didn’t he bring the seafarers’ union in on this?”

  “He didn’t, need them. They’d only be more of a burden. They got to bring the stuff in. As Gene explained it, the seafarers are pretty much at the mercy of the dock-workers. The dockworkers go on strike and the seafarers can just go play with themselves. It’s the delivery to the heartland of America that counts.”

  “And this Nuihc figured it all out.”

  “Right. He’s a creepy little twerp. But he knows what he’s doing.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “A skinny gook.”

  “Oh, great. Now we have it down to a third of the world’s population. Stay here. I’m going in.”

  “Room 3J,” said Chris.

  “I remembered.”

  “It’s just a precaution. Most people can’t remember real good.”

  “Thanks,” said Remo.

  It was 3 a.m., the night was still and quiet. A floodlight lit the Happy Inn sign, and small orange lights outside each door in the courtyard burned a pungent chemical, obviously to keep away bugs.

  Remo found 3J and knocked. A man cradling a long pole—Remo peered closer, no, it was a shotgun–turned the corner and approached him.

  “Why are you at that…” the man said and then suddenly was saying no more. The gun clanked to the cement walkway. The door opened. A head awash in a collection of curlers and a sea of cold cream poked out of the open door.

  “Mrs. Loffer?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Remo Jones, moral squad, Chicago police.”

  “There’s no one in here,” said the sleepy woman. “I’m alone.”

  It’s not you, ma’am. It’s some bad news about your husband”

  “Can I see your badge?”

  Remo reached into his pocket and with his right hand grabbed a half-dollar. With his left, he removed his wallet from his jacket. Then with hands covering the movement, he presented to the woman what appeared to be a wallet open with a shiny badge of some sort. In the dark, it worked.

  “Okay. Come in.”

  Detective Sergeant Remo Jones told Mrs. Loffer the sad and true story of her husband and underage girls.

  “The bastard,” said Mrs. Loffer.

  He told her the girls were sick and probably even seduced her husband.

  “The bastard,” said Mrs. Loffer.

  He told her how the girls were probably being used in some national union manipulation and that her husband should probably not be blamed at all.

  “The bastard,” said Mrs. Loffer.

  Bluntly, he told her he thought her husband was the victim.

  “Bullshit. He’s a bastard and he always will be,” said Mrs. Loffer.

  If Mr. Loffer would leave town this very morning, Chicago police would drop charges.

  “You may, but I won’t. The bastard,” said Mrs. Loffer.

  By 4:30 a.m. Remo had three angry wives in the back seat of the car. The first wife helped convince the second, and the third was dressed and ready to go before Remo had a chance to explain that it wasn’t her husband’s fault.

  At 4:30 a.m. just outside the city limits in a new building with some of the plaster still drying and the plumbing just beginning to work, Gene Jethro sat beside a pool in an indoor garden listening, nodding, working his hands nervously, and perspiring profusely.

  “Can’t we just ignore the guy?”

  “No,” said the other person in a high, squeaky voice.

  “Look. I don’t have anything against him. So he walked with Chris. She was just another broad, anyhow.”

  “It is not that he has taken your woman. It is not that he is most dangerous. It is that proper precautions indicate he be dead.”

  “We used the truck. It didn’t work. The guy gives me the creeps, Nuihc.”

  “This will work.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know what will work on this man. And once he is gone, then the other person will go.”

  “Oh, we can take the little gook, I mean Oriental gentleman.”

  “Did your three men, as you say it, take the gook?”

  “I’m sorry for that expression, sir.”

&
nbsp; “Let me tell you something. Neither you nor your men nor your children, given weapons of the utmost ferocity, given coordination beyond your pitiful imagination, could, as you so crudely say it, take that little gook.”

  “But he’s an old man. He’s ready to die.”

  “So you say. And so you have lost three men. You think your eyes can tell you truths, when you cannot see. You think your ears can tell you truths, when you cannot hear. You think your hands can tell you truths, when you do not know what it is you feel. You are a fool. And a fool must be told in detail what to do.”

  Gene Jethro listened and watched the long fingernails as they made arrows in the air.

  “In your Western ambush, you are very blunt. You arrange that weapons begin their assault at the same time. This you think is most effective. It is not, especially against one man who knows the bare rudiments of his craft. Rather a more subtle ambush is in order, two layers of surprises beyond the initial trap. Now, let us take a normal ambush, four sides or three it does not matter. Guns firing here. Guns firing there. And guns firing there. Impossible to escape, right?”

  “I guess so, sir,” said Jethro.

  “No. Not in the least. With speed one can eliminate one point before the others really become effective. What I’m talking about are fractions of your seconds. But we are assuming our target is not as clumsy as you. So, he destroys a single point and then begins to work on the others or runs or whatever he wills. This sort of ambush works only against amateurs. So, but let us say that each point is an ambush. Let us create firing patterns around each individual firing pattern, and these patterns stay quiet until that point is attacked.”

  “It’s like doubling the chances,” said Jethro.

  “No. It is increasing the effectiveness nine times. Now we’re assuming he will attack the points if he has been trained correctly. Remember now, the secondary level does not fire at him originally—only when he attacks the primary level. Secondary must hold its fire. Now you set up a third level for the second level. And you increase your effectiveness, not by nine times, but nine to the ninth power. You use only twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven men for an infinitely large effectiveness than three times three times three.”

  “Yeah, but where are we gonna set this thing up? The Mojave desert?”

  “Don’t be absurd. A hotel is perfect. Perfect. With their rooms and hallways, perfect. The lobby of his hotel. Even you could figure out how that would work.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “There’s this or, if you prefer, a puddle.”

  “You need me. You can’t do what you do without me.”

  “And who were you when I found you? A shop steward. If I can make a shop steward into the Gene Jethro of today, I can do it with anyone. I have taught you to love as no Westerner can love. I have given you a gadget weapon designed for your incompetence that dissolves your worst opponents. I have made you Gene Jethro, and I can do the same for someone else. I do not need you. I use you. I am surprised you have not figured this out by now.”

  “But you said you just wanted to help me. You said you saw so much potential in me that it was a shame I was wasting it.”

  “A pretty little song for a foolish little head.”

  Gene Jethro sighed and stared at a hanging palm, then down at his hands.

  “What if this older Oriental gentleman should decide to come here after us, if he’s as good as you say.”

  “He has been here and left. We need have no worry about that gentleman. He is not a fool.”

  “Twenty-seven you say? In his hotel lobby?”

  “Correct. Three protected by three, each protected by three.”

  “I better get going then.”

  “Call your people to you. I’m afraid you’re not leaving here.”

  “But the convention. The 17th. This is our biggest day.”

  “It shall come to pass,” said the man with the flat Oriental voice. “It shall come to pass. Who would have thought that I could build this structure in two months? Who would have thought I could raise you to a presidency in two months? It shall come to pass, for you see, my friend, it is written both in the stars and in my mind. Our little white adversary whom you fear will be dead before another sun sets. You will be the most powerful labor leader by another sunset. And I shall have what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  The flat Oriental face smiled. “One thing at a time. First the whiteling. Of course, he might escape.”

  Nuihc took joy in the sudden shock on the face of his whiteling.

  “He could escape this ambush,” said Nuihc.

  “But…”

  “If he knows the scarlet ribbon. But do not add unnecessary worries to your heart. No white man could ever comprehend the scarlet ribbon, any more than you.”

  · · ·

  Remo reached Jethro’s headquarters hotel. Surprisingly, the entrance was easy. No reinforcements—the door hadn’t even been repaired. Chris waited downstairs out of sight in the car parked a few blocks away.

  The women climbed the flights of steps, driven by anger and rage, panting, stumbling, pressing forward, mumbling, “Wait’ll get him.”

  They paused on the eighteenth floor. The door was still open at the hinges. Remo opened it wider for the women. They pushed through, panting. When the guard saw Remo, he hurriedly pressed the elevator button. Jumping up and down in fear, he looked nervously at the indicator dial and then back at Remo and the women. The door opened and Remo could see him lunge for the close button. He let him go. The quartet stormed to the far door.

  “It’s open,” said Remo. “There was some trouble with the lock breaking. They just don’t make things the way they used to.” Snores could be heard from inside.

  “That’s him,” said Mrs. Loffer. “I know that snore,” Remo eased the door open. The other women watched. One whispered:

  “Cut out his heart.”

  Remo followed. Mrs. Loffer stared at the bed, illuminated by a small night light, a middle-aged man with a redhead snuggled in his arms.

  “She’s a perfect size six,” sobbed Mrs, Loffer, her voice cracking. “A perfect size six.”

  She tiptoed to the bed. Remo could smell the nausea of stale champagne. Mrs. Loffer leaned down, close to her husband’s ear.

  “Joey. Honey. I heard a noise downstairs.”

  Still snoring. The redhead turned over, her mouth wide open in a grinding rasp of a nasal symphony.

  Mrs. Loffer nudged her husband’s hairy shoulder.

  “Joey. Honey. It’s time for coffee. Go downstairs and get the coffee, honey. Gotta make the coffee.”

  Snores. The redhead size six opened her eyes, saw Remo, saw the woman, and started to scream. Remo had his hand over her mouth before the sound could begin.

  Joseph Loffer, leader of the best-paid workers in the world, pilots whose average salary topped $30,000 a year, awoke, presumably to go downstairs to start the coffee.

  He opened his eyes, kissed his wife, and suddenly became totally awake when he saw that his wife was dressed, and that a man was holding the mouth of his nude paramour. He was about to launch a desperate explanation when Mrs. Loffer clobbered him. The blow took off from the floor and ended in his testicles. As he doubled over, Mrs. Loffer caught him with a knee in the face, then an open hand slap to the cheek, then fingernails to the eyes. He tumbled back on the bed, Mrs. Loffer on top.

  It was not a bad attack at all and Remo wondered at the capacity of some people, whether by instinct or through rage, to execute an almost perfect interior line attack. Of course, there were no fatal blows, but still Mrs. Loffer kept up the unrelenting pressure along the center of her body and Joey’s. She sustained well, she executed rather well, and all in all, Remo had to admit she was doing a fine job.

  “See if you can get the elbows into it. Very nice, Mrs. Loffer. Very nice. Let me say, for someone without training, superb. That’s it, keep up the pressure, very nice. No, no roundhouse blows. You’ve got a nic
e interior-line attack going there, and I wouldn’t spoil it now,” said Remo.

  Mrs. Loffer, tired, rolled off her husband, who lay stunned and bleeding slightly. She sat on the edge of the bed, lowered her head into her hands, and sobbed hysterically. Her husband managed to raise himself on his elbows and then, with a mighty effort, pushed himself to sitting position.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You bastard,” said Mrs. Loffer. “You bastard. Get packed. We’re going.”

  “I can’t go.”

  “You tell that to the policeman. You were doing such awful things, even the moral squad got involved.”

  “There’s no law, dear …”

  “You’ll see from my lawyer whether there’s a law or not.”

  “I can’t go.”

  Remo released the redhead.

  “Better get dressed and out of here,” he said.

  She shot him a dirty look.

  “You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

  “Get dressed,” he said. “And you, Mr. Loffer, I want you dressed and out of this city in half an hour.”

  Remo took the next wife to the center room. She emptied two ashtrays on the pile of bodies and hit every limb, buttock, and face her nails could reach. Her husband cowered in the corner. Remo threw him his clothes.

  “Be out of Chicago in a half hour or you’re in jail.”

  The third room was less of a battle. The wife burst into tears when she saw her husband entangled in a melange of female parts. She put her head into Remo’s chest and began to cry. A tingle of guilt crossed Remo’s emotions. Yet, it was either get them out of town or between a beam. The nation could not survive what they were about to do to it.

  This husband was furious. How dare his wife break in on him? How dare his wife have him followed? How dare his wife not trust him?

  Remo explained that the husband was violating a morals ordinance, which Remo conveniently made up. Granted, the ordinance was written in 1887, but it still holds true today, as it did when the Chicago forefathers passed it unanimously.

  “Yeah. Well, it ain’t constitutional,” said the president of the dockworkers. “I can get it thrown out of court.”