Power play, p.13
Power Play, page 13
Chiun kept chattering. There was a swelling noise from downstairs and Remo went to the window to watch. The Reverend Muckley was back, but this time leading a mob of more than two hundred people, chanting and carrying signs.
“What’s that?” Pruiss said nervously. “What’s that?”
Theodosia stood alongside Remo at the window, looking down as the crowd swerved off the main road and advanced on the country club. There were a dozen newsmen and TV cameramen with them.
“What is it?” Pruiss shouted.
“Pickets,” Theodosia said. “I’m going to call our police to make sure they don’t cause any trouble.”
“Are you listening to this?” Chiun asked Pruiss. Chiun turned to Remo. “Will you please see that they keep things quiet down there?” he asked.
“Yes, Little Father,” Remo said.
Higbe Muckley took up a position in front of the main door. The crowd swelled around him. He waited until the cameramen had positioned themselves on the steps of the house and then he raised a bullhorn at his side and invoked God’s blessing on Wesley Pruiss.
“Damn you, evil one,” he called. “Damn you. Are you listening, evil one?”
The house was silent.
“Are you listening?” Muckley shouted into the amplifier.
Chiun went to the window and called out, “He’s trying to listen to me. Will you be quiet, fat person?” He turned to Remo. “Remo, will you take care of them, please, before I have to go do it myself.” Chiun went back and sat alongside Pruiss’s bed and said, “I’ll start over, so you don’t miss any of it.”
Pruiss’s eyes flashed from side to side, the eyes of a trapped animal. They grew even more desperate as Remo walked toward the door of the room.
Downstairs, Muckley shouted into the bullhorn. “We know, Pruiss. Thanks to one good woman, we know your evil plan to ruin our community. Do you hear that, evil one? We know.
“We know something else, Pruiss. We know that sometimes we have to be God’s instruments ourselves, and we’re going to do it, Pruiss. You’re not turning this town into a cesspool like the kind you’re used to, Pruiss.”
Remo slipped out the back door of the building and came around to stand in the crowd.
“We’re going to stop you, Pruiss,” Muckley bellowed. His amplified voice echoed off the house and rebounded out over the valley of the golf course. “Whatever it takes to stop you, evil one, we’re going to stop you. The right will triumph.”
From inside the house, Remo could hear Chiun’s anguished cry, and he knew that if he didn’t want the country club surrounded by two hundred dead bodies, he had better move.
Remo selected the best looking housewife he could find in the crowd, stroked her left buttock and before she could turn moved into another spot in the crowd. She looked around wildly. “Hey,” she said. “Who did that? Stop that.” She glared at the man behind her, a man who looked as if he would take offense at someone squeezing toilet tissue. “Why’d you do that?” she demanded.
“I didn’t…” the man started.
Muckley turned and glared at the crowd, waiting for silence. Remo lifted a man’s wallet from his back pocket. He did it too smoothly and the man did not feel it so Remo clumsily jammed his hand into the man’s hip pocket and rummaged around for a while until the man’s attention went to his wallet. Remo dropped the billfold on the ground and moved into the crowd.
The man turned around and looked at the man behind him. “Thief,” he yelled. “Damned pickpocket thief.”
“What?” said the second man, a burly man with a crew cut and a green plaid shirt.
“You heard me. Keep your dirty hands out of my pockets.”
The woman was still shouting, working herself up. “You heard me, you pervert,” she yelled at the delicate looking man behind her who tried to shrink away.
Muckley tried shouting over the noise. “We are sending you back to the Sodom and Gomorrah you came from, Pruiss,” he intoned.
A scuffle started in the crowd. Remo helped it along by goosing two women and jabbing elbows into the ribs of two men, then disappearing from between them.
The first woman slapped the man behind her. The two men were on the ground battling over the wallet. A flurry of fistfights broke out Wesley Pruiss was forgotten. So was Higbe Muckley. The cameramen came off the porch and toward the crowd to film the fights. Remo reached from behind one man, grabbed one of the TV cameras, and threw it to the ground.
“Press brutality,” the cameraman shouted. “Reactionary,” he yelled. The man he was yelling at threw a punch.
“Fascist,” screamed the other reporters as they retreated back to the relative safety of the porch.
Remo moved away out of the crowd and back upstairs through a rear door of the building.
Chiun glared at him when he came into Pruiss’s room.
“Remo, really,” he said. “I ask you to keep it quiet. This is how you do it?” He gestured toward the window, through which could be heard the sounds of the police arriving and wading into the mob, breaking up the fights.
“Now I’ll have to start all over again,” he said.
Pruiss looked at Remo as if inviting pity.
Remo nodded to him. “Pruiss, you’ve never been safer than you are now.”
“Why?” Pruiss asked.
“Chiun never lets an audience get killed.”
Remo met Theodosia in the hall.
“Good work,” she said.
“Not done yet,” Remo said.
“What else?”
“I’m going to go talk to that Muckley. I want to find out if someone put him up to coming here.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EIGHT PERSONS WERE ARRESTED after the brawl in front of the country club but Reverend Higbe Muckley was not one of them, and a half hour later, he found himself sitting on the edge of the Wanamaker River. He needed to be alone to think. He had a serious problem.
Where was Flamma?
When she had left the press conference with that reporter from the Star, they had told somebody they were on their way to Pruiss’s house. But it hadn’t fooled Muckley. He knew they were going to a motel right away. His belly tingled at the thought of Flamma in her red satin costume. He had tried calling the reporter’s room, but there was no answer.
Where were they?
If that reporter was putting it to her, Muckley’d fix him. He’d fix them both.
He sat on the edge of the river, idly tossing pebbles out into its slow-moving waters. He let his mind drift to the demonstration at the country club. It had gotten untidy and ragged at the edges but it didn’t matter. It would be on the news tonight, along with the charges he and Flamma had made at the press conference, and tomorrow when they marched again, their numbers would be larger, and inside of three days, half the people of Furlong County would be marching behind Higbe Muckley. And that would be that for Wesley Pruiss. There would be no alternative but for him to leave Furlong County.
Muckley did not doubt for a moment that the public would now support his crusade. Pruiss had almost weaseled his way into success by promising to cut taxes in the county. But he had forgotten that sex outplays money all the time. Odd that Pruiss of all people should have forgotten that, since sex was the cornerstone of his own empire.
Muckley began to think about the anti-sex sentiment in the country. There might be a way to tap into it. National crusades against smut. Collect money and use some of it to finance legal complaints by some association against smut peddlers, the rest of course to go for administrative costs, which meant Higbe Muckley. Not an association. A church. It would have to be a church for all the tax benefits.
Forgotten now was Flamma as Muckley began to zero his thoughts in on his first love—cash.
A new name for a new church. The Divine Right church was okay for what it did but it didn’t have the sock that anti-pornography would need.
The Clean Living church. The Church for Clean Living. He idly fingered a few more pebbles and tossed them into the river. Killyfish first bolted from the splash of each stone, then darted back in after it, searching for food.
A hundred thousand members at ten dollars a head each year. A million gross. He could get all the work done for less than a quarter of that. The rest to go to Higbe Muckley.
He wished that he had learned to read and write when he was a child. He was okay doing numbers, but if he had been able to write, he could have saved all those legal fees for the Church of Clean Living. He could write the anti-porn briefs himself.
He tossed more pebbles into the stream and wondered if there was a way to increase the net of the Church of Clean Living from seventy-five percent of the gross to something higher. Maybe he could hire cheaper lawyers.
· · ·
The secretary in Muckley’s office had seemed glad to tell him where he could find the preacher. She seemed angry at Muckley, almost hoping that Remo could bring some kind of irritation to his day. She took a deep breath and gave Remo her address too, so he could come around that night and tell her all about his meeting with Higbe Muckley.
Remo promised to and then he was out in the woods leading toward the Wanamaker River, moving silently, not because he tried to, but because it was the only way he knew how to move. Years of training, running along wet strips of soft tissue, spinning, leaping and jumping on the paper with the goal being not to tear it or even wrinkle it had made the soft, slow movement of the langorous cat the only way he moved now.
Someone else was moving toward Higbe Muckley, but Muckley heard nothing except the kerplunking of the small stones he tossed into the river. If Flamma had belly-danced up behind him now, finger-rings clicking and a balalaika plinking away, he might not have heard, because he was concentrating only on money.
So he did not hear the step behind him. He did not hear the whir as a knife made one lazy half-turn on its way to meet his back. He felt it only when the blade pierced his spinal column and then there was no longer anything to feel with so he fell face forward, his head between his feet, arms extended in front of him, like a man doing calisthenics and trying to touch his toes.
Remo had heard the whir of the knife. He had stopped. He heard the small sip of a groan from Muckley, and sensing what it was, he growled and ran ahead through the trees.
The assassin heard the growl behind him. He wanted to recover his knife. But his first choice was always to be careful and he sank back into the trees, moving quickly and quietly away from the place he had heard the sound of a man’s angry snarl.
Remo saw Muckley at the edge of the river and saw the knife protruding from his back. He did not have to look to see if the man was dead. Remo knew from the location of the wound and the sprawl of the body that Higbe Muckley had taken his last tax deduction.
An anger welled up in him and he wheeled about to face the heavy forest. The blood of his adopted Korean ancestors surged in him and he called out:
“Wa, do you hear my voice?”
The assassin stopped short when he heard his name called, but he did not answer. He listened.
“There is no running from me, Wa,” Remo called. “I am going to feed you your own knives.”
The assassin wondered who was calling. And how did he know Wa?
“You speak bravely,” he called back. Then, to give the other men no chance to fix the sound, he instantly began to move away, parallel to the river.
Remo started slowly toward the spot in the trees where the sound had come from.
“Brave?” he called out. “What do you know of brave, you worthless chip of carrion who kills only those with their backs to you?”
The assassin stopped. For a moment, he considered going back after this insolent white, but he had other things to do. He called out again.
“You will pay for that, white man. You will pay dearly for your insolence. I only regret I cannot extract that payment right now.”
Again he moved away from the sound of his own voice.
Remo recognized that the voice had moved from the first time it had sounded and realized what the assassin was doing. There was no point in following him.
“You extract nothing,” Remo taunted. “Your people were always cowards and traitors, attacking at night from behind, turning like rats on the only man ever to take pity on them.”
The assassin stopped again.
“Pity?” he called. “The Wa need no pity.”
“My ancestor, the Master of Sinanju, took pity on you centuries ago,” Remo called. “As he did, so I will not. When we meet, Wa, you die.”
A chill ran down the assassin’s body when he heard “Master of Sinanju.” Surely that had been nothing more than a family legend. But why would this… this white man know of it?
“Who are you?” he called.
“I am a Master of Sinanju, peanut,” Remo called. And he forced his anger inward, until his rage had spent, and then slowly pronounced the words he had spoken so often before.
“I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; death, the shatterer of worlds; the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. Flee, dog meat, for when we meet, there will be no flight for you.”
The assassin paused. Remo was not moving. His voice still came from the same spot.
Pride in his art and in his tradition and family almost forced him to return, to cut down this prideful white man with the overactive imagination. A Master of Sinanju indeed? The Wa would teach him of Masters of Sinanju.
“When we meet again,” the assassin call, “I will have time for you. It will be my pleasure.”
He turned and moved softly away through the woods, and behind him he heard Remo’s laugh echoing over the wide river.
And in that prideful laugh, welling out of his throat like the pulsing of the blood in his veins, Remo felt at one and at peace with his ancestors, that generation after generation of assassins who had refined the magic of Sinanju and handed it down through the ages as their legacy to him.
He turned and looked back at Muckley’s body.
“That’s the biz, sweetheart,” he said coldly. “But don’t worry. When I meet him, I’m canceling his return ticket.”
As soon as Remo entered the room, Chiun knew.
“You have met the Wa,” he said.
Remo nodded.
“He got away,” Remo said. “He left his calling card.”
Remo held the red-leather handled knife toward Chiun, just as Theodosia burst into the room.
“I just heard on the television,” she said. “Muckley’s dead. Knifed.”
She saw the knife in Remo’s hand and uttered a muffled “oooh.”
Her eyes fixed on him, all questions, which Remo did not answer.
Chiun took the knife and looked at the engraved horse on the blade.
“You said you were just going to talk to him,” Theodosia told Remo accusingly.
“Easy,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”
“On television, they’re blaming Wesley and his people. That means you. Us. All of us.”
“They can blame who they want,” Remo said. “He was dead when I got there.”
Theodosia nodded, but it was not a convincing statement of agreement.
Before either could speak, the telephone rang and from the first syllable, Remo recognized the annoyed voice of Harold W. Smith.
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
Remo listened a while, then said, “We’ll keep him alive.” He hung up, without any pretense of a cordial goodbye.
“Who was that?” Theodosia asked.
“My junior high school gym teacher,” Remo said. “He promised to check with me from time to time to see if I was making a success out of my life.”
Chiun was carefully examining the knife. Rachmed ran into the room.
“I just heard,” he said to Theodosia. “Missss, I do not mind telling you that I do not like all this killing and violenccccce.”
“No,” Remo said. “I guess pickpocketing is as violent as you like to get.”
Rachmed glared at him. “It was all a mistake, sssir,” he said. His face flushed.
“And the whorehouse for little girls? Is that a missssssstake, too?”
Baya Bam ran from the room. Theodosia looked at Remo with suspicion in her eyes. “Just who the hell are you?” she said.
“Your friendly neighborhood bodyguard,” Remo said. Chiun put down the knife. Remo said, “Pruiss is all right?”
Chiun nodded toward tie wall separating his room from Pruiss’s.
“You can hear him breathing, can you not?”
Remo listened and caught the sound of Pruiss’s breath. He nodded. Theodosia strained to hear but could hear nothing.
“If it wasn’t you, who was it?” she asked Remo. She paused, then answered her own question to her own total satisfaction. “Those oil people. Bobbin,” she said. She swore.
She wheeled. Remo and Chiun heard her entering Pruiss’s room.
Chiun looked at Remo.
“The game is almost played out, my son,” he said.
Remo nodded.
“Be careful,” Chiun said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I DIDN’T KNOW THAT was going to happen.”
Flamma was shoving clothes into a bag. Judging by the size of the red satin garment she was wearing, Remo gauged that the bag—a small model’s hat box—would hold enough changes of clothes for an around-the-world trip. Twice. On foot.
“What’d you think was going to happen?” Remo said. He lounged on the bed as Flamma breezed about the small motel room showing him lots of flesh and very little interest.
“I thought they were going to yell at Wesley and embarrass him and that would be that and I’d be even because he wasn’t going to make my movie.”
“Sheep Dip, wasn’t it?” Remo asked.
“Animal Instincts,” Flamma corrected. “But I didn’t expect anybody to get killed. Even if the Reverend Muckley was an old pervert.”
“Who hired you?” asked Remo. He had gotten into her room by showing an old card he carried, one of many, which announced that Remo McElaney was an investigator for the United States Senate Select Subcommittee on Grain Purchases and Natural Resources. He could just as easily have shown her a card listing himself as an FBI agent, a CIA man, a Treasury man, a Jersey City cop, or a field representative for the International Fish and Game Commission. But Grain Purchases and Natural Resources was the first one that had come out of his pocket. Flamma was so nervous she hadn’t bothered to look at it closely. People never did.
