“What did you do to the witness?”
“The forces of the universe did it for me,” said Bill Pollenberg with a smile. Shortly thereafter, smiling Bill was found minus his diamond ring and serving as a cushion for his favorite horse's right rear hoof. Every time the horse used his hoof, Bill Pollenberg's stomach met part of his vast rangeland. The diamond ring was recovered from a little girl in downtown Oklahoma City who said a nice man gave it to her because she had such a pretty smile.
* * *
On a yacht cruising the Pacific along the California coast, Angelo Muscamente met his underbosses, his oily courtesy coating the ever-present malevolence that made his organization one of the smoothest-running in the country. They all had survived what had been the greatest threat to their freedom in a decade and they had gotten their reprieve when a minor enforcer, a witness, suddenly forgot everything.
No one who knew Mr. Muscamente believed for one moment he had not stretched his long powerful arms out to reach Gennaro “Drums” Drumola. Everyone knew that crossing Mr. Muscamente meant pain at least, and death at most. Those offenses that brought the death penalty were those jobs that cost Mr. Muscamente anything over $5,000. Because the boss was unreasonable and unbendable about the arbitrary line, only petty thievery could flourish in his mob. As his lieutenants boarded his yacht, each kissed his offered hand.
“Mr. Muscamente, it is a pleasure to be here,” said one after another.
“Yeah. Okay,” said Mr. Muscamente, receiving the homage with boredom. There were fourteen, all told, who were finally assembled on the rear deck of his oceangoing yacht Mama. They sat on small chairs, each with a small table in front of him. Whatever they wanted to drink or eat was set before them so that they would not have to call for anything. When Mr. Muscamente spoke, he did not like interruptions. Several of the underbosses made sure they used the head before he began. The yacht's crewmen were told they were not appreciated at the stern, but should go forward.
But these were not exactly the words Mr. Muscamente's bodyguards used.
“Ey! Youse guys. Get outta here. Go to the front. I don't want to see none of youse here no more. You hear? Now beat it.”
When the decks were cleared of outsiders, Mr. Muscamente cleared his throat. He sat on a slightly higher chair near the rear railing. He wore his yachtsman's double-breasted blue blazer and white slacks with Top-Siders. Mr. Muscamente had seen others wear this uniform, and he had ordered it by having two of his men muscle a fellow yachtsman into a clothing store and find out what the clothes were called by saying:
“What's dis guy wearing?”
Then he ordered it for himself. And so from his high seat on his yacht Mama, perfectly attired in his seafaring regalia, Angelo Muscamente spoke now to his underbosses about a wonderful revelation.
“You see in me a new person,” said Mr. Muscamente.
Everyone agreed.
“But it is not new. Not new at all,” said Mr. Muscamente. He waited for everyone to agree with his contradiction.
“Now, how can this be, you may ask yourselves.”
“Good question, boss,” said Santino “Big Jelly” Jellino.
“There is within all of us a positive power we fight against.”
“We'll beat the shit out of it, boss,” said Big Jelly.
“Shut up,” said Mr. Muscamente kindly.
“Right, boss. Everyone shut up,” said Big Jelly.
“Mostly you, Big Jelly,” said Mr. Muscamente. “Now, how can there be another good person locked inside a struggling negative person?”
Only the sound of the engine purring belowdecks could be heard. No one was going to answer the question. Everyone avoided the eyes of everyone else. No one wanted it to be known that he didn't have the slightest idea what the boss was talking about.
Mr. Muscamente talked of the forces of the universe being good. He talked of astral power. He talked of a far distant planet that all mankind came from, which was what made them different from animals. They all waited for the pitch. When Joey “Fingers” Phalange heard the name Poweressence mentioned, he suddenly thought he understood what it was all about.
“Yeah. I could have bought one of those franchises from the Dolomos back in seventy-eight, real cheap. I know a guy that got stuck with one, though. What with all the bad publicity, alligators in swimming pools and everything, those franchises ain't gonna be worth salt in a year or two. I say we stay out of them.”
“That alligator was attracted to that columnist's pool because alligators are negative astral creatures that respond to negative astral forces. That columnist drew the alligator to himself. No one put it in his pool,” said Mr. Muscamente.
“No, boss. They got the guy that bought Exhibit A for the Dolomos. They got him in court. He nailed 'em. That appeal they got won't do business. The Dolomos are goin' to the slammer.”
“Not if we can help it.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We are going to do a hit on that turncoat traitor.”
“Because we're takin' over Poweressence. We buy in on the franchise low now, remove the witness, then we got somethin' that's worth somethin'. I see,” said Big Jelly. Everyone nodded. Mr. Muscamente ruled almost as much through his brains as he did through terror.
“We are not touching one positive center. We are protecting it,” said Mr. Muscamente.
“We sell the Dolomos protection,” said Fingers.
“We sell nothing. We buy. I am entering you all at Level One. I don't want no negative consciousness around me. You are going to release your blocks. You are going to function with the forces of good, namely us. Anyone against us is evil. Got it?”
There were many yesses. The only thing they didn't understand was why Mr. Muscamente needed Poweressence to think everyone against them was evil. They had thought like that since childhood.
On the bridge, the captain noticed something moving toward the Mama. He brought his binoculars to bear, focused, then refocused.
Finally he asked the first mate to verify what he saw.
“Are my eyes going?” he asked.
The first mate focused, then he too refocused.
“I don't know what it is either. It looks like a man in a dark T-shirt and gray pants, swimming toward us.”
“At twenty knots? Fourteen miles out in the Pacific?”
“It must be a small boat,” said the first mate.
The captain took back the binoculars. He looked out toward the object.
“Right— a boat. With arms and legs that move. How can he swim that fast?”
The first mate got his own set of binoculars.
“You're right. He is swimming fast, and he hardly seems to be making an effort. Not like any swimmers I've seen. They splash a lot. Boy, is he smooth. Do you think we should tell Mr. Muscamente?”
“Those animals back there would tear us apart. He's having one of his meetings.”
“Then what should we do?”
“Maybe that guy isn't heading toward us.”
“Looks like it to me.”
“If he's a man overboard, we have to pick him up,” said the captain.
“Doesn't look like a man overboard to me,” said the first mate.
“We'll all find out pretty soon.”
One of Mr. Muscamente's guests spotted the man overboard soon after. The captain knew this because the guest fired a small pistol at the figure. The figure disappeared under the water. The figure came up at the rear of the yacht and began talking to Mr. Muscamente.
The first thing he did was to convince Fingers to let go of his gun. He did this by separating Fingers from the wrist that held the gun. Big Jelly went overboard like a bucket of chum. Then everyone sat back down quietly, including Mr. Muscamente.
It was a day that would be remembered forever in the annals of the California mob. It was a day that brought tears to the eyes of Mr. Muscamente. These tears came when he could not explain why the witness, “Drums” Drumola, failed to
remember testimony.
Mr. Muscamente explained it as forces of the universe, while his underbosses listened politely. The guest who swam aboard had a strong tendency to respond with slaps and twists of arms.
Within a few minutes Mr. Muscamente was a helpless ball of flesh, his double-breasted blue blazer in shreds, his Top-Sider deck shoes kicking helplessly in the air. At that point, the guest who had swum aboard threw Mr. Muscamente over the stern. Every time Mr. Muscamente came up for breath, the guest asked how Mr. Muscamente made Drums forget his testimony. On the third and last time Mr. Muscamente surfaced, everyone on board realized he was telling the truth. He believed he had unlocked the forces of good on his side.
Everyone on board agreed on something else. They certainly didn't want to tamper with government witnesses if this man was protecting them, because they believed, as Mr. Muscamente had shouted, that indeed this man was the supreme force of negativity. And if that were the case, none of them wanted to be on the side of the positive.
Remo sailed back sullenly with the remnants of the California mob and a very impressed captain and first mate. He was quiet, even as his clothes dried. He had failed again.
Several of the underbosses wanted to know who he worked for, not that they were curious, Remo should understand. But they would be totally delighted to employ him. They saw in him the sort of person who shared their most basic convictions. They saw in him someone who would fit perfectly into the California rackets.
“No,” said Remo. “I happen to be the good guy.”
And since he said this as he threw someone overboard, there wasn't a soul to disagree with him as the Mama docked at the Los Angeles marina. They all allowed him to leave first.
When he phoned in to headquarters, he knew he had to be slipping somehow, because Smith was now conciliatory, telling him it was not his fault.
“I would say go at the Poweressence people because that's the only common thread we have here. But if they were behind this, why didn't they use this power to turn witnesses for themselves? It doesn't make sense. The only thing we know is that the whole justice system seems to be coming apart in California.”
“Yeah, and if it happens in California, the whole nation catches it soon thereafter,” said Remo.
“Are you trying to make me feel good?” asked Smith.
“I don't feel so hot myself.”
“Why don't you take a look at that organization? Take Chiun.”
“You don't think I can handle things anymore.”
“Take Chiun.”
“Are you telling me I can't do the job?” asked Remo.
“I am telling you I don't understand how you and Chiun work, and if he tells me you are out of synch with the cosmos, then that means there is something wrong. And you are for some reason not coming up with results.”
“You just told me it wasn't my fault.”
“I just told you I had no reason to believe it was your fault. I can't be sure.”
Remo pulverized the receiver of the pay telephone. It was so much more satisfying than hanging up.
Chapter 6
Lawyer Barry Glidden sent his children off to Switzerland, telling them to use another name for a while. He would contact them when the situation improved.
“Have you done something wrong, Daddy?” asked his daughter.
“No,” said Glidden. “I have a very difficult client who is very mad now.”
“They won't pay you?”
“No. That's the least of my worries. There is a client I have who thinks the only wrong thing in the world is if something bad happens to her. And she does bad things.”
“Like what, Daddy?”
“Like anything, honey. Absolutely anything. Anything, sweetheart. Do you understand?” Barry held the girl's head in his hands. He shuddered. “There is nothing beyond this sick, sick lady's imagination. Nothing that she won't do. To anyone. So that is why you have to leave. She is mad at me now.”
“Couldn't you get policemen to protect you?”
“Doesn't work like that, sweetheart. Not with those two.”
“Then why do you defend them?”
“Well, she paid a lot of money. Lots. And I didn't... couldn't believe they were as bad as they turned out.”
“Oh, Daddy. You have had some absolutely horrid clients.”
“She puts alligators in swimming pools of people she doesn't like. She threatens the President. And she promised to boil someone alive in oil if she lost a lawsuit. If I lost a lawsuit. Get on the plane, honey.”
“Did you lose the lawsuit?”
“Not yet, just the first round. But we don't stand a chance.”
“She's going to boil you alive in oil, Daddy?”
“No, honey, someone I love.”
“Good-bye, Daddy. Don't phone until it's over. They can trace phone calls.”
“Good-bye, honey,” said Barry Glidden, who despite his sense of terror was not too terrified to do some good business before he saw the Dolomos. He brought two more investors into the city complex he had planned for the Dolomo estate. Then he went out to see Beatrice and her husband. Gingerly he drove over one of her moats. He wondered if there were alligators in there. He wondered if she would throw him in before he got the chance to fit two hundred duplex units on the south lawn.
Glidden knew Beatrice was on a rampage because Rubin was hiding. He stood in the middle of the pink marble foyer and looked for clues as to Rubin's whereabouts. From the rear of the house echoed a sound— a gurgling, happy sound. He knew that couldn't be Rubin, but the sounds intrigued him. Glidden would investigate. He walked past a few of the bodyguards the Dolomos had stationed strategically around the estate since the parents of a Powie attempted to kill them for stealing their daughter.
Of course, they hadn't really stolen the daughter. They had only sold her some courses. She was working in Australia for the rest of her life to pay them off.
Glidden saw a row of doors with glass windows. The gurgling came from one of them. He peeked in. What he saw was grown people in diapers. First he wondered if it were a new form of California sex, but no one was touching except for occasional hair pulls. He looked into the next door. There were grown-ups playing with trains. Well, some grown-ups played with trains. But he had never seen them make the sounds of the whistles, at least, not with such abandon. In the next room a woman with grotesquely dyed hair pummeled a video machine. And in the final room was a bar with an available lady hanging around.
Barry let her give him a drink. Barry let her put a hand on his neck. Barry removed his own hands from his lap in case there was something she wanted to get to. She did.
He did not resist. He wondered if there was a little room around, some private place.
“Nobody comes in here,” said the woman. He could smell her perfume, a foul cheap nostril-wrenching odor. However, when it came with an absolutely bare body, a beautiful body, a full body, a body waiting for him, Barry Glidden couldn't care less about the welfare of his nostrils.
A moment later, a roller-coaster would have been private enough for Barry Glidden.
Just before his moment of glory, Barry Glidden felt a shoe heel in his back.
“Barry. Where's Rubin? I'm looking for Rubin.”
“In a moment, Beatrice,” said her lawyer. “Just a moment.”
“I don't have a moment,” said Beatrice.
“Just one. Just one.”
“Do you have to do that in here?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I have to do it and I'm doing it.”
“Well, where's Rubin? I want Rubin. Do you hear? I want Rubin. You two stop that.”
Barry didn't want to stop. If a gun were pointed at his head at this moment he would have wondered if he could finish before he was dead.
He heard Beatrice doing something at the bar, and then with an earthquake size shock he felt the splash of a pail of cold water on his back.
“C'mon upstairs,” said Beatrice. “We have work to do.”
&
nbsp; “Rubin says she's very forceful,” said the woman.
“Yeah,” said Barry. Sometimes a thousand condo units wasn't worth the price of working for the Dolomos.
In the large south meeting room where the Dolomos often planned strategy with franchise owners, Beatrice seemed almost happy.
Barry blotted himself with paper towels.
“I want the truth now. On a scale of one to ten, what are our chances of winning an appeal?”
“We can still cop a plea on the charges of mail fraud.”
“I didn't ask for that.”
“No chance.”
“Then,” said Beatrice Dolomo, “we are going to start playing dirty.”
“What are alligators in pools and threats to the President? Playing clean?”
“I mean we're going to play hardball, Barry.”
“They put people in gas chambers for that sort of hardball, Beatrice. Why not cut your losses and run? You'll still have plenty of money, especially if you sell this estate you won't be needing. Considering the appreciation of your money— if you sell the estate you'll come out of jail set for life. No more cult business, just beautiful peaceful wealthy retirement.”
“For the two to three years we would have left to live, Barry? No deal. I didn't crawl up from a stinking attic dragging Rubin with me because I am a quitter. You think Rubin is some great genius? He was just another hack science-fiction writer. He believed Poweressence. He was trying to help people when it began. Do you realize that? He actually believed people could cure headaches by finding the moment in their lives they couldn't let go of. I had to stop him from treating cancer patients before they sued us into penury. No, Mr. Glidden, I am not copping a plea.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Escalate.”
“You already tried to kill one columnist and have threatened the President. Where do you go from there?”
“If you don't make good on your threats, no one will believe you,” said Beatrice. Today she wore purple lipstick with purple eyeshadow. She wore a white peasant blouse embroidered with flowers. She looked like a middle-age woman who had lost her own clothes and was borrowing those of a twelve-year-old daughter.
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