Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds

by Deathwish World(lit)

  "I want to know to whom you were talking."

  "None of your goddam business."

  "I want to know, too," a voice said from behind her. Ferd Feldmeyer stepped into the room.

  Mary Ann said to him, "I passed his room earlier and saw his bags there on the floor. He was already packed. His excuse for leaving while we were still listening to the broadcast wasn't valid. And now I caught him phoning somebody."

  Ferd looked at the publicity man wearily. "What the hell's the matter, Jet? Wasn't ten thousand a day enough to keep you honest?"

  Jet Peters stared at him. "Ten thousand a day? Don't be silly. He won't last the next twenty-four hours-especially after that broadcast roasting the contracting corporation and the Graf. You two ought to come in with me. I was offered a quarter of a million pseudo-dollars, tax free, just for fingering him. They'll boost that now, if all three of us cooperate."

  "What some assholes will do for money," Feldmeyer said, shaking his head. "I always thought you were a square guy in a sloppy sort of way, Peters. You and Forty and I have known each other for a long time. You shouldn't have sold Forry out. You undoubtedly contacted the Graf's people on your own. They wouldn't have known how to get in touch with you, or even that you were working for Roy."

  The other said in a quick rage, "Poor Cos is going to get it anyway! What difference does a few days make? We'll collect our ten thousand a day as long as he lasts and then, when they get to him, we'll get a bonus of maybe another half million from the Graf when they burn him. The Graf never reneges on a deal."

  "No," Mary Ann said bitterly. "And neither do I, you cynical gob of snot."

  Ferd Feldmeyer held out a hand. "No more reports, Peters. Give me your transceiver."

  "Get screwed, you fat jerk."

  Ferd's eyebrows went up in his lardy face. "Peters, I'm twice your weight and ten years younger. Do you really wanta try me?"

  Jet glared but finally dipped a hand into his side pocket and brought forth the communications device. The speechwriter took it, dropped it to the floor, and ground it under his heel. "You stupid, greedy bastard," he said. "You not only don't get the seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, but you won't get anything from the Graf's outfit, either." He turned to Mary Ann. "Let's go. We don't want to keep them waiting."

  Carrying their bags, Mary Ann and Ferd piled into the car parked in the driveway. In actuality, it was Jet Peters's vehicle, which bothered them not at all. Mary Ann drove.

  Under way, Ferd Feldmeyer growled, "The idiot. Didn't it ever occur to him that when the Graf's boys finally polished off Roy, some of us might go, too? They might just toss a grenade, getting us all. Then the Graf wouldn't have to renege on the quarter of a million he promised Jet. There wouldn't be any Jet to pay off."

  Mary Ann said, "Well, at least we learned one thing."

  He looked over at her, still disgusted at the defection of his friend. "What?"

  "It's definite that it's the Graf's contract."

  "A hell of a lot of good that does us," he said. "The Graf's men are far and away the most efficient in their rotten business."

  The corner where they were scheduled to rendezvous wasn't far. The small Tri-Di station couldn't have been many miles away. Forry wasn't telling anything he could withhold.

  Mary Ann parked, and within three minutes another car pulled up alongside them. Les Bates was at the wheel, Forry beside him. The rest were in the back.

  Forry called over, "Hurry it up. Let's get out of here."

  Mary Ann and Ferd brought their luggage over and stuffed it into the large compartment of the limousine. Ferd crowded into the front with Forry and Les; Mary Ann got into the back with Roy and the three other guards, taking a jump seat.

  Roy said, "Where the devil's Jet?"

  Ferd answered wearily, "He sold out to the Graf. Mary Ann caught him reporting. Evidently, he'd promised to finger you."

  Les took off, accelerating rapidly.

  "Damn," Forry said angrily. "I didn't expect any of the team to get the gimmes this soon."

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  Les said to Forry, "Where are we going?"

  And Forry said, "I don't know."

  They all looked at him blankly.

  He said impatiently, "Don't you get it? None of us knows where we're going now. So at least we're sure that the Graf's gang won't be there waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing, from now on we have to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as possible, but with Roy available to the media. He's got to give interviews, issue statements, keep in the public eye. We can buy media time, but that doesn't mean that we can ignore free publicity. So, any ideas?"

  For a time, as they sped across the country, all were blank.

  Billy Tucker said hesitantly, "I was thinking in terms of getting a couple of mobile homes and keeping on the move. Just turning up from time to time for broadcasts."

  Roy objected, "Then we'd be hiding from the news people as well as the Graf and we'd miss all that free publicity Forry's talking about."

  "And that's going to get your message across even faster than your own talks," Mary Ann said.

  Dick Samuelson said, "I hope the organization is grinding out our pamphlets fast enough to meet the demand."

  "They won't have to," Forry said. "But never fear, profit-making publishers will get into the act. If there's a market, before the next week is out, you'll see more material on the Wobbly program than you ever suspected could exist. But to get back to it. Where do we go?"

  Ron Ellison said hesitantly, "I know a big hotel in Miami where they've got a king-size penthouse.

  "I worked there once," Ron told him. "I know the place. It wouldn't take much to secure it. There's only one private elevator, with a steel door. And there's another steel door at the only stairway. The place was originally built with the idea of attracting South American politicians who'd taken off with their country's treasure, or Syndicate men, or maybe Tri-Di stars who wanted to get away from their fans."

  Forry said sourly, "There are quite a few places in southern Florida of that type. Anything special about this one?"

  "Well, yes," Ron said. "When I was working there, there were three or four other Wobblies besides me. Hotels are automated to hell and gone, these days, but you've always got to have some staff."

  "I get it," Roy said. "Having our own people planted in the hotel means that much more security. They might be able to spot something offbeat and report it to you."

  "That's right," Ron said nodding. "You'd be surprised how fast gossip goes through a big hotel. Suppose one of the Graf's men turned up claiming to be from the phone company and wanting to get into the penthouse for repairs. The hotel electrician, a chum-pal of mine named Larry, would spot him in a minute. Either that or he'd tag along with him, just to be sure, as long as he was in the hotel."

  "I'm sold," Forry said. "Ron, get on your transceiver and find out if that penthouse is available. If so, rent it in your name. Don't mention anything about Roy or me. Say you'll pay in advance daily but don't let on that you have endless funds. Say you're coming in tonight."

  While Ron was making arrangements, Forry said to Roy, "If I know this type of hotel penthouse arrangement, there'll be a private entrance, probably at the rear of the hotel. Ron will know. We'll go in that way. You and I will have scarves around our heads, on the off chance that somebody who saw the broadcast might spot us. We want to be organized in that place before our coming-out party to the news syndicates."

  "Right," Roy said. He took a deep breath. "How long do you think I'll last, Forry?"

  The other took time to light a smoke before answering. He said, trying to keep feeling from his voice, "I don't know. Probably longer than anybody thinks. There are some aspects of this one that the Grafs boys haven't run into before. In the past, the suckers who signed the Deathwish Policies to have their fun and spend their credits did it in public-nightclubs, restaurants, bars, shops, theatres. They were sit
ting ducks. We're going to present them with a whole new set of problems."

  They pulled up before the looming beachside resort hotel an hour later and were met at the private entrance by the manager. Monsieur Pierre Boucherer was a product of the best Swiss hotel management school, therefore, a whiz at fawning.

  He fawned. He welcomed their party of eight with pure enthusiasm. He saw nothing untoward in the heads of two men swathed in scarves. He saw nothing untoward in the party insisting on taking up their own luggage to their extrav-agantly expensive skytop rental. He would have seen nothing untoward if they'd all had live coral snakes for neckties. He alone accompanied them to the penthouse.

  It took two trips in view of their number, the amount of luggage, and the fact that the elevator was only medium-size. But at last, all of them were gathered in the spacious living room.

  "Jesus," Billy Tucker said, looking around, taking it all in. He had obviously never been in a luxury hotel apartment.

  Monsieur Boucherer fawned, even as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "And now, how may I serve you?"

  Forry, still masked like a Moslem virgin, looked over at the bar. He then sent his eyes around to his companions. "What's your favorite guzzle?" he said.

  They looked at him in mild surprise for a moment, but then: "Medium dry sherry," Mary Ann said.

  "Whiskey," said Roy, who was also still swathed, but then, "No. Make that Scotch."

  "Yeah, Scotch," Ron said.

  "Bourbon," Dick said. "Real hundred-proof sour mash."

  "Me, too," Bill said.

  "I'm a beer man-but none of this synthetic stuff," Les said.

  "Brandy," Ferd said, running a small tongue over his fat lips. "French cognac."

  "Cognac for me, too," Forry said. And then, to the manager, "Send up two cases each of sherry, Scotch, bourbon, and cognac, and ten cases of Pilsner Urquell. All of the best quality the hotel cellars provide."

  The manager gaped at him blankly. He said, "But sir, the bar is automated, either for individual drinks or by the bottle."

  "Send up the cases," Forry said. "This penthouse has a kitchen, of course, and a large pantry, deep-freeze and all?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "I want it completely stocked within a couple of hours, from your stocks on hand, with enough food to last us a month or more. The very best, mind you."

  Monsieur Boucherer was too taken aback to remember his fawning. He opened his mouth to protest, to declare the abilities of the hotel's chefs, but then closed it again. "Yes, sir," he fawned. "And what else?"

  Forry said, "This room is going to be converted into, uh, something of an office. We'll want a half dozen desks and the standard equipment to go with them-TV phones, voco-typers, library boosters for the National Data Banks. All of this should be up here in the next couple of hours."

  The manager blinked. "Yes, sir."

  Forry pressed on. "I understand that there's a stairway, steel-doored at both ends, leading up here. I want the door at the other end kept closed and two hotel security men posted at it twenty-four hours a day. They are to pass no one."

  That, evidently, was not an unknown desire on the part of guests registered in the penthouse. Monsieur Boucherer was able to make with a fawn again. "Certainly, sir."

  "Two guards are to be stationed at the elevator as well, twenty-four hours a day. No one outside this party is to be allowed to pass without my okay. My name is Brown."

  "Very good, Mr. Brown."

  "For the moment that's all. I'll see you in the morning about the credit transfer to cover all this. It will be on a Swiss International Numbered Account."

  "Of course, sir."

  When the manager was gone, the little ex-newsman sighed and unwrapped his scarf; Roy Cos did the same. Forry sent Ron and Dick to double check the doors. Les Bates made a beeline for the bar, calling over his shoulder for orders.

  The others slumped into seats, all suddenly weary.

  Roy said, "What's the idea of ordering all that guzzle?"

  "And all the food, for that matter?" Mary Ann nodded.

  Forry said, "Anything we order tonight is probably safe. It's unbelievable that the bogeymen know we're here. But after tomorrow morning, when we let it out where we are, nobody in this team is to drink or eat anything that doesn't come from our private stock. Don't dial for drinks on the autobar, don't have any food sent up from the kitchens. From now on, we're poison-conscious. Also conscious of the fact that a bottle can be gimmicked with explosives. Take off the cap and wham."

  "Yeah," Roy said in resignation. "From now on, we've got to assume that anything that could possibly kill us, will."

  Mary Ann glanced over at him, her eyes sad, but she said nothing.

  Roy glanced at his diminutive manager. "What was that about you asking the IABI for protection? And about the guns? I didn't know you'd requested gun permits for the boys."

  "I haven't," Forry told him. "But it sounded good over the air. Bring home to the viewers the toughness of the spot you're in. At that stage, it was just as well the IABI didn't know where we were, even if they did want to guard us. They're undoubtedly infiltrated by the Graf's organization, and we'd have put ourselves on the spot. And asking for gun permits for them would have revealed the fact that Ron, Billy, Les, and Rick were lined up with you and that might have led to tracking us down. If the IABI denied we'd asked for protection, nobody would believe them."

  "You're quite a Machiavelli, Forry," Ferd wheezed.

  Les had served them drinks and they settled back in satisfaction. They all felt the tensions of the past few days.

  Forry said, taking out the last pack of cigarettes he had bought in Nassau, "I hope that soapy manager can come up with tobacco as well. I'll have to order that, too, before the night is out. That's all I'd need, some doped cigarettes."

  He looked over at Ron. "You know this place better than any of the rest of us. Go around and decide what rooms each of us should have. Give Roy the most strategically located one-you know, the one that's furthest from both of the elevator and staircase."

  Dick stood and walked over to the French windows that opened onto the hotel's roof. There was an extensive garden, largely of potted plants, a swimming pool, a sun deck, tables, and folding chairs. He said, "What's to prevent a chopper from settling down out there with a few of the Grafs lads in it?"

  "Nothing," Forry growled. "We're going to have to post a full-time guard outside."

  Dick turned and looked at him. "There's only four of us."

  Forry nodded. "I know." He looked at Roy Cos. "We're going to need another four of your Wobblies. Have you got four more like Ron, Les, Dick, and Billy?"

  The Wobbly national organizer sighed. "There aren't as many of us as all that, you know, and we're not all young, unattached, strongarm types. And probably a lot of the membership don't even agree with what I'm doing."

  "All right," Forry said sourly. "But we need at least four more guards, preferably familiar with guns."

  "Guns? What guns?" Dick said bitterly. "Just one of the Graf's pros with a shooter could blow the asses off us all."

  Forry looked at him. "By tomorrow we'll have guns. You can buy anything in this country if you have enough credit, and as of tomorrow, we'll be openly spending Roy's million a day. As an old-time crime reporter, I have a few contacts. Gyrojets all right?"

  "Yes," Dick said, happier now. "Both handguns and assault rifles."

  Roy said, "I'll get together with the boys and we'll try and pick four more guards." He turned to Mary Ann and Ferd and said, "How'd the broadcast go over?"

  Mary Ann said, "Well, good and bad." She glanced over at Forry. "For one thing, his presentation isn't too good. His appearance is, well, poor. A hero can't be pale and dumpy."

  Forry ran his eyes over the Wobbly organizer, who was grimacing, and nodded. "I should've thought of that. There're injections these days that can darken his complexion, or we could use a sunlamp. And we can have him massaged and dieted down to t
he point where he doesn't look so lardy."

  "Hey," Roy said in protest.

  They ignored him.

  "There's another thing," Ferd Feldmeyer said. "That first speech was good enough, perhaps. It summed up the Wobbly program. But we can't just repeat it over and over again. We've got to have fresh material."

  "Like what?" Dick asked, in rejection. "I thought it was swell. Gave the movement's stand exactly. That's the point of the whole thing."

  The speechwriter shook his head. "You can't just keep hitting the viewers over the head with a flat statement of what you want. You've got to come up with new, exciting stuff; something to keep them coming, wanting to listen in to future programs."