Acid Rock td-13
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«Close the contract,» Nilsson said and hung up the phone without saying good-bye. His old and tanned hand rested on the telephone cradle. He picked up the receiver again. It fit smoothly in the palm of his hand and was cool to the touch, just, he realized, like the butt of a revolver.
He sat there, sensing the warmth of the imaginary revolver in his hand, thinking of all the children Lhasa might have had who could have extracted payment from a world which had killed their father. But Lhasa had never had those children. Gunner had seen to that.
So what was left?
Gunner squeezed the telephone receiver, lifted it slowly and held it at arm's length, aiming the earpiece at a spot against the far wall. With his index finger he squeezed. For a moment, he felt the need to blink, but he suppressed it. How quickly the old habits returned. He cleared his throat as his finger pressed hard on the middle of the receiver. He smiled at the sound.
Lhasa would need no children to avenge him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
«That's right,» said Remo. «We lost the girl.»
He heard Smith choke on the other end of the phone.
«Nothing curable, I hope,» Remo said.
«Don't worry about it,» Smith said. «Have you any leads on the girl?»
«Maybe,» Remo said. «There is some kind of a thing called Maggot which apparently is a singer. She's been looking for him. I think I might be able to find her there.»
«It's imperative to keep her alive.»
«Right,» Remo said.
«And there are new complications.»
«As opposed to the old complications?»
«The Lhasa Nilsson you ran into?»
«Yeah.»
«He makes this international. An international contract.»
«Doesn't matter,» Remo said.
«Maybe it does,» Smith said. «The Nilsson family is something special.»
«In what way?»
«They have been in this business for six hundred years.»
« 'This business' is killing?»
«Their reputation says they have never failed,» Smith said.
«I have one stiff in the closet who's spoiled their record,» Remo said.
«That's what worries me,» Smith said. «I just can't believe it's going to stop there.»
«And I told you it doesn't matter. One country, a hundred countries. One Nilsson, a hundred Nilssons. All the same. If we find the girl, she's safe.»
«Are you really so arrogant?» Smith asked.
«Look,» Remo said testily. «You worry about all the Nilssons. Worry about them all you want. Do you really believe there is any comparison between them and the House of Sinanju?»
«They are highly regarded.»
«Come look in my closet. See what that does for your high regard.»
«I am only suggesting that you be realistic and cautious. You are up against very good people and you sound like Chiun. The next thing I know you'll be telling me some nonsense about the majesty and worth and wonder of the House of Sinanju.»
«You know,» Remo said, «You don't deserve what you get. You deserve some heavy-handed button man who needs two assistants to read the name of the victim.»
«Just don't be like Chiun.»
«I won't. But don't expect the mountain to tremble at the breeze.»
He hung up, feeling tense, disgusted by Smith's lack of confidence. He looked up to see Chiun staring at him from across the room, a small smile on his face.
«What are you smirking about?» Remo demanded.
«Do you know that there are times when I actually think you may yet amount to something?» Chiun asked.
«Don't get carried away,» Remo said. «Come on, we're going to visit someone.»
«May I ask who?»
«I hoped you would,» Remo said. «We're going to see Maggot and the Dead Meat Lice.»
«Only in America could I be so fortunate,» Chiun said.
Vickie Stoner stuck out her tongue and took a long lick of the shiny red, translucent lollipop. It was being held in the right hand of Dead Meat Louse Number One, who sat on the edge of Vickie's bed.
«Just like being a baby again, man,» she said.
«Even better,» he said. «These ain't just any lollipops.»
«No?»
«No. I buy them special.» He leaned forward and whispered, «From the House of the Heavenly Hash.»
«That's bitchen, man. Bitchen.»
«Sweets for the sweet.»
«Great, Number One. You just make that up?»
«Nahh. I read it once in a lyric.»
«Cool,» she said. «Why not climb in here with me?»
«Thought you'd never ask.»
Louse Number One was wearing only a thighlength dashiki which he peeled off quickly, before he slipped under the sheet with Vickie. He still held the lollipop in his right hand.
«You know, I'm gonna ball that Maggot,» she said in his ear.
«Forget it, Vickie. Maggot won't ball. Germs or something.»
«He'll ball. I just gotta figure out how.»
«Hey, remember me? I'm the guy that put you back together again when you wandered in here with your head strung out behind you. I'm the one who chased that fat-ass disc jockey away by telling him you'd split. Remember me?»
«I never forget a favor, Number One, but I gotta ball that Maggot. Hey, what time is it?»
He handed her the lollipop as he looked at his watch. «Six o'clock,» he said.
«No, not that time. Day of the week time?»
«Oh, it's like Wednesday or something.»
«Well, you just stay here and wait for me a minute,» she said, and put the lollipop on the black curly hair on his chest. «I gotta make a call first.»
«I am pleased by what you told Dr. Smith,» Chiun said.
«I can't understand him getting upset about somebody nobody ever heard of.»
«You should not disregard his anxieties. It is difficult sometimes to deal with a new house. They have no traditions and therefore are not bound by custom.»
«Well, I'm not going to worry about them. What I'm worried about is finding the girl. It's strange, you know. The people who are trying to kill her never seem to have any problem locating her.»
«Maybe she is wired for sound,» Chiun said. «I understand that is what your country does with important people.»
«How can we protect her when we don't know where she is?»
«It happened once to another Master of Sinanju, but it all worked out well,» Chiun said.
«How?» Remo said suspiciously.
«The Master was hired to protect someone. He did not know the whereabouts of that someone but the killer did.»
«So, what happened?»
Chiun shrugged. «What you would expect. The killer killed that person.»
«Then how can you say it worked out well?»
«It .did. It was the fault of the emperor who hired the Master. No one blamed the House of Sinanju and the Master was paid anyway. So you can put your mind at rest. No one will blame us if something happens to the girl. And we will be paid.»
Remo shook his head in wonder.
«Before we leave,» Chiun said, «we must bury Lhasa Nilsson in a correct way. He is a member of a House.»
«So?»
Chiun exploded in a babble of Korean. «So?» he said in English. «So he is a member of a House, a member of our profession. He must be buried ritually. I understand people from that part of the world have a certain way of disposing of their warriors.»
Remo thought back, remembered the movie Beau Geste and said, «Funeral by fire.»
«Correct,» Chiun said. «Please take care of it.»
«How?» Remo said. «Call our friendly neighborhood funeral parlor?»
«I'm sure that to one who would understand the Secrets of Sinanju, such a thing would not be difficult. Please take care of it,» Chiun said.
He walked away as Remo behind him mumbled, «Please take care of it, please take care
of it,» under his breath.
He watched Chiun walk into the bedroom where his steamer trunks were stored, then went to the closet and dragged out the green plastic trash bag containing Lhasa Nilsson.
He hoisted it up onto his shoulder and carried it out into the hall, mumbling irritably under his breath all the while. It was Gary Cooper in Beau Geste. But who was the brother who had the Viking funeral? Well, never mind. It was funeral by fire? But the suspicion nudged at him that there was something else.
What was it?
Remo looked both ways down the hall, then turned right. Halfway down the hall, he found what he was looking for, a large incinerator chute used by hotel workers for dumping waste.
What was that? What was it Gary Cooper had done? It was more than just funeral by fire.
Remo yanked the chute door open with his left hand and with a flick of his right shoulder twitched the bag onto the door. He was ready to push it down the chute, when a ferocious yipping sound pierced his ears and he felt needle pricks at his right ankle. Remo looked down. A Pomeranian dog with a jeweled collar was snapping at him. That's it, he thought. A dog. A dog has to go with the corpse in a Viking funeral.
From down around the corner, he heard a stentorian female voice whooping, «Bubbles. Where are you, Bubbles? Come to Momma.»
But meanwhile Bubbles was doing a number on Remo's right ankle.
Remo nicked the trash bag containing Lhasa Nilsson into the chute. He heard it hiss as it slid through the metal cylinder, then whoosh as it fell free to finally thump as it hit in the basement.
The whooping crane who was looking for Bubbles was getting closer. Remo could tell because her voice had changed from a roar to a bellow.
He reached down and grabbed the fluffy ball of fur by the jeweled collar and extended his hand toward the trash chute.
«Oh, there you are,» came the roar. Remo looked around to see a magnificently overupholstered woman in a black dress come thumping toward him.
She yanked Bubbles from his hand and turned and walked away, without thanks, murmuring endearments to the dog.
Oh well, Remo thought. The idea is what counts anyway. Lhasa didn't really need a dog to go with him.
Back in the room, he encountered Chiun coming out of the bedroom, having changed his robe from ceremonial blue to ceremonial green.
«All done,» Remo said. «The Viking funeral is over.»
Chiun raised an eyebrow. «Will his ancestors be pleased?»
«Yup,» Remo said, doing his top impersonation of Gary Cooper.
«Good,» Chiun said with a smile. «One must remember the traditions. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.»
«And garbage to garbage,» Remo mumbled, then said loudly, «He's on his way to Valhalla.»
«Valhalla?»
«Yes, it's a hamburger stand in White Plains. Let's go, we've got to find Vickie Stoner.»
«Must we go near this Maggot to do it?» Chiun asked.
«Of course. It's about time you saw the wholesome rich side of American life. We're going to broaden your horizons.»
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maggot popped pills. A yellow C. An amber E. A pink B12.
«She's got to go,» he said. He was wearing a white cotton bathrobe and his white gloves. A surgical mask hung loosely around his neck, its use unnecessary so long as Louse Number One, Number Two and Number Three kept a respectful distance from him, which they now did by sitting on the other side of the dining room table.
«But Maggot, she's all right,» said Louse Number One.
«One groupie's the same as another groupie,» Maggot said. «Why is she different, except that she spends all her time on the telephone?»
«In the first place, she's smart. In the second place, she doesn't really get !n our way. In the third place, if we believe that fat-faced wax spinner, somebody's trying to kill her.»
«Well, let them,» Maggot said. «I don't want to be killed by accident. Look, we've got two out-of-town concerts and then the big festival in Darlington. We just don't need the headache.»
«I say we vote on it,» said Dead Meat Louse Number One, who had seen Louse Two and Louse Three sneaking from Vickie's room on separate occasions.
«Fine,» Maggot said. «Usual rules. I vote she goes.»
«And I vote she stays,» said Louse One. He looked to Two and Three. They shuffled uneasily in their chairs under his glance and Maggot's piercing stare. Maggot picked up a carrot strip and stuck it in his mouth. «Vote,» he commanded.
«She stays,» said Two. «Ditto,» said Three.
«Another tie, Maggot,» said Louse One. «Us against you. She stays.»
Maggot bit another piece of carrot angrily. «All right,» he said. «She stays for now. But keep her out of my sight. And get her ready because we've got to leave now for Pittsburgh.»
«She's already packed,» said One.
Abdul Hareem Barenga was being kept alive by tubes. They were in his nose, in his arms, all over his body, the staff resident at Flower Lawn Hospital explained to the consulting surgeon who had just arrived from Africa.
«Serious internal injuries, Dr. Nilsson,» he said. «All we can do is try to keep him alive one way or another. Medication cuts the pain, but he's got no chance. He wouldn't live five minutes without the life-support gadgets here.» He spoke while standing at the side of Barenga's bed, paying no more attention to the injured man than he did to his wife's nightly report on his son's transgressions in kindergarten.
«I understand,» Dr. Gunner Nilsson said. «Nevertheless, I'd appreciate the opportunity to examine him privately if I may.»
«Certainly, Doctor,» the staff physician said. «If you need anything, just ring the buzzer over the bed. The nurse will help you.»
«Thank you,» Nilsson said. He took off the jacket of his blue suit and slowly rolled up his shirtsleeves, wasting time while the other doctor replaced the patient's chart, made a perfunctory check of the life-support systems, and then finally left the room.
Nilsson followed him to the door, locked the door behind him, then returned to Barenga's bed and pulled the folding screen to shield the patient from view through the glass-windowed door.
Barenga slept heavily, deeply sedated. Nilsson opened his doctor's bag, pushed aside the .38 caliber revolver in it, and shuffled through it until he found the ampule he was looking for. He snapped the neck of the tiny glass vial, drained its contents into a hypodermic syringe, pulled a tube from Barenga's arm and roughly jammed the hypodermic into the light brown skin near the inside of Barenga's left elbow.
Within sixty seconds, Barenga started to stir as the adrenal gland fought the sedatives for control of his body and began to win.
He opened his eyes wide, in a kind of frenzy, as the unblocked pain accompanied consciousness. His eyes wandered the room madly, finally focusing, without recognition or comprehension, on Nilsson.
Nilsson leaned close to the bed. His voice was a harsh guttural whisper.
«What happened to Lhasa Nilsson?» he asked.
«Who he?»
«The tall man with the blond hair. He was looking for the girl.»
«Old man. Old gook killed him. Awful.»
«What's a gook?»
«Gook. Yellow man. Yellow.»
«What was the yellow man's name?»
«Don't know.»
«Was there anyone else?»
«Man who got me. White smart-ass. He a friend of the gook's.»
«You have his name?»
«Remo.»
«First or last?»
«Dunno. He just say Remo.»
«Hmmm. Remo. And an old Oriental. The Oriental killed Lhasa?»
«Yes.»
«With a gun?»
«With his foot, man. Lhasa had the gun.»
«Where did it happen?»
«Room 182 I.Waldorf.»
«Was there a girl? A Vickie Stoner?»
«She was gone when we got there. The gook was protecting her.»
Barenga's vo
ice was coming slower and fainter now, his body weakening, while the fight raged internally between the pain-killing sedatives and the pain-intensifying adrenaline.
«Thank you,» said Dr. Gunner Nilsson. He replaced the tube in Barenga's arm. From his bag, he fished two more ampules of adrenaline and refilled the syringe. That done, he jammed the needle hard into the leathery sole of Barenga's left foot and shot the lethal overdose into his body.
«This'll make you sleep. Pleasant dreams.»
Barenga twitched as the adrenaline overpowered the sedative. His eyes rolled wildly; his mouth tried to work; then his head dropped limply to the side.
Nilsson pulled back the curtain, went to the door, unlocked it, and left.
Room 1821, Waldorf. Well, it was not much but it would be enough. At least for the last of the Nilssons.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The prop plane landed at Pittsburgh Airport in a slight rain and the stewardess decided the man in the fourth aisle seat on the left was just rude. But that was the way it often was with foreigners.
He just sat there. He had ignored her when she asked if he wanted anything. He had ignored her when she brought around the tray of drinks. He had ignored her when she asked if she could bring him a magazine. He just sat there, clutching his black leather doctor's bag to his chest, looking intently through the window.
And when the plane landed, why he had just ignored the sign demanding that seat belts remain fastened, and he was moving toward the exit door before the plane rolled to a stop. She started to tell him to get back to his seat, but he looked at her in such a strange way she decided not to say anything. And then she was too busy keeping the other passengers in their seats to worry about it.
Gunner Nilsson was the first one off. He marched down the ramp of the plane like the god Thor himself, sure of where he was going, sure of what he was doing, sure in a way he had not been sure of his medical work for years.
For thirty-five years, he had in his mind been Doctor Nilsson. But now, he felt only like Gunner Nilsson, the last surviving member of the Nilsson family, and it brought him a new sense of responsibility. Titles come and titles go; stations in life change for better or worse; but tradition is tradition. It is rooted in the blood and while it might be hidden or even suppressed, a day comes and it emerges, stronger for having been rested. He had been a fool to think of building hospitals. As an act of penitence for what? For the fact that his family for six hundred years had been the best at what they did? That required no penitence from anyone. He was glad now that he knew it. It removed the murder of Lhasa's killers from the realm of revenge and made it professional, an act of ritual ceremony.