One of the office workers lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to say it, but I'm just glad LFB didn't assign me to work with those racketeers."
"I knew something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on them," the weeping woman said. "Poor, poor Larry. I mean Lawrence." She blew her nose into her dripping tissue.
"Does all this have anything to do with Raffair?" Remo asked as she picked bits of tissue from her moist fingers.
All eyes turned to him. The crying woman took sudden notice of Remo's too casual attire. She froze in midsniffle.
"Are you with the police?" she asked suspiciously. "What's your name? Where's your identification?"
He rolled his eyes as he reached into his pocket for his phony ID. "My name's Remo-" he began. A shocked intake of air. Before he knew what was going on, the woman before him let out a bloodcurdling scream.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Remo asked as she shrieked bloody murder.
The other LFB employees dove for their cubicles. Cops spun Remo's way. Some were already running toward him.
"He's one of the killers!" the woman screeched.
"What?" Remo said, stunned. "No, I'm not." By this time, he was surrounded by police, their guns drawn.
"Let me see some ID," one of the officers demanded. "Slowly. "
Remo reached back into his pocket. When he searched his wallet, he came up empty. He checked his other pocket. The only things there were a small figure carved from stone and a crucifix he'd been carrying around as good-luck charms for the past few months. He suddenly remembered leaving Smith's newly issued IDs on his bureau back at Castle Sinanju.
"Oops," he said sheepishly. He eyed the many guns. "I'm out of practice. Is this a good time to offer a bribe?"
The woman screamed once more before jumping behind a cubicle wall.
"Face on the floor!" an officer commanded.
"No," Remo corrected. "Feet on floor. See feet go. Go, feet, go."
And before the cops knew what was happening, he was gone from their midst. When they spun, they saw him flying up the aisle toward the main entrance.
Gunfire erupted in Remo's wake. He flew into the hallway amid a hail of bullets.
The Master of Sinanju was with the coroner's men near the elevators. He frowned deep displeasure as Remo raced up to him.
"What have you done now?" Chiun demanded as Remo slid to a stop beside him.
"Nothing," Remo said. "Told somebody my name. The rest's a blur."
Chiun's wrinkled furrows grew deeper. "If you must say something stupid, do not say anything at all."
Police officers began spilling into the distant hall. When they yelled for Remo to stop, the two men from the coroner's office immediately leaped behind the broad receptionist's desk beneath the LFB plaque.
"I like my name," Remo challenged, hurt, just as the police opened fire.
Standing before the closed elevator doors, the two Masters of Sinanju weaved and dodged around the incoming volley of bullets. Several screaming shards of hot lead thudded into the sheet-draped corpse beside them.
"By all means, then, remain here and like your name to your heart's content," the Master of Sinanju began. With a ping, the doors slid open. "I, however, like my life more."
As bullets whizzed by his parchment-draped skull, the old man ducked aboard the elevator car. Remo shot a final glance at the still-firing police. Arranged at the end of the hall, they were frustrated by their inability to sight down on their quarry. They continued shooting as Remo jumped inside the elevator car. He stabbed the button for the first floor. "Can they not halt our descent?" Chiun asked as the doors slid shut. He tucked his hands inside his voluminous kimono sleeves as the elevator began its swift slide downward.
"You've seen too many movies. By the time they figure out how to shut it down, we'll be long gone."
"How?" Chiun asked skeptically.
Remo smiled. "I've seen a lot of movies, too." Reaching up, he pulled down the cheap suspended ceiling. Behind it was a small trapdoor. He gave it a push, and the door slapped against the roof of the car.
"Rock, paper, scissors for who goes first?"
Chiun was peering up through the hole. "Hurry up, retard," he said peevishly.
"Guess I volunteer," Remo muttered.
Hopping up, Remo snagged the open mouth of the trapdoor with both hands and slid his thin frame easily through the narrow opening. In a flash, he was on the roof. The grimy dark walls of the elevator shaft were close.
They were already closing in on the eighth floor. "Get the lead out, Little Father," he called down into the car.
"Do not rush me," Chiun complained.
Through the opening, Remo saw the old Korean carefully gathering up the hems of his purple kimono into a tight ball.
They were approaching the sixth floor.
In the elevator car, Chiun's exposed ankles tensed. The instant they did, it seemed as if he were locked in place as the elevator continued to descend. The hole closed down around him. For a moment, as the trapdoor slid down around his shoulders, his flowing robes made him look like a wrinkled jack-in-the-box. A second later, he cleared the door and joined Remo on the roof of the car.
"What now?" the Master of Sinanju asked, releasing his bunched kimono.
"We make like all of Wylander Jugg's highschool blind dates and jump for the nearest available door," Remo replied.
They were passing the second-floor doors. Remo's feet left the roof of the car. Chiun's sandals hopped away a split second after his pupil. They landed simultaneously on the narrow ledge before the closed doors.
Behind them, the empty car continued its descent. Even as it was stopping one floor below them, Remo and Chiun were prying open the second-floor doors. They stepped out into the corridor. As they did so, shouted voices began echoing up from the depths of the elevator shaft.
They quickly found a fire exit. Before the police figured out what had happened, they'd taken the stairs down to the street. As sirens of the first backup police cruisers rose over the snarl of Wall Street traffic, they were walking briskly away from the Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler building.
The two Masters of Sinanju melted in with the foot traffic near Trinity Church.
"I suppose this means we hit a dead end with Larry Fine," Remo commented as they strolled down the street.
Chiun shook his head. "Our trip was not wasted," he replied. "In spite of your best efforts to make it so."
Remo raised a curious eyebrow. "Why? You get a chance to sneak a peek at the body before the fireworks started?"
The Master of Sinanju nodded. "And?" Remo pressed.
As they walked, Chiun stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. "In days gone by, it was common for emperors to slay the builders of their palaces to keep secret any hidden treasure rooms or escape passages."
"I know that," Remo frowned. "Why, was there a secret passage back there?"
When he craned his neck back to see the LFB building, he found it hopelessly out of sight. Beside him, Chiun's impatience at his pupil's persistent obtuseness manifested itself with a weary drooping of his bald head. With a single delicate nail against Remo's chin, he guided the younger man's gaze away from the vanished LFB building. "Please, Remo, make an attempt to focus your thoughts." The Master of Sinanju sighed. "If not for your sake, for the sake of our village. Smith's dead stooge built a house of finance," the old man explained. "He was removed because his services were no longer required by the Romans."
Remo blinked. "Romans?"
"Or whatever ugly name they go by now," Chiun waved dismissively.
The notch in Remo's brow deepened. "Larry Fine probably wasn't Italian, Little Father," he said slowly.
"That would not prevent him from working for Nero's sons," Chiun said. "If you need further proof, when did the constables begin shooting at you?"
"After I told that ditzy woman my name," Remo said.
"Which is a Roman name," Chiun stressed. "She probably took one l
ook at you and mistook you for one of them." He dropped his voice low. "Given the mongrel soup out of which you flopped, I really cannot blame her for her error, Remo. In the right light, you can pass for nearly everything that walks, crawls or swings by its tail from a banana tree."
"Don't knock my roots," Remo warned thinly. "When I shook my family tree, a Master of Sinanju fell out."
Chiun couldn't argue with that. He therefore ignored it. "The woman feared the Romans because she knew the stooge was in league with them," he said.
"So how do you know?"
Chiun raised himself to his full height. "The smell of death is strong," he intoned. "The smell of boiled tomatoes, even stronger. At least two mashed-tomato eaters were involved in this killing."
"Even if you're right, I don't know that it means anything," Remo said. "I'll give Smitty a call and let him know what happened to Fine."
"Be sure to tell the emperor to direct his oracles to search for those of Roman descent," Chiun instructed.
"I'll tell him your theory," Remo agreed. "But his computers look for criminal stuff, not people's ancestry. Unless they're in the Mob or something, we've hit a dead end. Of course, I'm keeping a good thought that maybe these guys who are following us can tell us."
He'd sensed the two sets of eyes focused on his back almost since they'd left the LFB building. As he spoke, the car that had been slowly following them through the Wall Street traffic screeched to a stop.
Two men were springing from the front seat when Remo and Chiun turned. They wore fatigue pants, camouflage jackets and heavy boots. Black ski masks obscured all but their eyes and mouths.
"We need one of them alive, Little Father," Remo said.
"Do whatever you wish," Chiun sniffed. "They are interested in you, not me."
It was true. All their attention appeared to be focused entirely on Remo.
At the front of their car, both men drew long knives from their jackets. Bringing their hands back expertly to their shoulders, they swept their arms downward. With twin hums, the knives sailed at Remo's chest.
He caught one blade with a broad sidestroke, batting it harmlessly to the sidewalk. The second he smacked sharply by the handle, twisting it in midair. The knife had not fully stopped flying in one direction before a firm nudge from Remo sent it zipping back from whence it had come.
The blade buried itself deep in the nearer man's face. His mask seemed to sprout an extralong snout, and he dropped to the sidewalk, dead.
A frightened shudder rose palpably among the throng of pedestrians. Remo ignored the scattering crowd, moving directly for the second masked man.
When he saw Remo coming at him, the second man's eyes went wide inside his ski mask. He had apparently thought two knives would do the trick, for as he searched his khaki jacket for another weapon he came up empty.
There was only one thing left for him to do. Turning, the man flung himself onto his belly out in the street. He skidded directly under the wheels of a passing New York Transit Authority bus. His body made a sickening crunching sound before being dragged up into the slush-encased wheel well of the big bus.
"So much for getting answers from them," Remo grumbled as the bus rolled to a ponderous, squeaking stop.
He hurried back to where his first attacker had fallen. Chiun stood above the body.
"I do not recognize this symbol," the old man said when Remo stopped beside him. He pointed to the dead man's coat.
There was a simple white button pinned to his chest. On it, what looked like a pair of wavy black parentheses enclosed a plain black oval. Remo pulled it loose.
"Me, either," he said. "But we better let Smitty know we've made some new friends." He pocketed the button.
As a crowd began to form around the two fallen bodies, the two Masters of Sinanju melted back into the crush of onlookers. They were long gone before the fresh sound of sirens rose in the cold city air.
Chapter 8
With his arms stretched out wide to either side, Sol Sweet resembled a tidy little scarecrow. A long wand bent in a U-shape was passed up and down both sides of his body. He had gone through the same drill many times in the drab room.
He took in his surroundings with an impatient eye.
The cinder-block walls were painted green. Bare white recessed ceiling bulbs glared out through wire mesh. A desk was bolted to one wall. It was fashioned from the same metal as the door. Both door and desk were starting to rust.
That was all. The U.S. government hadn't spent much on upkeep for Missouri's Ogdenburg Federal Penitentiary. Most of the budget these days went for color TV, cable, gym equipment and other vital human necessities people on a limited budget in the outside world couldn't afford.
"You're taking an excessive amount of time," Sweet accused, his nasal voice clipped. In his head, he was already sketching out his formal complaint.
The nearest prison guard didn't seem to even hear him.
"He's clean," he announced to his partner. He pulled the wand away.
"It's about time," Sol whined angrily.
The second guard had been going through the attorney's briefcase at the desk. He passed it back to Sweet.
Briefcase clutched tightly, Sweet followed one of the guards to the interior steel door. Once they'd been buzzed through, Sweet preceded the guard into a narrow hallway. They passed into another, larger room.
There was a long table inside, bolted to the floor. Two chairs were arranged on each of the two longest sides.
"It'll be a couple more minutes," the guard said. He backed into the hallway and closed the door. The wait was shorter than usual. Five minutes later, the door opened once more. A new guard ushered a prisoner into the visitor's room.
The media reports of the strain prison had put on Don Anselmo Scubisci had been accurate.
The Manhattan Mafia Don had lost a considerable amount of weight. His shoulders were narrower, his face more angular and his protruding belly all but absent. Sol Sweet was amazed every time he saw this thinner Anselmo Scubisci. Put a paper bag of greasy peppers in his hand, and he'd be the spitting image of his father, the late Don Pietro.
The Dandy Don had at least retained the fastidious sense of style he'd always been famous for. His gray prison slacks were sharply creased, his shoes were polished and his shirt was clean and starched.
Anselmo Scubisci smiled at the sight of his lawyer.
"Solly, you're looking well," he said, wrapping his arms around the smaller man in a paternal hug. Sol Sweet didn't like to be touched, so he was relieved when the guard spoke up.
"Mr. Scubisci," the man warned.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry," Don Scubisci said, releasing Sweet. He sat at the table. "Could we have some privacy, please?" Sol asked the guard.
The young man glanced into the hallway. "Make it quick, okay?" he suggested. He stepped from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
"Nice kid," Scubisci confided when the door clanged shut. His voice had a faint rasp due to a brush with throat cancer two years before. "Maybe we can find a better-paying job for him when I get out."
Sol's face was serious. "No new news as far as that's concerned, I'm afraid," he said, sitting across from his client. "The appeal process has been very slow."
Don Anselmo scowled. "I'm a businessman, Solly, that's all. Why are they even wasting time on me when they should be going after real criminals?"
"Mr. Scubisci," Sweet said reasonably, "the charges against you, while totally without merit, are nonetheless very serious."
"Serious," Scubisci mocked, waving a contemptuous hand. He shook his head in disgust. "Let's just get on with this."
The lawyer nodded. Thumbing the hasps on his soft leather briefcase, he reached inside. "Another letter arrived. As per your standing order, I brought it to you at once."
Sweet pulled a business-size envelope from a larger yellow envelope. He slid it halfway across the table. Anselmo Scubisci placed a delicate hand flat over the airmail st
amp.
"Did anyone else see this?" he said, his voice level.
"Just the usual person."
Scubisci nodded. He swept the letter over to his side of the table.
The first thing he checked was the seal. As usual, it had been stamped over the flap. The mark was still intact. The legend "A.S. c/o A. Scubisci" had been printed carefully in bright red ink on the front. The address was a special postal drop set up by Scubisci's lawyer.
Nodding his satisfaction, Don Scubisci left the letter near his elbow. He wouldn't tear the seal until he returned to the privacy of his cell.
"I also have another reason for this visit," Sol said somberly. "Some unfortunate news about a business associate of yours. Larry Fine. Apparently, he was murdered. A terrible, brutal crime, I'm told."
Scubisci buried the glimmer of a smile. His first in a long time. "When did this tragedy take place?"
"This morning," Sweet replied efficiently.
Don Anselmo nodded thoughtfully. "The world has gotten very dangerous. I hate to say this, Solly, but when I hear of all that's happening on the outside, I sometimes feel safer in here."
As he was speaking, the door opened. The young guard reappeared, his face nervous.
"I don't want to rush you, Mr. Scubisci, but if you're gonna take much longer, I'll have to stay in here."
Anselmo Scubisci's eyes were flat as he pushed up from the table. "It's okay," he rasped. "We're through."
He didn't bother to shake hands with Sweet. Collecting his airmail letter, he nodded crisply to his lawyer. "Keep in touch, Sol," he said. It was a command. Letter in hand, Don Scubisci was ushered from the room.
As he waited for the guard who would take him back outside, Sol Sweet gave only a passing thought to the strange envelope. It was just the latest of many Scubisci had received in recent months.
As usual, Sol wondered what was in the envelopes. Not that he'd ever try to check. He valued his life too greatly to be so foolish.
When the guard came to collect him, he banished all thoughts of the mysterious letters. Sol followed the man out into the hallway, grateful for the parking lot and his rented car and the miles of empty highway that waited for him beyond the high prison walls.
Syndication Rites td-122 Page 7
