The Head Men td-31

by Warren Murphy

  "All right. I'm going. That's that. If you can't do anything about it, forget it. I'll take my chances."

  "Aaah, you politicians make me sick." Remo was moving through the blackness of the room toward the door.

  The President's voice followed him.

  "I'm not really worried, Remo," he said.

  "That proves one of two things. You're brave or stupid."

  "No. Just confident."

  "What have you got to be confident about?" Remo said, as he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

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  "You," the President said. "You'll work something out. I trust you."

  "Crap. I don't need that," Remo said. "Don't lose those braces. Dentists aren't cheap for kids with dead fathers."

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Actually, cripples didn't turn her on, but Viola Poombs was willing to sacrifice herself for her art.

  So she dressed in a light blue wool sweater she had bought expressly because it would shrink to non-fit, and a tight white linen skirt that squeezed her buttocks like a pair of loving hands.

  She had no intention of taking the clothes off, not that night, not for Sylvester Montrofort. Lookies, but no feelies. Maybe even a brush-touchie, but definitely no feelies.

  She was admitted to Montrofort's penthouse apartment by a butler in a swallowtail coat, who took her light white shawl and managed to re-strict his expression of distaste at her clothing to a quarter-inch lift of only one eyebrow.

  When he led her into the dining room, Montrofort was already sitting in his wheelchair at the far side of an oak table, laden with shimmering crystal glasses and polished dinnerware and golden vermeil.

  "Miss Poombs, sir," the butler announced as he escorted Viola into the high-ceilinged room, il-

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  luminated only by real candles in real candela-bras placed about the room.

  When Montrofort saw her, his eyes widened. He rolled his wheelchair back out from between the legs of the small dining table and like a demented crab rolled around the table toward her at high speed. The butler was already pulling her chair away from the table. Montrofort slapped the man's wrist lightly.

  'Til do that," he said.

  Viola stood alongside the chair as Montrofort pulled it away from the table. She moved over to sit down, but as she did, the right rear leg of the chair caught in the spokes of the right wheel of Montrofort's wheelchair. Viola sat down, but caught only the edge of the chair, threatening to tip it forward.

  She reached down to pull the chair under herself. The chair wouldn't move. She gave it a yank. The yank pulled the chair forward. It also pulled forward Montrofort's wheelchair because the brakes were off. The back of her chair pushed forward by the free-rolling Montrofort smashed against her backside with enough force to slam her face forward onto the table. Her head hit the dinner plate. Two crystal glasses fell over and shattered.

  The wind was knocked from Viola's lungs as the edge of the table dug deep into her belly. She lay with her head on the plate, gasping for air.

  "How nice to see you, my dear," said Montrofort. He was still struggling surreptitiously to free Viola's chair leg from his wheel.

  He finally wrenched it loose with a giant tug of his muscular arms. Just at that moment, Viola caught her breath and straightened up. The back

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  of the chair thrust ceilingward missed rapping Viola at the base of the skull by only a fraction of an inch.

  Viola was standing now and Montrofort held her chair in his hands at eye level.

  "Shit," he hissed under his breath. "Shall we try again, my dear?" he asked in a normal voice.

  He rolled himself back a foot, placed Viola's chair on the floor, all four legs planted solidly, and motioned for Viola to sit down. Two feet from the table.

  "Comfortable, child?" Montrofort asked.

  "Yes. Very," said Viola, She stood up and leaned over to get a glass of water from the table, then sat back down on the chair. Montrofort stared at her buttocks as she moved. The butler hovered nearby, uncertain whether to come forward to help or not. He now moved into position to remove the shattered Waterford crystal from the table.

  "Not now, Raymond," Montrofort said. "Just bring the wine."

  Montrofort left Viola sitting in her chair, two feet from the table, and wheeled himself around to its other side.

  He took up his dining position facing Viola, who still sat two feet from the table. Montrofort wore a powder blue foulard scarf around the open neck of his midnight blue velvet smoking jacket. He touched it and smiled. "We're color coordinated," he said.

  Viola looked blank. "My tie and your sweater," he said. "Color coordinated."

  "You'll have to talk louder," Viola said. "I'm so far away I can't hear you."

  Montrofort let out an animal growl. He

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  reached both arms under the full table and lifted it six inches off the ground, then hunched his body forward to start his wheelchair rolling. It stopped with the edge of the table four inches from Viola's lovely belly and he carefully set the table down on the floor. And on Viola's right foot. She screamed and pulled her foot out from under the table leg.

  "Are you all right?" Montrofort asked.

  "I'm fine. I'm fine," she said with a smile. "It's really a nice table. I'm glad to be sitting here."

  Montrofort wheeled himself into position at his end of the table, put his elbows on the table, his face in his hands, and smiled his rich broad smile at the woman. "I'm really pleased that you could come," he said.

  He stared at her bosom. Viola noticed the stare and took her hands from the table in front of her, so her chest could be stared at with nothing in the way to impede the stare. She pressed her shoulders against the back of the chair, imagining that she was trying to make her shoulder-blades touch.

  Montrofort's eyes widened. "Where is that butler with that wine?" he growled.

  Viola imitated a yawn and stretched her arms over her head. Her breasts rose under the thin blue sweater. The itchy fabric felt good against her bare skin.

  Montrofort's eyes did not leave her. His mouth was working again, but nothing came out.

  "You look lovely tonight, my dear. Especially lovely."

  "Do you know anything about residuals on a TV adaptation of a book?" Viola asked.

  Raymond returned with a bottle of wine, the

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  first step in Montrofort's elegant and pure seduction plan. He was going to pour as much wine in Viola Poombs as it took to get her loaded, and then he was going to screw her eyes out.

  "I'll ring when I want you again, Raymond," Montrofort said. He lifted the glass that Raymond had filled and held it up toward the candlelit chandelier over the table.

  "A Vouvray petillant," he explained. "Very rare. Very exquisite. Like you. Shall I make the toast?"

  Viola shrugged. She had already drunk half her glass of wine. She lowered it. "No, I'll make the toast."

  She poured more of the $31-a-bottle wine into her goblet. Some spilled out onto the table. She hoisted the glass over her head. "To money," she said. "To us," Montrofort corrected blandly. "To money and us," said Viola, then drained the glass of wine in one crazed gulp. "Pour me some more of that, will you?"

  "Certainly, my dear. I did not fully share in your toast to money because I have all the money I shall ever need."

  Viola's eyes rose from the table to meet Montrofort's. All the money he wanted. "All the money you want?" she said.

  "AH and more," said Montrofort, handing her back her wine glass, filled again.

  He smiled at her. He really did have a nice smile, Viola thought. Nice teeth. He probably had had a good dentist. A good team of dentists working on his mouth. When one had all the money he could want, all and more, well, he could afford any kind of teeth he wanted. It was good for

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  crippled dwarfs to have good teeth. People who liked teeth might be attracted to them. Viola, now, had always
had a warm spot in her heart for people with good teeth.

  "I love your good teeth," she said, swilling and spilling.

  "Thank you, my dear. All my own. Never a cavity in my life."

  Maybe he was cheap. If he had all the money he ever wanted, all and more, why didn't he spend some money on his teeth ?

  "Why not?" Viola asked. She pushed forward the wine glass for a refill.

  "Why not what?"

  "Why didn't you spend something on them?"

  Montrofort tried to chuckle casually. Maybe she was crazy. "Your job with the Congress must be very interesting," he said. He handed her glass forward.

  "How much did this wine cost?" asked Viola.

  "Who cares about money?" said Montrofort. "Whatever it cost, it was a small price to bring you pleasure. Who thinks about money?"

  "People who are too cheap to have their teeth fixed right," yelled Viola. She slammed her Waterford goblet on the table for emphasis. The stem snapped smartly, an inch up from the base. She held the rest of the wineglass as if it were a dixie cup, her hand around the fat bowl, and slurped down her wine. When she was done, she threw the goblet toward the fireplace. She missed.

  "We were talking about your job with the Congress," Montrofort said. He looked around for another glass for Viola, but three had already been broken. The only one left was his. He filled it and handed it over.

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  "It's a job," Viola said. "The massage parlor I worked in, now that was interesting."

  "You worked in a massage parlor ? How droll."

  "Yeah," Viola said, peeking out from around her uplifted wineglass. "Three years. That's where I met... whoops, no names."

  "I understand, dear. I certainly do. From a massage parlor to Congress. How interesting."

  "Yeah. The money was better in the massage parlor. Until now, anyway. With this book I'm gonna write. More of that wine, okay?"

  "Your book should be very interesting." Montrofort upended the bottle over Viola's glass, filling it halfway.

  Viola took the glass. "Yeah. About ashash . . . assash ... about killings and like that."

  "Oh yes. Assassinations."

  "You're going to help me, aren't you?" Viola asked.

  "Day and night. Weekdays and weekends. We can go visit the scenes of the great assassinations of history. Just you and me."

  "Better bring somebody to wheel you around too. I don't wheel any too good," Viola said.

  "Of course, my dear," said Montrof ort.

  "I need you to help me with my book, 'cause I don't write too good, and you talk like you could really write and all, and besides you know about things."

  "Not only will I help you with the book, but when you make your million I'll help you manage your new-found wealth, if you wish."

  "You don't have to do that," Viola said. "I work for Congress. I know all about Swish . . . Swish... Shwiss bank accounts."

  "That's like the kindergarten, however, of

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  money hiding. To really eliminate all chance of being traced, you must wash your funds through Switzerland and then through more accounts in other friendly nations. African nations are particularly good because they make up their banking regulations to fit the customer and for five dollars you can buy all the treasury secretaries on the continent."

  "Right. I see. We'll worry about that later," Viola said.

  "Very wise. First the book, then the money," said Montrofort. Viola's head was nodding. Her eyelids drooped. It was the time to make his move.

  "Why don't we go into my studio to discuss this further?" he said. "We can allocate responsibilities that each of us should have to insure a good book."

  "Right," said Viola. "Lead the way." She yelled as if leading a charge of the cavalry. "Okay, everybody. Roll on out. You get it? Roll on out. Get it?"

  "Yes, my dear. Follow me."

  Montrofort rolled back from the table and toward a side door leading from the dining room. He opened the sliding door and turned to let Viola through first. She was not with him. She was still at the table, her head on her plate, the plate partially filled with wine from her overturned goblet, sleeping gently.

  Montrofort rolled back to her side. She breathed deeply and steadily.

  Cautiously he extended an index finger and touched one of Viola's breasts which hung threateningly over the floor.

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  "Unnh, uhnnh," Viola mumbled, her eyes still closed. "No feelies. Looksies."

  "Please," said Montrofort to the sleeping woman.

  "Only brush-touchies. No feelies. My lash word on the shubject. Now don't get fresh and make me have to wheel you into the fireplace."

  "No, my dear," said Montrofort. He rolled to the dining room's main door, opened it, and summoned Raymond with an imperial crook of his finger.

  The butler stepped forward hurriedly.

  "Get her out of here, Raymond," Montrofort said.

  "Shall I call her a cab?"

  "No. Just put her on the curb," Montrofort said. "I'm going to bed."

  A laughing stock, was he? He would see who would be laughing on Saturday. And he knew the answer.

  No one in the country but him.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sky's black was diluting into a deep gray when Remo came back to the hotel room. Chiun was sitting in the corner of the room on a fiber mat, watching the door.

  "How did your wonderful idea work?" he asked as Remo came in through the unlocked door.

  "I don't want to talk about it," Remo said.

  "The man is an idiot."

  "Whatman?"

  "What man ? The man you were talking to. The emperor with the funny teeth."

  "How did you know I went to see him?"

  "Do I know you, Remo? After all these years, don't you think I know what foolishness will strike your fancy?"

  "He wouldn't go along. He's going to appear on Saturday."

  "That's why he is an idiot. Only an idiot goes blithely rushing forward into danger, whose dimensions he knows not. Really, Remo, I don't know how this country has lasted long enough to have a bicenental celebration."

  "Bicentennial," said Remo.

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  "Yes. And being run by idiots all that time. Americans always act as if they are protected by God. They drive those awful belching machines at each other. They poison each other with what they call food. There is a smokehouse in Sinanju where we smoke codfish, and it smells better than the air here. Despite that, you have lasted for a bicenental celebration. Maybe God does protect you idiots."

  "Then maybe he'll protect the President."

  "I hope so. Although how God can tell one of you idiots from another is beyond me. Since you all look alike."

  "Actually, what the President said was that he had total faith in the Master of Sinanju. That he knew he was in the finest, strongest hands in the world."

  "Hands, no matter how fine or strong, work only if they have something to clutch."

  "He said he thought you would protect him."

  "Impossible."

  "He said nothing could stop you," Remo said.

  "Except that which we know nothing of."

  "He said if he survived this, he was going to take a commercial on television and tell everybody that the House of Sinanju was responsible for his protection."

  Chiun unfolded his arms and let them drop to his sides. "He said that?"

  "That's exactly what he said. I remember his exact words. He said, 'If I survive this, I'm going to go on television and say that I owe it all to the bravest, most wonderful, awe-inspiring, magnificent

  "Enough. He was clearly talking about me."

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  "Right," said Remo. "At last, you're going to get all the credit you deserve."

  "I take it back. That man is not an idiot. He is just malicious."

  "He just has faith in you, is all," Remo said.

  "As soon as I heard him talk funny, I should have known. He cannot be t
rusted."

  "Why are you all bent out of shape? 'Over a compliment?"

  "Because if this man of many teeth goes on television and says that we are in charge..."

  "I'm glad it's 'we' now," said Remo.

  "When he says we are in charge of his protection and then if anything happens to him, what then becomes of the good name of Sinanju? Oh, the perfidy of that man."

  "I guess we'll just have to save him," Remo said.

  Chiun nodded glumly. "He is from Georgia, isn't he?"

  "That's right."

  "Stalin was from Georgia."

  "That's a different Georgia. That's in Russia," Remo said.

  "It doesn't matter. All Georgians are alike, no matter where they are from. Stalin was worthless too. Millions dead and no work for us. I was never so happy as when that man was killed by his own secret police."

  "Well, buck up. You're working for a Georgian this time, and you've got plenty of work. You've got to help me save the President."

  Chiun nodded. The first rays of sunlight were entering the room, and through the translucent pink curtain, the sun cut jagged lines of light across the angular yellow face.

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  Chiun looked toward the light, and with his back turned to Remo, said softly, "A Hole."

  "What?"

  "Do you remember nothing? The Hole. They are going to attack him and force him into The Hole for the real attack. We have to find out how."

  "How do you know they'll do that?"

  "Killers come and killers go, but all they have ever known or been or could hope to be, has come from the wisdom of Sinanju. I know they will do that because they seem to be less inept than the usual level of murderers you have in this country. Therefore they emulate Sinanju and that is the way I would do it."

  "All right," Remo said. "We'll have to find The Hole."

  Across the city, Sylvester Montrofort was wheeling his way down the hallway to his private office in Paldor Services Inc. He pressed a button on the right arm of his wheelchair and the sliding door to his office opened in front of him. There was already a man in the office. He was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out through the brown-tinted glass at Washington, D.C., below. He was a tall man with hair so black it was almost blue. He was over six feet tall, and his suit was broad at the shoulder and nipped in at a narrow waist, and tailored so well that it was apparent that the suitmaker knew his only function was to wrap something well-fitting around a work of art that nature had already created.