"Damned if I know. I came out of the restaurant and five thugs jumped me. And now he's yelling like a lunatic."
The waiter had walked up alongside the three of them now, still careful to keep back from Remo. "He hit me," he said, "and ran off without paying the bill. Those young men heard me yelling and tried to stop him. I want to press charges."
"I guess we'll have to take you in," the second policeman said. He was older, a veteran with patches of gray hair at the temples under his cap.
Remo shrugged. The waiter smiled.
The older policeman steered Remo into the back seat of the squad car, while the younger officer helped the waiter close up.
They returned to the car and slid into the front seat, while the older cop sat in beside Remo. Remo noticed that he sat with his gun side away from Remo. Standard procedure, but it was good to know that there were still some professional policemen around.
The precinct house was only a few blocks away. Remo was marched in between the two policemen and stood in front of the long oak desk, reminiscent of all those he had stood in front of himself with prisoners in tow.
"Assault case, Sergeant," the older patrolman said to the bald-headed officer behind the desk. "We didn't see it.
Do you have one of the squad around to handle it? We want to get back before that festival breaks up."
"Give them to Johnson in back. He's free," the sergeant said.
Remo wanted to hang around long enough to make sure the police had a record of his address. So he could be traced. Long ago, he had been given two authorized ways of dealing with an arrest.
He could do whatever physical had to be done. Of course, that was out of the question, since he was willingly going to leave his name and address, and he didn't need 30,000 cops looking for him at his hotel.
Or, the other way, he was allowed one phone call. He could call the number in Jersey City.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jean Boffer Esq., 34 years old and a millionaire twice over, sat on the brown plush sofa in his penthouse living room, looking across the 71 square yards of lime green carpeting that had been laid that afternoon.
He had taken off his purple knit jacket and carefully removed from its inside pocket the little electronic beeper that was to signal him whenever his private telephone line was ringing.
He had worn the beeper for seven years, and it had yet to beep.
But he was a millionaire twice over because he was willing to wear it all the time, and because, if the private telephone line ever rang, he would be ready to do whatever had to be done. Without knowing it, he was the private, personal counsel to a professional assassin.
Just then, as he held the beeper in his hand, it went off, and he realized that in seven years he had never heard the sound it would make. It was a staccato, high-pitched squeak, but it was muffled at that moment by the bell of his private telephone line which was also ringing.
He reached over, carefully, not quite knowing what to expect and picked up the white telephone without a dial. The beeper went silent.
"Hello," he said, "Boffer."
"You're a good lawyer, I hear," said a voice which was supposed to say "You're a good lawyer, I hear."
"Yes. I think the best," which was what Jean Boffer Esq. had been told to say.
Boffer sat up smartly on the couch and placed the book of forensic medicine carefully on his coffee table.
"What can I do for you?" he said casually.
"I've been arrested. Can you spring me?"
"Is there any bail set?"
"If I wanted to get out on bail, I'd pay it myself. What can you do about getting the whole thing dropped?"
"Tell me what happened."
"I was set up. A restaurant in Chinatown. The owner says I assaulted him but he's full of crap. I'm being booked now."
"What restaurant? Is the owner still there?"
"Yeah, he's here. His name's Wo Fat. The restaurant's the Imperial Garden on Doyers Street."
"Keep the owner there until I get there. Diddle around. Tell the cops you want to press counter-charges. I'll be there in 20 minutes." He paused. "By the way, what's your name?"
"My name is Remo."
They hung up simultaneously. Boffer looked over at his wife who was wearing large pilot earphones, listening to a private stereo concern and putting polish on her fingernails. He waved at her and she pulled off the earphones.
"Come on, we're going to get something to eat."
"What can I wear?" She was wearing a white pants suit with gold brocade trim. It would have been appropriate for the captain's dinner on a Bahama cruise.
"We'll stop and buy you a field jacket. Come on, let's go."
His car was waiting downstairs, and he slid behind the driver's wheel, and tooled the expensive car north on Kennedy Boulevard to the Holland Tunnel approach. They were in the tunnel before either of them spoke.
"It's a case, isn't it?" his wife said, easing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her white pants suit.
"Just an assault. But I thought it was an excuse for a meal."
He pulled out of the tunnel, smiling to himself as he always did when he saw the Port Authority's incredible overhead sign which looked like a bowl of spaghetti run amok.
He eased his car into Chinatown, its streets dark and empty now, littered with zeppole shreds and crusts of pizza.
He stopped in front of the darkened Imperial Gardens Restaurant.
"But this place is closed," his wife said.
"Just a minute." He walked up the steps to the second floor entrance of the Imperial Gardens. The restaurant was darkened with only the faint glow from a ll/2 watt nightlight shining in the rear of the main dining area. He peered in through the glass, noting in the glow the location of the tables around the kitchen door.
With his left hand, he felt up the side of the door, trying to find the external casing of the hinges. There was none.
He went back down the steps, three at a time, and re-entered the car. "We'll eat in 15 minutes," he said to his wife, who was refreshing her lipstick.
The police precinct was only three blocks away, and he left his wife in the car as he went inside and walked up to the sergeant behind the 30-foot long oak desk.
"I've got a client here," he said. "Remo something."
"Oh yeah. He's in the detective's room. Hun and some Chinaman are screaming at each other. Go right in, and look for Detective Johnson." He waved toward a room at the end of the large open room.
He walked in through the swinging wood door gate, to the open door. Inside he saw three men: one a Chinese; one sitting at the typewriter laboriously pecking out a report with two fingers was obviously Detective Johnson. The third man sat in the hard wooden chair, leaning back against a file cabinet.
Through the doorway, Boffer could see the skin slightly paler and tighter over his cheekbones, the mark of plastic surgery. The man's deep brown eyes looked up and burned into Boiler's for a moment. The eyes lipped off on everyone. But not on his new client. His eyes were deep brown and cold, as emotionless as his face.
Boffer rapped on the open frame of the door. The three men looked at him.
He stepped inside. "Detective Johnson, I'm this man's attorney. Can you fill me in?"
The detective came to the door. "Come on in, counsellor," he said, obviously amused by the striped purple suit. "Don't know why you're here? Nothing much to it. Wo Fat here says your client assaulted him. Your client is filing counter charges. They'll both have to wait until arraignment in the morning."
"If I could talk to Mr. Wo Fat for a minute, maybe I could clear the whole thing up. It's more of a misunderstanding than a criminal thing."
"Sure, go ahead. Wo Fat. This man wants to talk to you. He's a lawyer."
Wo Fat rose and Boffer took his elbow and steered him to the back of the room. He shook his hand.
"You run a fine restaurant, Mr. Fat."
"I've been in business too long to allow myself to be assaulted."
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Boffer ignored him. "It's a shame we're going to have to close you down."
"What do you mean, close down?"
"There are very serious violations at your establishment, sir. The exterior doors, for instance, open inward. Very dangerous in the event of a fire. And very unlawful."
Wo Fat looked confused.
"And then of course, there's the seating plan. All those tables near the kitchen doors. Another violation. I know you run a fine establishment, sir, but in the interests of the public, my client and I will have to go into court with a formal complaint and bring about your closing as a health menace."
"Now, we should not be hasty," he said in his oiliest style.
"Yes, we should. We should withdraw the charges against my client immediately."
"He assaulted me."
"Yes sir, he probably did. In outrage at being caught in a restaurant which is an outright fire trap. It'll be a very interesting case. The publicity from the papers might hurt your business for a while, but I'm sure it will blow over. As will the stories about your assaulting a customer."
Wo Fat turned his hands up. "Whatever you want."
Detective Johnson had just re-entered the room carrying two blue sheets used for booking.
"You won't need those, Detective," Boffer said. "Mr. Fat has decided to drop charges. It was just bad temper on both sides. And my client will drop them too."
"Suits me," the detective said. "Less paper work."
Remo had stood up and already had taken a few steps toward the door, in a smooth glide.
Boffer turned to Wo Fat. "That's correct, isn't it, sir?"
"Yes."
"And I've made no threats against you or any offers to induce you to take this action." He whispered, "Say no."
"No."
Boffer turned to the detective again. "And of course I stipulate the same for my client. Will that do?"
"Sure thing. Everyone can go."
Boffer turned to the door. Remo had gone. He was not outside in the main room of the precinct.
Out in front, his wife had her window rolled down. "Who was that lunatic?" she said.
"What lunatic?"
"Some man just ran out. He stuck his head in and kissed me. And said something stupid. And messed my lipstick."
"What did he say?"
"That's the biz, sweetheart. That's what he said."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Remo was not followed back to the hotel. When he went into his room, Chiun was sitting on a sofa, watching a late night talk show host who was trying to probe the hidden significance of a woman with a face like a footprint, who had raised yelling and shouting to an art form.
"Where's Mei Soong?" Remo asked.
Chiun pointed over his shoulder toward her room.
"Anybody follow you?"
"No."
"By the way, how'd you do that down at the restaurant? Disappear, I mean?"
Chiun smirked. "If I tell you, then you will go tell all your friends, and soon everyone will be able to do it."
"I'll ask the girl," Remo said, walking toward her room.
Chiun shrugged. "We ran up a flight of stairs and hid in a doorway. No one thought of looking up."
Remo snorted. "Big deal. Magic. Hah."
He walked into the next room and Mei Soong purred at him. She walked toward him, wearing only a thin dressing gown.
"Your Chinatown is very nice. We must go back."
"Sure, sure. Anything you want. Has anyone tried to contact you since you got back here?"
"Ask your running dog. He allows me no freedom or no privacy. Can we go back to Chinatown tomorrow? I have heard that there is a marvellous school of karate that no visitor should miss."
"Sure, sure," Remo said. "Someone should try to contact you again. They'll probably be able to lead us to the general, so make sure I handle it."
"Of course."
"Remo turned to go and she ran around to stand in front of him.
"You are angry? You do not like what you see?" She held her arms out and proudly thrust forth her young breasts.
"Some other time, kid."
"You look troubled. What are you thinking?"
"Mei Soong, I'm thinking that you are making it difficult for me to leave now," Remo said. Which was not what he was thinking. What he was thinking was that she had already been contacted because there was a new copy of Mao's Red Book on the end table near her bed, and she had not had a chance to buy one herself. Someone must have smuggled it to her. And suddenly, she was interested in going back to Chinatown, and seeing that wonderful karate school.
He said, "Let us sleep now, so we can go to Chinatown very early and look for the general."
"I am sure that tomorrow you will find him," she said happily, and threw her arms around Remo, burying her face against his chest.
Remo spent the night dozing in a chair against the door to her room, alert enough to detect any attempt by Mei Soong to leave. In the morning, he woke her roughly and said:
"Come on, we're going to buy you some clothes. You can't walk round this country in that damned greatcoat."
"It is a product of the People's Republic of China. It is a well made greatcoat."
"But your beauty should not be hidden under it. You are depriving the masses of the sight of the new healthy China."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes."
"But I do not wish to wear goods produced from the exploitation of suffering workers. The stitches made of their blood. The fabric made of their sweat. The buttons of their bones."
"Well, just some inexpensive clothes. A few garments. We're already too obvious to people as it is."
"All right. But just a few." Mei Soong held up a finger in lecture. "I will not profit from the capitalistic exploitation of slave labour."
"Okay," said Remo.
At Lord and Taylor's, Mei Soong discovered that Pucci workers were well paid. She adhered largely to Italian goods, because Italy had a large Communist party. This fealty to the working class became two print dresses, a gown, four pairs of shoes, six bras, six lacey lace panties, earrings because they were gold and thus undermined the monetary system of the west, Paris perfumes, and to show that China did not hate the people of America, just its government, a checkered coat that was made on 33rd Street.
The bill came to $875.25. Remo took nine $100 bills from his wallet.
"Cash?" said the sales girl.
"Yes. This is what it looks like. It's green."
She called the floor manager.
"Cash?" said the floor manager.
"Yeah. Money."
Mr. Pelfred, the floor manager, lifted one of the bills to the light, then signalled for another by holding out a hand. He lifted that one to the light also. Then he shrugged.
"What's the matter?" Mei Soong asked Remo.
"I'm paying for something in cash."
"Isn't that what you're supposed to pay in?"
"Well, most purchases are worked through credit cards. You buy whatever you want and they make an impression of your card and send you a bill at the end of the month."
"Oh, yes. Credit cards. The economical exploitation of people through subterfuge, giving them the illusion of purchasing power but making them merely wage slaves to the corporations that issue the cards." Her voice lifted to the ceiling of Lord and Taylor's. "Credit cards should be burned on a fire, along with the people who make them."
"Right on," came from a man in a double breasted suit. A policeman clapped. A woman draped in mink kissed Mei Soong on her cheeks. A businessman raised a clenched fist.
"Well, we'll take your money," said Mr. Pelfred.
"Cash," he yelled out.
"What's that," said one of the clerks.
"It's something they used to use all over. Like what you put in telephones on the street and things."
"Like for buying cigarettes, only more of it, right?"
"Yeah," said the clerk.
Mei Soong wore one
of the pink print dresses and the department store packed her greatcoat, her sandals and her gray uniform. She clung to Remo's arm, leaning on him and resting a cheek against his strong shoulders. She watched the clerk fold the coat.
"This is a funny kind of coat. Where's it made?" asked the young girl with fried straw hair and a plastic label that read: "Miss P. Walsh."
"China," said Mei Soong.
"I thought they made nice things in China like silk and stuff."
"The People's Republic of China," said Mei Soong.
"Yeah. Chankee Check. The people's republic of China."
"If you are a servant, then be a servant," said Mei Soong. "Wrap the package and keep your tongue tethered to your mouth."
"You'll want a throne next," Remo whispered to her.
She turned to Remo looking up. "If we are living in a feudal system, then we who are doing secret work should appear to be part of it, correct?"
"I suppose."
Mei Soong smiled a smile of rectification. "Then why should I suffer insolence from a serf?"
"Listen," said Miss P. Walsh. "I don't have to take that crap from you or anyone. You want this package wrapped, then mind your manners. I've never been insulted like this before."
Mei Soong braced herself and in her most imperious manner, said to Miss P. Walsh: "You are a servant and you will serve."
"Listen, Dinko," said Miss P. Walsh. "We got a union around here and we don't have to take that kind of crap from anyone. Now you talk nice or you're getting this coat in your face."
Mr. Pelfred was telling his assistant manager about the cash purchases when he heard the commotion. Up running he came, hippity, hippity, his black shiny shoes pattering along the gray marble floors, his breath puffing from his fatty, shiny face, his hands atwitter.
"Will you please?" he said to Miss P. Walsh.
"Watcher mouth," yelled Miss P. Walsh. "Steward," she screamed. A gaunt hard woman in iron tweed stomped to the cluster around the packing of the greatcoat. "What's going on here?" she said.
"It's not a grievance, please," said Mr. Pelfred.
"I don't have to take this crap from customers or anyone. We got a union," said Miss P. Walsh.
"What's going on?" repeated the gaunt woman.
"There's been a minor disagreement," said Mr. Pelfred.
"I been crapped on by this customer," said Miss P. Walsh, pointing to Mei Soong who stood erect and serene, as if witnessing a squabble between her upstairs and downstairs maids.
Chinese Puzzle td-3 Page 11
