Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  Jet Peters laughed. “One of Forry’s ideas to emphasize Roy’s continual danger. They’re in a little studio in one of the smaller Tri-Di stations about fifty miles from here. I don’t know where. There’s not a chance that anybody knows where they are, and even if they did, they couldn’t get into that studio. But it looks authentic. Roy is being guarded every minute.”

  Mary Ann said, even as Roy started his talk. “He looks awful. His face is too pale.”

  “Too heavy, too,” Ferd said. “Put some of the cosmetic boys to work on him, Mary Ann. He needs to cut a sympathetic figure. Kind of romantic.”

  Roy was reading his speech somewhat stiffly. He’d never appeared on the airwaves before. The three watching had heard the speech a dozen times before and had all had a hand in its final polishing, so they didn’t bother to listen too closely.

  Jet said, “He needs coaching. Forry ought to hire a couple of actors to give him some pointers.” He looked at Ferd. “Where do we meet the rest of them after the broadcast?”

  “Search me,” Ferd said. He looked at Mary Ann.

  Mary Ann said, “No. That’s why I had you pack, ready to go. We’re to meet Roy and the others at a prearranged street corner, ditch our car there, and then go on. I don’t know where.”

  “I hope the hell we don’t get separated from them,” the publicity man growled.

  Ferd took a sip from his glass of beer. “Well, from now on, the credits start accumulating,” he said in his fat man’s voice. “Now we come out from cover and start spending that money. Do you realize we’ve already made seventy thousand apiece? We’ve been on the payroll a week and Forry hasn’t allowed him to use his credit card at all. Man, when he does—it’ll all hit the fan at once.”

  The secretary put her elbows tight against her sides in feminine rejection. “Don’t talk about the money we’re making,” she said. “It sounds ghoulish.”

  Jet said to her, “Where are we going to meet them?”

  “On a street corner.”

  He scowled impatiently. “What street corner?”

  She was embarrassed. “Forry told me not to tell anyone.” The publicity man didn’t get it and said, “You mean he doesn’t even trust us?”

  “Oh, don’t be a cloddy, Jet. It’s not just us. He didn’t tell anybody where we were to rendezvous, except me. Only one of us needs to know. The fewer people who know, the less chance there is for an accidental leak.”

  Roy Cos finished his talk and Forry Brown took over, seated in Ken Butterworth’s place, lending him a spurious celebrity. The scrawny little newsman was more at home on lens than Roy. He said, squinting his faded gray eyes, “Thanks to all you people for listening. As Ken Butterworth said, Roy will have more to say—if he survives. It’s rumored that the contract for his death—his murder—is in the hands of the legendary Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, of Mercenaries, Incorporated. In short, it’s just a matter of time now. Roy Cos and his staff are on the run. But I’m going to let you listeners in on something: we are not going to give advance notice of Roy’s broadcasts. Instead, we’re going to spring them at just about any time, any place. You might even keep your video recorders taping. Tomorrow or the next day, just by chance, you might come onto another Wobbly broadcast. If and when you do, phone three of your friends who might be interested, and tell them that the Deathwish Wobbly is again hurrying through one of his talks before the Graf’s killers can catch up to him.” A one-beat pause before Forry delivered his clincher: “They just might catch him while he’s on camera.”

  Jet came to his feet and said, “I’ll finish packing my bags. Got some things I’ve got to cram into them.” He left the room.

  Mary Ann looked after him thoughtfully.

  Forry, on the Tri-Di screen, was continuing. “We applied to the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation for protection and were ignored. The only guards Roy has are four friends, fellow Wobblies. They are unarmed. They applied for permits to carry weapons but were denied. I suggest that any listener who is indignant over this get in touch with his congressman and senator. Demand that Roy’s guards be allowed weapons! The Graf’s gunmen will be armed to the teeth. Of course, most of you do not yet support the Wobbly cause. I, Roy Cos’s manager, am not a Wobbly. But we all subscribe to the American tradition of fair play. We all believe that this dedicated man must be heard, before his inevitable fate overtakes him. Good night, fellow members of the human race. If you see us again, all of us will have been very, very lucky”

  The screen faded.

  Suddenly, Mary Ann was on her feet, hurrying from the room. She went down the hall to Jet Peter’s bedroom. It was closed but there was no lock.

  She pushed through and entered briskly.

  The publicity man was standing in the middle of the room, a pocket transceiver held to his mouth. His habitually bleary eyes widened, and for the briefest of split seconds it looked as though he was going to hide what he was doing. But that was nonsense.

  Her eyes accused him silently.

  He looked at her. “One of my publicity outlets. I thought of one last thing I could plant in a…”

  Mary Ann said crisply, “No. All evening long you’ve been trying to find out where Roy is—where we were to meet and where we were going.”

  “Don’t be a mopsy,” he said contemptuously, deactivating the transceiver and returning it to a side pocket.

  “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 pseudodollars, 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 Forry 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 pseudodollars, 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 Graf’s 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 sitting 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 extravagantly 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.”