Union Bust

by Warren Murphy

  “Yeah,” said Remo. “I’m pretty good.” Maybe Nuihc would take just a mite more. Accept the boast as a sign of weakness and stupidity.

  “Come, come, Remo. Let us not indulge in such silliness. Let us indulge in what you are and what you want. What do you want?”

  “I want to kill you.”

  “Ah, do not try to throw me off with such foolishness. We do not have time. I saw you on television the other day. Magnificent. You spoke well. You loved it. You made very pretty songs. Chiun has told you what we mean by songs, I presume.”

  “Yes,” said Remo.

  “Good. We need a new president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers who will become president of a new transportation union. I presume that is why you are here. To stop it. Of course you are. Remo, your presidency is only your first step to power. Come with me and all men will be at your feet. All crowds will listen to your voice. All men will proclaim you great. Your name. Your being. You will be known far and wide. Come, join.”

  “I’d have to leave the persons I work for. I have a strong commitment to them.”

  “Really. I don’t know for whom you work, but I wonder what they have done for you. Tell me. Honestly. What have they done for you?”

  “I get whatever I need.”

  “Really. What? Maybe I can stop it. Seriously, what do you get?”

  “Well, I have just about all the money I need.”

  “And that buys you?”

  “Uh, clothes, food, although I imagine you know the diet I’m on, it’s necessary.”

  “That you would have to undergo, with me or them.”

  “Yes.”

  “What else?”

  “Uh, I don’t have to worry about rent.”

  “Hmmm. You have several palaces, I take it.”

  “Well, no. You see I live mostly in hotels here and there.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, I know now how they have you. You’re a tool.”

  “No. No. I can do pretty much what I want.”

  “What do you want to do? You know that games of physical skill are of no interest to us. The challenge is too little. What do you do?”

  “Train, mostly.”

  “A good tool needs that. What do you really want, Remo? Come on. We’re being honest. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about me. Tell you how I cheated my village. Tell you even what makes me unhappy or happy. Come on. We’re graduates of that same school.”

  “All right, Nuihc. I want a home. I mean a home. And I want a family, not those one-night stands where it’s more work in the line of business than it is love. I’d like to screw a woman once just to get off my rocks, not to get into her mind. I’d like to yell at a kid. My kid. And hold my kid. And teach my kid not to be afraid.”

  “The president of the new transportation union will be required to have a wife and family.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be dead in a year.”

  “With both of us working together?”

  “I don’t want to have to kill Chiun.”

  “He wouldn’t come against both of us, Remo.”

  Remo waited a minute, staring vacantly at the floor.

  “Done,” he said. “I’ve got to do something for myself for once.” He opened his hand and offered it to Nuihc. He walked openly to him, with the sign that he bore no weapon. Nuihc smiled broadly and extended his hand, too.

  “The greater union is us. You and me,” said Nuihc.

  The hands met, but Remo’s kept going, slicing into the padded shoulder of the suit, taking bone in the first exhilarating feeling of a score in attack. He had scored against this Nuihc, and so well and so thoroughly that he moved into an interior line attack for the kill. No waiting to work up the shoulder and safely take it apart for the more cautious attack. With the incredible speed and force of the perfect blow, Remo brought the elbow into the chest. But the chest was not there. Mistake. Remo had scored because of over-confidence and trust on the other side, and now he would die for the same reason. His elbow was forward in air, and he was off balance because the blow needed a body to meet it.

  A searing pain ripped his ribs and tore from his ribs to his shoulder. He was going dully forward, down onto a pathway of rocks. He could not move. He was not dead, but he could not move. He felt his mouth fill with warm wetness. Blood. He saw it spill onto the rock path, form a little stream, and then tip over into the clear, blue pool, making it foggy where it landed.

  “Fool,” said Nuihc. “Tool. Why are you such a fool? Magnificent you were. That was magnificent. In ten years you could have killed me. In ten years your interior attack would have worked also. But you are a fool. Fool. Fool. Together we could rule the world. Together all would be yours. But you attacked me, fool. And you attacked like a fool.”

  Remo tried to see Nuihc for the final blow he knew would come shortly. But he could not move his head. He could only stare at the growing foggy area where the water, now filling with his life, had once been clear.

  Then a voice, a voice Remo knew well.

  “You talk of fools, Nuihc. You are the fool of fools. Did you think my student would desert his village as you have deserted yours? Did you think the Master of Sinanju would desert a student as you have deserted your blessed village of Sinanju?” Chiun’s voice was filled with anger.

  “Master. This is a white man. You would not harm me for a white man, me a son of the village of Sinanju.”

  “For this white man, as you call him, I would rend the core of the earth and fill its molten center with the blood of a thousand such as you. Beware. If this white man, as you call him, is dying, I shall take your ears and make you chew them, you dog-dropping.”

  “But you cannot turn your skills on a member of your village, even a member who has deserted,” said Nuihc.

  “Duck-hearted one, dare you speak the rules of the Master of Sinanju, your infamy still trailing behind you like excrement in the wind. Speak you now to me of the rules?”

  “He is not dead and will not die.” Nuihc’s voice trembled with fear.

  Strange, thought Remo, he should not fear. He should have been trained to deal with fear because next to arrogance, fear was the major enemy. Stranger still was Chiun’s boast to Nuihc, and the insults. Chiun had always said to threaten damage was to give a man a shield. To spew insults was to give him energy, except in a case where the enemy could be provoked to foolish anger. From his voice, Nuihc was obviously not angry. It must be, thought Remo, that Chiun knew Nuihc could not be fooled by talk of peace or appearances of weakness.

  “Leave,” said Chiun.

  “I leave, but I have ten years in which to deprive you of your special student.”

  “Why do you let me know this?”

  “Because I hate you and your father and your direct lineage from the original Master of Sinanju.”

  Remo heard faint footsteps scurry out to the hall. He tried to call out to Chiun to stop him, but even if he could, he wondered whether Chiun would try. He felt Chiun’s hands on his back working quickly and deftly, and suddenly the incredible, immobilizing pain filtered away and Remo could move his head, then his shoulders, and with great pain begin to sit up slowly.

  “Now you can move,” said Chiun.

  With a sudden wrenching of his back, Remo sat up, grimacing. He tried to control it. He did not wish the little father see him succumb to pain.

  “Rush. Rush,” said Chiun angrily. “You are so American. You could not wait a measly five years.”

  “I had to do my job.”

  “Do not make that mistake again, but I respected you for it. Next time you will be ready for Nuihc. I cannot kill another member of the village.”

  “But I heard you say you would.”

  “You hear many foolish things. Quiet your insolent tongue. He has made a grave mistake. It is not ten years. And that sort of mistake at our level is deadly.”

  “What if he returns in less than five years?”

  “We run. Time is on our side. Why give away adv
antages?”

  “Yes, little father.”

  Something still troubled Remo.

  “Did you really mean I would be better than the Masters of Sinanju eventually, even though I am not Korean?”

  “No,” said Chiun. “That was a song for your benefit.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Remo.

  “Silence! You have almost destroyed in one foolish moment my work of years.”

  Remo was silent. Then he lifted himself to his feet, wincing.

  “Good,” said Chiun. Pain is an excellent teacher. What your mind cannot grasp, your body will never forget. Remember this in your pain. Never rush. Time is your ally or your enemy.”

  “There are some things I must do now, little father.”

  “Well, be quick about it. A shirt is not the best bandage in the world, even a shirt tied by me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  REMO MOUNTED THE PODIUM IN THE large hall of the new building. Wild, hysterical cheering met his ascent. He waved his good arm to quiet the crowd. But the roar continued and he met it with a smile for the television cameras, the still photographers and, last but not least, his audience.

  A new shirt covered his torso, and the jacket was so arranged as to hide the knots Chiun had installed. The pain continued sharp and throbbing, but Remo smiled. He smiled at the three union presidents sitting on the speaker’s platform. He smiled at the Secretary of Labor and he smiled at the delegates he knew. Especially at Abe “Crowbar” Bludner, who appeared to be cheering the loudest.

  The hall in this new building was smaller than Convention Hall, but it was roomy enough for the driver delegates. There were even some empty seats in the second balcony.

  Remo leaned down into the mike. The noise subsided.

  “Brother drivers,” he said. “Brother drivers. I have sad news that will come as a shock to you.” Remo paused to allow the hall to become still, to glean the last bit of attention from the audience. He looked at the few key men he had called to him just an hour ago. They knew what the shock would be. Gene Jethro, always a kook, had run out on the union. Remo had explained this to the few delegates an hour before. His explanation had been believed instantly, because there was no reason for not believing it. Remo had spoken to those key men in a small receptionist’s room while most of the membership was still filing into the hall.

  They had less than an hour to decide among themselves what the union would do. There were less than a dozen men in the small office.

  “You can let this go to the vice-president of the international, or you can make yourself a good deal now. You know the vice-president was only chosen to balance the ticket.”

  The key delegates nodded. Some sat on chairs, two leaned against a desk, one of them sat on the large pot holding a palm tree. There were sounds of approval. This kid knew what he was doing.

  Remo continued. “If we choose the new president now, we can stampede the convention. If we have somebody, nobody can beat us. All we have to do is come to an agreement now. It’s gonna be our union or it’s gonna be chaos. It’s up to you guys to decide. Jethro is gone. You want to make a president now among us?”

  In the confusion of the sudden announcement, one delegate offered the job to Remo.

  Remo shook his head. “I know someone better. I know someone perfect,” Remo had said.

  That was an hour ago, and now as he faced the full membership, he knew he could stampede the entire convention momentarily. Remo looked out over the faces of the silent delegates, tobacco smoke rising blue to the ceiling.

  “The sad news is that our president, Gene Jethro, has left. He has resigned and left the country. He left giving me this note.” Remo waved a paper out in front of the podium. It was blank. But only he could see that.

  “I’m not going to read you the words, because the words don’t convey Gene Jethro’s love of the Brotherhood of Drivers, of unionism, and the American way of life. The words aren’t good enough. It was his heart that counted. And what was in his heart was love for you. He told me he thought he wasn’t old enough to be president. Yes. That’s what he told me. I told him age was measured in more than years. It is measured in honesty and courage and in love for our union. I told him he had an abundance of that, but he would not listen. He said he had won the election but was afraid to lead. He said he was going off to a place he knew where he could think. This resignation says all that. But I don’t need it to tell you what was in his heart.”

  Remo tore the blank paper into tiny strips, and the tiny strips into confetti.

  The convention was mumbling now. Many of the delegates were shocked. But certain key delegates were not shocked. They were ready and had been for an hour. They waited for Remo to complete the deal they had made.

  “We cannot be leaderless in the troubled sea of trade unionism. We cannot run without rudder or keel,” Remo intoned. “We have a man who has worked his way up union ranks. A man who stands with the drivers, behind the drivers and in the forefront of the drivers, lo these many years. A man who knows strength yet is strong with charity. A man who knows unionism as well as peopleism. A man who has led and has followed. A man who has been a driver stalwart in the dark hours of defeat and in the sunny hours of victory. There is only one man this union can elect as president to replace our beloved Gene Jethro. That man is my own local president from New York City, Abraham Bludner.”

  At the sound of the name, the key delegates led their followers into the aisles for a spontaneous demonstration. Their numbers swelled as each delegate saw the center of new power and did not want to be reminded at some crucial time during the next four years that he had sat on his ass when Abe Bludner needed him most.

  Remo waved at Bludner who was now being carried to the podium on the shoulders of his men. Bludner had been ready for this even before the key delegates had been asked to the special caucus meeting. Remo, the politician, had stampeded the fewer than dozen men the way he would stampede the entire convention. He had met with Bludner in Nuihc’s private rooms, fountain and all. Bludner had given it a suspicious look, so Remo had shrugged, indicating that he, too, thought it odd.

  “Abe,” said Remo, sitting by the pool where he had almost lost his life. “How would you like to be president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers?”

  “In four years I’ll be too old, kid.”

  “I’m talking about this afternoon.”

  “What about Jethro?”

  “Jethro has had a little family trouble. He’s out of the picture for good.”

  “Oh,” said Bludner. “One of those things.”

  “One of those things,” said Remo.

  “What do you want?” asked Bludner.

  “A few favors.”

  “Of course, what?”

  “You don’t know whom I represent. But let’s not go into that. It is of little import. There are some other allied unions, other transportation unions that want to merge with us. They plan to announce it today. That was Jethro’s plan. People who have plans like that tend to have unfortunate family problems also, if you know what I mean?”

  Bludner knew what Remo meant.

  I don’t think the drivers should ever merge with another union. Do you?”

  “And lose our independence?” said Bludner indignantly.

  “From time to time the organization I work for needs information on who is doing what. They won’t hurt your union. Of course, you will be paid for the favor of supplying information.”

  Bludner thought about that. He nodded.

  “You will be contacted by someone. Do not mention me. You never knew me. Right?”

  “You leaving?”

  “You want to be president, Abe?”

  “Kid, I used to think about it, but when I became, I think around 45, I stopped. You know. It was a dream then and it went with all the other dreams. I wouldn’t run the international the way I run the local. I think we could do with a bit more class in the international.” Bludner smiled. “Of cours
e, not so much class that I’ll be a one-term president.”

  “Now who are the key delegates?” Remo had asked, and Bludner had told him. He also told him they couldn’t meet them privately in the room “with the flowers and everything, ’cause they’ll think we’re a little bit, you know, kid.”

  Remo knew. The delegates went for Bludner in private the way they were going for him now in the open convention. The vice-president would be no trouble, Remo had assured them. He was, after all, a lightweight, as everyone agreed, and he would forgo the legal succession. There would be a court case, of course, from some dissidents, but it could be dragged out in the courts until Bludner solidified his power nationally, as he had learned to do locally years before.

  Remo had picked a good man. He watched a handful of delegates struggle up the platform steps with Bludner on their shoulders. Bludner tapped a few heads, indicating that he wished to walk up by himself. When he got to the podium, there was a roar. Remo hugged Abe. Abe hugged Remo.

  Smiling at the crowd, Remo said out of the corner of his mouth, so that only Bludner could hear:

  “You live as long as you keep the deal, Abe.”

  “I understand, kid,” said Bludner.

  Remo glanced over his shoulder at the presidents of the three other transportation unions. They, too, were reasonable men, although one of them sat very carefully on a very painful spinal column.

  When the enthusiasm was surmountable, Remo yelled into the microphone.

  “Voice vote. All in favor of Abe Bludner as president, say ‘Aye.’”

  The hall exploded in a roar of ayes.

  “All against, say ‘Nay.’”

  There was a single ‘nay’ that was met by laughter.

  “Carried. The new president is Abe Bludner.”

  There was more cheering and more hysteria.

  Remo quieted the audience. “Before I introduce my good and long-time friend, Abe Bludner, to the union he now leads, I would like to say a few words.”