Bay City Blast

Chapter eight

The ping pong ball whizzed off Chiun's fingertips. It headed straight across the room toward Remo's left hand. At the last split second, the ball veered upward and sharply to the right, toward Remo's head. Before it touched flesh, Remo drove his right hand forward. The hard fingertips slammed into the center of the ball. The little plastic sphere broke in two halves, which rapped off the panelled wall of the motel room with an almost simultaneous tap-tap sound. The rug near the wall was littered with half ping pong balls.

"I don't like this assignment, Little Father," Remo said.

"Why not?" Chiun asked. He was reaching toward a box of ping pong balls on the table behind him.

"Because we're bodyguards again. I don't like being a bodyguard. That's not what you trained me for."

"I like you as a bodyguard better than I like you as a detective," Chiun said. "For that, you are totally untrained." He flashed another ping pong ball at Remo from behind his back. The ball arced toward the younger man in a high lazy loop, then at the last moment, seemed to increase in speed. Remo got his left hand up to block the ball from hitting his face, but his stroke was not perfect, and instead of the fingertips splitting the ball in two, they merely dented it and drove it hard off the wood-panelled wall.

"Don't carp about my being a detective," Remo said.

"I never carp," Chiun said. "You should not mind being called a bodyguard. To be a bodyguard in time of trouble means that we will practice our assassin's art. And, if it is not a time of trouble, who cares what we are called because we are paid for resting?"

"Maybe you're right," Remo said.

Chiun put his hands at his sides, signaling that the exercise had entered a rest period. Remo relaxed.

"You must remember," Chiun said, "that Emperor Smith is crazy just as all emperors are crazy. They never know what we do. But he always pays on time. You buy what you wish. The gold gets to the village of Sinanju on time." He paused. "Did I ever tell you why that is important?"

"Yes, Chiun," Remo said wearily. "No more than five hundred times though. Poor village, throw babies into bay to drown when there's not enough to eat, masters work as assassins for emperors, get money, feed village, no more drowning kids. I got it. See, I know it well."

"It does not always work thusly," Chiun said. "Once, with the Master Shang-tu..."

"Never heard of him," Remo said. He had heard of the Eng and Chiun and Wo-Ti and a half dozen other Masters-down through history, including the greatest of them all, the great Master Wang, but Chiun's lecturing had, up till now, never mentioned Shang-tu.

"He was not memorable," Chiun said. "He produced no new art and he produced no new business. He was content merely to service accounts that Masters before him had created. One of these accounts was a Siamese king, for whom Shang-tu had performed a great service. Yet, Shang-tu did not do the most important thing an assassin must do."

"What's that?" asked Remo.

"He did not secure the payment. He accepted instead the king's promise that the payment would be sent to Sinanju, but when Shang-tu returned, the payment had not come, and after many months, it still had not come and the villagers were starving and it was time to send the children home again into the bay, because there was no food for them to eat."

Remo watched Chiun. Under the guise of talking to Remo and explaining this story, the old Korean's hand was slipping quietly behind him, toward the box of ping pong balls.

"What happened?" asked Remo, watching without appearing to watch.

Chiun's hand dropped back to his side, away from the box.

"Shang-tu had to go back to see the king once more and the king made profuse apologies and blamed the failure to pay on one of his ministers and in the presence of the Master, he had the Minister executed. And he told the Master to go home because now, surely, the payment would be there at Sinanju. And Shang-tu went back to Sinanju, but the payment did not come, and now many children had been sent home to the sea and the people of the village raised their voice against Shang-tu." Chiun's right hand was again moving toward the box of ping pong balls. Remo slightly tensed his body. Chiun's hand moved away again.

"So Shang-tu went back to Siam again," Remo said.

Chiun looked up sharply. "That is correct. Did I ever tell you this story before?"

"No."

"Then please do not interrupt. So the Master Shang-tu went back to Siam again. This time, with the blood of many children on his head, he did not listen to the king's honeyed words, but instead he slew the king and carried back the treasure himself. And that is an important lesson for all assassins and we are indebted to Shang-tu for teaching it to us. Hail Shang-tu."

"Don't trust anybody, even kings," Remo suggested.

Chiun shook his head. "Don't you ever listen?"

"I listened. I listened. It sounded like don't trust anybody."

"Really, Remo, you're hopeless." He raised his hands to show how hopeless Remo was. He moved a few inches to the left so that his body was directly in front of the box of ping pong balls. When he lowered his hands, he slid them behind him so that either hand could reach the box.

"Trust anyone you want, but make sure you get paid," Chiun said.

"That's the lesson?" Remo asked. He tensed his body again. He didn't know which hand the ping pong ball would come at him from. He divided his balance between both feet so he could move easily in either direction.

Chiun's hands were moving behind his back as he spoke.

"Of course," he said. "Nothing is more important to an assassin. And although Emperor Smith is a lunatic, he pays on time. If his wishes are for you to call yourself a bodyguard, call yourself a bodyguard." He winked and Remo knew the ping pong assault was only a split second away. "The inventive assassin can always find a way to turn any job into his own special art, and emperors never know the difference."

Suddenly, both Chiun's hands came out from behind his kimono. Remo lowered himself into an at-ready crouch. His hands came up toward his face. Chiun's hands moved at a blur. They lifted toward Remo, then opened. Remo peered intently for the flash of the ping pong ball. But there was no ball. Chiun's hands dropped to his sides.

He smiled again. "Sometimes the threat of an attack is more powerful than the attack itself," he said. "A ping pong ball would not hurt you. But you could be killed by being off balance and tense."

"I liked my explanation of the legend better," Remo said. "You can't trust anybody."

He turned away from Chiun. As he did, he was hit in the back of the head with a ping pong ball. It rebounded of his skull against the wall with a hard piercing rap.

"If you trust no one," Chiun said, "then you never have reason to be surprised."

Remo sighed. "Let's go see Rocco Nobile and start being bodyguards."

As they left their room and walked toward the rented white Lincoln Continental, a burly, dark-haired man with muscular sloping shoulders bulging through his Qiana shirt stepped from a room two doors away from theirs.

He called to Remo.

"Hey, you."

Remo looked at the man. His eyes were dark and his lips were fish-thin. He had big hands which he had clenched tightly at his side. A man under tension, Remo thought.

"You mean me?" Remo asked.

"Yeah, you. You finally finished with that ping pong game?"

"Ping pong? Ping pong?" Remo said. He remembered the exercise. The sound of the balls hitting the wall. "Yeah, we're all done," he said.

"Good thing," the man said.

"Why?"

"Because if you didn't stop, I was coming over to shove those paddles up your ass."

"It's harder to hit the ball that way," Remo said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Sure. Think about it," Remo said. "You do think, don't you?"

"You're a wise guy, aren't you?" the big man said.

Remo looked into the car at Chiun. Chiun shrugged and Remo thought of Rocco Nobile and said mildly, "Some other time, pal. Some other time."

"Any time," the big man said. He brought his two ham fists together and began cracking his knuckles.

"I won't forget," Remo said as he got into the car, closed the door and drove from the motel lot.

Mark Tolan watched the car go. Ping pong. What kind of faggots played ping pong in the daytime in a motel room? For exercise? Yeah, he'd give them exercise. Yeah. He went back inside his own room where Sam Gregory sat at the window table, drawing maps and charts and tables of organization and plans.

Al Baker was sprawled on the bed watching a television game show whose major premise seemed to be that terminal retardation could be fun. Its minor premise was that all the people on the show were terminally retarded and its conclusion, therefore, was that the show was fun. Al Baker never missed it. He watched three young men, hiding behind a screen, trying to be glib and clever as they were asked questions by a young woman who couldn't see them. Baker fantasized being on the show, sitting on one of the high stools.

"And if we went out together, Number Three, what would we probably do?"

"I'd give you a beef injection, lady," Baker saw himself saying. The girl squealed. "Ooooooh."

"When I'm done with you, you'll be halfway into the cracks on the floor."

At this time in his fantasy, the girl always gasped. "Quick, get rid of the others. I want Number Three. And I want him now." Then she fainted.

Baker never missed a game show. He pictured himself on all of them, writing new scripts, always winning women and money.

"You still watching that crap?"

Baker looked toward the door, where Mark Tolan hulked menacingly.

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

"I hate that show," Tolan said.

His face was twisted into a death's head snarl. He frightened Baker. Tolan was obviously a homicidal maniac and Baker couldn't understand why Sam Gregory had recruited this ding-a-ling.

"I like it," Baker said. Tolan's face twisted some more.

"I'll change it if you want," Baker said. "It's almost over anyway."

"Is there a war movie on?"

"No."

"Then watch anything you want, creep. Maybe you'll get smart if you watch enough shows."

"Will you two stop bickering?" Gregory said, looking up from the table.

"When are we gonna start doing something except sitting around here, listening to some faggots play ping pong next door and watching you draw maps?" Tolan demanded.

"We're waiting for The Lizzard to return," Gregory said. He had taken to calling Nicholas Lizzard "The Lizzard." He thought it gave the operation more of a touch of glamour. He called Al Baker "The Baker." He wanted to give Mark Tolan a name too. It wasn't that he couldn't think of one. He had a lot of them in mind. The Mutilator. The Extincter. The Avenger. It was just that he was afraid any one of them might rub Tolan the wrong way and he might wind up wasting everybody on the team. It wouldn't do for the members of the Rubout Squad to be rubbed out by one of their own. Especially The Eraser, Sam Gregory himself. He had to live. Bay City was just the first. He was going to go on, across the country, town after town, city after city, tracking the mob down in its lair, wherever he found them. They would learn to fear The Eraser.

"What the hell do we need Gizzard for?" Tolan said. "He's as worthless as tits on a bull. Let's get going. Let's go kill somebody."

"Tomorrow," Gregory said quickly. "I'm working up the plans now."

"We going after Nobile?"

"Not yet. First we're going to hit one of those mob businesses that The Baker infiltrated today."

"He couldn't infiltrate a phone booth with a dime," Tolan said, sneering over at Baker who was envisioning himself lying on the beach at Waikiki with the girl from the game show.

Baker didn't answer. He was wondering if the $493 he had in the bank would get him to Hawaii.

Gregory said, "The Baker has found a drug factory on River Street. We're going to hit it tomorrow."

"Good," said Tolan. He turned toward the motel room window and pointed his finger at passing cars, squeezing an imaginary trigger and going "Bang, bang" softly under his breath. He could imagine the first shot hitting into a driver's temple, killing him instantly. The second shot took out the right front tire, throwing the car out of control, across the center divider into the oncoming lane. Cars piled up by the dozens. Bodies littered the streets. Some cars caught fire. A few exploded. Burning gasoline flew into the air and droplets fell on passersby with flammable clothes. A baby carriage burned.

Tolan smiled.

"How come I don't have no name?" he asked.

Gregory said, "What do you mean?" He knew very well what Tolan meant.

"You're The Eraser. You call that creep The Baker. You call the drunk The Lizzard. What are you going to call me?"

"You mean to your face?" Baker called out.

"Funny," Tolan said grimly.

"How about The Lunatic?" Baker suggested.

Tolan wheeled around. His eyes blazed hatred. Baker tried to bury himself deeper into the mattress.

"That ain't funny," Tolan said. "I'd like to put you away, television man."

Baker coughed. "Don't try it, buddy. I've got a lot of connected friends. They'd be on you like a coat of paint."

"You ain't connected to you ass," Tolan said.

"No? You'll see," Baker said.

"Send 'em on," said Tolan. "Send 'em all on. I want them all. All your ginzo friends."

"Stop it, you two," Gregory said. He met Tolan's eyes and tried not to shudder. "What name would you like?" he asked.

Tolan thought for a moment. Yeah, he thought. He wanted a name. Yeah. Some thing that would strike terror into the hearts of the bugs of the Mafia. They were all bugs, yeah. Bugs. "Bugs," he said softly.

"Sounds good to me," Baker said. " 'Bugs.' "

"Shut up," Tolan said. Yeah, they were bugs and he was the man who was going to take care of all of them. Live huge. Yeah, he would live huge, and kill bugs. "The Exterminator," he said.

He looked at Gregory and a small smile creased the lines around his mouth.

"Yeah, that's it. The Exterminator."

"All right. The Exterminator it is," Gregory said.

"I liked Bugs better," said Baker.

"When we're done here," Tolan said, "you and I are going to have it out." He looked at Baker who waved a hand at him in disregard. Baker wasn't that worried. He had it figured out. He had never killed anyone in his life and, if truth be told, he could never remember throwing a punch at anybody in anger. But this time, it would be different. Tolan was going to get him when they were done? Well, exactly ten minutes before they were done in Bay City, Baker was going to put a bullet in the back of Tolan's head. Nobody could fault him for that.

Gregory spoke again. "The Eraser and his Rubout Squad: The Exterminator, The Baker and The Lizzard. Sounds good to me. And tomorrow we're going to hit this drug factory. I've got the plans worked out now. We're going to pick away at all the goons in this city and then we're going to get Rocco Nobile." He paused. "It's time for another note."

He looked around and found a yellow pad but couldn't find another pencil. "I need more pencils," he said.

Tolan was still staring out the window, pointing his finger at passing cars. "I'll get 'em. Any special kind?"

"The ones that write," Baker said.

"Yellow wooden ones," Gregory said quickly. "With an eraser. If you can get Eberhard Faber Mongols, get them. You got money?"

Baker heard money mentioned and sat up in bed. "I'll go," he volunteered.

"I'm going," Tolan said. "And I've got what I need." He walked from the room.

While he was gone, The Lizzard returned to the room. Or was returned. He was spilled out of a taxicab by the driver. His gray wig was on sideways and he could barely stand. Walking was out of the question.

Gregory saw him through the window and called, "Baker. Go get The Lizzard. He seems to be having some trouble."

Baker went outside. The Lizzard recognized him and smiled. He batted his remaining single false eyelash.

"Hiya big boy," he said thickly, in a high-pitched squawk. He winked. "Wanna get it on?"

"Oh, shut up," Baker said. "You're slammed up again." He threw an arm around The Lizzard's back and helped him toward the door.

" 'S'not true. Not drunk," said Lizzard.

"Bullshit," said Baker.

Inside the room, Gregory said, "You're drunk."

"Just a pose," Lizzard said. "So no one recognize me." His wig now had slipped so far down on his face that it covered his eyes. He kept swatting at it and missing.

"Did you get the apartments?" Gregory demanded.

"Got one. Sherioush houshing shortage in Bay City. Had to look very hard. Got good leadsh for tomorrow. Men want to buy me drinksh all the time."

"Put him in bed," Gregory said.

Baker pushed Lizzard toward the bed. He fell like a solitary tree, hacked down in the middle of an open field. He was asleep before he landed.

"When he sobers up," Gregory said. "We'll find out where the apartment is. We may need it tomorrow when we make our daring daylight raid on that drug headquarters."

Baker nodded. He wished he could remember what address he had said housed the drug operation. Maybe he could get some more money tonight from Gregory for a pre-attack reconnaissance operation.