Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER TWENTY

Remo had been in the bar for hours. The receptionist had muttered something about her husband, finished her drink and left. He was the only one drinking. The bartender just refilled his glass whenever he nodded. A mess of bills soaked up the spilled liquid. The bar was dark and slightly overheated. It was too big and too empty.

Occasionally, the bartender complained about how business had left when the burlesque nearby closed down. It was a tourist bar that had had to go local and couldn't make the switch. Prices were still eighty cents a shot. The bartender never bought one back, as was the custom in New Jersey.

The hospital was about ten blocks away. It was the wrong place to stay, as he had been taught, and it was the wrong thing to be doing. But he was there and he was drinking and he would keep on drinking until he bought a bottle and brought it to a hotel room where he wouldn't be rolled for the cash.

Remo nodded and the glass filled up with a double shot of imported Canadian whiskey. He wouldn't even register at the hotel. He would keep on drinking until he could not think, until he could not feel or know and then he would be rolled undoubtedly and then thrown in jail and then CURE would find him and they would end it all.

They would do a good swift job, as fast as an electric chair, maybe faster. And then the judge's sentence would be carried out and may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Remo nodded again and the glass filled again and some more hills disappeared again and by the white lighted clock over the bar it was one p.m. or something or was it one a.m. or something?

There was sun in the street out there, too much sun and light. People played in the light, didn't they? They were the day people. And the whiskey was good. It was doing its job. «Whiskey,» Remo mumbled, «can contain without taste traces, small amounts of cyanide, any amount of arsenic and various toxic chemicals.»

«What, sir?» the bartender asked.

«Toxic chemicals,» Remo said.

The bartender, whose greasy graying hair gave him the appearance of an Italian count gone broke, said: «No, this is good stuff. We don't lace it. You're drinking the best.»

Remo raised the glass. «To the best. To Chiun.»

«To what, sir?»

«Take the money.»

«All of it?»

«No. Just for the drink.»

The bartender made a sloppy snatch on the extra bill. He'd never pass a CURE test.

«What, sir?»

«Another.»

«You haven't finished that.»

«I will. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.» Maybe he should kill the bartender, then he'd be safe in jail. Maybe life. Life. Life. But jail walls didn't stop CURE. Oh, no. Not the team. Protect the team. The team must be safe at all times.

«You played on a team, sir?»

«I played on the best.» Damned stool. Remo grabbed the bar ledge. «No one ever got through the center of the line. I lost three teeth but no one ever got through the center of the line. Ha, ha. Until now. I open the gate for them all.» Oh, Remo, you're so brilliant. You're so smart. I never knew you were so smart. «They're all going through now.»

«Yeah,» said the bartender, making an even sloppier snatch. «They're all going through now.» He had an evil Italian face. It wasn't a Scotch, Irish, Indian, German or who knew what else face, like Remo's beautiful face. It was ugly. Ugly as Remo's face.

Italians: the image of a people addicted to crime is an improper one and should not be accepted by CURE members. Italian-Americans have one of the lowest crime rates per capita in the United States. The existence of organized crime and its heavy participation by those of Italian descent distorts the picture. There is a cultural trait, however-a mistrust of authority-which appeared during the 1940's. This was brought over mainly by the Sicilians, a people often occupied by foreign powers. The image of the Italian criminal has been enhanced by news coverage of the fewer-than-three hundred, who participate in the upper echelons of organized crime.

In other words, they got caught. Remo remembered the lecture almost in toto. He remembered too much. The glass filled again.

«Just a minute,» he said, grabbing the bartender's hand. «That was poorly done.» He slapped the hand and three wet bills dropped to the puddle.

«You made the mistake of keeping the area wet so the bills stick together. Keep it dry. Dry is the secret. You have greater manipulation with the dry object. Here watch this.»

Remo took a few dry tens from his pocket. He made a fast snatch that marvelled the bartender, then quickly stuffed the bills in the bartender's shirt pocket. «See. Dry.»

The bartender grinned with an embarrassed smile and shrugged with his palms turned upward. An Italian gesture.

Remo slapped his face. The crack echoed through the empty bar. The man stumbled back against a shelf of bottles. They jingled but didn't fall. He clasped his left hand to his right cheek.

«Never try such a sloppy job on me again,» Remo said. The man waited a few moments, breathing hard and staring at Remo who smiled and nodded. Then the bartender checked the bills in his pocket and found they were gone. The customer's hands had just moved too quickly. Even drunk, the speed had been blinding.

«Muscles. I'm training your muscles. Want to try again?» Remo offered the dry bills, but the bartender just backed away.

«I oughta call the cops,» the bartender whined, moving toward a part of the counter that Remo judged held the bar stick.

«By all means, do that,» Remo said. «But first another double, my clumsy man of the untrained muscles.»

«One double coming up,» the bartender said as he moved back to Remo. He kept close to the bar with his left hand beneath it, an advertisement of a weapon. By the time he reached Remo, his pace and balance telegraphed that he would bring some sort of stick up in an arc over the counter toward Remo's head.

The bartender stopped, the stick came in a sweep. As fast as it moved downward, Remo's hand moved upward. His hand smashed against the middle of the stick, stopping it, but acting as a pivot against which the top of the stick kept moving. The stick cracked and the bartender quickly yanked his swinging hand to his chest. The vibration had stung.

Remo nodded for another drink and from then on he was not disturbed. Maybe he could tour the country, doing tricks. Then CURE would be more hesitant about killing him.

Hell with it. He was sentenced to die by a judge and he was going to die. A good thought occurred to Remo. He let himself down from the stool and went to the men's room. When he got out, he slumped into a booth and motioned the bartender who brought his drink and all his money. There wasn't a cent missing. Remo gave the man a ten spot.

At first, the bartender refused to accept it, but then slowly, cautiously, conceded to Remo's whim. «For your honesty,» Remo insisted. Then he began his serious drinking.

He came to at the same table. Someone was shaking his shoulder. The bartender was yelling, «Don't touch that guy. He's murder,» and the shaking continued.

Remo looked up. The bar was darker. His head felt as if it were closing in a vise, his stomach existed only by the pains in it. And he was going to puke. And the shaking stopped.

Remo glanced up, briefly up, mumbled thanks and stumbled to the bathroom where he dry-heaved for an eternity until he saw an open window. Standing on his tip toes, he sucked the fresh air into his lungs in a rapid pace, then faster and deeper until his body was consuming twice the amount of oxygen a running man consumes. Into the base of the groin, hold, out full, the whole essence of your being out, into the base of the groin, hold, out full, the whole essence…

His head still ached when he normalized his breathing. Remo splashed some water on his face, combed his hair, and rubbed the back of his neck. He would walk in the fresh air for an hour or so and then eat, something like… like rice.

The bartender and the man who had shaken him awake were talking as he picked up his money from the table.

«You recover pretty fast, Johnny,» the young man said, shaking his head. «I thought you'd crawl out.»

Remo forced a smile. He said to the bartender: «Anything I owe you?»

The bartender backed away, his hands raising slightly in a defensive position. He shook his head. «No, nothing. Everything's fine. Fine.»

Remo nodded. The bartender seemed too scared to have checked his papers. They had been in order and the thin strip of tape on his wallet had not been disturbed, when he checked his cash.

«I hear you're full of tricks,» the young man said. «Karate?»

Remo shrugged. «Ka-what?»

The young man smiled. «From what I heard, you were doing karate tricks in here this morning.»

Remo glanced outside. It was dark. The light from a newspaper office's sign shone into the street. He must never reveal himself like that again. He'd be remembered at the bar, maybe for a long time.

«No, I don't know anything like that.» He nodded to the young man and the relieved bartender. «Well, good night,» he said and headed toward the door.

He heard the bartender mumble something about his being «a wild one,» and the young man answered: «Wild? What about the guy who cut his own throat at the hospital this morning? Only one arm and that one with a hook on it and he still cuts his own throat. I mean if a man wants to kill himself…» Remo kept on walking.