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Then he noticed the drunk wore the same pugnacious face as the label, only
looser. He also drooled.
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"You have your own vodka?" Remo blurted.
"Da. I do."
"Then you won't miss this one when you sober up," said Remo, tossing the
bottle and walking away.
"I am not clown," the drunk burbled thickly after him. "I will make scorched
desert where I go. You will see. I do not need you."
"Likewise."
"I do not need bodyguard. I do not need advisers. I do not need Sinanju."
Remo reversed direction. "Did you say Sinanju?"
"I said Sinanju. But I do not need it."
"Why do you need Sinanju?"
"I do not."
"But if you did, why would you need Sinanju?"
"To conquer world, of course."
Remo knelt at the man and turned his face so the streetlight hit it squarely.
The loose, pasty face was starting to look familiar. But it kept swimming like
putty so the lines were indistinct.
Remo fished the vodka bottle out of the bushes. The face on it rang a bell.
And it wasn't because Remo had the real face sprawled at his feet, either.
"What language is this?" Remo asked.
"Engleesh. I talk exshellent Engleesh."
"No. I mean on the label."
"You are ignoramus. I may be clown. But you are ignoramus not to know Russian.
When I annex USA, you will be hung by thumps and forced to kiss the boot that
crushed you."
"You're "
"Yes. Exactly. You know now."
"I don't remember the name, but you're him."
"Zhirinovsky," slurred the drunk, reaching for the bottle. And on the label,
in Cyrillic letters, many of them seemingly formed backward to Western eyes,
appeared to be an approximation of the name Zhirinovsky.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Remo asked.
"What I do everywhere. Being kicked out. Everyone love Zhirinovsky so much
they kick him out. Been kicked out of Poland. Serbia. Constantinople."
"Constantinople doesn't exist anymore."
"When I conquer world, I will rename America Constantinople. Now surrender
bottle if you value thumps."
Remo compressed his hand, the bottle broke and the man on the ground was so
devastated by the awful sight that he fell backward.
"It's thumbs."
"I am not clown."
Remo decided if this was who he thought it was, dumping him in the bushes
wouldn't cut it. So he dragged the man to the subway station and dumped him in
the back of a waiting cab.
The cabbie was firm. "Hey, I don't haul drunks."
"Here's six hundred dollars. Cash," Remo told the driver. "Take him home."
"Where's home?"
"Bismark, North Dakota. Six hundred bucks get him there?"
"Can I stop for food and lodging?" the cabbie asked.
"You bet."
The cabbie folded the wad of cash, kissed it and stuffed it into a pocket. "In
that case, tell his folks to expect him home sometime next week. I know a
short cut to Bismark via Atlantic City."
"You're the professional."
As the cab took off, Remo ran back home, hoping what he feared wasn't true.
The second he opened the front door, the metallic smell of fresh blood hit him
like an unpleasant wave.
There was only one body on the stairs leading up. That was good. One body was
easily disposed of. Maybe if Remo broke it into small pieces, it would slip
down the garbage disposal.
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A second body occupied a toilet on the second floor. Remo knew he was dead
without listening for a heartbeat because heads immersed in toilet water for
long periods of time usually belonged to the deceased.
Outside the tower room, there was a stack of bodies, very neatly arranged. It
was hard to tell exactly how many bodies there were, the stacking was so
professional. In some cases more than one arm was jammed into a coat sleeve,
and other limbs were interlocked so that rigor mortis setting in would make it
easier for Remo to pick up the bodies as a unit.
That was Chiun. In the old days, when the Master of Sinanju was addicted to
American soap operas, anyone who interrupted them was subject to his instant
death penalty. Many times Remo returned home to find a similar pile of corpses
needing disposal.
The sight of these made Remo feel almost nostalgic.
Letting the dead decompose in peace, Remo entered the meditation room.
"Chiun?"
"I have been awaiting your return," Chiun said.
"Well, I'm back."
"In time to take out the garbage."
"Who were they?"
"Russians."
"Yeah?"
"Lying Russians. I would have accepted truthful Russians, although it was a
grave breach of decorum to send emissaries when first contact should be
through a letter or simple message. I do not treat with pretenders or their
bodyguards."
"So you killed them?"
"I suffered the loud one to live," Chiun answered.
"I think I know who that was___"
"He claimed to be the new czar, but I know this to be untrue. He is merely a
braggart and a drunkard. But since being a braggart and drunkard is sometimes
a prerequisite to rule Russia, I allowed him to depart with his internal
organs still functioning. Should he ever become czar in truth, he will no
doubt be grateful."
Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "These dead guys his bodyguards?"
"No longer," said Chiun. "Dispose of them."
Sighing, Remo got to work. He reached into the pile of interlocking dead, and
just as in the old days they came off the floor as a unit, like chicken bones
left a long time at the bottom of a garbage can.
Carrying them down to the basement, Remo was confronted with an immediate
problem. How to get them in the trash cans, which were man-size at best. He
considered the problem while he took the lids off each can.
When all five cans were exposed, Remo decided that since he had seven dead and
only five cans, there was no point to separating the dead so each corpse had
its own receptacle.
Once that was settled, it was easy. He broke off limbs and other projections.
They snapped off clean as dead branches, and he distributed them equally among
the five cans.
The body on the steps also contributed to the tossed salad of dead parties. As
did the body dunking for oxygen in the toilet bowl. Remo had to pry his dead
fingers from the seat, but after that he was no more trouble than the others
had been.
Returning to the meditation room, Remo cleared his throat. This was not going
to be easy.
Chiun beat him to it. "You have failed."
"How'd you know?"
"I have excellent nunchi for your kibun," Chiun said aridly. "You have lost
the greatest client in Sinanju history through your incompetence."
"Not so fast. That's not how it went."
"No? Have you come to terms with Harold the Mad?"
"No," Remo admitted.
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"Then you have failed, and the details are unimportant. All that matters is
the disaster you have wrought."
"I didn't blow it. Smith did."
Chiun jumped to his feet. "Smith refused our service?"
"No. He was all set to renew. I got double the gold."
"Double?"
"Yeah, double."
"Not triple?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]