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Warren Murphy: Bloody Tourists

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Bloody Tourists: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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A-Kickin' and A-Grinnin' The tiny Caribbean tourist trap of Union Island wants to declare its independence from the U.S. And while baby-faced island leader Greg Grom's "Free Union Island" movement is taken about as seriously as a summer day, good ol' Greg is touring Dixieland's hot spots, from the honky-tonks to the hee-haws, trying to rally support for the cause. And some weird stuff is happening . . . Ordinary beer-swilling, foot-stomping, line-dancing yahoos are running amok, brawling like beasts on a rampage. Remo Williams -- currently   experiencing a lot of job satisfaction as Reigning Master -- spots the connection between the doofball from Union Island and the redneck killer zombies. And he's pretty sure Greg is slipping something into the local brew, but the why is another matter. No biggie. Remo's not in a mood to make friends, or deal with the Chiun's abuse or CURE's insults. He's here to smoke some bacon. Happily.

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The young man said quickly, "No, not him! There is somebody much worse."

Maple looked around the small bar, modeled after a quaint gentlemen's tavern that had operated in Charlotte, North Carolina, in the late 1800s. It was empty now. Just the two customers and the asshole behind the bar. The bartender was a miserable piece of dog crap who deserved to get the living shit kicked out of him. But there was somebody Maple hated even more. He just wasn't sure who....

"Who is it?" he demanded.

The young man leaned close and held his mustache in place, pointing with his other hand. Maple looked. Out the front windows, across the immaculately clean Main Street, was a small public courtyard.

"Him," the young man growled. "The guy with the cart?"

"The guy with the cart," the young man said earnestly. "There is nobody you hate more than the guy with the cart."

Arby Maple's lower lip curled. Hot breath stuttered from his nostrils as his body inflated with his passion. The young man was right-Arby abhorred the man with the cart. It was a soul-filling, mind-expanding malevolence. There was no reason why, and this kind of complete hatred needed no excuse. And there was only one thing to do about it.

The Cobbler In A Cup guy had to die.

ARBY MAPLE STRODE from the tavern, crossed Main Street and grabbed the vendor by the collar. The vendor's smile disappeared and his clip-on bow tie landed in the grass.

"Hey!"

But that was all he said before Arby Maple flipped open the lid to the hot-box cart and shoved his head inside. The vendor's face disappeared into the steaming tray of gooey cobbler.

Arby Maple loved the sound of his enemy crying out in pain, but he was disappointed to find that he could only get the man's head and one shoulder through the square opening. He pushed on the other shoulder, then heaved against it and felt a crack of bone as the shoulder went in. The vendor was screaming and kicking his feet.

Maple brought the hot-box lid down, hard, on the backbone of the trapped vendor. Then he brought it down again. The lid was polished stainless steel and was heavy enough to do the job. Maple kept slamming it until he saw the spine give. The legs stopped kicking.

Arby Maple experienced profound satisfaction. His eyes fell on a decorative iron gate, standing permanently open alongside one edge of the park. The crossbar that slid into place to secure the gate was also of solid black iron with a nice hook at one end. Maple wrenched it out of its socket.

He didn't see the people running away from him. He didn't hear the screaming. His hatred would turn on them in a minute or so, but for now he had one thought only: he was going to wipe the floor with that smug son-of-a-bitch bartender.

AS SOON AS MAPLE LEFT the tavern, the young man strolled quickly up Main Street and took cover in the door of a souvenir shop. He was tentatively pleased when he saw the body of the cobbler seller go limp.

Maple wasn't through yet, though. He grabbed a hunk of metal from the fence and went back for the bar. Well, that wasn't unexpected. The man had already been irked by the bartender.

Maple emerged from the tavern with his iron bar dripping blood and matted with hair.

Stop now, stop now, the young man pleaded silently. Arby Maple rushed a crowd of onlookers and began bashing their heads in.

THE YOUNG MAN WALKED despondently through the parklike town, against the flow of security carts and interested visitors heading for the action. His subject was supposed to kill just the one guy. Instead the man was on some sort of rampage.

When he reached his car he started the engine, but paused to pull out his notebook. There were pages of unrelated scribbling inside, but in the middle was a carefully printed chart. At the top of the first column was the entry GUTX-ED-UT1. "ED" stood for Evaporative Distillation, the method used to create this particular batch. "UT" was for Utah, home state of the manufacturing lab, and "1" was the first sample from that lab. Carefully, with his treasured fine-tipped Mont Blanc pen, the young man recorded his findings in the results field.

He wrote just one word: "Imperfect."

Police, fire and SWAT vans were careening into the parking lot as the young man left. A TV news truck was close behind. The young man had to smile when he saw that. Well, at the very least, he thought, this place was going to get some mighty bad publicity and folks would be staying away in droves. And everyone knew what that meant.

Less competition.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he was ordering off the dinner menu, a la carte.

"Meatballs."

"A man like you needs more than meatballs." The waitress chomped her gum provocatively.

"Meatballs," Remo insisted.

"The customer is always right. But why not get the dinner? It comes with pasta and garlic bread and a salad."

Remo considered that, then nodded. "You talked me into it. I'll have the full dinner. In fact, make it four meatball dinners."

Her jaw froze midchomp.

"There will be others in my party," he explained.

"Hope your friends like meatballs," the waitress said, trying to sound witty. She cocked a hip at him, just to be sure he was getting the message.

But the customer in the circular booth looked right past her. "Is that a pie case? I haven't seen one of those in ages."

"We have apple and coconut cream, but I recommend the cherry pie." She leaned at him, thrusting out her impressive bosom.

"I'll take it," her customer said.

"Four slices? Or how about a piece of cherry pie for just you?"

"No, no, bring the whole pie. Two if you've got ' em." She stood up straight, looked at him quizzically and departed, her heels clicking on the linoleum. By the time she came back with four salads, she was prepared to make another go of it.

"Doesn't look like your friends are going to make it," she pronounced. "How about you and I get a room at the Hilton down the street and order room service?"

"Here he is now."

Remo slipped out of the deep vinyl booth and approached the man who was standing inside the entrance, smoothing his lapels and looking displeased. When the waitress saw who it was, she vanished into the kitchen.

"Michelangelo, good to see you!" Remo said with a hand outstretched.

"Good to see me? Good to see me?" The new arrival declined to shake hands. "Buddy, you got some serious balls, I'll give you that much. But you got serious troubles, too, you know what I mean?"

"I have a table." Remo gestured to the huge booth.

"I know you got a table. You think I don't know you got a table? You think I haven't been watching you, trying to figure you out?"

"Please." Remo was conciliatory. "Join me for dinner. We'll talk."

"I don't feel like dinner. I feel like bustin' your ass." Remo kept a firm grip on the smile. He never claimed to be an actor and this good-to-see-you shtick was getting on his nerves. To his amazement, Michelangelo "The Fig" Figaroa slid into the booth.

Remo joined him. They could have fit another five or six human beings into the booth without crowding, and the vinyl backs were so high it was like being in a room by themselves. Here they could have privacy.

"I got two guys with guns watching the place, just so's you know. I also had the place closed up. For added privacy."

"Very efficient of you, Michelangelo."

"You think I'd be here if I thought this was a setup? I had every square inch of this place checked out the minute I got your phone call and my guys been watching it ever since. I know you came here by yourself. I know that. Got it?"

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