Warren Murphy - Syndication Rites

Tanaro clicked the clip into his SMG. "You wanna tell Don Anselmo that?"

"He probably don't even know," Fondi argued. "He's on ice in Ogdenburg."

"Pauli Pavulla says he knows," Tanaro insisted. "Says Don Anselmo's been makin' calls to him ever since they torched the Neighborhood Improvement Association."

"Pavulla's a head case," Fondi said. "He saved a bowl of cereal a month one time 'cause he said he seen the Virgin Mary in the Cheerios. What's Don Anselmo calling a guy as low and crazy as Holy Pauli Pavulla?"

"No one else to call by the sounds of it," Tanaro explained, pulling his gun apart once more. "Solly's dead, and everybody else is spread all over the country. Ain't that many trustworthy guys left back in New York. I hear Holy Pauli's the Don's ears right now."

Fondi exhaled impatience. "I hope Don Anselmo knows that psycho's probably on his knees praying to his Rice Krispies right now."

As Fondi spoke, Tommy "Guns" Rovigo entered the small back room. He wore a troubled scowl. "We got company," he hissed.

Grunting loudly, Fondi and Tanaro climbed rapidly to their feet. Tommy Guns' face grew angry, and he placed a thick finger to his lips. The other two men fell quiet just in time to hear the sound of a dying car engine outside. It was followed by silence.

Fondi Bisol felt his flaccid stomach muscles tighten.

If what his cousin had told him was true, Jimmy Pains had been fed through a paper shredder in Chicago. And Bear DiGrotti's body had been found without a head up in Boston. Now the killers were here.

"I hope Holy Pauli said a novena to his corn flakes for us," Fondi said, trying to suppress his frightened breathing.

Guns in hand, ever alert to noises outside, the three men crept through the shadows toward the closed door.

MARK POCKETED the rental's keys. Palms sweating, he slipped a hand under his leather jacket. With a tear of Velcro, he pulled his gun from his holster. The weapon was an alien thing, heavy and awkward in his hand. If it was supposed to give him comfort, it wasn't working.

The building was dark. Not one light on inside. Maybe no one was there. Maybe they'd heard what happened in Boston and New York and had opted to bag out.

Another thought came to him. Maybe General Smith's agents had already been here.

Mark thought of the man in Chicago. Fed through a shredder. In spite of his too warm clothing, he shuddered.

Willing himself calm, Mark kept his arm tucked in close to his body, his gun near his hip. With cautious, silent steps, he approached the dark Raffair building.

FROM THE AIRPORT, Remo and Chiun took the interstate to Veterans Memorial Highway. The New Orleans Raffair office was west of City Park.

The Master of Sinanju was quiet again, yet this time Remo didn't press it. Between their house and Remo's future, they both had enough on their minds.

Remo hated to admit it, but losing his home wasn't so big a thing when he weighed it against the other things of value in his life. And the one thing he treasured more than all others was sitting in a simple brocade robe to his right.

"Tell you what, Little Father," Remo said abruptly. "Why don't you check the radio for a country station?" For his adopted father's sake, he forced cheer in his voice.

Chiun's reply surprised him.

"Alas, I fear that pleasure is gone forever."

The words were said with such sad importance that Remo pulled his eyes off the road. In profile, the Master of Sinanju's jaw was firmly set against all the many injustices that could be inflicted by a cruel world.

"Why?" Remo asked.

"Because I do not wish to revel in my misery," Chiun said simply. "I will always associate that sad, wonderful music with a most painful time. The wound of my loss will never heal as long as I listen to it. Therefore, I will no more."

And in his words was the pain of loss. Remo's heart went out to him.

"We're in New Orleans. How about jazz?" he suggested.

The Master of Sinanju's entire face puckered. "Cats in a sack make more agreeable noises."

"Can't disagree there," Remo nodded. His jaw clenched.

Beside him, the Master of Sinanju appeared to be a figure of ancient tragedy. Tiny hands of skeletal flesh rested in the lap of his kimono. Hazel eyes of bitter longing focused on some unseen distant point, far beyond the road on which they traveled.

There was so little in this world that the Master of Sinanju truly liked. In one fell swoop, two of those joys had been stolen from the old Korean.

Angry now, Remo gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

Although Remo had a great desire to be the one to make the arsonists pay, he decided in that moment that the pleasure would go to his teacher. He pressed harder on the gas, hoping to hurry their trip along.

MARK TRIED the front door. Locked.

An alley ran to the right of the two-story building. He took it, slipping into shadows.

A few plastic garbage bags were thrown near a dented trash can. Dogs had torn open the bags, scattering the contents around the alley.

Mark was having a hard time catching his breath. His temples and cheeks were hot with fear.

When he reached the end of the alley, he brought the gun shoulder high. His back against the wall, he leaned around the corner, peeking in at the rear of the Raffair office.

No one around.

The old brick building sagged at the second story. Bricks from the crumbling ledge lay all around the ground.

Beneath his jacket and sweatshirt, Mark's T-shirt was soaked with perspiration. He shivered as he leaned against the wall.

Insects fluttered and swooped crazily around a suspended light that shone down on the battered rear door.

Pushing away from the wall, Mark walked toward the light. After only a few steps, he froze.

A hushed voice. Somewhere nearby.

He strained to listen. Silence. Had he imagined it?

Mark listened a few seconds more. Nothing.

His wrist ached from clenching the gun too tightly. He loosened his grip, flexing his fingers even as he started walking stealthily once more.

Before him, the door loomed large and ominous.

REMO AND CHIUN PARKED out in front of the New Orleans Raffair office. Only a few scattered cars lined the street this late at night.

"Front or back?" Remo asked as they got out of the car.

"Rear doors are for philandering husbands and collectors of garbage," Chiun pronounced. Twirling, he marched across the road.

"They're also for people who are sick of being shot at," Remo pointed out as he followed the old man to the front of the building.

At the door, Chiun cocked an ear. "Two," he determined.

As he made a move for the handle, Remo touched his kimono sleeve. "Three," he corrected.

Chiun refocused his senses. He quickly nodded sharp agreement.

"I'll count to three," Remo said. "One-"

The old Korean sent a wood-shattering kick into the center of the door. It shrieked off its frame, screaming into the darkened interior of the New Orleans Raffair office.

"I was gonna go to three," Remo said, disappointed.

"I assumed it would take all night for you to count that high, and I am not a young man," the Master of Sinanju said.

Chiun swept inside after the door, leaving Remo alone on the sidewalk.

"Old crank," Remo muttered as the first sounds of cracking bone emanated from inside.

Face clearly annoyed, he disappeared through the open door after his teacher.

NEARLY SEVEN HUNDRED MILES away, Mark Howard reholstered his gun and wrapped both hands around the rusted doorknob at the back of the Miami Raffair building.

When he pulled, the door popped open.

He was reaching for his gun once more when he thought he saw a flash of movement from inside. He was shocked when a fat hand shot out of the darkness. The hand grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him forward. As he fell to the dirty floor, he felt a blinding pain in the back of his head. Then he felt nothing at all.