Warren Murphy: Acid Rock

What was that? What was it Gary Cooper had done? It was more than just funeral by fire.

Remo yanked the chute door open with his left hand and with a flick of his right shoulder twitched the bag onto the door. He was ready to push it down the chute, when a ferocious yipping sound pierced his ears and he felt needle pricks at his right ankle. Remo looked down. A Pomeranian dog with a jeweled collar was snapping at him. That's it, he thought. A dog. A dog has to go with the corpse in a Viking funeral.

From down around the corner, he heard a stentorian female voice whooping, "Bubbles. Where are you, Bubbles? Come to Momma."

But meanwhile Bubbles was doing a number on Remo's right ankle.

Remo pitched the trash bag containing Lhasa Nilsson into the chute. He heard it hiss as it slid through the metal cylinder, then whoosh as it fell free to finally thump as it hit in the basement.

The whooping crane who was looking for Bubbles was getting closer. Remo could tell because her voice had changed from a roar to a bellow.

He reached down and grabbed the fluffy ball of fur by the jeweled collar and extended his hand toward the trash chute.

"Oh, there you are," came the roar. Remo looked around to see a magnificently overupholstered woman in a black dress come thumping toward him.

She yanked Bubbles from his hand and turned and walked away, without thanks, murmuring endearments to the dog.

Oh well, Remo thought. The idea is what counts anyway. Lhasa didn't really need a dog to go with him.

Back in the room, he encountered Chiun coming out of the bedroom, having changed his robe from ceremonial blue to ceremonial green.

"All done," Remo said. "The Viking funeral is over."

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Will his ancestors be pleased?"

"Yup," Remo said, doing his top impersonation of Gary Cooper.

"Good," Chiun said with a smile. "One must remember the traditions. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust."

"And garbage to garbage," Remo mumbled, then said loudly, "He's on his way to Valhalla."

"Valhalla?"

"Yes, it's a hamburger stand in White Plains. Let's go, we've got to find Vickie Stoner."

"Must we go near this Maggot to do it?" Chiun asked.

"Of course. It's about time you saw the wholesome rich side of American life. We're going to broaden your horizons."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maggot popped pills. A yellow C. An amber E. A pink B12.

"She's got to go," he said. He was wearing a white cotton bathrobe and his white gloves. A surgical mask hung loosely around his neck, its use unnecessary so long as Louse Number One, Number Two and Number Three kept a respectful distance from him, which they now did by sitting on the other side of the dining room table.

"But Maggot, she's all right," said Louse Number One.

"One groupie's the same as another groupie," Maggot said. "Why is she different, except that she spends all her time on the telephone?"

"In the first place, she's smart. In the second place, she doesn't really get in our way. In the third place, if we believe that fat-faced wax spinner, somebody's trying to kill her."

"Well, let them," Maggot said. "I don't want to be killed by accident. Look, we've got two out-of-town concerts and then the big festival in Darlington. We just don't need the headache."

"I say we vote on it," said Dead Meat Louse Number One, who had seen Louse Two and Louse Three sneaking from Vickie's room on separate occasions.

"Fine," Maggot said. "Usual rules. I vote she goes."

"And I vote she stays," said Louse One. He looked to Two and Three. They shuffled uneasily in their chairs under his glance and Maggot's piercing stare. Maggot picked up a carrot strip and stuck it in his mouth. "Vote," he commanded.

"She stays," said Two.

"Ditto," said Three.

"Another tie, Maggot," said Louse One. "Us against you. She stays."

Maggot bit another piece of carrot angrily. "All right," he said. "She stays for now. But keep her out of my sight. And get her ready because we've got to leave now for Pittsburgh."

"She's already packed," said One.

Abdul Hareem Barenga was being kept alive by tubes. They were in his nose, in his arms, all over his body, the staff resident at Flower Lawn Hospital explained to the consulting surgeon who had just arrived from Africa.

"Serious internal injuries, Dr. Nilsson," he said. "All we can do is try to keep him alive one way or another. Medication cuts the pain, but he's got no chance. He wouldn't live five minutes without the life-support gadgets here." He spoke while standing at the side of Barenga's bed, paying no more attention to the injured man than he did to his wife's nightly report on his son's transgressions in kindergarten.

"I understand," Dr. Gunner Nilsson said. "Nevertheless, I'd appreciate the opportunity to examine him privately if I may."

"Certainly, Doctor," the staff physician said. "If you need anything, just ring the buzzer over the bed. The nurse will help you."

"Thank you," Nilsson said. He took off the jacket of his blue suit and slowly rolled up his shirtsleeves, wasting time while the other doctor replaced the patient's chart, made a perfunctory check of the life-support systems, and then finally left the room.

Nilsson followed him to the door, locked the door behind him, then returned to Barenga's bed and pulled the folding screen to shield the patient from view through the glass-windowed door.

Barenga slept heavily, deeply sedated. Nilsson opened his doctor's bag, pushed aside the .38 caliber revolver in it, and shuffled through it until he found the ampule he was looking for. He snapped the neck of the tiny glass vial, drained its contents into a hypodermic syringe, pulled a tube from Barenga's arm and roughly jammed the hypodermic into the light brown skin near the inside of Barenga's left elbow.

Within sixty seconds, Barenga started to stir as the adrenal gland fought the sedatives for control of his body and began to win.

He opened his eyes wide, in a kind of frenzy, as the unblocked pain accompanied consciousness. His eyes wandered the room madly, finally focusing, without recognition or comprehension, on Nilsson.

Nilsson leaned close to the bed. His voice was a harsh guttural whisper.

"What happened to Lhasa Nilsson?" he asked.

"Who he?"

"The tall man with the blond hair. He was looking for the girl."

"Old man. Old gook killed him. Awful."

"What's a gook?"

"Gook. Yellow man. Yellow."

"What was the yellow man's name?"

"Don't know."

"Was there anyone else?"

"Man who got me. White smart-ass. He a friend of the gook's."

"You have his name?"

"Remo."

"First or last?"

"Dunno. He just say Remo."

"Hmmm. Remo. And an old Oriental. The Oriental killed Lhasa?"

"Yes."

"With a gun?"

"With his foot, man. Lhasa had the gun."

"Where did it happen?"

"Room 1821 Waldorf."

"Was there a girl? A Vickie Stoner?"

"She was gone when we got there. The gook was protecting her."

Barenga's voice was coming slower and fainter now, his body weakening, while the fight raged internally between the pain-killing sedatives and the pain-intensifying adrenaline.

"Thank you," said Dr. Gunner Nilsson. He replaced the tube in Barenga's arm. From his bag, he fished two more ampules of adrenaline and refilled the syringe. That done, he jammed the needle hard into the leathery sole of Barenga's left foot and shot the lethal overdose into his body.

"This'll make you sleep. Pleasant dreams."

Barenga twitched as the adrenaline overpowered the sedative. His eyes rolled wildly; his mouth tried to work; then his head dropped limply to the side.

Nilsson pulled back the curtain, went to the door, unlocked it, and left.

Room 1821, Waldorf. Well, it was not much but it would be enough. At least for the last of the Nilssons.