Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

"If that man eats anything but pablum, I'm going to Division Chief Smith," said the first doctor.

"And I'll go with him," said the second doctor.

The nurse nodded.

The monk said, "All right, you go. Right now." He began shooing them to the door. "Give Smitty my love."

When they were gone, he locked the door. Then he pulled a rolling tray from the kitchen over to the bed. He pulled over the nurse's chair and uncovered one of the silver vessels on the tray. It contained lobsters, four of them, oozing butter from their slit, red bellies.

"My name's Conn MacCleary," he said, spooning two lobsters into a plate and handing it to Remo.

Remo lifted a metal cracking device and broke the claws. He scooped out the rich white meat with a small fork, and swallowed without even chewing. He washed it down with a large draft of golden beer suddenly in front of him. Then he went to work on the lobster's mid-section.

"I suppose you're wondering why you're here," Remo heard MacCleary say.

Remo reached for the second lobster, this time crushing the claw with his hands, and sucking out the meat. A tumbler was half-filled with Scotch. He drank the smoky, brown liquid and quelled the burning with foaming beer.

"I suppose you're wondering why you're here," MacCleary repeated.

Remo dipped a white chunk of lobster meat into a vessel of liquid butter. He nodded to MacCleary, then lifted the dripping lobster meat above his head, catching the butter on his tongue as he lowered the morsel to his mouth.

MacCleary began to talk. He talked through bites of lobster, through the beer, and continued talking as the ash trays filled and the sun went down forcing him to turn on the lights.

He talked about Vietnam where a young Marine entered a farmhouse and killed five VC. He talked about death and life. He talked about CURE.

"I can't tell you who runs it from the top," MacCleary said.

Remo rolled the brandy over his tongue. He preferred a less sweet drink.

"But I'm your boss. You can't have a real love life, but there will be plenty of women at your disposal. Money? No question. Only one danger: if you get in a spot where you may talk. Then it's chips out of the game. But if you watch yourself, there should be no trouble. You'll live to a nice, ripe, pension."

MacCleary leaned back in the chair. "It's not impossible to live to a pension, either," he said, watching Remo search on the tray for something.

"Coffee?" Remo asked.

MacCleary opened the top of a tall carafe that kept its contents hot.

"But, I've got to warn you, this is a dirty, rotten job," MacCleary said, pouring a cup of steaming coffee for Williams. "The real danger is that the work will kill you inside. If you have a night free, you get bombed out of your mind to forget. None of us have to worry about retirement because... okay, I'll level with you... none of us is going to live that long. The pension jazz is just a load of crap.

He stared into Remo's cold gray eyes. He said: "I promise you terror for breakfast, pressure for lunch, tension for supper and aggravation for sleep. Your vacations are the two minutes you're not looking over your shoulder for some hood to put one in the back of your head. Your bonuses are maybe five minutes when you're not figuring out how to kill someone or keep from getting killed.

"But I promise you this." MacCleary lowered his voice. He stood up and rubbed his hook. "I promise you this. Some day, America may never need CURE, because of what we do. Maybe some day, kids we never had can walk down any dark street any time and maybe a junkie ward won't be their only end. Some day, Lexington won't be filled with fourteen-year-old hopheads who can't wait for another needle and young girls aren't whisked like cattle from one whorehouse to another.

"And maybe honest judges can sit behind clean benches and legislators won't take campaign funds from gamblers. And all union men will be fairly represented. We're fighting the fight the American people are too lazy to fight—maybe a fight they don't even want won."

MacCleary turned from Remo and went to the window. "If you live six months, it'll be amazing. If you live a year, it'll be a miracle. That's what we have to offer you."

Remo poured cream into the coffee until it was very light.

"What do you say?" he heard MacCleary ask. Remo glanced up and saw MacCleary's reflection in the window. His eyes were reddened, his face taut. "What do you say?" MacCleary repeated.

"Yeah, sure, sure," Remo said, sipping the coffee. "You can count on me." That seemed to satisfy the dumb cop.

"Did you frame me?" Remo asked.

"Yeah," MacCleary answered without emotion.

"You kill the guy?"

"Yeah."

"Good job," Remo said. As Remo inquired if there were any cigars, he wondered casually when MacCleary would find himself headed for an electric chair with a sudden absence of friends.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Impossible, sir," Smith cradled the special scrambler phone between his ear and the shoulder of his gray Brooks Brothers suit. With his free hands, he marked papers, setting up a vacation schedule.

A stiff, gloomy, rain whipped across Long Island Sound behind him bringing an unnaturally early nightfall.

"I appreciate your difficulties," Smith said, counting the days a computer clerk wanted near Christmas. "But we worked out a policy a long time ago about New York. No extensive operations."

"Yes, I know a Senate committee will be investigating crime. Yes. It will start in San Francisco. Yes. And move across the country and we will supply you with background and you will supply the Senate with background; yes, making the Senators look good. I see. Upstairs needs the Senate for many other things. Right. Yes. Good. Well, I'd like to help you, but no, not in New York. We just can't get a canvass. Maybe later. Tell upstairs, not in New York."

Smith hung up the receiver.

"Christmas," he mumbled. "Everyone's got to have Christmas off. Why not the sensible and convenient month of March? Christmas. Bah."

Smith felt good. He had just turned down a not-too-superior superior over the scrambler phone. Smith recreated the scene again for the pleasure of his mind: "I'd like to help, but no." How polite he was. How firm. How smooth. How wonderful. It was good to be Harold W. Smith the way he was Harold W. Smith.

He whistled an off-tune rendition of "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" as he denied Christmas vacation after Christmas vacation.

The scrambler phone rang again. Smith answered and casually sang: "Smith, 7-4-4." Suddenly he straightened, his left hand shot up to the receiver, his right adjusted his tie and he bleated out a snappy "Yes sir."

It was the voice with the unmistakable accent, giving the code number that no one needed to recognize him.

"But sir, in this area there are special problems... yes, I know you authorized a new type of personnel... yes sir, but he won't be ready for months... a canvass is almost impossible under... very good, sir, I appreciate your position. Yes sir. Very good, sir." Smith gently hung up the scrambler, the wide phone with the white dot on the receiver, and mumbled under his breath: "The damn bastard."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"What now?" Remo asked listlessly. He leaned against a set of parallel bars in a large, sunlit, gym. He wore a white costume with a white silk sash they told him was necessary in order to learn some things he couldn't pronounce.

He toyed with the sash and glanced at MacCleary who waited by an open door at the far end of the gym. A .38 police special dangled from the hook.

"One more minute," MacCleary called.

"I can't wait," Remo mumbled and ran a wicker sandal across the polished wood floor. It made a hiss and left a faint scratch that buffing would eliminate.

Remo suddenly sniffed the air. The scent of dying chrysanthemums tickled his nostrils. This wasn't a gym smell. It belonged to a Chinese whorehouse.