Warren Murphy: Scorched Earth

The manager called after Remo. "Sir, what about your bag?"

"Keep the change," said Remo.

Going to a men's room, Remo took the padlock hasp between two fingers and began rubbing it vigorously. After a moment, the metal began to thin and elongate until the U shape of the hasp was longer and thinner than manufacturer's specs. When it was long enough to do the job, Remo ran the end through the square hole in his zipper tongue and hooked it in an up position with his belt buckle. Then he locked it with a tinny snick.

Separating the keys, he slipped one in his Italian loafer under his bare foot and the other in one pocket of the tan chinos and hoped the metal detector wouldn't go off.

It didn't.

Already it was a good day.

The flight to Minneapolis had only one hitch. The usual. A stewardess with short russet hair and green eyes like happy emeralds rested her gaze on Remo's trim, 160-pound body, his overthick wrists and the strong planes of his not-too-handsome face and used a line Remo had been hearing from stewardesses for the best part of his adult life.

"Coffee, tea or me?"

This one smiled. Many didn't. Some wore pleading or hopeful expressions. Others actually wept. And one memorable bleached blonde turned their encounter into an unmistakable cry for help by jamming her TWA letter opener into her throbbing jugular and threatening to take her life right there in the center aisle if Remo was brute enough to give an ungentlemanly response.

"I don't drink any of those things," said Remo this time.

The redhead wasn't taking no for an answer. Redheads, Remo had long ago discovered, rarely did.

"But you don't know how I taste," she said plaintively.

"You taste like a redhead. I've tasted lots of redheads. And I'm in a stark, raving blonde mood today. Sorry."

Without missing a beat, the redhead whistled up an ash blond flight attendant from the back of the plane.

They huddled. The blonde, listening attentively, looked at Remo with eyes like small blue explosions of pleasure and nodded animatedly.

They stormed back, the redhead taking point.

"Can you come with us to the first-class galley, sir?" she asked with breathy politeness.

"Why?" Remo asked suspiciously.

"There's more room there."

"For what?"

"For you to jump Lynette here and me to watch."

"You just want to watch?"

"It's better than riding my vibrator to Minneapolis," the redhead said with resigned sincerity.

"There's nothing in the first-class galley I want," said Remo, folding his lean arms stubbornly.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to do him here," said the redhead to the blonde with an air of determination. "Scare me up a blanket, Lyn."

"Nothing doing," said Remo as the blonde hurried back to an aft storage bin.

"Sir, it's our duty as flight attendants to cater to your every need. You said blonde. So you're getting a blonde. And that's it," the redhead fumed, dropping into the empty seat beside Remo and reaching for his zipper.

"Let me make you comfortable." That's when her tapered fingers encountered the tiny luggage padlock and her glossy red mouth made a tasty O.

"What's this?"

"A simple precaution," said Remo.

"Where's the key?"

"In my luggage."

"Oh, my God. It's way down in the cargo hold by now."

"You could go get it," Remo suggested.

"I might miss the flight."

"If you don't get that key, you'll definitely miss the show."

"Don't let the plane take off without me."

"Never happen," said Remo, who watched the redhead scurry up the aisle, not at all hindered by the broken shoe heel lost when taking the turn to the main exit door at 2 G's.

When the ash blonde returned with a fluffy blue blanket, Remo put on an innocent face.

"Your friend just quit."

"Oh! Does that mean it's off?"

"Catch me on the return flight."

"I'll be there."

"But I won't," Remo murmured as the 727 backed out of the gate and taxied to the runway with the redhaired stewardess running in her nylons after them, waving her pumps.

When Remo gave her a little finger wave, she threw her shoes at the aircraft's tail assembly one at a time.

Later the blonde stewardess brought Remo a silver tray from the galley.

"I found you some liver pate."

"Don't eat the stuff."

"Gentlemen who prefer blondes usually like liver pate."

"I only said I like blondes to discourage the redhead. Actually I'm into brunettes this week."

"I'll be right back," the blonde said, rushing back to coach.

When she came back, with a zaftig brunette in tow, Remo had locked himself in the first-class rest room, and no amount of pounding, threats or promises would bring him out until the jet's turbines were spooling down at the Minneapolis gate.

Other than that, it wasn't a bad flight, and it did give Remo the idea for making liver pate.

So when he wheeled the sterling service cart up to room 28-A of the Radisson South Hotel in his starched whites, a Chef Boyardee cap cocked on his head, Remo had his line of attack already planned out.

The door opened, and an overfed hair-bag in a sharkskin suit grunted, "You the guy with the steaks?"

"No, I'm the liver pate chef."

"I don't want your liver," he snarled.

"But I want yours," said Remo, running the cart in despite the best attempts of the hair-bag to block his way. The hairbag filled most of the doorway, so he was the most befuddled man in Minneapolis when Remo was suddenly behind him bringing the cart to a squeaky stop.

The hair-bag turned with all the lightning reflexes of a wooden totem pole. It took him six careful steps to get all the way around.

"I said we don't want your liver, jerk-ass!" he bellowed.

"And I said I want yours," returned Remo in an unperturbed tone.

By that time, the men in bad, tight-fitting suits with bunching unibrows over snarling eyes were getting out of their seats looking belligerent.

"What the fuck is this?" asked a black man who wore a gold chain that linked his earlobes, nostrils and nipples and possibly other portions of his anatomy beneath his white silk shirt and tight-fitting white vinyl pants.

"Liver-pate chef," said Remo, taking the silver domes off six serving dishes.

The bodyguard stumped up, looked down, blinked three times real slow and announced the supremely obvious. "I see only fucking lettuce."

"Haven't pated the livers yet," said Remo.

"We don't want none," the bodyguard growled. "Tell him, Mr. D."

Mr. D. looked all of thirty and as bright as a twenty-five-watt bulb. Remo pegged him for the D'Ambrosia honcho on the scene. That made the guy with all the chains the local supplier.

"Look, we ordered the steak and lobster. You got the wrong room," Mr. D. insisted.

The last dome clanged down, and Remo turned, smiled disarmingly and said, "You first."

"Me first what?"

"You first for liver pate. "

"I don't want-"

The man felt the dull pressure in his abdomen. Being a gangster for most of his short life, he assumed the worst-that the chef had stuck a knife in his gut. It felt like a knife. It punctured the fibrous abdominal walls like a knife, and made his lungs clutch up the way an inserted knife would.

But when he looked down, his eyes horrified, Mr. D. caught a glimpse of his liver, pinched between two hardly bloody fingers, emerging wetly through a round hole in his shirt.

The liver jumped up before his face, unfolded like a fat manta ray and the chef's two thick-wristed hands made some kind of prestidigitation. When the liver flopped down onto one of the service trays, it was a livid paste.

"That's my-"said the late Mr. D as the life oozed out of him through the hole in his 180-dollar silk shirt.

Not everyone had a clear view of what happened. Not everyone's comprehension skills were at their sharpest. Not with all the uncorked Chianti bottles lying around.