Warren Murphy: Date with Death

Donner was too busy to notice the dog. It crawled out of the van and scrambled for the shelter of the rocks. There it stayed, quiet and still until the Econoline's taillights disappeared over the horizon. Only then did the dog come out to investigate. It circled the bodies twice, scratched at the ground, and then lifted its muzzle to howl balefully at the moon.

?CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and he was sticking his finger into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson .38 and thinking they didn't make muggers like they used to.

It all started with Chiun's trunks. As usual, Remo's trainer had packed twenty-seven large lacquer boxes in preparation for a four-mile trip to the airport.

"We're only meeting Smitty for instructions," Remo protested. "If he weren't so paranoid, he'd call on the phone. We don't need all this luggage just to talk to him."

"Imbecile," the old Korean said. "Emperor Smith obviously wishes us to travel. An assassin sitting in a motel room is a useless thing."

"So is an assassin with twenty-seven steamer trunks," Remo said.

"Only if he is fettered by a slothful white pupil who spends his time arguing instead of attending to his duties."

"Funny. I thought my duty was to work for the guy who pays us."

"Only when necessary, O oatmeal-brained one. Your main duty is to tend to the needs of your frail and aging teacher in the twilight of his life. Now, get a taxi."

"A taxi?" Remo grumbled. "Try five. We'll need a caravan to get this stuff moved."

"The Master of Sinanju is not concerned with trivialities," Chiun said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his green brocade robe. "Take care not to damage my Betamax."

"Which one?" Remo muttered, hoisting two of the trunks onto his shoulders.

"That one. It is the machine on which I view the history of your country."

Remo emitted a small whinny of defeat. What the old man considered a pictorial essay on America was, in fact, a soap opera named "As the Planet Revolves," which had been off the air for the past fifteen years. Chiun had his own sense of reality. People were disposable; characters on television were not. It was useless to argue.

Remo staggered out of the motel, set down the two trunks, and looked around for a taxi. There were none in sight. While he was looking, a small boy tossed a melting ice cream bar on one of them. A stray dog came over and licked it up, then lifted its leg on the trunks. On the near corner, a youth leaned against the lamp post, methodically picking his teeth with a stiletto while he eyed the gleaming brass clasps. It wasn't the part of town where you left your luggage on the street to hunt a cab.

The clock down the block read 10:49. He was supposed to meet his employer, Smith, at exactly eleven o'clock. The way things were going, he'd be lucky to make it to the airport by sunset.

A ray of hope flickered dimly at the sight of the yellow-clad figure walking toward him. The boy's freshly shaven head glistened in the sunlight. His bare feet made a soft swooshing sound as he padded down the debris-strewn sidewalk. In one hand he carried a brightly colored can while the other clamored away on a pair of finger cymbals.

Okay, Remo thought. The kid's a fruitcake, but these cultist zanies don't steal trunks full of civilian clothes. He smiled as the youth approached.

"Hare Krishna," the young man said in a thin but enthusiastic voice. He held the can under Remo's nose. "I'm collecting for the church of Krishna and his followers. A donation of five or ten dollars would be appreciated."

"I'll do better than that," Remo said, pulling out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. The youth's eyes popped as Remo peeled one off the top. "Look," Remo said. "I've got to go back inside for more of these. If you'll watch the trunks for me and hail a cab when one comes by, the C-note's yours."

The youth straightened up, suddenly indignant. "You want me to do something for it?"

"It didn't really seem like a lot to ask," Remo waffled.

"My work is for Krishna," the youth said witheringly. "We shun the greed of the West. Our lives are spent in contemplation, not in selling our labor for cash."

"Okay. It was only an idea."

"A dependence on money and material gain leads to corruption of the spirit. When the spirit is corrupt, evil takes root. Greed breeds crime. The disintegration of humanity is…"

"All right already. I'll find somebody else."

The youth dug into the folds of his gown. "Wait a minute. I want you to see something." He pulled out a shiny black automatic. "Do you know what this is?"

"I can take a wild guess," Remo said.

"I have been forced to protect myself against the evildoers of the world with this weapon. It pains me to carry it, but there are those who would actually rob the donations I've collected."

As he spoke, he fingered the gun lovingly. "If it weren't for this, I'd be helpless," he said.

"You're breaking my heart."

The young man's eyes never left the automatic. "It's really a man-stopper, you know," he said dreamily. "If I decided to use it, I could get anything I wanted with this baby. All I'd have to do would be…" Slowly he turned the barrel of the gun to face Remo.

"That's it, huh?"

"You got it. Where's that roll of bills you were flashing?"

"In my pocket. And it's going to stay there, Gunga Din."

That was the point at which Remo stuck his finger into the barrel.

Things happened fast after that. The Krishna squeezed the trigger, but by the time the bullet left the gun, Remo had twisted the barrel into a loop pointing skyward.

"How'd you do that?" the Krishna gasped.

"Like this." Remo picked the young man up by his ankles and twirled him into the configuration of a pretzel.

"It's only money!" the boy yelled, trying to disentangle himself. "In the end, money isn't worth much."

"Neither are you," Remo said. With a little spin, he thrust his arms upward. The boy spun twenty feet into the air.

"Establishment brutality!" the Krishna squeaked. He seemed to hover a speck in the sky.

Remo stood silently on the ground below, his arms folded.

"Well? Aren't you going to catch me?"

"Nope." Remo said.

"Then what's going to happen?" the youth called.

"Ever drop an egg into an empty swimming pool?"

The Krishna screamed. He negotiated as he descended. His saffron robe was wound around a pair of skinny legs. "Okay," he said huskily, trying to keep his voice calm. "You win. Here's the deal. You catch me, and I walk away, all right?"

Remo considered. "I think I'd rather watch the old egg trick." Remo slapped him skyward again.

"The can. You can keep the can with all the donations in it."

"No thanks. Money is far too evil and corrupting. Death is much more satisfying. Especially yours."

The boy was sobbing. "What do you want, mister? I'll do anything." He was low enough now that passersby could see his red jockey shorts beneath his robe.

"Anything?" Remo asked.

"Anything. Please, mister. Just catch me."

A second before impact, Remo stuck out his toe, grazing the boy's back so that he turned in a gentle somersault that broke his fall. Then Remo caught him by the scruff of the neck.

"You said anything, right?"

"Yeah," the youth said sullenly.

"Yes, sir," Remo corrected. "Or I send you right back up."

"Yes, sir!" the boy shouted.

"Good," Remo said. "You've got potential."

"For what?"

"The army. You're going to join."

"The army? Are you crazy?"

Remo exerted the smallest pressure on the base of the boy's neck.

"I mean, yes, sir!"

A yellow taxi pulled up alongside them. "Now I get a cab," Remo sighed. He handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill. "Take this twerp to the Army Recruiting Center," he said.

"I got no change," the cabbie said.