Warren Murphy: Killing Time

The compound he was in was an acre or more of snow-covered gravel and frozen mud set in the far reaches of Staten island. Rotting wooden crates, rusted cans, and soggy sheets of old newspapers lit­tered the ground. At the rear of the compound stood a large, dirty cinderblock warehouse, six stories tall with a loading dock at the right end. A truck was parked at the loading dock. As Remo neared, he saw three burly men packing crates into the truck.

"Hi, guys," he said, thrusting his hand into a crate on the dock. He pulled out a five-pound bag of white powder encased in plastic. "Just as I thought," he said.

"Huh?" One of the dock workers pulled out a Browning .9mm automatic. "Who are you, mister?"

"I'm with the Heroin Control Board," Remo said through pursed lips. "I'm afraid this won't do. Sloppy packaging. No brand names. Not even a yellow plastic measuring spoon, like the coffee boys give out. No, this just isn't up to par. Sorry, boys." He yanked open the plastic bag and dumped its contents into the wind.

"Hey, that stuff's worth half a million dollars," the man with the Browning said.

"Do it right, or don't do it, that's our motto," Remo said.

"Move out of the way, fellas," the man holding the gun said two seconds before he fired. He was one sec-

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ond late. Because one second before he fired, Remo had coiled the barrel of the Browning into a corkscrew, and by the time the bullet left it, it was spinning toward the dock worker's chest, where it came to rest with a muffled whump.

"No gun, see?" another worker said, demonstrat­ing his lack of weapons by raising his arms high in the air and wetting his pants.

"No gun, see?" the other said, falling to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him.

"You the boss?" Remo asked.

"No way," the worker said with touching sincerity. "We're just labor. Management's what you want, yessir."

"Who's management?"

"Mr. Bonelli. 'Bones' Bonelli. He's over there." He gestured wildly toward the interior of the warehouse.

Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sat behind a desk in the only carpeted and heated room in the place. Behind him was one small window, placed high above the floor. Seated in a huge red feather chair, he looked more like an overaged wraith than an underworld her­oin don. His hair was thinning, and his leather skin fell in folds down his skull-like face, which was grinning in ecstasy. The top half of Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli was a tiny, wrinkled, happy crone. The bottom half, displayed beneath the leg opening of the desk, was an ample, satin-covered rear end facing in the opposite direction. Below it protruded two spiky black high heels.

The satin oval swayed rhythmically. Bonelli's mouth opened to emit a small squeal of joy. "Oh. . . oh. . . shit," he said, noticing Remo standing in the doorway. "Who're you?"

One hand twitched frantically in his lap, while the

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other pulled a ludicrously large Colt .45 from his jacket. "Arggh," he screamed, throwing the gun into the air. "Zipper. The freaking zipper's caught."

"Thanks," Remo said, grabbing the gun.

"Freaking zipper. It's all your fault."

"Use buttons," Remo said. "Or a fig leaf. In your case, maybe a grape leaf will do."

Bonelli's trigger finger moved back and forth sev­eral times before he noticed it was empty. "Gimme that gun."

"Sure," Remo said, crushing the Colt into dust and sifting it into Bonelli's open hand.

"Smart shit," Bonelli muttered. He kicked the girl under the desk. "Hey, you. Get outta here. I got bus­iness."

The satin ovai wriggled out backwards and rose. It belonged to a statuesque blonde who carried the im­print of Bonelli's foot on her chest. "What about me?" she groused, her face contorted with anger. Then she saw Remo, and the anger disappeared.

Remo often had that effect on women. He saw her appraising eyes warm with approval as she took in the slender, taut body with the abnormally thick wrists, the well-muscled shoulders, the clean-shaven face accen­tuated by high cheekbones and long-lashed dark eyes, the thick black hair. She smiled.

"You come here often?" she asked.

"Only when I have to kill someone."

"You're cute."

"Get out of here!" Bonelli yelled. The girl sauntered away slowly, giving Remo the full benefit of her undu­lating posterior.

"What's this 'kill me' crap?" Bonelli spat. "What kind of talk is that?"

Remo shrugged. "That's what i'm here for."

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"Oh, yeah?" With a quick motion, Bonelli yanked a knife out of his jacket and sliced the air with it. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Remo said, catching the knife by the blade. He tossed it upward in a spiral. The knife drilled a neat hole in the ceiling. Plaster dust sprinkled down on Bonelli's head and shoulders.

"Smart shit," Bonelii said. "Hey, what're you do­ing?"

"I'm taking you for a ride," Remo said, imitating ail the gangsters he'd seen on late-night TV movies. He hoisted Bonelli over his shoulder.

"Watch it, creep. This here's a silk suit. Mess up my suit, I'm going to have to get serious with you."

Remo tore the pockets off the jacket. Two knives and a stiletto clanked out.

"Okay, buddy," Bonelli raged. "You asked for it now. Shorty! Shorty!"

"Shorty?" Remo guessed his cargo's weight at 110, tops. Bonelli was barely five feet tall. "Shorty? What's that make you, Paul Bunyan?"

Bonelli sneered. He jerked his thumb toward the window. "That's Shorty," he said.

The small overhead window was filled by a face. The face had little pig eyes and a nose so broken it looked like a ball of putty that had been run over by a tank tread. Soon the tops of two massive shoulders edged into the window. The pane burst in a shower of glass. Spiderweb cracks appeared in the window's corners and spread into the room, widening with thun­derous claps. Then the wall gave and Shorty shot through the opening like a sausage with a lit fuse.

"You called, boss?"

"Yeah. Take care of this smart shit."

Shorty lumbered over to Remo. "This one?"

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"Who else?" Bonelli roared. "There's you, me, and him in this room. You thinking about offing me?"

Shorty's face fell with humility. "Oh, no, boss. You're the boss. ! wouldn't do that to you."

"Then you're maybe thinking about offing your­self?"

Shorty pondered for several moments, his brow fur­rowed in concentration. Then his forehead smoothed and he broke into a happy grin. "Oh. I get it. That's a joke, huh, boss? Off myself. That's funny, boss. Ha, ha "

"Shut upi"

"Okay, boss."

"Then who's that leave, Shorty?" Bonelli asked pa­tiently.

Shorty looked around the room, counting on his fin­gers. 'Well, there's you. You ain't the one. And there's me. . . ha, ha, that was funny, boss."

"Who else, stupid?"

Shorty lumbered around until he faced Remo. "That leaves him," he said with conviction. He pulled back his oaken arm and blasted it forward.

"Right," said Boneili.

"Wrong," said Remo. He flicked out two fingers to deflect the blow. Shorty's arm kept going, swing­ing around in a circle and finally landing in the mid­dle of his own face, causing his oft-broken nose to dis­appear entirely. He fell forward with a deafening thud.

"So much for Shorty," Remo said as he lifted Bon­elli again, this time by his belt, and carried him through the wrecked wall, dangling at his side.

"The belt, watch the belt," Bonelli said. "It's Pierre Cardin."

Remo began scaling the sheer wall of the ware-

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house. Bonelli looked down once and screamed. "Holy freaking shit," he yelled. "Where are you taking me?"

"Up." Remo climbed the wall methodically, his toes catching on the bricks of the building, his free hand gently guiding ahead and working with gravity to pull him upward.

"May the saints curse you," Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sobbed. "May your days be filled with suffer­ing and hardship. May your mother's lasagne be laced with cow turds. May your children and your children's children-"