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Warren Murphy: Killing Time

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Killing Time: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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America's beautiful people are playing follow-the-leader with their latest guru, diet doctor Felix Foxx. As Foxx's disciples are dropping pounds, however, U.S. military leaders are dropping like flies. Coincidence? Maybe. But CURE's been counting causalities, and Remo and Chiun are being dispatched to muscle in and settle the score. They arrive too late at Foxx's fat farm - a fool's paradise where the wealthy go to buy time. And where, it appears, the smart set are losing a lot more than cellulite . . . Our heroes stumble onto an insidious plot - one that's eating away at the very core of Western civilization. And even racing against time, they've got a slim chance of stopping it . . .

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"Okay, smart shit. You asked for it." He brought the blade home. It struck at exactly the place where Re­mo's head was, only Remo's head was no longer there. The thin young man had miraculously moved to another spot in a movement so fast that Bonelli couldn't follow it. Bonelli struck again. And missed.

"I wish you'd cut this out," Remo said, casually tossing the hatchet away. In the distance, outside the compound, it buried itself deep in a large tree.

"Nice," Bonelli said admiringly. "Hey, who are you, anyway?"

"Call me Remo."

Bonelli smiled broadly. "Remo. That's a nice name, sonny. Sounds Italian. You Italian?"

"Maybe," Remo said. He was an orphan. As far as he knew, his ancestry could have been anything.

"I thought so. You got a brain like a paisan. That was good, that tree. Say, Remo, I could use a guy like you in the business."

"I don't think I like your business."

"Hey, it's good money. And you'll be part of the family. Do lots of family things together."

"Like shooting dope into children."

21

"Remo, paisan," he said expansively. "It's busi­ness, that's all. Supply and demand. Buy low, sell high. I'll show you all the ropes."

Remo thought about it. "No, I don't think so," he said. "There's something else I'd rather do."

"More than making money? Come on."

"No," Remo protested. "I really think I'd rather do this other thing."

"What's that?"

"I'd rather kill you."

Bonelli snarled. "Okay, kid. You had your chance. No more Mister Nice Guy." He rifled through his trouser pockets and pulled out a grenade. "You leave now, or I pull the plug."

"Like this?" Remo said, snatching it away from him and pulling out the pin.

"What'd you do that for? Throw it, quick."

Remo tossed the grenade up in the air absently and caught it behind his back. "Nah," he said. "I'm tired of throwing." He tossed it up in the air again. Bonelli leaped up, but Remo caught it just above Bonelli's reach.

"Give me that." '

"What for?" Remo asked, juggling the grenade in one hand.

"I'll throw it," Bonelli said, sweat pouring down his face.

"I've got a better idea," Remo said. "You eat it." He stuffed the grenade into Bonelli's mouth and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. I'll keep your offer in mind."

Then he flipped Bonelli into the air and the man fell, eyes bulging, on a direct course with the truck below. The crates had afl been loaded. The back of the truck

22

was sealed, and the two workers were sitting in the cab up front, its motor running.

Good timing, Remo thought as Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli landed on top of the truck and blew to frag­ments.

For a moment, the air was filled with a miasma of white powder containing shards of splintered wood. Then the sky was ciear again, and blue and cold, and Remo climbed down the building, singing an old Ko­rean tune.

Chiun was singing the same tune when Remo walked into the Manhattan motel room they shared. The lyrics, translated from the Korean, went some­thing like: "O lovely one, when I behold your gracious ways, your beauty, like the melting snow of spring, makes my heart weep with tears of joy." He was sing­ing it while gazing at himself in the mirror, arranging the folds of his gold brocade robe. He swayed as he sang, causing the white wisps of hair on his head and chin to move softly. In the background, the television blared a commercial, in which a foul-tempered ten-year-old girl refused to let her younger brother use the family's coveted toothpaste, while her mother smiled on benignly.

"What is this racket?" Remo said, switching off the television.

"Lout," Chiun muttered. He jumped off the dresser, where he had been sitting, and seemed to float to the ground. "Who can expect a white man to appreciate beauty?" He turned the television on again. "O lovely one, when I behold your gracious ways. . ."

"Look, Little Father, if you're going to sing, don't you think it'll be less distracting without the TV?"

23

"Only a pale piece of pig's ear can be so easily dis­tracted. Besides, there is nothing worth watching on the television."

"Then why do you have it on?"

Chiun sighed exasperatedly. "I have it on because there is going to be something worth watching. Any­one can see that."

The screen now showed a boxy, cheaply con­structed compact automobile racing down a hill to the accompaniment of an orchestra.

"What?" Remo shouted above the din of the Wil­liam Tell Overture.

The automobile drove off the screen and was re­placed by the venomous stare of an Oriental newswoman who looked as if she ate babies for break­fast.

"Oh, it is she," Chiun said breathlessly, his long-nailed hands fluttering to his chest as he drifted into a lotus position in front of the set.

"This is Cheeta Ching welcoming you to the WACK NEWS UPDATE," she snarled. "It's really bad news tonight," she added, her flat features twisting into a malevolent grin.

"O lovely one. O gracious person," Chiun rhap­sodized.

"Oh, cut me a break," Remo said. "This is what's worth watching? This vicious harpy?"

"Out," Chiun commanded. "You do not deserve to be in the same room as the beautiful lotus blossom Miss Cheeta Ching. You who prefer the cowlike teats of Western giantesses. You who prefer the vacuous stares of round-eyed, white-skinned fools like your­self."

"I, who prefer just about anything to Cheeta

24

Ching," Remo said. As he left the room, Cheeta was spewing out the terrible events of the day with grisly delight.

"Police have still not identified the participants in the grotesque murder of Secretary of the Air Force Homer G. Watson, known to Third World circles as a warmongering capitalist pig. Watson was executed in his home early yesterday by one or more assailants using what might have been a flame thrower, police report. The flame thrower theory was based on local­ized fire damage in the victim's Maryland home. Wat­son's charred and mutilated corpse was identified through dental records. Police report that everything possible is being done to locate the perpetrators of the murder, but so far, no clues are available. As a final note, we at WACK salute the valiant freedom fighters who so efficiently eliminated the Air Force bureaucrat with a hearty 'Well done, boys.' "

"Oh, Mr. Remo," the girl at the motel's reception desk called crisply. "There's a message for you." She picked a neatly folded piece of paper out of Remo's room slot. "Call Aunt Mildred," she read primly. "That is all the message says. You are to call Aunt Mildred."

"Smitty's back to Aunt Mildred again," Remo mum­bled.

The girl clapped her hands over her ears. "We are not concerned with the private lives of our guests, Mr. Remo."

"Fine. Do you have a pay phone here?"

"You have a phone in your room, Mr. Remo."

"I know. I'm not allowed in there."

"I told you, we are not interested in the private lives of our guests. Why don't you use the phone in your room?"

"I don't want to use the phone in my room. I want to

25

use a pay phone. Now teil me where the pay phone is."

"Oh, all right." She pointed an icy finger down the hail.

As Remo turned the corner, he saw her scurry to the switchboard and rearrange the wiring on it. He walked into the phone booth and lifted the receiver. As he had expected, the faint sound of breathing emanated from the other end, where the girl was listening in.

He pitched his voice low. "In five seconds I'm going to grab that pretty woman at the switchboard and tear ail her clothes off," he rumbled.

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