Warren Murphy - Bottom Line

The man tried to scream, could not, then sipped air as he fell to the pavement over the body of the other man.

Remo looked down at the two of them. Their jackets had fallen open and he saw that they wore white jackets that matched their white slacks. Like hospital uniforms, he thought. Neither man stirred and Remo cursed his bad luck. If he had thought of it, he would have kept one of them alive to answer questions.

A man and a woman walked down the street toward Remo and the two men at his feet. Without ever really looking, they separated and passed the tableau, one on each side, and then joined hands again on the other side and continued strolling.

A policeman approached. He stood alongside Remo and looked down at the two bodies.

"Dead?" he asked.

"I guess so," Remo said.

"You going to want to report this?" the cop asked.

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"Should I?" asked Remo.

"Well, you can, you know. I mean, two muggers attacked you and you killed them. I know a lot of police departments don't mind getting reports on things like that."

"But you do?"

"Look at it this way, pal," said the policeman earnestly. He leaned close to Remo and Remo read his identification plate.

Patrolman L. Blade said "If you report it, then I'm going to have to make a lot of reports and things, triplicate and like that." As he spoke, pedestrians continued to walk by without stopping, taking great pains not to look directly at the dead men on the sidewalk. "And they'll take your name and address and then you'll have to go before a grand jury and who knows what the hell might happen, maybe they'll indict you."

"For protecting myself?"

"This is New York. You've got to understand how we feel about things like that," said Patrolman L. Blade. "Actually, I'm on your side. I guess, maybe, half us cops are. But if we let people go around getting the idea "that they can protect themselves, that they've got a right to protect themselves, well, where does that leave the patrolmen's benevolent association?"

"In other words," said Remo, "protecting yourself against a mugger without being in the policeman's union is like scabbing the job?"

"That's right," Patrolman L. Blade said.

"I see," said Remo. "I'd like to know who these guys are."

"Let's give them a toss," the cop said. He bent

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over the bodies. Practiced hands moved through their pockets swiftly. Neither man carried a wallet or any type of identification.

"Sorry. No ID," the policeman said.

"If I report this, the bodies go to the morgue?"

The policeman nodded.

"And they identify them from fingerprints, right?"

"In theory," Patrolman L. Blade said.

"What do you mean, in theory?"

"We've got so many bodies that it takes a couple of months to get to them. You want identities, figure sixty to ninety days. If everything goes smooth."

"What happens if I don't make a report?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?" Remo asked.

"You and me, we just go on about our business like nothing happened."

"And what happens to them?" Remo asked, pointing down.

"They'll be gone by morning," the cop said.

"But what happens to them?"

"I don't know. I just know that they're always gone by morning. Maybe medical schools take them for experiments." He winked at Remo. "Maybe per-voes need them for dirty things. I don't know. They ain't my unions."

"God help us," Remo said. "Do what you want." He turned to walk to the amusement arcade.

The cop called him. "Hey, buddy," he said.

"What?"

"Remember. You never talked to me. I don't know nothing."

"Truer words were never spoken," Remo said.

Inside the high-ceilinged arcade, Chiun was nego-

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tiating change of a dollar with the clerk. They both looked up in relief as Remo approached.

"Remo, will you tell this idiot that that dollar bill is a silver certificate and worth more than four quarters?" Chiun said.

"He's telling you the truth," Remo told the clerk.

The clerk shook his head. "All I know is my boss wouldn't like it, I give more than four quarters change for a dollar."

"Invincible ignorance," Chiun said.

Remo took a dollar out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk. The clerk returned the silver certificate. Chiun had it it out of Remo's hands and back among the folds of his robe before Remo's eyes had a chance to focus on the bill.

"I owe you a dollar," Chiun said.

"I'll remind you," Remo said. He asked the clerk which was the toughest machine.

"South Sea Dreams in the back," the young man said. "Never given up a game yet."

Remo walked with Chiun to the back and showed him how to insert the money and explained the purpose of the game. Chiun seemed offended that one did not win cash prizes.

Two young men in black leather jackets smirked at each other when they heard Chiun talk. They were playing the machine next to his.

Remo told them: "This gentleman's going to play this machine. Save yourself a lot of trouble and leave him alone."

"Yeah? Who says so?"

"Pal, I'm just trying to save you grief. Leave him alone."

"Yeah. Who says so?"

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Remo sighed. "Have it your own way."

There was a telephone booth outside the arcade which vandals had not yet turned into a public urinal, and Remo called Smith's nighttime number. Smith answered the telephone on the first ring.

"What's the latest on Lippincott?" asked Remo.

"Holding steady. But no one can find out what's wrong," Smith said.

"Chiun says it's some kind of poison," said Remo.

"They can't find any foreign substances in his blood," Smith said.

"If Chiun says it's poison, it's poison."

"Have you found out anything?" Smith asked.

"Nothing really," Remo said. "Oh, two guys tried to kill us on the street."

"Who are they?"

"Were," said Remo. "I don't know. They didn't have IDs. But, Smitty, . . ."

"Yes?"

"They were wearing hospital clothes. I'm thinking there's some kind of medical tie-in with this thing. Can you run that through the computers?"

"I'll check it out," Smith said.

Remo looked through the window of the arcade. The two young men with leather jackets and greasy fifties' hair were standing on either side of Chiun, talking to each other across the machine. Chiun seemed not to pay attention. Remo shook his head and turned away. He didn't want to watch.

"Any word from Ruby?" asked Remo.

"None yet."

"Good," said Remo. "When she calls in, tell her we'll have this whole thing cleaned up before she even figures out what it's about. Tell her I said so."

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"You sure you want me to say that?" asked Smith.

"Yeah," said Remo. "Well . . . maybe not. I'll call you tomorrow."

When he went back inside, the two youths in leather jackets were standing on tiptoe on either side of Chiun, straining upward. Remo saw why. Chiun had them by the index fingers and was using their fingers to operate the flippers of the pinball machines.

"I warned you," he said to the two as he approached.

"Make him let us go," one squealed.

"Let them go, Chiun," said Remo.

"Not until this game is done," said Chiun. "They graciously volunteered to show me how it is played."

"I'll bet they did. What ball are you on?" Remo asked.

"I am playing my first ball," Chiun said.

"Still?" asked Remo.

"It is perfectly good," said Chiun. "I see no reason to use another ball."

And because Remo knew that it might be days before Chiun used all five balls of the game, he pressed his hip against the pinball machine and then hit it sideways.

The machine's scoring lights went out. The "Tilt"

sign lit up.

"What happened?" said Chiun.

"The machine tilted," Remo said.

Chiun pressed the two young men's fingers against the flipper buttons. The flippers did not work.