Warren Murphy: Child's Play

"Who am I talking to?"

"I don't like your suspects."

"Who is this?"

"Someone who knows you've taken the nearest convenient suspects instead of risking looking for the real ones."

"I do not have to conduct a conversation with anyone who does not identify himself."

"Your career, General. It's through. You'll have the real killers or you'll be through." Smith glanced at the small file on the general. There was some small mention of a disorderly conduct incident while the general was at the Point. It occured in New Paltz, New York.

"We know about the New Paltz incident, General."

"Hah," boomed General Haupt. "I was found innocent. I was, I believe, nineteen years old at the time."

"But we know you were guilty," said Smith, taking a calculated shot in the dark. Courts in those days were reluctant to convict West Point cadets for minor offenses because the young men could be thrown out of the Academy for even such minor infractions. "Who the hell is this?"

"The people who are going to end your career."

"This is rubbish. Besides, I can't be held responsible for failure by Fort Dix personnel."

"Your career, General."

"If you're CIA, you're in more trouble nowadays than I am. You're vulnerable."

"Your career," said Smith and with a dramatic dry little chuckle, Smith hung up.

Maybe, like father, like son. CURE needed something. It had played its two top cards and not only had the finest assassins in history failed to protect the witnesses but they had no idea how the killing was done. Sinanju, whose every master had carefully studied the methods of whatever country he was in, did not know how these witnesses were being killed. More than two thousand years of learning stymied.

Like father, like son. Hopefully. Perhaps Haupt could get a lead where Smith and his organization had failed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Salvatore Polastro, president of Dynamics Industries, Inc., Polastro Real Estate, Inc., Comp-Sciences, Inc., and exalted grand leader of the Detroit Grand Council of Buffaloes-a civic and fraternal organization--had finished dedicating the new Holy Name sports complex and was washing his hands when someone blended his left wrist into a stunning colies fracture.

He knew it was a colies fracture because while skiing three years earlier, he had suffered a similar injury, that time jamming his left hand into an oncoming skier and glare ice. Five breaks in his wrist. This time, turning on the water faucet in the boys' room of the Holy Name sports complex.

He had only turned the faucet left and then the hand would not turn anymore and there was this incredible pain. He lowered himself to his knees the better to cradle his left arm with. He did not even feel the soapy floor water on his knees. On his knees, he smelled the sink soap quite clearly because his face rested against the cool washbasin.

"Yaaaah," he groaned.

"Hello there," came a voice from behind him. "My name is Remo, and you're going to talk to me."

"Yaaaahh," said Salvatore Polastro again.

"I'd appreciate something more than groans. You've caused me a problem. You're going to uncause it. How did you kill Kaufmann? Who did it for you? Did you arrange it?"

"My wrist. I can't talk."

"I left you your throat so you could talk. Now if you're not going to use it for me, I'll take it with me."

Polastro had not seen what had shattered his wrist. He hobbled around on the soapy floor so he could see his questioner. He saw two knee caps, two empty hands, a light sports shirt and a rather bored face. Since there was no blood in his broken wrist, the man must have used some instrument that didn't break skin to draw blood. But the man's hands were empty.

How did he get in here, anyway? Where were Tony and Vito? He'd settle the matter with those dumbhead bodyguards shortly. They live off you, fat and sloppy, and the first lunatic that makes an attempt at you succeeds.

"Time's up," said the man.

"In Chicago at the board of education, there's a man. He provides the service."

"The killings are contracted out?"

"Special ones. It's expensive. I ain't admitting that I contracted anything out. And none of this will hold up in a court. This is no confession."

"I'm not in the court business. How does this man do it?"

"I don't know. That's why he's expensive."

"His name?"

"I don't know his name."

"How expensive?"

"A hundred thousand in advance. A hundred thousand when the job's done."

"And you tell me you give a hundred thousand down to someone whose name you don't know?"

"Yes," said Salvatore Polastro and he saw a hand move very slowly down to his good, cradling, wrist. Slowly, yet it was out and back, and now his right wrist had that searing shock, that instant of pain that let him know it was more than a sprain that would go right away. He slumped back on his heels which were now beneath him. His two hands, loosely connected to arms by two broken wrists, lay useless in his lap.

"You phone a special number in Chicago, and then they call back and tell you where to send the money and they get all the information on the hit," Polastro said.

"I just need someone."

"The first call goes to a Warner Pell. He's the assistant director of special advancement progress."

"What does that mean?"

"He tries to keep the niggers and the retards away from ruining the students."

"With force?"

"I don't know. I don't know what he does. He's just assistant director of special advancement progress. You never know what they do. None of my business. Hey, let me get to a doctor."

"You're a racist," said Remo.

"Who isn't?"

"Lots of people."

And then Polastro saw an old Oriental shuffle into the boys' room of the new Holy Name sports complex. An old man he was, with long fingernails and wisps of white hair circling his frail golden skull like delicate ribbons.

"I heard that," he said. "Any system that keeps whites and blacks away from the real students is a good one."

What was that old man doing here? Where were Tony and Vito? They were letting people through like they were going through turnstiles.

"I know you wouldn't lie to us. Warner Pell, you say."

And Salvatore Polastro, a leading Detroit citizen, was about to say yes when everything became dark. When he woke up, both his hands were aching and they were heavy with white plaster casts. He saw a white ceiling light above him and that he was covered with a light gray blanket and white sheets. He was in a bed. He saw a black plastic knob hanging down from a black wire. It was a call button. He was in a hospital.

"Shit," said Salvatore Polastro.

"Sir, are you awake?" asked a nurse who was reading a magazine.

"No. I always talk in a coma," said Polastro. "Where are my chauffeur and secretary? Tony," he called out. "Vito. Vito. Tony."

"Sir, you'd better rest."

"I want Tony and Vito."

"Sir, they're indisposed."

"What does that mean?"

"They can't come here right now."

"You tell them I say so. They'll come."

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Did they run away?"

"Not exactly, sir. They were found in the trunk of a car near the Holy Name sports complex. Just after the sisters found you unconscious on the floor with your wrists broken."

"Found? How were they found? They were big men."

"In the front trunk of a Volkswagen suffering traumatic hemorrhaging and severe bodily fractures."

"Which means what?"

"Squashed to jelly, sir."

"I figured. Okay. Make a phone call."

"I'm not allowed to. You're supposed to be sedated."

"Don't give me that shit. There's a sawbuck in it for you."

"I'm not going to violate my sacred nurse's pledge for a ten-dollar bill."

"A hundred."

"Long distance or local?"