Warren Murphy: Funny Money

But it had not been just a little while. It had been more than a decade and the training had done more than make Remo Williams an effective enforcer. It had made him a different person.

Toes catch. Not too much pressure. Arms up, down, toes catch.

"Hey, you," came a young woman's voice. "You there on the frigging wall."

The voice was to his left, but his left cheek was against the brick, and to turn his head toward the voice could plummet Remo immediately back down to where he came from. Way back down.

"Hey, you on the wall," the voice repeated.

"You talking to me?" asked Remo, listening very carefully to hear if that metal in her hand had the hollow barrel of a gun. It would have surprised him if it did. Her voice lacked the vocal tension of one carrying a killing instrument. A circle of light brightened the wall. The metal he had sensed in her hand was a flashlight.

"Well, of course you. Is there anybody else on the wall?"

"Please state your business," said Remo.

"What're ya doing on the wall already at four o'clock in the morning, twelve stories up?"

"Nothing," said Remo.

"You coming to rape me?"

"No," said Remo.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm going to rape someone else."

"Who? Maybe I know her. Maybe you won't like her. Maybe you'll like me better."

"I love her. Madly. Desperately."

"Then why don't you take the elevator?"

"Because she doesn't love me."

"Naah, I don't believe that. You've got one tremendous kind of body in that black leotard. Thin. But really nice. What's that black stuff you got over your hands? C'mon, turn around. Let me at least see your face. C'mon, Be a sport. Show it."

"Will you leave me alone then?"

"Sure. Why not? Show it."

Remo side-glided with both feet inside gripping and hands pressing to a ledge where his right hand bracketed securely, and he let his body swing out from the wall, turning his face and squinting in the flashlight beam.

"Here you are," said Remo. "Enjoy, enjoy."

"You're beautiful. Gorgeous. I can't believe anyone's that beautiful. Look at those cheekbones. And those brown eyes. Sharp lips, even with that black stuff on your face. And look at those wrists. Like baseball bats. Wait there, I'm coming out after you."

"Stay there, stay there," hissed Remo. "You can't come out here, You'll fall. It's twelve stories."

"I watched you. It's easy. Like a butterfly."

"You're no butterfly."

"If you come here, I won't come there."

"Later."

"When?"

"When I'm through."

"When you're through, you might not want to."

"I'm not really here for rape."

"I didn't think so. Maybe you'd want to date me."

"Maybe," said Remo. "But the greatest loves are always unfulfilled. With strangers who pass in the night."

"That's beautiful. Is that for me?"

"Yes. Go back inside, shut the window, and go to sleep."

"Good night, honey. If you need me, it's room 1214."

"Good night," said Remo and saw the light go off and the fat face go inside and the window close. He swung back to the wall. In went the feet and up went the hands. At the thirteenth floor, he sidled right again, this time lifting himself to the ledge and opening the window. The apartment appeared empty as upstairs had told him it would be. He did not have to search all the rooms. He leaned against the wall, slowing his breathing and then his heartbeat, and when he felt tensionless again, he went back to the window and swung up one more ledge to the fourteenth floor. The window to that penthouse apartment was locked. Remo eased the wood by pressure of his thumbs against the lock and then slid up and through the window. He slipped into the room and onto a soft rug. A large mound under a light white blanket snored loud enough to rumble the bowels of a cave. Behind the large mound was a smaller mound with blond hair on top.

Remo moved quietly to the larger mound and gently lifted the blanket. He rolled up the pajama bottoms, exposing two white fat hairy legs. From his dark waistband, he took a fat roll of heavy packaging tape. With one fast stroke, he had the legs wrapped securely. The legs twitched as the owner of them came awake, but before he could make a sound, Remo glided his right hand under the fat back and jammed up a thumb, pressed a spinal nerve, and the big mound of flesh quivered a bit, then stopped, and Remo smoothly slapped the big body into the air with his right hand, carried it to the window, and slowly let it out on the end of the tape, like a fishing lure on the end of a line. When the fat man had been lowered nine feet, Remo laced the other end of the tape around an in-wall cooling unit, anchoring the body. Silently and quickly.

Then with his left arm on the sill, he was out the window himself, guiding with his left hand, and catching himself on the sill of the thirteenth floor apartment, one story down. Remo slid into the room, then looked outside at the very large gray-haired head, whose upside down face was turning very red. The man was conscious.

"Good morning, Judge Mantell," said Remo. "I represent a concerned citizens group that wishes to discuss your approach to jurisprudence."

"Uhhhh, uhhhh, Thelma," the voice gasped.

"Thelma is upstairs asleep. You are one flight down, hanging by your feet over thirteen stories of empty space. You are hanging by a tape. I am a tape cutter."

"Oh. What. Oh. Please. No. Oh. What."

"Our group wants to congratulate you for the courage of your convictions. Or actually, lack of them. When it was publicly noted that you had presided over 127 narcotics cases in the last two years, finding only two guilty, and you gave those suspended sentences, you declared to the press that you would not let public pressure force you to find the innocent guilty. Is that correct?"

"Uhhh, yes. Help me out of this." Judge Mantell's two arms reached for the ledge. Remo pushed them away.

"Don't do that," said Remo. "The tape is slipping."

"Oh, God, no."

"Afraid it is. But back to important matters. You have a case coming up, a Joseph Bosco, or Bisco, or something, I'm not too good on names. He faces life because a young Puerto Rican pusher identified him as a main source."

"Not enough evidence," groaned Mantell.

"Oh, but there is," said Remo and he pushed down gently on Judge Mantell's chin.

"It's mandatory life," said Mantell. "Mandatory. I can't convict on just a kid's sayso."

Remo pushed again, this time harder. From the light blue pajama bottoms, a wet stain began to surge, downward toward the pajama tops and then, liquefied, along Judge Mantell's neck, up to his ears, and then into his hair and then in drops a long way downward.

"But this Bosco or Bisco already has expressed enough confidence in you to have his lawyer waive a jury trial," said Remo. "Now wouldn't a rich judge, a very rich judge like you living on Park Avenue, seem to have enough stature and self-confidence to know who is guilty and who isn't?"

"The guinea's guilty as sin," gasped Judge Mantell. "Get me out of here. Please. Guilty, guilty, guilty."

"All right. Do what I say. I want you to remember a picture. You will remember this picture every time a heroin case comes before you and someone offers you one of those fat envelopes you like so much. I know you'll have many times to remember, because half the major heroin busts in this city are already on your calendar, Judge. Lift up your head."

Judge Mantell pressed his chin against his chest.

"No. The other way," said Remo and the judge let his head drop backward.

"Open your eyes," said Remo.

"I can't."

"You will."

"Oh, God," moaned Judge Mantell.

"Now, if I were to drop you, your death would be infinitely easier than the death of the white powder," said Remo and he gave the tape a little jerk and saw the judge's arms fall above his head and he knew Mantell had fainted. He yanked the man into the room and snapped the tape free and massaged the flesh-encrusted spinal column to bring the judge back to consciousness.