Warren Murphy - Kill Or Cure

He opened his mouth to say something else, but he could not get a word out because a fish was jammed deep into his mouth by Chiun. Meola gagged and tried to spit, but Chiun slapped the fish deeper. Meola reached up to pull it out, and Remo pinched both his wrists. Meola found he could not raise his arms.

‘Time to test your theory, Meola,’ said Remo. He slipped the knife from Meola’s sheath, and began to slit the gullets of fish from the bucket. He slipped one into Meola’s right trouser pocket and another into his left. A third he stuck inside Meola’s shirt, and two more went into Meola’s cuffs.

Meola moaned through the fish gag. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes widened in fear. Then he tried to run, but the two men stopped him. Somehow, they stopped him with just one finger each.

And then Meola found himself being lifted by the shirt collar and held out over the deep pool. He looked down and between his suspended feet, he could see the sleek brown and gray bodies of the sharks, slipping back and forth noiselessly through the water, searching.

He heard the white man talking. ‘Mac Polaney is a decorated veteran. He has broad political experience. He is incorruptible. He is just the man our city needs to lead it through these perilous times. Don’t you agree?’

Meola failed to nod.

He felt his body dip and then water slipped into his shoes, before he was yanked upward again, a foot above the water.

‘All our local government employees want is decent government, a chance to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Isn’t that right?’

Meola nodded and as reward felt himself lifted a few inches higher.

‘Upon reconsideration, as president of the employees’ union, you feel that Mac Polaney’s election will be a great step forward for the people of Miami Beach. Do I quote you accurately?’

Meola nodded frantically. How long could this guy hold him out over the water, before his arm tired and Meola was dropped?

Meola nodded. Again and again.

He felt himself being lifted effortlessly, swooped up over the railing and placed back on the ground.

The white man pulled the fish from his mouth.

‘I’m glad you saw it our way,’ he said. ‘Mac Polaney’ll be glad to have you aboard.’

Remo reached into his pocket and took out a stack of papers that Farger had prepared. He leafed through them, found the one he wanted and replaced the others.

Remo glanced over it, then nodded to himself, ‘Sign here,’ he said. ‘It’s an endorsement. You want to read it?’

Meola shook his head. His voice came back, but his throat still hurt. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Anything you want.’

‘Good,’ Remo said. He took Meola’s pen, clicked it and handed it to him. ‘Sign.’

Meola tried to reach for the pen, but his arms would not move. ‘My arms,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Remo said. He reached forward with his right hand and pressed Meola’s wrists, first the right, then the left. Immediately, Meola felt control and strength moving back into his arms.

‘Now sign,’ said Remo, handing forward the paper and pencil.

Meola signed and handed them back. Remo checked the signature, folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He replaced the pen in the breast pocket of Meola’s blue work shirt.

Remo met his eyes. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘ now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that as soon as we leave, you’re going to call the cops. Or else you’re going to retract the endorsement, and call it a hoax. That’s what you’re thinking. But that’s not what you’re going to do. Because if you do, we’re going to come back and feed you to your playmates. Count on it. That’s solid gold. Chiun.’

Remo nodded to Chiun and the old man leaned forward and picked up one of the fish from the pail. As Meola watched, the delicate Oriental tossed the foot-long fish into the air. As it came down, his hands flashed through the air, glinting in the sun like golden knife blades. When the fish hit the ground, it had been cut into three pieces by Chiun’s hands.

Meola looked at the fish, then at the old man, who had again folded his hands inside the sleeves of his robe.

‘We’ll dismember you like that fish,’ Remo said. ‘Piece by piece, and then we’ll feed the pieces to the sharks.’

He put a hand on Meola’s shoulder and for the first time, Meola noticed how thick the man’s wrists were. ‘Are you afraid?’ Remo asked.

Meola nodded.

‘Good,’ Remo said. ‘You’d better be scared to death.’

He took his hand from Meola’s shoulder, took a piece of yellow paper from his shirt pocket and looked at it. ‘Come on, Chiun,’ he said, ‘we’ve got more visits to make.’

They turned to walk away, but Remo stopped and turned back to Meola. ‘I’m glad you saw it our way. Rest easy. You’re doing the best thing for the city. Cross us and there won’t be enough left of you to get a hook into.’

Remo turned, put his arm around Chiun’s shoulder and walked away. Meola heard him say, ‘See, Chiun. Reasonable minds can always reach political compromises.’

Meola looked at them, then down at the fish which the Oriental’s flying hands had slashed into bits.

Why not Mac Polaney? he thought. After all, he was a decorated veteran with broad political experience; he was incorruptible; and he had some kind of campaign volunteers.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lt. Chester Grabnick, head of the Uniformed Officers Association, was an honest cop.

In seventeen years as a policeman, he had not taken money from gamblers, he had not protected narcotics dealers, he had not indulged in brazen brutality.

There had been just one tiny little mistake.

‘When you were a rookie patrolman, you used to steal reports from the detective bureau and turn them over to a defence lawyer.’

The man who brought him this news was in his thirties and he had a hard face. He tried to turn the face softer now as he said, ‘It would be a shame to ruin a good career for that sort of youthful indiscretion.’

Grabnick was silent, thinking.

Finally, he said, ‘You got the wrong guy.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ his visitor said. ‘I have an affidavit from the lawyer.’

Chester Grabnick, who was the lawyer’s best friend and who bowled with him every Wednesday night, said, ‘You do? How could you get a thing like that?’

‘It was easy,’ the man said. ‘I broke his arm.’

Without much more discussion, Lt. Chester Grabnick decided that the election of Mac Polaney would be the best thing that could ever happen to Miami Beach and its loyal, dedicated force of men in blue.

‘Will your membership go along?’ his visitor asked.

‘They’ll go along,’ Grabnick said, sure of himself. His success had been built upon the reputation of ‘Honest Chet.’ So long as nothing happened to damage that reputation, he could get the uniformed officers to back anybody he wanted.

‘Good,’ his visitor said. ‘Make sure you do.’

In the car outside Grabnick’s home, Remo slid behind the wheel and said to Chiun, ‘All right. We got him. That’s two. A good day’s work.’

‘I do not understand,’ Chiun said. ‘Will people vote for your candidate because this policeman tell them to?’

‘That’s the theory,’ Remo said. ‘Get the leaders and the peasants fall in line.’

‘But one can never tell about peasants,’ Chiun said. ‘That is why they are peasants. I remember once…’

Remo sighed. Another history lesson.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Here‘s your first two,’ said Remo, tossing the endorsements on Farger’s desk at campaign headquarters.

Farger picked up the papers, read them quickly, double-checked the signatures, then looked up at Remo with renewed respect.