Warren Murphy: Kill Or Cure

Remo put down the paper and chuckled to Chiun, ‘We’re going to win this thing.’

Chiun sat, in his blue meditative robe, and looked slowly and quizzically at Remo.

‘That is your opinion?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

‘Then heaven help us, because the fools have taken over the asylum.’

‘Now, what’s eating you?’

‘What do you know of politics, my son, that you can say now we will do this, or now we will do that? Why do you not understand the simple wisdom of finding a new emperor? It is as if you were one of those Chinese priests in that terrible television tale, dedicating yourself to social work.’

‘You know very well, Chiun, I’m involved in this to try to save Smith and the organization that pays the freight for you and me.’

‘I have watched you now. You have this Mr. Farger, who is as imperfect a human being as could be found. You have this Miss Walker, who is practicing at your expense. So I say to you, if you must do this thing, why do you not call in an expert?’

‘Because Chiun, in this country no one knows anything about politics. The experts least of all. That’s why there still is an American dream. Because the whole system is so nutty that every nut has a chance to win. Even Mac Polaney. Even with me running things for him.’

Chiun turned away. ‘Call Dr. Smith,’ he said.

‘What would you have me call him?’

‘Do not fear, my son, that you will ever drown in your arrogance. For surely, before that day arrives, you will have choked on your ignorance.’

‘You stick with me, Chiun,’ Remo said. ‘How’d you like to be city treasurer?’

But Chiun’s remarks rankled. Remo had gotten into politics to force Cartwright’s people to come after him, since he was unable to attack Cartwright head-on. And yet, nothing had happened. No one had moved, and it forced him to wonder, against his will, if he was even in the ball game. He would not take many more pitches, he thought, before he started swinging.

The big name on Remo’s list for the day was Nick Bazzani, who was the leader of the Miami Beach northern ward. Remo and Chiun found him in his ward club, snuggled into a side street under a large red and white sign that proclaimed ‘Cartwright for Mayor. North Ward Civic Association, Nick Bazzani, Standard-Bearer.’

‘What’s a standard-bearer?’ Remo asked Chiun.

‘He carries the flag in the annual parade of ragamuffins,’ Chiun said, looking with distaste around the main clubroom where men in tee shirts sat in wooden chairs, drinking beer and talking.

‘What can I do for you?’ one man asked Remo, looking curiously at Chiun.

‘Nick Bazzani. I want to see him.’

‘He’s busy now. Make an appointment,’ the man said, jerking his thumb toward a door that apparently led to a back room.

‘He’ll see us,’ Remo said, brushing past the man and leading Chiun through the door, into the backroom.

The room was a small office with a desk, extra chairs, and a small table on which sat a portable colour television set.

There were three men in the room. Bazzani apparently was the one behind the desk. He was fattish and red-haired; he had that dumb look that only red-headed Italians are able to master fully. Remo put his age in his late thirties. The other two men in the room were younger, dark-haired, much impressed by being close to Bazzani, who was probably the most wonderful, grandest man they had ever hoped to meet.

‘Hey, this is a private office,’ one of the men said.

‘That’s good,’ Remo said. ‘My business is private.’ He turned to the man at the desk. ‘Bazzani?’

‘Shhhh,’ said the man. ‘It’s coming on now.’

He was staring at the television set. Remo and Chiun turned to watch. The game show emcee said, ‘We’ll be back in just one minute.’

‘Shhhh now, everybody,’ Bazzani said.

A soap commercial came on.

‘It’s next,’ Bazzani said.

The soap commercial died, there was a moment of blank air, and then on screen came a large sunflower with a hole in its center. It filled the screen in garish colour for a few seconds and then, into the hole in the center, popped the head of Mac Polaney.

Remo winced.

Polaney seemed fixed there for a moment, then opened his mouth and began to sing, to the plinking of one banjo accompaniment:

‘Sunshine is nicer.

Flowers are sweeter.

We need a man to clean up the town.’

It went on and on and ended with:

‘Vote for Polaney.

Early and Often.’

Bazzani had giggled when the sunflower first came on the screen. He laughed aloud when he saw Polaney’s face. At the end of the jingle, he was roaring. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He tried hard to catch his breath.

The song ended, and over the sunflower and Polaney’s face came a printed legend:

‘Sunshine is Nicer.

Vote for Polaney.’

Then the commercial faded and the game show came back on. Bazzani was still convulsed. Through tears and gasps, he managed to sing:

‘Vote for Polaney,

He is a hoople.’

Then off into more laughter, demanding of everybody in the room, ‘Did you see that? Did you see that?’

Remo and Chiun stood silently in the middle of the floor, waiting.

It took a full sixty seconds before Bazzani could catch his breath and regain some of his composure. Finally, he looked up at Remo and Chiun and wiped away the tears of mirth which sparkled on his fat, meaty face.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Remo said. ‘We’re from Mr. Polaney’s headquarters, and we’ve come to ask your support.’

Bazzani chuckled as if a partner to a joke.

Remo said nothing. Bazzani looked at him, waiting for him to say more. But when Remo said nothing, he finally asked in surprise, ‘Whose headquarters?’

‘Mac Polaney,’ Remo said. ‘The next mayor of Miami Beach.’

This pronouncement was good for another thirty seconds of general hilarity, this time shared by Bazzani’s two companions.

‘Why do they laugh?’ Chiun asked Remo. ‘Mister Polaney is correct. Sunshine is nicer.’

‘I know,’ Remo said, ‘But some people don’t have any feel for truth and beauty.’

Bazanni showed no sign of ever letting up. Every time he stopped laughing to catch his breath, he hissed ‘Mac Polaney,’ then he and his two spear carriers were off again.

Perhaps if Remo got his attention. He stepped forward to the desk which was bare except for a newspaper opened to the race results, a telephone and a metal bust of Robert E. Lee.

Remo lifted the statue in his left hand and put his right hand on top of its head. He wrenched with his hands and ripped off the bronze head. Bazzani stopped laughing and watched. Remo dropped the rest of the bust and put both hands to the top of the skull in his right hand. He twisted and wrenched, moving his hands back and forth in unfamiliar patterns, his fingers moving individually as if tapping on different keys. Then he opened his hand and let bronze dust and flakes to which he had reduced the statue dribble between his fingers onto Bazzani’s desk.

Bazzani stopped laughing. His mouth hung open. He seemed unable to remove his eyes from the pile of bronze metallic dust on his desk blotter.

‘And now that Laugh-in is over,’ Remo said, ‘we’re going to talk about your endorsements of Mac Polaney.’

The words jolted Bazzani to attention. ‘Alfred,’ he said. ‘Rocco. Get these two nuts out of here.’

‘Chiun,’ Remo said softly, his back still turned to the other two men.

They moved towards Remo. Behind him, he heard two sharp cracks as if boards were breaking, and then two thumps as bodies hit the floor.

‘Now that we won’t be interrupted,’ Remo said, ‘why have you been supporting Cartwright?’