Warren Murphy: Murder's Shield

"Destroy the note," he mumbled. "No, I'm going to mail it to the Daily News in time for their next edition. Destroy the note."

Remo looked up Cadillac in the yellow pages of the telephone directory, saw it was nearby, walked to the showroom and said to a salesman: "That one."

"Sir?" said the salesman.

"I want that one."

"Now, sir?" said the salesman, rubbing his hands obsequiously. His expensive tie bobbed at his throat. His blondish hair, pasted to his head, glistened under the overhead lights.

"Now," said Remo.

"May I show it to you first?"

"No."

"Well, it lists for eleven thousand five hundred dollars with the air conditioning and the…"

"Put some gas in it and give me the keys."

"The forms…"

"Mail them to me. I want to buy a car. That's all. Just sell me the car. I don't need forms. I don't need a discount. I don't need a demonstration ride. What I need is the keys."

"How did you intend to pay for it, sir?"

"With money, what did you think?"

"I mean financing."

Remo brought the heavy rolls of hundreds out of his pocket. The newness made them snap back almost straight. He began to count off a hundred and fifteen hundred-dollar bills.

The salesman looked at the bills and smiled weakly. He called the manager. The manager looked at the bills. He raised one to the light and felt it. Its newness apparently frightened him. He checked ten more at random.

"What are you, an art lover?" asked Remo.

"No, no. I'm a money lover and this money is good."

"Give me the keys to the car."

"I'll give you my wife," said the manager.

"Just the keys," said Remo. The salesman scurried to the glass enclosed office as Remo gave the manager his name and address for the forms. Ostensibly for the forms. He wanted the manager to spread the word about the man who paid for the car in cash.

The salesman nervously continued his sales pitch while handing Remo the keys to the beige four-door Fleetwood. On his way home, Remo stopped at a furniture store and ordered two colour consoles which he did not need, and a bedroom set which he did not need. He gave name and address and paid in cash.

That night, Remo reached the local precinct house and was strangely apprehensive about offering a bribe to a policeman. He had never taken when he was a cop and he knew many who also wouldn't take. Sure, there was Christmas-time on a beat but that wasn't taking. And then there were levels of taking. Gambling money, while not good money, wasn't considered dirty by many officers. Dirty money was drug money and killing money. Unless police forces had changed in the last decade, Remo thought there were many who would not touch a cent. For Smith, whose ancestors had made a fortune slaving and then had the gall to lead the abolitionist movement when their wealth was established, to now blandly assume that policemen were tagged with prices like supermarket items was an affront to the very balance of the universe.

Remo got out of the car onto the litter-strewn street and scampered up the worn cement steps of the precinct house. Nostalgia was immediate. Every precinct house smelled the same. Ten years later, a hundred years later. Ten miles away. A hundred miles away. A precinct house smelled tired. It was a combination of the odours of human tension and cigarettes and whatever else it took to make that smell. But tired it was.

Remo went to the desk lieutenant, said he was new in the neighbourhood and introduced himself. The lieutenant was formally polite but his face held bored contempt. When Remo offered a hand to shake, the lieutenant took it as if humouring him. In Remo's palm was a folded bill. Remo expected the lieutenant to open it up, look at him and throw it in his face.

He didn't. The hand disappeared smoothly and now there was a pleasant smile on the face.

"I'd like to talk to the precinct captain. Tell him to give me a buzz, will you?" asked Remo.

"Certainly, Mr. Bednick. Welcome to New York."

On his way out, when the lieutenant had a chance to look at the size of the bill, Remo heard him call out, "A big welcome to New York City."

And then Remo knew why he had been apprehensive. He had set the bribe up absolutely wrong, hoping it would fail, hoping Smith would be proved wrong. He could have done it right, striking up a conversation with a local patrolman, offering him something for his family, working himself up through the ranks carefully. Instead, he had walked brazenly into the precinct house where, for all anyone knew, he might have been a state investigator, where if the lieutenant had any worries he would exercise them. And it worked anyway. Remo was disappointed.

On the street in the chemical air of New York City, Remo cleared his mind. He was not in the business of failing, and he would not risk it again.

It was fun to drive the big car and play the stereo as if the car and the lifestyle were really his. When he turned into his street, he saw an unmarked police car down the block, visible even in the dark. The un-waxed dullness about it and the small aerial were the giveaway. Anyone could spot them and Remo sometimes wondered why police didn't use real unmarked cars, like red and yellow convertibles and jalopies with flower decals on them. Those would be real unmarked cars, not just a different form of standard police car.

He parked the car quickly and rushed out. What had Chiun done now? It was not uncommon for Chiun to "merely protect himself" or "merely assure his solitude," which, on occasion had called for the nasty and unpleasant disposal of bodies.

Remo bounded to the door and found it unlocked. Inside, a paunchy man in a business suit sat by a low coffee table in the living room. Chiun sat on the floor listening intently.

"Do not be bothered by the rude interruption," Chiun told the man. "Continue as if we were living in a civilized society."

Chiun turned then to Remo.

"Remo. Sit down and listen to the wonderful stories of this gentleman. How exciting they are. How professional he is. Risking his life every day."

"Well, not now," said the man. "But when I was a patrolman I was in two gun battles."

"Two gun battles," said Chiun with exaggerated awe. "And did you kill anyone?"

"I wounded a gunman."

"Did you hear that, Remo? How exciting. Wounding a gunman and bullets flying and women screaming."

"Well, there were no women screaming," said the man. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Captain Milken. Morris Milken. Lieutenant Russell said you wanted to see me. I've been talking with your servant here. Fine fellow. Sort of gets a little bit too excited over talk about violence and things like that. But I assured him that if one house in this precinct is safe, it's this one."

"That's very nice of you," said Remo.

"He said if ever we felt endangered, even endangered by strangers on the block, we could phone him," said Chiun. "For someone of my age and frailness, this is reassurance of most great value."

"We protect our elderly in this precinct," said Captain Milken.

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you about things like that and I'm glad you could come," said Remo. "Chiun, I'd like to be alone with the captain."

"Oh, yes. Of course. I forgot my humble place as your servant and overstepped my bounds. I will return to my place of servitude."

"Knock it off, Chiun. Enough."

"As you order, master. Your word is my command." Chiun rose and bowed and shuffled humbly from the room.

"One thing about old time dinks. They sure know respect, don't they?" said the captain. "There's a beauty about that old guy's humility."

"Humble as a tidal wave," said Remo.

"What?" said Captain Milken.

"Nothing. Let's talk."

Captain Milken smiled and opened his hand.

"Two hundred a week for you and a proportionate amount to your men. Seventy-five for lieutenants, twenty-five for sergeants and detectives, fifteen for foot patrol. Anything else, we can work out later."