Warren Murphy: Murder's Shield

McGurk read the words of the large type to himself.

"You call yourself New Yorkers and you think you live in a city, one of the great cities of the world. But you don't. You don't live in a city, you live in a jungle. You live frightened in your caves and you dare not walk the streets because you fear the animals.

"Well, let me tell you something. These are your streets and this is your city, and I'm going to give it back to you.

"The animals are going into the cages, not you. The animals will fear to walk the streets, not you. The animals will learn that this is a city for people, not beasts.

"Inevitably, some will call me racist. But who suffers the most from crime? The blacks. The honest blacks. The people who work to try to give their children everything that everybody else wants to give their children. You know who I'm talking about. The good blacks who are called Uncle Toms because they don't want to live in a jungle.

"Well, I speak for them too, and I know they too reject the charge of racism. If I say the littlest child should be able to walk this city without being mugged, is that racist? If I don't want my child or your child raped at, recess, is that racist? If I get tired of being gouged to support people who will not work and who threaten me in the bargain, is that racist?

"I say no. And good people… white and black… join me in voicing a resounding 'No,' and sending forth that word now as our program and our platform:

"We say no to the animals. We say no to the thugs. We say no to the vicious and the depraved who prowl our streets. And we will keep saying no to them, until they are removed from our midst."

Inspector William McGurk heard the words in his mind, heard them with such sincerity and force, that he realized only one man could deliver them properly. Mayor William McGurk of New York City. Show 'em a city can work. And then show 'em a state can work. Then show 'em a country can work. And if it could work for a country…

McGurk switched on his intercom.

"Yes, Inspector," came a woman's voice.

"Get me a globe for the office, will you, please?" he said.

"Yes, Inspector. There's a gentleman here with Captain Milken to see you."

"Oh, yes, that one. Send them in."

CHAPTER EIGHT

What was Remo Bednick's business?

The question was asked by the moon-faced man, Inspector McGurk. Captain Milken seemed extraordinarily solicitous of the inspector. It was beyond the normal respect a. captain shows a superior. Remo filed that away very quickly.

"Business," said Remo,

"What business?"

"Captain Milken hasn't told you?"

"Only what you told him."

"I don't see why I should tell you any more."

"Because I'll take your head off, punk," said Inspector McGurk.

Remo shrugged.

"What can I say? You want me to leave the city, I'll leave the city. You want me to close my businesses, well, then, you've got to find them and do it yourself. You want to be reasonable, I wash your hands and you wash mine; that's something else. That's cash on the barrelhead."

The eyes in the moon face narrowed as McGurk thought of squads of killer cops crisscrossing the country on commercial airlines, registering into motels, eating and drinking, piling up bills.

"He's really okay," said Captain Milken nervously.

McGurk looked at the captain disdainfully. Yes, Remo Bednick was okay, but the captain didn't really understand the reason why.

"Since I don't know what you want," McGurk said, "I'm letting my imagination run wild. The worst. Five thousand a week for what we don't know."

The inspector had batted the ball to Remo's side of the court. Smith's instructions were to bargain, to really play a solid game, and maybe just return the ball. Another racketeer in business. But the instinct that perpetually said slam it into the corner with heavy topspin, was operating even before Remo remembered his instructions.

"I wouldn't give you $5,000 a week," Remo said, watching the moon face. "Make it $10,000. That's what I have on me." The moon face flushed red. Remo disgorged two fat packets of new bills from his pockets and dropped them on the inspector's desk like so much orange rind. The captain cleared his throat.

"There isn't that much extra in this city that isn't tied down by someone else," said McGurk.

"Again, that's my worry."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Bednick." McGurk offered a big, flat muscled hand and Remo took it weakly. He could feel McGurk trying to bruise bone, so he collapsed his hand and smiled. McGurk pressed harder, his facial muscles tightening. Remo smiled. Then he un-popped his hand, breaking the grip like an exploding cellophane wrapper.

"You're out of shape there, sweety," Remo said.

"You some kind of weightlifter?"

"The weight of the world, Inspector, the weight of the world."

"When we was coming over here, Mr. Bednick said maybe he'd like to meet the commissioner. I told him it wasn't necessary," said Captain Milken.

"Yeah," said McGurk thoughtfully. "Introduce him to the commissioner. Let the commissioner see some of the people we have to deal with. And Bednick, you shake hands with the commissioner. His stays limp."

McGurk shoveled the two packets of cash into his top drawer. Remo left with the captain, who confided with a bit of tension in his voice: "Hell of a regular guy, McGurk."

"You hate him," said Remo. "Why do you say you like him?"

"No, I like him, I like him. Why do you say I don't? I mean I never said I didn't. I really like him."

In the hallway leaving McGurk's office, Captain Milken and Remo passed a gentle-faced blonde girl with skin like porcelain and sky-blue eyes, who turned into McGurk's office, her eyes straight ahead, her lips tension tight.

"Janet O'Toole," whispered Milken when she had passed. "The commissioner's daughter. Sad story. She was raped when she was seventeen. A gang of blacks. Half the department cheered because O'Toole is a real bleeding heart liberal. They'd leave notes around his office saying they found the guys who did it, but they didn't have a warrant and they let them go. One note said they spotted the guys in the act but by the time they finished reading them their constitutional rights, the suspects had all finished and fled. Nasty stuff, you know what I mean?"

"How'd the girl take it?" Remo asked.

"A shame. It wrecked her. The whole thing. She's so afraid of men, she can't look at them."

"She's beautiful," Remo said, thinking of the doll-like features.

"Yeah. And frigid."

"What does she do around here?"

"She's a computer analyst. She works with McGurk on manpower deployment."

"Wait here a minute," Remo said. He turned and walked back into McGurk's office. Janet O'Toole stood with her back to him, looking over a pile of papers on a desk. She wore a long, paisley peasant skirt, neurotically modest, but incongruously, a low-cut white peasant blouse that dipped down off her shoulders and displayed her throat and neck.

"Miss?" Remo said.

The girl wheeled, her eyes startled.

Remo met her eyes for only a split second, then lowered his to the floor. "I… er, I think you dropped this in the hallway," he said, extending his hand with a silver fountain pen he had taken, from Milken's pocket.

He kept looking down. He heard the girl say, in a soft, tremulous voice, "No, that's not mine."

He looked up, making his eyes appear frightened, met her eyes briefly, then looked down at the floor again. "I'm… I'm sorry, but I thought… I mean, I'm really sorry for bothering you, Miss, but I thought…"

Remo spun around and walked quickly from the office. So much for now.

Milken was waiting twenty-five feet down the hallway for him, and Remo gave him his pen back.

"You dropped this."

"Oh, yeah, thanks. Listen, by the way, O'Toole's not in on any of this."