Warren Murphy: Murder's Shield

"Let's put it where it's at, little father. You got paid to teach me. Cold, hard, American taxpayer cash. You would have taught a giraffe to kill for a price."

"Do you really think I would have taught you all that I have taught you for money?"

"I don't know. Are you packed?"

"You know. You do not wish to admit it."

"And you aren't all that concerned solely with the idea of wasting a few years of your life. Admit that, too."

"The Master of Sinanju does not admit. He illuminates."

Remo snapped the luggage shut. When Chiun did not wish to talk, Chiun did not talk.

CHAPTER FOUR

In Philadelphia, Stefano Colosimo was greeting his children and grandchildren and his brothers and sisters and cousins, kissing both male and female alike on the cheek in the gusty love of a patriarch for his family.

In small happy groups they came to greet Grandpa Stefano, moving through the foyer past the bodyguards, to feel the heavy hands and the wet lips, and then to get the little brightly-wrapped packages. For the children, it would be cakes and toys. For the grownups, there was jewellery and sometimes an envelope if family finances were not going well. Grandpa Stefano would give these envelopes with heartfelt respect, mentioning that it was only undeserved good fortune that enabled him to do this small thing for a relative and, who knows, perhaps the relative would be able to do him a favour some day too.

The bodyguards, their faces like stone, marked a severe contrast to the joyful family reunion. But then, no one paid attention to bodyguards any more than one paid attention to plumbing.

Some of the younger Colosimos, when they went to school, were surprised to discover that their classmates did not have bodyguards. Some had maids, some even had chauffeurs, but none had bodyguards. And it was then that the children got the first inkling of what it meant to be a Colosimo. You didn't tell everything in classroom show-and-tell. You were in the class but not part of it. The people they talked about on the television news, you had heard on the telephone asking to speak to your grandpa. And you kept this very quiet in class because you were a Colosimo.

Grandpa Colosimo greeted his family and received respect from the outside world also. There were messages and calls from the mayor, a senator, the governor, every city councilman, the chief of police, and the state chairmen of the Democratic and Republican parties. All wishing Philadelphia's largest builder, olive oil importer, and real estate developer a very happy fortieth wedding anniversary.

So it was laughable when the lowly patrolman became insistent that a car outside was blocking the street and he wished to speak to the owner of the house.

"Carlo, take care of it," Grandpa Stefano said to one of his bodyguards.

"He says he wants to speak only to the owner," said Carlo DiGibiassi whose income tax returns listed him as a business consultant.

"Take care of him, Carlo," said Grandpa Stefano, rubbing a thumb across the tips of his fingers to indicate small bills.

The bodyguard disappeared into the happy throng, then returned, shrugging his shoulders.

"What kind of a cop is this?" he asked.

"Did you tell him we know people?"

Carlo nodded, exaggeratedly, indicating he had not only told but had been rebuffed.

"Tell him we'll take his ticket."

"He says it's an ordinance. He can take you in."

"For parking?"

Carlo shrugged.

"See who he is, this policeman," said Grandpa Stefano. The order launched phone calls to headquarters, to precincts, to policemen who were employees of Colosimo although they were never carried on company books.

Carlo returned. "Headquarters knows him, but some of our people say they never heard of him."

With the resignation of a man who realizes he must handle everything himself, Grandpa Stefano went outside to speak to the policeman.

On his porch, flanked by bodyguards, he introduced himself. "Can I be of any help?" he said.

"Yeah. That car out there. It's a vehicular hazard."

"On my wedding anniversary?"

"Sorry. A vehicular hazard is a vehicular hazard."

"A vehicular hazard," said Grandpa Stefano with just a hint of contempt in his voice. "No one else can move this vehicular hazard. All right. I will go."

On the curb, Carlo noticed something unusual. It was not the four other policemen coming toward them. It was the way they came. Like a basketball team with the two tall front men setting picks for the two shorter men behind, as if they would jump up to take a shot. They did not jump up, however; they shot from the hip. The flash was the last thing Carlo saw.

The five policemen drew their guns simultaneously. All went for the bodyguards. For a flash of a moment, only one man stood unscathed, and that was Grandpa Stefano Colosimo and then he was cut down by all five guns.

The bulletin made the 2:00 p.m. news. Philadelphia police were blaming the killing on a rival gang faction.

In New York City, Inspector William McGurk flipped off his radio and scribbled some numbers on a yellow pad. Very neat. It took five men and that was a lot, but it was worth it. Very neat, indeed.

McGurk leaned back in his chair and locked his eyes on the map on the wall of his office in police headquarters, across the hall from the commissioner's. He could visualize the web of policemen moving farther and farther across the country. He had done a great deal already. And now his papers were in; any day now his retirement as the police department's manpower deployment officer would become effective, and he could spend full time on his other, more important, mission. And then that web would expand. With a blooded army, it would travel west, and north and south. Texas. California. Chicago. Ultimately, of course there was Washington. There would always be Washington. And Duffy, with his Fordham cleverness, had known it.

McGurk's army would have to go all the way, all the way to the White House. Once you began an avalanche, you didn't stop it halfway down the mountain.

McGurk stood up, and began straightening his office before leaving for his other office where important work was done. Soon, he would have to call the United States Attorney General and tell him that the secret police army did not exist.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dr. Harold W. Smith's lemony face looked unusually acid.

"Hello, Remo," he said. He sat in the harshly-lit, securely locked depositor's room of the Manhattan Bank with two attaché cases before him. They were open and stacked rim level with packets of new hundred-dollar bills.

Remo looked at the money. Funny how money lost its value when you could have it by picking up a telephone and mumbling a few words, or when there was nothing you really wanted to buy because your life didn't make any difference to anyone but your employer anyway. The hundred dollar bills were what they were. Paper.

"First, let me explain the money. You will establish yourself in New York as a figure in the rackets. We have established that in the eyes of our police targets, a man is identified as a rackets figure, not because he functions in the rackets, but because he has the police on his payroll. In other words, you exist as a racketeer because you pay off police.

"Now, the beauty of this is that you do not have to build-which would take time-an organization of your own. Moreover, it eliminates the risk of your bungling around in loan-sharking, numbers, hijacking, prostitution, drugs and the like which are highly sophisticated."

"You mean the cops will think I'm a gangster if I pay them off and I won't have to mess with the business of being one?"

"Exactly," said Smith.

"And then?"

"Find out the leadership, clean it out, and then we'll dislocate the rest of the organization."