Warren Murphy: Union Bust

The president of the International Stevedores Association had a very interesting lower right rib. Remo readjusted it. The gentleman, amid a loud wail, reconsidered his legal course and agreed to get out of Chicago.

There was a mass exodus from the hotel that morning as the first faint red lines appeared in the gray Chicago sky. First the ladies of the evening. Then, the husbands and wives. But Remo, leaning against a lamppost, waiting to make sure, was not really sure at all as he saw the last husband engage the attention of the other couples. At the end of the block they flagged down a squad car. The two other husbands and all the women suddenly pretended they did not know this man, as he spoke to the two policemen in the squad car.

When Remo saw the driver laugh, he knew his little ploy had been shot. The third man had not been panicked by the situation. He had kept his head. Checked out an ordinance. Found out it was nonexistent, and through his coolness of action was going to get himself and his companions killed today - a beam would go hurtling down on a row of union delegates who knew no such morals law had been passed in 1887. Unanimously. The way they would have to die.

It was a bad report for Smith. Extreme actions are to be used when you have lost everything else. Only fools, madmen, and losers resort to them. As Remo ducked out of sight, he knew he was in the latter category.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The plan was simple. And it was safe.

Rocco Pigarello explained it again to the twenty-six other men. He wasn't asking anyone to get killed. He wasn't asking anyone to commit murder. He was asking the men merely to make some money. He wasn't even going to mention that these men were the least important in the entire union because they were muscle and muscle could be bought cheap anytime. No. He wasn't going to mention unpleasant things because he had a very pleasant proposition and he did not wish to mar its sweetness.

"What I want from you guys is a little common sense and that you should defend yourselves if attacked or if anyone attacks one of your driver brothers. Right?"

A few suspicious mumbles of 'right,' 'yeah,' and 'okay' emanated from the twenty-six men sitting sullenly sleepily in the large auditorium that smelled of fresh paint. They had been awakened in the motel rooms and hotel rooms in the wee hours and hustled to this new building just outside Chicago. In some cases it was the president of the local who woke them. In others it was another delegate or a business agent. It was always someone in direct command over them. And they were not asked to get up early, they were told to do so. Or else.

As soon as the auditorium started filling, the men recognized each other. Muscle. From Dallas, San Francisco, Columbus, Savannah. Twenty-six men with special reps. They saw each other and they knew there would be blood, and they didn't like it because this convention was to be one of their rewards for loyal service, not some more work.

The Pig continued. "I know many of you guys think it unfair to bring you here at this hour. I know many of you guys think you ought to be back asleep. But let me tell you, you're here because… because…" Pigarello thought a moment. 'Because you're here."

Angry mumbling from the men.

"Now I am asking you to protect a brother driver. I am asking you to protect a fellow union member from vicious goons. I'm gonna tell you all your places. If you see anyone attacking a fellow driver, shoot him in defence of that fellow driver. We have the lawyers ready and we foresee no trouble. No trouble, okay."

Angry mumbles.

"Now, it is my suspicion that this company goon, this strong-arm man, will attack me with a pistol. I am sure all of you will see this. You will see the attack with the pistol. Once you hear a shot, it will mean he has begun to attack a brother driver. You will defend that brother driver. This is the picture of the man I expect to attack me." The Pig raised a glossy, magazine-sized photograph above his head.

A few mumbles of shock. The recording secretary. They were going to do a job on the recording secretary.

"Now. Any questions?"

A delegate from a Wyoming local rose. He was as tall and lean and raw-boned as his cowboy ancestors.

"How many men is that gentleman going to bring? I mean we have twenty-seven men, Pig, and I don't hanker to go up against no fifty or a hundred of Abe Bludner's boys."

"Bludner is on our side," said the Pig.

Mumbles of approval.

"You mean to say, this Remo Jones is going up against you without his president's approval?" asked the Wyoming delegate.

"You heard me."

"Where's he getting his support?"

"He ain't got none."

"You mean to tell me he's all alone and he's going up against you, Pig?"

"Yeah."

"I don't rightly believe that."

"Yeah, well you better rightly believe it, shit-kicker, because this guy is gonna do just that. Now sit down. Any more questions?"

Three hands raised.

"Take 'em down," said the Pig. "Questions are over."

Remo hailed a cab.

"How much time do you have left on your shift?" he asked.

The cabby looked puzzled.

"How much time are you willing to work today?"

The driver shrugged. "Usually people ask are you willing to go this far or that far, not how much time."

"Well I'm not usual people and I've got some unusual money."

"Look, I've had a good day. I'm not interested in anything shady."

"Nothing shady. You want to earn twelve hours?"

"I'm beat."

"A hundred dollars."

"I feel refreshed."

"Good. Just drive this lady around Chicago for twelve hours and don't stop for more than ten minutes anywhere."

Remo eased Chris into the back of the cab.

"Honey. You get your rest right here in the back of the cab," he said. He ostentatiously handed Chris a wad of bills, letting the driver know there was money to be paid.

"But why can't I go to your hotel with you, darling?" said Chris.

Remo whispered in her ear. "Because we're marked people. You're a target. I'd bet on it. I'll meet you at O'Hare International Airport at six or seven tonight. The bar is the best restaurant. Whatever it is. If I'm not there, wait until midnight. If I don't come, run for your life. Change your name and keep going. In two days stop."

"Why two days?"

"Because it's been worked out that two days is an ideal time in a run pattern like this, and I don't have time to explain.

"Why can't I just book a six-hour flight out and a six-hour flight back if you want me to keep travelling for twelve hours?"

"Because a scheduled flight is like an elevator. In something like this it functions like a stationary room that keeps you locked in. Take my word. This is best."

"I'm not afraid of Gene, darling."

"I am. Move." Remo kissed Chris on the cheek and nodded to the cab driver. He made obvious a check of the cabbie's identification, not that he would remember it. He just wanted the man to believe that he would be remembered and vulnerable if anything should happen to the girl.

April 17 was a hot day in Chicago, the muggy, skin-soaking kind of morning that makes you feel you've worked a full day when you get up. Remo hadn't slept. He could make do with twenty minutes rather easily, and with this intention he headed back to his hotel.

He did not get rest. As he entered the marble-floored lobby, he saw a man ease a rifle barrel in his direction. Automatically he did not respond to this man who had taken the rifle out of a golf bag leaning against a lobby sofa. As he had been trained to do, he first checked—in an instant—the entire pattern he was in. Other guns came out. From suitcases, from a carton, from behind the registration clerk's desk. Ambush.

Remo would work it left to right. Not bothering to feint, he was into a rugged man who was squeezing the trigger on a Mauser. The Mauser did not fire. It was jammed up into the solar plexus, taking part of a lung with it. The man vomited his lungs, and Remo continued to work right so that his being in the right firing pattern prevented the center and left from getting him without shooting into their own men.