The tinted window on the driver's side opened just a crack. He could not see the driver.
The gunman with the scar down the right side of his jaw stepped from his own car and walked over to the other vehicle. Every window, even the windshield, was tinted so dark that in the weak light of the underground garage on the Canadian side of the Detroit River, he could not see the driver, except as a deep shadow in the deeper darkness of the car's interior.
"Williams?" the invisible driver asked.
"Call me Remo," the gunman said. "Nice car. Never saw one like it."
"I'd be surprised if you had. It's Lavallette's big surprise, the Dynacar. I stole it."
An envelope was pushed out the crack of the car window. "Here. I'm paying you for the Lavallette hit. I want Mangan taken out next. There's an address in the envelope. It's a woman Mangan visits every Thursday night. You can get him there."
"I haven't got Lavallette yet," the gunman said.
"You did fine. Follow the plan and take them in the order I give you. There's plenty of time to get Lavallette at the end of this. I don't mind if he's sweating a little bit."
"I could have finished him at the news conference," the gunman said. "I had time."
"You did right. I told you no head shots and you followed instructions. I want them all looking good for their funerals. It's not anybody's fault that Lavallette was wearing a bulletproof vest."
"I've got a reputation to live up to," the gunman said. "When I clip a guy, I don't like him planning press conferences later."
"We follow the plan. Take them in order. And no head shots. "
The gunman counted the money in the envelope, then shrugged. "It's your show," he said. "That letter to the paper. Was that your idea?"
The unseen driver said softly, "Yes. I thought we could raise a little smoke screen. It might make things a little tougher for you though."
"How's that?" the gunman said.
"They might be expecting you. Probably more security."
The gunman shook his head. "None of it matters to me. "
"I love dealing with professionals," the driver said. "Now get Mangan."
The tinted window sealed automatically and without any engine sound at all, the sporty black car slid up the garage ramp and out toward the street, like a fleet ghost.
The gunman who called himself Remo Williams got into his car and waited as he had been instructed to do.
It was a flaky contract and he did not like flaky contracts. They were unprofessional. He would have preferred a clean hit on a boat somewhere or under an overpass at night. Strictly business. This deal smelled too much like a personal vendetta.
He checked his watch. Five minutes had passed and he started his car and drove from the garage. There was no sense in spooking the client. By now he would be far enough away. A good professional watched out for the details. The details were everything. It would just be bad form to leave the garage right on his tail and two minutes later find yourself stopped next to him at a traffic light. Things like that made clients nervous.
The gunman had no curiosity at all to know the name of the man who had hired him to flatten four of Detroit's biggest wheels.
He did not, for a moment, believe that the client was some environmentalist nut who wanted the automakers dead because they were polluting the air. His bet would be that it was some kind of business rivalry, but it didn't matter. Not so long as he was being paid.
It was the business of not being able to shoot any of them in the head that bothered him the most. The client should have known that head shots were the most certain. You could shoot a guy all afternoon in the chest and he might not die.
The gunman had seen it himself, firsthand. It had been his first contract. The target was named Anthony "Big Nose" Senaro, a mastodon of a man who had cut into the don's numbers business in Brooklyn. Senaro had gotten word he was about to be hit and skipped to Chicago.
The gunman had found him there, working as a laborer in the stockyards. He waited until Senaro was eating lunch one day, walked up to him and fired three shots into Big Nose's massive chest. Big Nose had let out a bull roar and charged him.
He had fired his full clip at Senaro. There was blood everywhere but the big guy kept on coming, like a refrigerator on casters.
The gunman ran and for an hour, Senaro had chased him around the stockyard. Finally Senaro cornered him, put his big fingers around the gunman's throat, and began to squeeze. Just as the gunman was about to black out, Senaro gave a mighty sigh and collapsed from loss of blood.
The gunman scrambled away, losing a shoe to Big Nose's clutching hands. He never finished the hit. And Senaro eventually recuperated and went on to make a name for himself in Chicago.
The don had been understanding of the gunman's failure. "It is always difficult," Don Pietro had told him, "the first time, eh? The first time for everything is always an unhappy time."
"I will get him next time," the gunman had assured Don Pietro, even though his stomach quaked at the thought of facing the big man again.
"There will be no next time. Not for you and Big Nose. You are both lucky to live. Big Nose will not return to bother us but he has earned his life. And you, you have earned our respect. We will have much work for you."
The other hits had gone down better. The gunman had made a name for himself too. Using head shots. That one restriction still bothered him. It was unprofessional.
But the client was always right. At least for the time being.
Drake Mangan was on a conference telephone call with James Revell, president of the General Auto Company, and Hubert Millis, head of American Autos.
"What are we going to do?" Revell said. "That lunatic Lavallette has rescheduled his press conference for tomorrow and we're all invited. Do we go?"
Millis said, "We've got to. We can't look like we're afraid of Lavallette and his damned mystery car. Freaking thing probably won't start anyway. "
"I don't know," Mangan said. "I'm afraid someone will start pegging shots at us."
"The security people will take care of that," Millis said. "You know what sticks in my craw?"
"What's that?" said Mangan.
"At one time or another, Lavallette worked for all of us and every one of us fired him," Millis said.
"Damned right. The guy said to take the fins off the Cadillacs," Revell said. "A damned moron. He deserved firing. "
"No," said Millis. "We shouldn't have fired him. We should have killed the son of a bitch. Then we wouldn't be having all this grief."
Mangan chuckled. "Maybe it's not too late," he said. "It's agreed then. Tomorrow, we'll all be at Lavallette's press conference."
The other two men agreed and Mangan disconnected his conference call.
He'd go, but he'd be damned if he'd go without the old Oriental. If the President of the United States said that the old gook could protect Mangan, well, that was good enough for Drake Mangan. What's-his-name . . . Chiun could accompany him anywhere.
Except where he was going tonight.
The old maniac had a way with labor relations, though. Drake Mangan had to admit that.
After Mangan had evacuated the office, Chiun had decided he wanted something painted on the door. He had the secretary send up the head of the auto-body-painting division.
The door was open and Mangan heard the conversation from outside, near his secretary's desk.
"You will paint a new sign on the door," Chiun had said.
"I don't paint doors," the division head had said.
"Hold. You are a painter, are you not?" Chiun had said.
"Yes. I'm in charge of body finish on cars."
"This will be much easier than painting a car," Chiun had said.
The division head snapped, "No. Never. I don't paint doors."
"And who has given you these instructions?" Chiun asked.