When this was known, the House of Sinanju returned to the wealthy of the Islamic world, and, in one night, followed a drugged warrior of the house of Hashashins and waited until the first signs of their smoke appeared and then slaughtered them in their caves to the very last man. The Hashashins were no more.
So too with Mr. Gordons. If not this year, then next. And if not the next, then surely the year after that. But some year, either Chiun or Remo or Remo's followers would make Mr. Gordons's methods known. And then the House of Sinanju would return to the wealth of America.
But not now. Now was a time to run. Let Mr. Gordons have his decade or generation or century. There Were other markets for Sinanju.
Chiun made note of where the metal spur had been placed, saw it had not punctured Remo's skin, and put it in his own kimono for keeping and examination. It might have come from Mr. Gordons. In that case it was worth examining.
As the plane powered into the sky, the package Chiun had addressed was picked up by the U.S. Postal Service. It was headed toward a sanitarium in Rye, New York, called Folcroft.
There any one of hundreds of electronic technicians could have told the Master of Sinanju that if he wanted to escape from the man who gave him that metal spur, he should have given it to the first passing stranger.
Provided the stranger was going to another part of the world.
CHAPTER FOUR
Morris "Moe" Alstein owned the only bar on Chicago's South Side that lost money. He had bought it in the 1960s when it was a dowdy neighborhood tavern that regularly gave its owner a healthy $40,000 a year off the top and another $40,000 to $50,000 from non-taxable ancillary rights like numbers and loansharking and bookmaking.
Moe Alstein's renovators tore out the rotting wood molding, swept away the sawdust on the floor and installed an elegant mahogany bar, hidden lighting, new bathrooms, fine tables, new walls, a new inlaid floor, broke down walls to give his customers more space, built a stage and with the aid of a talent scout and a hot new young emcee, Alstein managed to turn around the financial picture to an initial loss of $247,000 the first year and $40,000 each ensuing year. Some attributed this loss to a change of market direction—that is, he lost the regular customers and did not replace them with others. That is what people said publicly.
Privately, they might tell very close friends with tight mouths that Moe's habits might have something to do with his losses. Moe liked pistols, and in the basement of the Eldorado Spa, changed from Murray's, he had a pistol range. He would practice there daily. The trouble started when he moved the basement range to the stage. He made it part of the floor-show. To show how good he was, he shot earrings off customers and glasses out of hands. But customer loyalty was fickle in Chicago's South Side. Even though Moe "never fucking hit anyone," the clientele dwindled.
Fortunately, Moe had an alternate profession that compensated for the bar's losses. Which was what Mr. Gordons wished to speak to him about that morning.
"I don't know you," said Moe to the gently-smiling man with the neatly combed sandy-blond hair and the right arm that moved properly but seemed slightly lower than his left.
"My name is Mr. Gordons and I'm sorry I cannot offer you a drink but this is your establishment and it is incumbent upon you to offer me a drink."
"All right, whaddya want?"
"Nothing, thank you, I do not drink. I wish you to attempt to kill someone with your pistol."
"Hey, whaddya, out of your head?" said Moe Alstein. Moe was slight and shorter than this man. His eyes were sharp blue and his face pinched like a stretched cellophane bag. His eyes did not trust the bland features of this man but even if they had, he wasn't going to do contract work for someone who came in off the street.
"I do not understand your colloquialism, 'out of your head,'" said Mr. Gordons.
"First off, I don't kill people. Second off, if I did, I wouldn't do it for some bimbo who comes in off the street, and third off, who the fuck are you?"
"I am not sure that your expressions are accurate. That is, I think you are saying things for your protection and not because they are true. This I have found to be commonplace, so do not take offense as people often do when they are exposed in inaccuracies. I have something you want."
"What I want is you should get out of here while you can still walk," said Alstein.
"Not necessarily," said Mr. Gordons and from his jacket pocket, he took a fresh stack of fifty $100 bills. He placed it on the table between them. Then he put a second package on top of the first package. And a third and a fourth. And a fifth. Moe wondered how the man kept his suit so neat with all that money stashed in the pockets. When the pile was ten stacks high, Mr. Gordons started a second pile. And when that was ten high, he stopped.
"That's a hundred grand," said Moe Alstein. "A real hundred grand. No government frame ever offered a hundred grand."
"I assumed you would think that."
"No hit ever paid a hundred grand. I mean, not a regular contract, sort of," said Alstein.
"And these bills are valid," said Mr. Gordons. "Examine the silk fiber, the engraving around the face of Franklin, the clarity of the serial numbers which are sequential and not all the same."
"Real," said Moe Alstein. "But you know, I can't move right away. To take off a capo is a tough thing. I got to spread some of this around."
"This is not for your usual work of helping an ethnic group settle disputes among members of their crime families. This is for a simple hitting."
"Hit," said Moe.
"Hit. Thank you. It is now hit," said Mr. Gordons. "This hit is simple. I will personally show you where he is."
Moe Alstein's head jerked back in shock.
"Whaddya paying me for, if you're gonna be there? I mean, the point of getting someone else to make the hit is that you're not there. Unless you want to watch the guy suffer?"
"No. I hope to watch you kill him. There are two people. They are very interesting. Especially an elderly yellow man who is most interesting. Every movement of his is most natural and seen in people, yet it accomplishes much more than other people's movements. Him I wish to see. But I cannot observe properly if I must also perform."
"Oh, two hits," said Alstein. "It'll cost you more."
"I will provide you more."
Alstein shrugged. "It's your money."
"It's your money," said Mr. Gordons and pushed the two piles of bills across the table.
"When do you want these guys hit?"
"Soon. First I must get the others."
"Others?"
"There will be others with us. I must get them."
"Wait a minute," said Moe, backing away from the table. "I don't mind you watching. You're as guilty as me before a court, probably more so. I'm just doing a contract. You'd, for sure, do life, know what I mean? I got something over you. But strangers, witnesses, they got something over me. And you. Know what I mean?"
"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Gordons. "But they will not be only witnesses. I am hiring them too."
"I don't need help. Really. I'm good," said Alstein and told the bartender to get up on the stage with a glass.
The bartender, a balding black man who had become very good at the Chicago Tribune's crossword puzzle, rarely having anyone but Alstein to serve, looked up from his paper and winced.
"Make it two glasses," called Alstein.
"I quit," said the black man.
Moe Alstein's right hand went into his jacket and came out with a whizbang of a .357 Magnum, chrome plated like a big shiny cannon. It went bang like a roof coming off. The heavy bullet blasted a shelf of glasses and shattered a mirror above the bartender's head. Shards scattered over the inlaid floor like shiny pieces of sharp-edged dew under a morning sun.