Remo merely nodded. He did not have time for polite chitchat. Jordan led Remo into a book-lined den.
"All right. What's your name? What are you here for? What's your employer's name? I told you, you didn't do yourself any good by interrupting my supper. I want his name and phone number."
"His name's Smith, but don't worry about making any phone calls. That's not why I'm here. You see, you've just connected with a massive shipment, and it's so big I was sent to dispose of it." Remo muttered under his breath, "No one bothered to think that I can't be two places at one time or there are so many hours in the day. No, just go to Jordan's house, find out where it is, then do the normal thirty-five hours work in one night. And we're supposed to be efficient."
"I beg your pardon," said Jordan.
"C'mon. I don't have all night," said Remo.
"That's right," said Jordan. "That's very right. You don't have all night at all. Now why don't you do yourself a very big favor and leave."
"I take it that's one of your subtle threats." Jordan shrugged his shoulders. He estimated that he could crack this man in two if he had to, but why should he have to. He merely had to phone the police and have the man arrested for trespassing. Then when the man was released in his own recognizance, he would prove that the courts were too lenient by just disappearing. Perhaps in Lake Michigan.
Jordan's self assurance was somewhat shaken by a searing, biting pain in his right shoulder. It felt like a hot iron. His mouth opened to scream but there was no sound. Just the pain and his visitor's forefinger and thumb where the pain was. Jordan could neither move nor speak.
He sat at his desk, like a frog that had just had its stomach rubbed, helpless.
"All right," said the visitor. "This is pain."
The shoulder felt as if hot needles pricked the socket But the visitor's fingers hardly moved.
"This is an absence of pain."
Jordan felt a relief so blessed he almost cried.
"You can have an absence of pain, or this."
The hot needles again.
"This goes when I find out where the heroin shipment is."
Jordan tried to speak but he had no voice.
"I don't hear you."
Jordan tried to yell but he couldn't.
"You've got to speak up."
Didn't this man realize that he couldn't speak? He was a crazy and the shoulder felt as if it were coming out of the socket and Jordan would say anything, tell anything, if only his voice would cooperate. He felt the pain shift to his chest and suddenly his vocal cords were free but he could hardly breathe.
Hoarsely he mentioned a "protected" house downtown. But the crazy visitor wouldn't believe him, just kept saying that it wasn't true.
"My god, I swear it's true. Fifty-five kilos. I swear it. My god, please believe me, it's true. Please. The heroin's behind a wooden panel that secures the front door. Believe me."
"I do," said the visitor. And then the pain was magnificiently, gloriously, joyously gone and a sudden night descended on Angelo Giordano, alias Arnold Jordan, who encountered the ultimate marketing difficulty that can result from merchandising heroin.
Remo put the body in a lounging chair, closed Jordan's eyes, and left the room, jamming the lock to give himself twenty to thirty minutes. He expressed regrets to the Jordan family that he could not stay for dessert, and told Mrs. Jordan her husband was busy working on a decomposition and should not be disturbed.
"Composition, you mean," said Mrs. Jordan.
Remo did not have time to explain. Once again, Smitty had overloaded a work night, probably because of those computers. Remo had no faith in computers. He had faith in only one thing now and that was a person: an elderly wisp of an Oriental who could so often make Remo's life unpleasant. It was strange to have lost his faith in almost everything else in the last decade, but that might be because, as Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, had told him, his very essence was changing. Dr. Smith, on the other hand, had ascribed the change to a massive transformation of the nervous system not yet understood in the west
Whatever it was, he could not get himself to the inner city of Detroit and back out to the airport in less than an hour. He would have to risk missing the fifty-five kilos or risk missing the fourth IDC man that Smith had instructed him to eliminate. Remo noticed there was an absence of pay phones in Grosse Pointe. He had to walk three miles before he found a cab, and it was another twelve minutes before they reached a phone booth.
A line was to have been kept open for him all evening. It would be an insecure line, but what it lacked in privacy it made up for in availability. No one could secure a random pay phone.
The booth smelled more like a urinal than a phone booth. Remo dialed the 800 area code number. That meant that a dime from anywhere could reach it. It rang four times. Remo hung up and dialed again. With the phone system working the way it was, it was possible to get a wrong number. He dialed again. Again it rang and Remo counted to five rings.
He hung up and dialed "O."
"Operator, there's some trouble with the lines. I must be getting a wrong number. It just rings."
Remo gave her the number with the 800 area code.
"It's ringing, sir," said the operator.
"It's got to be answered," Remo said.
"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like me to try it again?"
"Yes, thank you."
Again the number rang and no one answered.
"It's ringing, sir."
"I fucking hear you," said Remo. He threw the receiver across the street and the metal-wrapped line popped like a dried-out rubber band.
The cab driver waiting at the curb saw this and said that he had suddenly gotten an emergency phone call. Since he had to leave so abruptly there would be no charge.
Remo wouldn't hear of it. He gave the driver the address of the house which probably still had the fifty-five kilos. The heroin could fly at the first warning and once it was broken down into nickel packs, it could never be destroyed. Remo would just have to hope that the IDC programmer would wait. Besides, Dr. Smith must be miscalculating if Remo had to make so many hits in the IDC thing, whatever it was. A well-thought-out operation should have only one elimination in it, two at the most.
Remo got into the cab, but the driver stood by the door.
"That house you're talking about, buddy, is in a black neighborhood."
"That's nice," said Remo.
Remo's mind wandered. Was it possible that the phone had rung in Smith's office in Folcroft and no one was there to answer it? No. If Dr. Harold Smith said he would be at a certain place at a certain time, Dr. Harold Smith was at that place at that time with disgusting regularity.
Maybe Smitty had had a heart attack and died? Probably not. Remo hadn't had any good luck all evening. Why start now? The cab still wasn't moving. The driver stood by the door.
"C'mon, c'mon," said Remo.
"I ain't driving to a black neighborhood at this hour of night."
"I see your point," Remo said. "But I've got to get there and you're the only way."
"No way, mister."
Remo felt in his pocket for some bills. He took out five of them. Three were tens and two were twenties.
"What good's money to a corpse?" asked the driver.
Remo did a very funny thing with the bulletproof shield which was supposed to separate driver from passenger. Applying pressure to the weak bolt points, he snapped it off. This impressed the driver, who suddenly thought a person should be driven anywhere if he had the fare. Remo insisted the driver take the money and even some extra for the shield. The driver noted how glad he was that his passenger tended to vent most of his hostility on property, not people.