He could see that his viewpoint didn't disappoint her. It might even have excited her because she moved closer to Remo on the sofa.
"Do you think this man Wimpler will try to kill my brother?"
"Yes."
"Why? Who would he work for? What has he to gain?"
"You're right there. He doesn't have a contract. He didn't get one from us and he didn't get one from you. The other advertisement was a phony. But the fact is that your brother is a wanted man and the price on his head is very high. It won't be hard for a man, especially an invisible man, to make contact with somebody who'll pay him a lot of money to kill your brother."
She nodded. "I don't know why," she said, "but I have a feeling that he would do it even if there were no money involved."
Remo agreed. "We're talking about a man who was a pussycat all his life. Now he's got power, and last night Chiun and I challenged that power. I
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don't think he can ignore the Emir. Otherwise it tears down all he's tried to do with himself. I don't think he can resist the challenge."
"And you?"
"What about me?" he asked.
She touched his arm, then his cheek and finally his lips. Her fingers were cool and smooth as they traced the outline of his mouth.
"Can you resist a challenge?"
"Only when I want to, Princess," said Remo.
And this time he didn't want to.
It was almost midnight when Remo left Princess Sarra's penthouse apartment and her bed.
As he rode down in the elevator, he felt oddly satisfied with himself and began to analyze the feeling. For a long time, he had been able to satisfy any woman. He was like a machine, not getting personally involved, just doing a job. All the result of 27 steps taught to him by Chiun.
Usually, Remo went down those steps with clinical detachment, stopping at whatever step was the most the woman could stand. The best was usually around step 13.
All neat and precise and mechanical. And boring.
While technique flowered, desire had shriveled to nothing.
But not this time.
It was not just Sarra who had enjoyed their marathon, he had, too. It had nothing to do with love either. Love was an emotion of weakness, an emotion he tried to restrict in himself, for he could af-
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ford no weaknesses. Falling in love would make him vulnerable, and a vulnerable man in this business was a dead man.
This had just been sheer rollicking physical joy. If he had been able to tell Chiun about it, Chiun would have thought it disgusting because it was sex without procreation as a goal. But there had been nothing disgusting about it. It had just been a celebration of life by two people who appreciated life. It had been happy. There was no other word for it.
Preoccupied by these thoughts, Remo strolled out of Sarra's building at precisely midnight.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Slits Wilson liked midnight in Manhattan. It was the time he usually did his best work.
He had earned his nickname with a knife, cutting slits in other people's bellies, and he was proud of it. He also earned his living with that knife and didn't live too badly, when he wasn't vacationing as a guest of the state.
But this was a chance to end those trips to jail forever. It was his big score, and if it came off all right, he would have enough money to set himself up with a couple of women. A couple of foxes working the street for him could really start pulling in the green. Then he could branch out. A little numbers business. Eventually, a little high class drug dealing.
But first this job. The dude wanted some other dude taken out, and there were five big ones in it for Slits. The dude told Slits to make sure he had enough help. Now, how many brothers would it take to ice one honkey?
But the man was paying and the man insisted, so Slits got hold of three others, and now they were waiting across from the big apartment house for one white dude to come marching out into their arms.
Willie the Whip was Slits' main backup man. He was the first one Slits thought of bringing in on this job. Willie wasn't bad with a knife, either, although
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The carefully contrived plan, the high point of
Slits thought his slambang technique lacked style.
Willie was Slits' age, 26, but where Slits was short m. „,., ,-.,,* TVr , , a
.„. „, , „,.„. . „ , , ., . Shts Wilson s mtellectual hfe, had one flaw.
and stocky, Willie was tall and reed-thin. T , „ , „ .r, . , , c, .,., . ,
Ur;il- ¿oj , . , ,. , ., . , „ ., It handled Remo if he turned left or if he turned
Willie had volunteered his brother-m-law, Tailor
Taylor. He got his nickname because when he wasn't mugging old ladies, he worked in a dry-cleaning store. Slits hoped that he wouldn't screw things up.
Number four man in the quartet was Big Louie. Louie was five-feet-nothing when he stretched, but he was the meanest, baddest thing Slits knew. Except for himself.
"You jus' do what I tell you, hear?" Slits instructed. "This just one guy, but the man say he a
bad ass, so we gonna be careful."
"Gotcha."
"Raht."
"Cool."
"Now he gonna come out that door. Me and Wil-
it " lie be on up here, Louie and Tailor be down there. If
he come this way, you come in behind him. If he go your way, me'n Willie be behind him. Dig?"
"Gotcha."
"Raht."
"Cool."
"Now I cuts him first, see, 'cause it be my job. Then he be yours. Make sure we gets his wallet so it look like he was took off. And then when we done, you gets a hundred each. Dig?"
"Gotcha."
"Raht."
"Take yo' positions," Slits said.
* * *
right. But Remo came out of the apartment building and without pausing, walked directly across the street, leaving behind him four very confused young
men.
As their leader, Slits knew he had to improvise, if this whole deal wasn't going to get out of hand.
He went running across the street toward Remo.
"Hey, hey. Stop. Hey, hey," he called.
Remo stopped and looked at him. He saw three other young men fall in and start crossing behind
"What do you want?" Remo asked.
"Got a match?" Slits said, thinking quickly.
"Where's your cigarette?" Remo asked.
Still thinking quickly, Slits said "I musta dropped
"Then you don't need a match."
"Dammit, honkey, I needs a light," Slits said. He was not about to be dissuaded from a good plan just because of some uncooperative honkey.
"Rub your head on the sidewalk," Remo said. "That should give off a spark."
Slits saw the other three coming up on them now so he whipped out his knife.
"I gonna cut you," he said.
The dude didn't even look scared. "Why don't you talk right?" he said. Then the dude's hand
"Cool " moved faster than he could follow and his blade was
gone.
"Shit, mah blade. Willie!" he called.
Willie jumped forward, nervously waving the
12012!
blade in his hand. Suddenly, he felt something hit I as if it were floating in a haze. The honkey was say-his hand and the blade cut a narrow furrow in Slits' ing something, asking him a question.
cheek.
"Sheeeit," Slits yelled, grabbing his face. "You cut me, you turkey."
"It weren't my fault, Slits. Honest."
"Shut up and cut him!" Slits yelled. "You too!" he yelled toward Tailor and Louie.
Slits watched what happened next with wide eyes, not really believing it.
Tailor made a stabbing motion at the honkey and suddenly the honkey wasn't there. Tailor and his blade kept going until the blade buried itself to the hilt in Willie's stomach. Willie's scream cut through the silent midnight in Manhattan like an icepick piercing soft bread. While Tailor stared in horror at Willie's body slipping to the ground, Slits saw the honkey pick Tailor up and toss him head first through the windshield of a parked car.