So no more.
He looked again at McGurk, who said, "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to finish me?"
"Not now. Why'd you come after me? I paid up. I didn't get in your way."
"The girl."
"Janet O'Toole?"
"Yeah."
"You mean you got three cops killed because somebody got into her pants?"
"Not just somebody. A mob punk."
"McGurk, you're a bastard," Remo said.
"The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady, Bednick. We're both in the same racket. We just go different ways."
And then, because it seemed like a good way not to have to kill McGurk, Remo said, "And what if we could both go the same way?"
McGurk paused; he was thinking; then he said carefully, "Like to have you aboard. You've got some talent."
"It's how I make a living."
"I thought you were a gambler," McGurk said.
"No. I'm a hit man. And I pay well just so that I don't get hassled by the bulls every time somebody loses a hubcap."
"Whatever you get, come with us and I'll double it," McGurk said.
"How?" Remo asked. "By selling tickets to the policemen's ball?"
"Don't worry about that, Bednick. We can afford you. We've been planning to get a pro in anyway."
McGurk, a moment ago, had been thinking.
Now, Remo noticed, he was talking rapidly, forcefully. He had something in mind.
"We? Who's we?"
McGurk grinned. "Me and my associates."
"Well, you'd better tell me about your associates," Remo said.
And there, behind a bush in Remo's front yard, McGurk told him. About the forty cops around the country who now served as a killer squad, to mete out justice to those for whom the law's justice had been ineffective. And he told him about the Men of the Shield, a national organization of policemen, that was going to fight crime and that could someday be the nation's most powerful lobby.
"Just think of it… nationwide power at the ballot… somebody who could work for law and order for real," he said. A grin cracked his face. "If you come with us now, Bednick, you'll be safe. If you don't, the Men of the Shield will get you. Sooner or later."
"You the boss?" Remo asked.
"As far as you're concerned." He stood looking at Remo, meeting his eyes straight on. Remo's turn to think. Unless he wanted to kill McGurk, he'd have to go along. And he didn't want to kill any more cops. And how could Smith complain if he infiltrated the organization? Isn't that what he was supposed to do?
"You got a deal, McGurk," Remo said. "But one thing."
"Which is?"
"The girl is mine. You never had a chance with her anyway. You listened to what those long skirts told you, and didn't pay any attention to what those tight blouses said. She's mine."
McGurk shrugged. "She's yours."
He picked up his revolver and slid it back into his holster. Later, leaving the yard, he was glad he had decided not to shoot the punk with the small .25-caliber pistol he had also stashed in his pocket.
McGurk had a better plan now for Remo-one that would solve his problems with the leadership of the Men of the Shield and with Janet O'Toole. He would learn no more about the Men of the Shield than would be necessary for him to die.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The policeman lunged, waving the knife before him. Remo stepped aside and brought the heel of his hand, down on the wrist to which the knife was attached. The knife fell onto the wooden platform with a clank.
Remo moved in and grabbed the policeman's hand in his. He pressed the man's fingers into his hand and the man screeched and dropped to his knees in submission.
Remo released him and turned and looked away to the three other policemen sitting on the edge of the stage. He opened his own hand and extended it forward for the men to see. In his palm was a six-inch-long piece of highly polished wood, shaped roughly like a dog bone.
"This is it," Remo said. "The yawara stick. The quickest way I know to cause pain."
"Why that?" The question came from one of the policemen sitting on the stage. He stood up and repeated it. "Why that? Why not a toe in the balls or a fist in the kidneys? There are a lot of ways to cause pain."
"That's right," Remo said. "There are a lot of ways and most of them stink. If you hit the guy too square in the cubes, they'll have to cart him off in an ambulance. Pound his kidney too hard, and he'll be riding a hearse. That's assuming you don't just miss and he doesn't smack the crap out of you. But in close, the yawara stick can't miss. You just grab his hand, squeeze the ball of his thumb up against one of these knobs, and that's it. That's because the nerves of the hands are so sensitive to pain. Pain, but no injury. That's why."
The policeman who was standing shrugged. He was a tall raw-boned cop from St. Louis with flaming red hair and a jutting jaw and an absolute absence of humour. He shrugged as if to say "chickenshit bullshit," and then said, "Chickenshit bullshit. It worked 'cause you had him."
"Look, pal. Why don't you just take it on faith? I'm your training officer. That's why McGurk has me here."
"Training officer or no training officer. You keep your funny little piece of wood. I'll settle for a right cross anytime."
"All right," Remo said, walking up close to the man. "Let's see the right cross."
Without warning, the policeman swung, a short hard right hand at Remo's nose. The fist would have gone through wood, but it had no chance to prove it. Remo grabbed the fist in the air with his left hand. He brought his right hand over and pressed one of the bumps on the yawara stick down upon the back of the policeman's hand. His fingers opened wide and Remo pressed the stick against the base of the thumb, and the cop screeched with pain.
"Enough, enough," he yelled.
Remo kept pressing. "You a believer now?"
"Yes. I'm a believer."
"Oh no, not just a believer. Are you a true believer?"
"I is the truest believer."
"All right," Remo said, releasing his hand after one final squeeze. "Now cut out the 'chickenshit bullshit' and try to learn something."
So it went for the better part of the day, Remo-now McGurk's training officer-teaching the four policemen to defend themselves, to use force, to learn how to use that force to get information. He had been instructed by McGurk not to get into killing; these men were going to be investigators for the Men of the Shield when it "went public." They just had to be toughened.
It was boring work, lessons that Remo had mastered years ago in those first sessions with Chiun at Folcroft. Remo wondered why police departments spent all those federal funds buying tanks and foam sprayers and water cannons, none of which they ever used, instead of hiring somebody to teach their policemen to be effective. Maybe he and Chiun could incorporate. Go to work for the general public. Assassins Inc. Put an ad in the Village Voice. Defend yourself. Hassle a pig. They'd be rich. Chiun would be ecstatic. Think of all the money he could send back to Sinanju.
No, on the other hand, there was probably some reason why he couldn't do it. Some five-hundred year-old proverb would make it impossible for Chiun to advertise in The Voice or to work for anyone except a government. Official assassins cannot work unofficially. That's that.
Another good idea shot to hell.
The training session lasted from 9:00 a.m. until noon. Occasionally, Remo saw McGurk stick his head out of the office in the rear of the big gym and watch Remo perform on the stage that had been erected in front of the firing dummy. McGurk would just watch, saying nothing, occasionally nodding in satisfaction, before pulling his head back inside.