Dead was dead.
They couldn’t gas him twenty times, so what the hell?
The problem wasn’t Tom, though. He was history, and while Devona had no reason to believe the men who anted up to have him taken care of were alive today, much less concerned about a decades-old funeral, you never really knew. Those wise guys had long memories, some of them, handed down through Families like every scrap of information was a frigging heirloom. If they found out she was talking, even after all this time…
A sudden chill raised goosebumps on her arms and made her tremble, standing at the window, staring out into the empty street.
It was the Feds, for Christ’s sake, but she knew how those things worked. There were all kinds of leaks these days. She couldn’t turn the TV on without some story jumping out at her about an agent from the FBI or CIA who got arrested spying for the Russians, the Chinese, the syndicate.
Trust no one, and you won’t get burned.
It had been stupid, talking to the G-man, but she damn sure didn’t want to go the other route, with public hearings and the press involved. This way, at least she bought some time and gave herself a running start.
Provided that she started running soon.
Right now, for instance.
There was Sheila in Kentucky, just a cousin, but they kept in touch and got along all right. Devona could stop off down there, a few days, while she thought about her next move, got things straight inside her head.
She needed time to think, and something told her time was running out.
The house was paid for, ditto on the furniture, and she could take a while to sell it off if that was necessary. Or if things were still cool in six months or so, she might come back, pretend that nothing ever happened. Settle down again and let the good times roll.
Not many good times rolling in the golden years, though, when she thought about it. Teeth gone, thinning hair, arthritis coming on. Why run and stretch it out? she asked herself.
Because I don’t know how to quit.
It wouldn’t take her long to pack a suitcase, and the banks were open. She would leave enough in the account to make it seem like she was coming back, in case somebody thought to check. And later, if she needed what was left, the cash could be retrieved by wire. It wasn’t like the old days, when you had to do it all yourself, right on the spot.
Some things were better now, she realized.
But death was still a stone-cold drag. With a last glance out the window, she retreated toward her bedroom, anxious to be out of there and on the open road.
Chapter 5
Another westbound flight, departing from O’Hare at half-past seven in the evening, bound for Reno. They could just as easily have flown direct to Carson City, but the choice had been a conscious one on Remo’s part. Nevada’s capital was small enough that new arrivals could be watched with ease, and he was not entirely sure Devona Price, would keep. her mouth shut. If she reached out to someone from her past and blew the whistle, Remo stood a better chance of slipping through the net in Reno, with its larger airport, larger crowds. And if the enemy was. looking for a G-man, he would have another edge.
For once, the presence of Chiun would qualify as cover.
How many federal agents traveled with an old Korean dressed in native garb?
Reno’s Cannon International Airport is named for a man, not a weapon. Howard Cannon was once a big gun in the U.S. Senate, though, scrutinized for his connections to casinos and the Teamsters, once a central figure—unindicted—in the trial that sent a union president to federal prison for attempted bribery. His was the kind of reputation that sits well with voters in Nevada, proud defiance in the face of condemnation from outside.
Remo had another rental car on hold, a Mazda Protege LX from Hertz. He also had a room booked at a “family” hotel downtown, a block from City Hall. The “family” part of it included clowns who hung around in the casino, goosing cocktail waitresses, together with a claustrophobic video arcade where loving parents could deposit Little Johnny with a roll of quarters while they slipped away to drink and lose their hard-earned money. Life was good.
The desk clerk barely noticed Chiun as they were checking in, and no one in the hotel lobby paid him any mind. The elevators were strategically positioned so that new arrivals had to walk through the casino, passing banks of slot machines, crap tables and roulette wheels if they planned to go upstairs and find their rooms. Chiun might have been invisible, for the attention he attracted in that setting. Everyone around them was distracted, mesmerized, by the pursuit of easy cash.
We ought to work Nevada more, thought Remo as they reached the elevators, riding, up to nine. Those suckers wouldn’t notice if I took somebody out right there, in the casino.
It was true. Some years ago, in one of the Nevada “carpet joints,” it was reported that a gambler had collapsed and died while betting on a crap game. Heart attack. The guy was dead before he hit the floor—and just as well, because his fellow players left him where he fell, and went on with their game. Some of them literally stepped across his prostrate body, moving in to place their bets.
Chiun crinkled his nose disdainfully on entering their room. “A lavatory stall would be larger than this,” the Master of Sinanju complained.
“They’re calling it a suite.”
“One bedroom with a tiny bath is a hostel, not a suite,” the Master of Sinanju said. “You should refuse to pay.”
“I think that curtain is supposed to close an alcove off, for privacy.”
“Curtains are made for windows and showers,” said Chiun. “And look. There are marks from burned tobacco products on this filthy plastic furniture.”
“That’s fiberboard,” said Remo. “I think.”
“Fake is fake.”
“They’ve got TV.”
Chiun switched it on. “Poor color,” he declared, and started channel surfing with the small remote control. A Jackie Chan movie caught his eye, the hero throwing high kicks at a gang of greasy-looking hooligans.
“Impostor!” Chiun accused the screen, and kept on searching for a program he could stomach.
“Try not to break the set while I’m gone,” said Remo.
“I make no promises,” replied Chiun. He had found yet another psychic-hotline infomercial.
As Remo headed out the door, the Master of Sinanju called to him. “If you find one of Smith’s walking dead men, do not bring him back here. It is enough that my delicate nose should have to sniff you in such close quarters. With two of you, I fear my nostrils would drop off.”.
“Har-de-har-har,” Remo said as he closed the door.
A phone call from Chicago had confirmed that the morticians known as Cristobal and Son were still in business, planting stiffs from Carson City and surrounding, smaller towns. Remo had the address when they left O’Hare, confirmed it from another telephone directory upon arrival, plus the home address and number for a Yuli Cristobal—in fact, the only Cristobal in town whose name was listed in the book.
It was a toss-up: make a house call or sit tight until tomorrow rolled around and catch the guy at work. Remo was curious enough to push it, and the house call won. He aimed the Mazda south along Virginia Street toward Carson City, twenty miles away in Ormsby County.
If Las Vegas is a painted whore, then Reno is her older, smaller sister. Once upon a time, it was the largest city in the Silver State, a few miles from Lake Tahoe and the California border, boasting trees and elevations where the heat was bearable in summertime. Nevada means “snow clad” in Spanish, but you’d never know it from the sunbaked desert that comprises eighty-five percent of the state.