Clayton figured it out over his salami sandwich at lunchtime and pretty soon he knew who was sponsoring the killers.
There had to be a lot of killers. Groups of them, working across the country, and then with a jolt Clayton made the connection between the killing spree and the murder, that very morning, of Mrs. George.
Soon more people would die in this city. Anybody whose salary came from the taxpayers and who had been accused of some sort of underhanded business was in deadly peril. The list was pretty damn long, and as soon as Clayton's expose ran on tonight's TV news and in tomorrow's paper, Representative Bruce Griffin would be on the list, too. Clayton would have helped murder him.
MAEBE. What the hell kind of name was that for a political party anyway? Sounded like a neighborhood watch committee or something. And yet, whoever pulled the strings over at MAEBE had to be the coldest, most heartless son of a bitch who ever ran for public office.
And that was saying something.
27
Perry Rhinebeck was following in the footsteps of the greatest press secretary of all time, Orville Flicker. It was an honor and a privilege, and he was going to pull it off perfectly. He felt cool as a cucumber as he worked the press and the crowd of supporters.
"As you know, we've only just created our national organizational structure in the past twenty-four hours, so things are a little chaotic," he said, giving a smile that made him look happily disheveled when in fact he was put together more neatly than a mannequin in a formal- wear display window. "But we're on a roll! We're now represented across the nation, with state leadership elected in all fifty states. Through this leadership we held our nominating elections for a presidential candidate in the last twenty-four hours. The results, I might add, were nearly unanimous."
The crowd was in the palm of his hand. He played them perfectly.
"We've moved fast," he said, moving away from the moment of tension. "We've moved tremendously fast. But the support we've received from across the nation tells us this is the right thing to do. We're taking the high ground. The people of this nation want leaders of uncompromised integrity and ethical fortitude. That is why we're seeing so much violence against the freeloaders and Mars and villains who run our towns, our states and our nation. The message is clear and the message is this—now is the time to cut out the diseased parasites and replace them with new, healthy, untainted flesh. It is the time for MAEBE."
"Maybe not!" shouted someone in the crowd.
Perry Rhinebeck smiled and waved at the man. The people watching the news conference at home couldn't see him being dragged out. "Of course, maybe not," Rhinebeck admitted. "It seems unbelievable that a political party could have come into existence on a national level in something like two days, but we did it. The people of America practically willed MAEBE into existence. If their will remains strong, MAEBE will be here for the long run."
And with that, Perry Rhinebeck finally announced the name of the presidential nominee.
In his office in Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith nodded to himself, very slightly, as he heard the name of the presidential nominee of MAEBE.
Mark Howard entered a moment later.
"Orville Flicker," Howard said.
"It makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" Smith asked.
"It does. It sure does."
In his office on the eighth floor, overlooking San Francisco, political editor Adam Clayton nodded.
"Orville fucking Flicker."
One of the secretaries entered a minute later and he was still nodding.
"Orville fucking Flicker!" he said to her.
"Exciting, isn't it?" she asked, clearly enthralled by it all.
"Exciting?" Clayton demanded. "You think stabbing old women is exciting? You think shooting a man four times in the heart is exciting? You think twisting a lamp cord around the neck of a young prostitute until her throat is crushed and her tongue turns black is exciting?"
The secretary left in a hurry.
"I didn't think so," Clayton grumbled, and he sucked on his flask. The bourbon was gone. Where had all that bourbon gone?
Didn't matter. He fished around in the file drawer of his desk and found a fresh bottle of bourbon and started making it be all gone, too.
Between swigs he said the name again like an awful profanity. "Orville Flicker. Orville Fucking Flicker."
"Who's Orville Flicker?" Remo asked.
Chiun looked at him, a mixture of disgust and pity.
"The little space alien from the final season of The
Flintstones wasn't named Orville Flicker, was he?" Remo asked.
"You are saying deliberately stupid things," Chiun accused.
"Just trying to meet your expectations." "You do not need to put in the extra effort. Just act natural."
28
"What's with the look?" Remo asked.
"I am watching out for more careless dumping of my precious trunks." Chiun had been eyeing him suspiciously since they picked up the luggage.
"I'll whistle if I feel the need to throw them around anymore," Remo said. "See that guy?"
"You are trying to distract me?"
"No, just making an observation. Look at that guy."
Chiun glanced to the left, then returned his gaze to the trunks balanced, perfectly, on Remo's shoulders. "He is just another white man in a monkey suit. What of him?"
"Business traveler. See how he manages to pack all his paperwork and probably a laptop and a few changes of clothes into that one bag? And then he carries it on and never has to wait for the luggage to arrive. Plus, he doesn't have to have an argument with the security people at every airport when he checks his luggage. Isn't that cool?"
"I do not see your point."
"My point is, if that guy can travel with just a carryon, why can't you?"
Chiun sniffed. "Are you not weary of trying to convince me of this?"
"Not as tired as I am of carrying your trunks."
"I am a Master of Sinanju. I cannot travel with a carryon."
"Hello? I'm one of those, you know. All I carry around with me is a change of clothes and an extra pair of shoes."
"You dress in underwear. If you were a woman, you would have spent the last twenty-odd years globetrotting in lingerie. This is not a style I wish to emulate. What are we doing in San Francisco?"
"You heard Smith. We're looking for the next MAEBE cell."
"I don't like this city," Chiun announced.
"You've only just started complaining, if I guess right."
Chiun's suspicious squint became flinty. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning our first stop is in Japantown."
"Ach!" Chiun waved at the air as if to ward off a disgusting stench. "Now you'll be telling me our next stop is in Chinatown."
"Lord, I hope not," Remo said. "For Chinatown's sake."
Remo parked the rental in a no-parking zone and Chiun's disgust mounted exponentially. Remo vaulted out of the car and slammed the door before the old Korean could express himself, circled around the complaining parking meter reader and entered the Japantown Lenny's. The always-open chain of family restaurants had hundreds of outlets that looked exactly the same, but the franchise in Japantown, San Francisco, was an original. Vast open ceiling with a hanging fabric and wood-frame artwork and a menu that included sashimi as well as the usual UltraMelt line of roasted sandwiches. The smell of unfresh fish mixed with the usual fried-cheese odor.
"Revolting," Chiun said, standing at Remo's elbow. "Incidentally, the young woman on the sidewalk has threatened to kick you in the behind."
"What?" Remo asked absently as he scanned the clientele.
"Give you the boot."
"Oh. Let her."
"Like I would try to stop anyone from putting a shoe in your huge, pale backside?"