The man averted his eyes and said hastily, "Me— I don't know nothing either. Uh, none of us does. If Al Martin was flashing a lot of money, we don't know nothing about it."
"And nobody else came into a lot of money?"
"I guess not."
"Why was Martin nervous the past few months?"
Lou shrugged and said, "Maybe he was worried about that crazy kid of his. Maybe he knew the kid was planning to murder him. Who knows?"
"Yeah," Remo said, "Who knows?"
Remo looked around the lounge, where three men were still on the floor and Lou was leaning on the coffee machine.
"You guys better clean up," he said. "Your break must be just about over."
On the way out he had to pass Lou and the coffee machine, so he asked one more question. "Where do you think Al Martin could have gotten a lot of money?"
"Jesus, mister," the guy said, "maybe he made some overtime, or maybe the company gave him some extra pay because nobody died in one of the cars he worked on. You know, incentive pay?"
"Incentive pay," Remo said. "Maybe you can get the company to give you some incentive pay, Lou. You know, to buy a new flask with."
He turned to the other men in the room, said, "Gee, thanks for all your help, guys," and left.
CHAPTER SIX
Remo left the National Motors plant, touching the pretty receptionist in a way she wouldn't soon forget as he returned his badge. Then he grabbed a cab and instructed the driver to keep his meter running and wait for orders.
"Jessir," the Puerto Rican cabbie said, happily switching the meter on.
It wasn't long until the end of the shift. Remo kept his eye out for his old friend Lou. Pretty soon he saw Lou behind the wheel of an expensive-looking sports car, and knew that he'd made the right decision.
"Follow that car," he told the cabbie.
"The jazzy red one?"
"That's the one."
"Jou got eet," the cabbie said, and roared away from the curb.
"Don't lose him, but don't let him know we're here, either," Remo said.
"Don' jou worry."
In about twenty minutes Remo found himself in a neighborhood reminiscent of the one the Martin family had lived in. He watched as Lou pulled his car into the driveway of a neat little house, and then told the cabbie to pull over and wait.
"Jou not gonna keel him, are jou?" he asked Remo.
"No, I'm not going to kill him. Why?"
"If you keel him, it's double the meter."
A law-abiding citizen, Remo thought, "I won't be long," he said.
"Take your time."
Remo approached the house that Lou had gone into and walked to the side, searching for a window to look through. He found himself on a huge patio that had obviously cost a small fortune to build, and peered into the house through a large picture window.
He watched as Lou kissed his wife hello and asked her what was for dinner, and then he saw a kid about fifteen years old come into the room and immediately get into an argument with his old man. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out that Lou was in exactly the same situation that Allan Martin had been in, and he wondered if good old Lou was afraid of ending up the same way.
Making his way back to the cab, Remo knew that his logical next move was to find out where Lou had been getting his money, but he had to do it without arousing any more suspicion about himself.
That meant Smitty.
Remembering a pay phone on the corner next to a small deli, Remo waved the cabbie to keep waiting and walked down the block to the phone. From there he could still see the house while he talked to Smith.
Remo dialed the digits for Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, and then waited to be put through to Smith.
"It's Remo," he said when Smith came on the line.
"I hope you haven't run into a problem," the lemony voice answered.
"You know us, Smitty," Remo said. "Problems we handle by ourselves. I called to ask you a favor."
"What is it?"
"I need somebody checked out. You'll have to get his name from his license plate number."
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know where he's getting his money." Briefly, he told Smith what they had found inside the Martin house, then said that he felt that the man named Lou was in the same situation.
"He's showing more money than he should, and I want to know where it's coming from. Feed it into those computers of yours and see what they come up with."
"I'll take care of it."
"Good. I'll get back to you for the answer. There's another thing."
"What?"
Remo told Smith about the cars that were being shipped to New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles by National Motors.
"Those towns ring a bell with you?"
"They certainly do. I'll run the information through the computers and see what they come up with."
"Yeah, thanks. Stay tuned for further details."
Before Smith could answer, Remo hung up.
Lou's kid was leaving the house.
Harold W. Smith addressed himself to the Folcroft computers, feeding in the cities of New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles and the information Remo had given him. He programmed the machine to report on any common bond that existed between the three major cities. It took only a few moments for the mechanical marvels to come up with an answer, and the response puzzled him.
Why should drug arrests and drug activities be down in all three cities? He double-checked the information he had fed into the machines but the computers still came back with the same answer. Drug arrests in all three cities were down, and down dramatically over recent years.
Smith took off his jacket, seated himself in front of the terminal, and set about trying to learn the connection.
When Remo reached his cab, he woke the driver and said, "Follow that car."
"The red one again?"
"Wait."
They watched as the kid got into the car and pulled out of the driveway.
"That's the one," Remo said. "Hit it."
They followed the kid for about fifteen minutes before the cabbie said, "Uh-oh."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't like where this cabrone is heading," the cabbie said. "Bad news, bro."
" Where's he heading?"
"I think he's heading for the ghetto. No fun there, boss."
"Just keep following, buddy. You're getting rich off me; that ought to be worth a risk or two."
"Triple the meter," the cabbie said, stepping on the gas.
After ten more minutes, Remo didn't need the cabbie to tell him where they were. White faces were at a premium on the streets they were now driving through, and the cabbie was becoming increasingly nervous.
Abruptly, the kid pulled his car over to the curb and stopped.
"This guy is loco en la cabeza if he leaves that car there, boss."
"Just pull over, friend."
The cabbie pulled over to the curb a few car lengths behind the kid, who was getting out of his car.
"I don't think I'll be needing you anymore," Remo said, sliding over to the curbside. He gave the cabbie a hundred-dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said.
"Jou loco too, boss, if jou gonna walk around here."
"I'll take my chances. Adios."
"Vaya con dios," the driver said, and peeled out.
Remo started trailing the kid through the streets, while the denizens of that area gave them both hard looks. The boy didn't seem to notice at all, and Remo just ignored them..
When the boy finally turned down an alley, Remo figured that the kid had reached his destination. Now maybe he'd turn up something he and Chiun could go on.
But when Remo turned to enter the alley, he stopped short because the kid he was following was standing very close to another kid, this one black. They were obviously transacting some business, so he pressed back against the wall and watched.
The conversation got hot and heavy for a few moments, and then an exchange was made. The kid Remo was following handed over an envelope, and the black kid handed over money. It looked like just one thing: a drug deal.