"Let's just say we owe the city of Detroit one phone booth."
When the phone rang, Remo raced for it, just to terminate Chiun's questioning.
"Excuse me, Mr. Randisi," the desk clerk said, using the name Remo had registered under.
"Mr. who? Oh, yeah. What is it?"
"There's a policeman here to see you."
"Now?" Remo looked around the corpse-strewn room. "Tell him we're not in."
"I'm afraid he's already on his way up, sir."
"Terrific." Remo sighed. "That's just peachy. His name's Palmer, I suppose."
"Why, yes, sir. He said—"
Remo hung up and ran immediately to the bodies lying sprawled around the room, propping them up on chairs and daubing at the crusted blood on their faces with wet tissues.
"Come on, Chiun. You've got to help make these guys look like they're alive."
"The Master of Sinanju does not perform laborers' tasks," Chiun said.
"But geez, it's the cops," Remo said, dashing frantically to stop one of the bodies as it fell forward off a chair. "They'll pull us in for murder, for Pete's sake. Smitty'll have a hemorrhage."
"I am an assassin," Chiun said loftily. "I do not bring the dead back to life. That is the work of a magician. If Emperor Smith wished evil persons to remain alive, he would not have hired—"
"Grab him, will you?" Remo pointed to the body, which was slowly lolling forward. Chiun flung out his left arm. There was the crunch of neckbones as the body jolted back into an upright position.
Detective Palmer pounded on the door.
"Hold it a second," Remo yelled irritably while pressing together the skin on another dead man's forehead to cover a hole made by Chiun's index finger.
Softly Chiun spoke. "You had better answer the door."
"I will, already."
"You had better answer it now." Chiun was staring at the door, Remo followed the old man's gaze. The door was falling forward.
"The hinges came off during my altercation with these persons," the old Oriental said. "For aesthetic purposes, I reattached them to the wall."
Indeed, the hinges were embedded beautifully in the plaster. The only trouble was that they weren't attached to anything.
Remo rushed for the door, stopped it before it slammed to the floor, and righted it. Then, using a lot of muscle, he creaked it open a hair as if he were opening it normally.
"Nice," Palmer said.
Remo shook his head. "I've been calling the hotel maintenance department for hours."
Palmer tried to peek through the narrow opening. "Mind if I come in?"
"Yes," Remo said emphatically. "That is, we were asleep. We're not dressed for entertaining."
"I just counted six guys in there."
"Well…" Remo thought for a moment. "They're asleep too."
The detective gave Remo a disgusted look. "Oh, I get it. A pajama party."
"Ummm…"
Chiun's wrinkled face peered out beneath Remo's elbow. "Silence, please," he hissed. "I am conducting a séance. My associates are in deep trance." The face ducked and vanished.
Palmer folded his arms over his chest. "Okay," he said. "What the hell's going on here?"
"Shhh," Remo whispered. "You heard him. The trancees can't be disturbed."
Palmer tried again to look past Remo, but Remo blocked his vision. Palmer feinted left, then right, then jumped. Each time, Remo matched the move.
"If I had a suspicious nature, I'd say you didn't want me to see what's in there," Palmer said.
"The confidentiality of the trancee-medium relationship must be honored," Remo said weightily.
"Is that so?" Suddenly Palmer dropped to his stomach. Remo did the same. Then Palmer raised his head. "Aha!" he shouted before Remo could block his line of sight again.
At the sound, a troublesome body fell forward, crashing headfirst into the coffee table.
Palmer stood up, dusting himself off. "Those guys in there don't look too healthy," he said, giving Remo the once-over with his eyes.
"Hey. We don't ask for a certificate of health, okay? So what are you here about, anyway?"
Palmer pursed his lips, as if deciding whether or not to arrest Remo on the spot. Then his mouth relaxed, and his face formed into its normal ferocious scowl. "Ah, what the hell," he said. "It's been a lousy enough day. We came by to tell you about your car."
"Car?"
"The rental. It blew up, remember?"
"Oh, yeah." The car had been the last thing on Remo's mind. "What was wrong with it?"
"What do I look like, a mechanic?" Palmer said crankily. "It had an extra part. A bomb."
Out of the corner of his eye, Remo saw another body keeling over.
"Uh… that's fine."
"Palmer's face reddened. "Oh, it's fine, is it?"
"No. I mean, it's not fine," Remo stammered. "It's terrible. What's the world coming to? A damn shame, that's what it is…."
Palmer checked his watch with a sigh. "Five o'clock, and I need this? Come on, Madame Zelda. You and your friend are going to the station." He reached an arm through the opening of the door.
Remo touched two fingers to Palmer's wrist and paralyzed it.
"Wha—"
Remo tapped the detective's throat. No further sound came out.
"Listen," Remo said. "I know this looks suspicious, but we can't explain anything except that we're on your side. You can believe us or not, but you can't take us in. Physically can't."
As the detective gaped at Remo in mute surprise, his arm stiffly outstretched, Remo said, "But I'll tell you what we know. One, somebody killed the lawyer named Weems. You probably already knew that, and you've probably guessed that it's got something to do with the Billy Martin murder. Two, we think Billy was part of a drug ring that uses kids as street pushers. The top guys in the ring aren't kids, though, and we're trying to find out who they are. But we're not going to find out anything if cops are always hanging around us, so we'd appreciate it if you'd get lost for a while."
Then he touched Palmer's throat to release the paralyzed muscles.
"Why, you—" the detective began. Remo tapped the muscles again, and Palmer fell into an angry silence.
"I guess you don't believe the part about not being able to arrest us," Remo said. Palmer narrowed his eyes. Remo reached out and manipulated a spot on the detective's collarbone that caused Palmer's eyes to widen in pain.
"Do you believe me now?"
Palmer nodded.
Remo released the man's collarbone and then his arm. "I'm sorry I had to do that," he said.
Palmer nodded again, then pointed to his mouth.
"But do you really believe?" Remo said, trying to imitate Peter Pan.
The detective rolled his eyes. Remo touched his throat.
"Ah. Ah," Palmer said, holding his hand to his throat experimentally. "How'd you do that?"
"It's not easy to explain," Remo said. He told Palmer about the drug arrest figures and the elusive connection between the cities of New York, New Orleans, Los Angeles, and Detroit.
Palmer mulled over the information in silence for a few moments. "Who do you work for?" he asked finally.
Remo shook his head. "Sorry."
"Government?"
"Can't say."
"It's government," Palmer said with finality. "No hit man can do the kind of thing you just did." He turned to leave, then turned back. "Just do me a favor, okay?"
"Shoot."
"Let me in on your discoveries next time. Just so some innocent rookie don't decide to arrest you and end up in the funny farm."
"Will do," Remo said.
"And another thing. You better use a different name the next time you rent a car. That bomb was for you. Somebody's got you pegged."
"That's okay. We can take care of ourselves."
"Somehow," Palmer said, rubbing his throat, "that doesn't surprise me."
CHAPTER TEN
The following morning Remo put a call in to Smith from the hotel room and filled him in on the attempts on both his and Chiun's lives.