"You'll love it. It'll spice up your life."
"I hate it already."
"I want you to front for me in setting up a meeting with someone from this new drug operation."
"We've had meetings. Nothing ever gets done," Danny said. "The top man never comes."
"I don't want the top man. I just want somebody I can question."
"What makes you think that whoever they send will talk to you?" the pusher asked.
"I'm a real persuasive guy, Danny."
"Man, I'll bet you are too."
"What do you say?"
"I say maybe I ought to give you a try," Danny said, giving Remo an appraising look.
"You carrying your blade in that?"
"I wouldn't need my blade."
"Oh, yes, you would," Remo said, "and that would still give you next to no chance at all." They stared at each other in silence for several ticks of the clock, and then Remo said, "Believe me."
"That's the problem, man," Danny said. "I do."
"You'll set it up, then?"
"I'll give it a shot. Where do I get in touch with you when— and if— I do?"
Remo gave Danny the Man his hotel and his room number.
"Call me there. I'll be waiting for another call anyway, so someone will be there at all times."
"Got some other fool working for you too?"
"Working," Remo said. "But I don't think it's for me."
* * *
Remo's next stop was the police station, where Detective William Palmer was breathing fire.
"What the hell do you mean by leaving the scene of a homicide?" the detective demanded. "I could put you away for that and throw away the key. You know that, don't you?"
"I know. But you won't."
"And why not?" The detective placed his hands belligerently on his hips.
"Because I'm going to solve these murders for you."
"Is that a fact? You got some kind of crystal ball?"
"I'm just working on something, that's all."
Palmer stared at Remo, breathing hard through his nose, and then said, "What about the kid? Did you find him?"
"Not yet. That's one of the things I'm working on."
"And where's your friend?"
"He's back at the hotel, resting."
"Yeah," Palmer said. "If I killed six men, I'd need a rest too."
"What are you talking about?" Remo said casually.
"Six stiffs showed up in the parking lot behind your hotel this morning." The detective lit a cigarette. "Funny thing," he said through a jet of blue smoke.
"Every last one of them's a known killer with a record a mile long. And enough juvenile offenses to fill the side of a building."
"Do tell," Remo said.
"Don't get smart with me, Zorro. It don't matter that they were scumbags. Detroit ain't no place for vigilantes, no matter who they work for." He stabbed his finger into Remo's chest. "You and the old geezer just better watch your ass, get it?"
"Look, you know I didn't have anything to do with killing Louis Sterling."
"Mister," Palmer said, "I don't know nothing about you. And that's the way I want to keep it."
"I know, and I appreciate it. You won't be sorry."
"Hell, I'm already sorry. Go on, get your butt out of here before I come to my senses."
"I'll be in touch."
"I can't wait."
Back at the hotel Chiun told Remo that the minister had not yet called, but that a man named Danny Lincoln had.
"That's Danny the Man, Chiun. What did he say?"
"He said that he had put the word out but had not yet been able to make that appointment you wanted. He will call you tomorrow."
"Well, I guess that means we can stop waiting for the phone to ring tonight."
"The child Walter Sterling is still out there, in danger," Chiun said.
"With a little luck, Chiun, that'll change tomorrow."
"Tomorrow you will follow the minister?"
"Yes, while you wait for Danny the Man to call. He's either going to find the kid for us or put us in contact with someone else involved with the drug selling. One way or the other we could wrap this thing up tomorrow."
"We will have to make sure that luck has nothing to do with it," Chiun said. "Only a white barbarian would trust success to luck. The welfare of the children of the world must not be left to chance."
"Right, Chiun."
"So tomorrow we will make sure that this matter comes to an end, and the killer of children will be punished."
"I'm with you, Chiun," Remo said.
"I hope that is not meant to be a source of encouragement to me."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lorenzo Moorcock turned to Walter Sterling and said, "He wants to kill you, Walter."
"What makes you say that?" the kid asked.
"I can see it on his face, in his eyes. This Remo Randisi is a born killer. It is what he does."
The Reverend Moorcock had no idea just how right he was. "The best thing for you to do is stay right here until everything blows over, believe me."
"But my mother," Sterling said. "She'll be worried about me."
"Don't worry about your mother," Moorcock said. "I will tell her that you are all right."
They were in a small room on the second floor of the church, where Walter Sterling had been hiding since the first time Remo followed him. Now that Moorcock had told him that his father was dead, Walter was terrified that he was next.
"I will bring you something to eat later," Moorcock promised him. "For now, you had better rest."
"Thank you, Reverend," Sterling said, grabbing the man's arm. "Thank you."
"Not at all, my boy," Moorcock said, patting his hand. "After all, you are part of my flock."
Moorcock disengaged Sterling's hands from his arm and left the room. He took the steps down to the main floor but did not stop there. He went through another door and continued down until he reached the basement. A man was standing at the door as he entered the basement.
"How is it going?" Moorcock asked him.
"It's going fine."
"Will we be ready for our Mexican friends tomorrow?"
"More than ready. We'll be able to handle everything they bring us."
"Good," Moorcock said.
"What about the Sterling boy?" the man asked.
"He's all right where he is for now."
"I still think we should have killed him days ago when—"
"I'm aware of your opinion, Donald," Moorcock said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "You'll get your chance to kill him soon enough."
"You don't think I like killing, do you?" the man asked.
"No, Donald," Moorcock said, "I think you love it."
Both men laughed, and Moorcock went to look over his operation.
* * *
Lorenzo Moorcock had been a very unhappy man the day he lost the election for city commissioner of Detroit. But now, five years later, he couldn't have been happier about the outcome. If he had been successful in his political career, he wouldn't now be the proud owner of a wildly lucrative drug operation.
It had taken Moorcock time to set up his elaborate drug-cutting factory in the basement, after he had purchased the run-down church. But the church was a perfect cover, and once he had that set up, it was just a matter of rounding up the right people and the right contacts. Some of his old political affiliations had been helpful in that area, especially his Iranian friends.
Using juveniles as his street peddlers had been a stroke of pure genius. When they got arrested, it was only on juvenile charges, and they were soon out on the streets again. And when they got older, he simply moved them into another area of the operation.
It was all perfect, right down to the way the drugs were brought into the country and placed in his hands. For that, he used not only the Iranians but also the Mexicans.
In the eighteen months that his operation had been running, no one had ever come close to impeding it… until now. The American and the Oriental were becoming dangerous and would have to be dealt with. He wouldn't want his Mexican friends to find out about them and get nervous. Removing them would have to be handled carefully because the Mexicans would be in town tomorrow. For once Moorcock admitted to himself that he may have made a mistake. He should have listened to Donald and let him kill the pair sooner.