"I don't expect anything of you, kid. Come on. The paperwork is done. Let's go outside."
Weems and Billy walked outside and stopped halfway down the front steps of the building. "This is where we part company, sonny," Weems said.
"Fine with me."
"Here."
Billy took the piece of paper Weems was offering him and asked, "What's this supposed to be?"
"That's an address. I suspect it's where the man who put up the money for your bail lives. Maybe he expects you to thank him. 'Bye, Billy," Weems said, and walked away.
If someone had approached him at that moment and asked him a question about Billy Martin, his reply would have been, "Billy who?"
All he had in mind was the money that was locked in his desk.
Billy looked down at the address on the piece of paper; it meant nothing to him. In spite of his bravado, he was curious about the man who was willing to put up all that money to bail him out. When he had first heard about the bail, he thought he knew who it had come from, but the address he now held in his hands was not familiar.
Who could his mysterious benefactor be, then? And if he was willing to pay so much to get him out, how much more might he be willing to cough up?
Greed was the determining factor in Billy Martin's decision to check out the address. If the guy was willing to come across with some more money, Billy could use it to get out of town. He had reasons to leave Detroit, and the criminal charges hanging over his head weren't the half of it.
Billy had little money of his own, which had been returned with the rest of his things when he was released from jail. He decided to hang on to what he did have and walk to the address. He knew the part of town it was in. It wasn't more than half a mile's walk.
He walked down the remainder of the steps and started on his way, oblivious to the fact that he was being followed by three people.
The three young men who were following Billy had their drill down pat. One was immediately behind him, one was across the street, and one was walking ahead of him. The way they had it set up, he was impossible to lose. They followed him discreetly until they approached the run-down section of town where the address on the slip of paper in Billy's pocket could be found.
There was little foot traffic in this part of town. There weren't that many people brave enough— or foolish enough— to walk there. It was a measure of Billy Martin's insolence that walking in that area didn't bother him at all. After all, hadn't he just about beaten a double murder rap? Did the court actually expect him to show up on the date of his trial? He'd be long gone by then.
Actually, he would be long gone by then, but not in the way he was planning.
Closing in on their destination, the three young men started to close ranks on Billy. The man in front of him slowed down while the man behind him quickened his pace, and the one across the street came over to his side.
As a matter of fact, they weren't really men at all. They weren't much older than Billy himself. One of them was the same boy who had delivered the money to Weems's office.
Billy was so intent on reaching his destination that he scarcely noticed the person walking ahead of him until suddenly that person had slowed enough for Billy to overtake him. As Billy came within a few steps of passing him, the other boy stopped abruptly and turned.
"Hi, Billy," he said.
Billy recognized him and stopped short. He took a couple of backward steps, but by that time the other two had caught up, and he bumped into them.
"Hey, fellas—"
The other two each took one of Billy's arms, and following the first boy, they led him down an alley that had been specially chosen for its purpose.
"Hey, guys, come on—" Billy was stammering, his tough-guy front vanished.
The others ignored him, and as he increased his efforts to escape, his captors increased the pressure of their hold on him.
"This is far enough," the first boy said, turning. The others released Billy's arms and pushed him violently toward the back of the alley. He lost his balance and sprawled on the dirty ground, skinning his hands and knees.
Pushing himself to his feet, he watched the three boys approach him and then heard three barely audible sounds— snik! snik! snik!— as three sharp blades appeared in their hands as if by magic.
"Aw, guys—" he started, backing up with his hands raised in front of him.
Two of the boys stepped forward and swung their blades, and blood began to gush from each of Billy's palms as he cried out from the pain.
"Please—" he shouted, but his plea fell on three sets of deaf ears.
All three boys stepped forward now, and their blades were a blur of motion that Billy tried to follow until a veil of blood fell over his eyes, and he could no longer see. It was several moments before his ability to feel went too, and that was when the three boys stepped back and retracted their blades with the same three smacking sounds.
One boy briefly checked Billy for signs of life. Failing to find any, he nodded to his companions and led the way out of the alley.
The Billy Martin who lay on the filthy cobblestones of the alley, strips of flesh flayed from his bones, bore little resemblance to the little pissant who had clubbed his parents to death without a second thought while they slept.
Billy Martin died as he had lived— a repulsive little toad who never had a chance to ascend to the higher rank of full-fledged snake.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo, and people had to be taught that only he could get away with murder.
Murder belonged in the hands of someone who could do it right, for the right reasons, and that someone was Remo. He was in the resort town of Little Ferry, Virginia, to teach this lesson to retired police chief Duncan Dinnard.
Chief Dinnard had built up a fortune at the expense of the residents and tourists of Little Ferry and had now retired to sit back and enjoy it. He had turned the small Virginia town into the kind of place where if you had enough money— and paid him enough of it— you could literally get away with murder.
"Don't be fooled by the fact that he's retired," Dr. Harold W. Smith had told both Remo and Chiun. "He still rules that small town with an iron hand. It's time he was retired for good."
Smith could be no plainer than that.
* * *
Duncan Dinnard had no fear. He was a multimillionaire, with a mansion and a yacht, both of which suited his position. In addition, his property and his person were protected by the best people and the best security devices that money could buy.
At the moment, the obese Dinnard was in his mansion, entertaining the best female companionship that money could buy. The farthest thing from his mind was his own death.
If need be, he could buy that off too.
"Very impressive setup," Remo said to the wispy-haired Oriental beside him as they examined Dinnard's defenses.
"It is not necessary to compliment a man whom one is about to assassinate," the elderly Korean said loftily. "It is considered bad form."
"Oh, I see," Remo said. "Murder's okay, but tackiness can never be forgiven."
Chiun snorted. "If that were true, you would have no friends at all. Please proceed." He waved an imperious hand at the front gates. "I wish to dispense with this trivia quickly."
"What's the matter? Afraid you'll miss one of your TV soaps?"
"The Master of Sinanju no longer wastes his time on sex-laden daytime dramas."
"Oh, no?"
"No," Chiun said. "As a matter of fact, I've just begun work on an epic poem. An Ung poem. The finest piece of Ung since the Great Master Wang." The old Oriental swaggered as he walked. "It is about a butterfly."
"Oh," Remo said.
"I've already completed the first one hundred and sixty-five stanzas of the prologue."
"That's okay, Chiun. I'm sure it'll flesh out in the final draft."