A bright blue Illinois sky covered it all—with, of course, a layer of air pollution sandwiched in between. Remo hailed a cab to the convention hall.
The driver talked about the horrible killings in the hotel, how Chicago wasn't safe anymore, and how everything would be fine if only the Blacks left Chicago.
"Blacks weren't involved," said Remo.
"So in this one incident," said the driver, "they weren't involved. Don't tell me that if we didn't have coloureds the crime rate wouldn't drop."
"It would drop even faster if we didn't have people," said Remo.
The convention hall was, strangely, all but deserted. No uniformed guards to take delegates' tickets, no vendors preparing for special bars with the early tubs of ice, no last-minute scurrying of workers giving the microphone system a last-minute check. No one was even placing the day's agenda on the seats as they had done every day since Monday.
Even the gates were locked. At the third gate, Remo decided to stop looking for someone to let him in. He walked in, right through the crowd-proof, locked gate. His footsteps echoed down the dark, deserted corridors that smelled freshly cleaned. The stands exuded a faint yesterday's-beer odour. The air was cool yet without freshness. A lone worker stood on a ladder installing a light bulb. Remo stayed in the shadows enough not to be recognized but not enough to appear suspicious.
"Hi," Remo said, walking on as though he belonged in the deserted corridor.
"Hi," said the workman.
Remo scampered up to the top tier and paused. He was two aisles away. The banner was still and flat.
"Welcome, International Brotherhood of Drivers." Not a ripple. The crowds would change that. The body heat would change that. Yet even with no one inside the huge structure, it should get some air currents. Perhaps too many doors and windows were closed on the outside. Remo ducked back into the corridor and came out perfect. Fifty feet above him was the joint of the beam that stretched across the huge dome of the hall. He eased the crowbar from the back of his pants with the protective paper still on it. An edge of the paper was smeared with his blood. The wound had coagulated, but apparently not fast enough to keep the paper dry. He checked the crowbar, looking for the glistening hint of his own blood. He did not want blood on the crowbar to complicate things. It should be a very simple crime. Abe 'Crowbar' Bludner had somehow un-riveted the beam and was stupid enough to leave the crowbar. The police, desperately in need of a suspect for the murder of four union officials, would gratefully and rapidly pick Bludner. Blood would be a minor complication that might set their minds to working on other angles. Not that he would be implicated, but as Chiun had said, fools and children take chances.
"It is the height of arrogance to fling your chances of survival into the lap of the goddess of fate, demanding that she perform what you will not. This arrogance is always punished."
Remo eased out of his shoes. He rewrapped the crowbar. There was no blood. He leaped to a small overhang and held with one hand. Working with feet forward and one hand behind it, he slithered up the curved wall. His free hand was used as a foot now because two feet were better for grabbing than one free hand. In the other hand was the evidence against Bludner.
Suddenly walking sounds, hollow, leather, clicking walking sounds came towards him. Two men. Remo pressed against the wall. His blood rushing headward, but unlike ordinary men he could sustain this pressure and function for three hours.
"Hey, Johnny. One of those idiot driver delegates left his shoes."
"They should have been picked up by cleaning. That contractor we use is getting sloppy. I mean it. Sloppy. You never should have hired him."
"What's this "you" jazz? We both hired him."
"You recommended him."
"And you said "Okay.""
"I said "Okay" because you recommended him. I'm not going to listen to your recommendations anymore."
They stood directly beneath Remo, a bald head and a grease conglomerate swirled in such a way as to hide impending departure of hair. This was very evident to anyone who wanted to cling upside down directly above a grease-coated head.
"I recommended the drivers. You want to give back their money?"
"So one of your recommendations finally turns out all right. What do you want, a medal?"
"I want a little appreciation. You know any other outfit that would pay for a place like this on a day they're not using it?"
"Yeah, anyone else who signed a contract and at three in the morning said they weren't going to use the place that day."
"They could hold up the final payment. They could talk deal. They could talk settlement. The people I rent to pay in full, anyway."
"When you rented at the last minute, I was the one who told you to go ahead. I was the one who, with two pathetic months, broke the contract for that horse show."
"Because I got you the drivers, dumbell. For the drivers I'd break a contract with God."
"For five cents you'd break a contract with God. He could fall down right now and you'd break a contract for five cents."
It was as good a time as any to collect his shoes. The drivers would not be meeting in the giant hall that day, and there was no point getting Abe Bludner indicted for murdering a circus or a basketball team or whoever was there when the vibrations, unaided by Remo, would determine that the beam would fall.
Remo dropped gently, missing the greasy head.
"My shoes, please," said Remo indignantly. He grabbed the shoes from the startled men and handed the greasy-headed one the paper-wrapped crowbar. The paper was still flecked with blood.
"And here's your crowbar. You shouldn't leave it lying around. People could trip over it and get hurt."
"On the ceiling?" asked the bewildered men.
Remo slipped into his shoes. "Anywhere," said Remo. "Carelessness cannot be excused."
And with that he was back into his shoes and walking briskly down a corridor towards anything that resembled an exit. He had wasted his effort, as Chiun had said he would. The crowbar would not be needed now. It was as useless as the Maginot Line. Besides, one didn't need a crowbar when one was going to die.
Gene Jethro listened as the Pig, his arm getting a fresh bandage from Sigmund Negronski, explained how it had all happened. The Pig was awash in sweat despite the even chill of the air-conditioned basement of the new building.
"I had it set good. In the lobby like you told me. Twenty-seven guys including me. I was in your third layer central. The first layer was in the lobby or facing it like we planned. You know, rooms surrounding the lobby and the stairs we used for first layer and beginning of second. And the third, I placed it myself because I was in it. I mean I was really careful. The registration desk, I had a guy behind. I had 'em waiting just right, and the guns concealed and every man knew what he was supposed to do. The first layer was the dining room right, the registration clerk center and the…"
"Go on. Go on," said Jethro.
Negronski gently taped the bandage and eyed Jethro. The smiling confidence was no longer there. The joyous manipulation of men was no longer in the face grown suddenly old. Deep lines clouded his face. He worked a white handkerchief in his hands. He was wearing yesterday's clothes. He had not changed them. Negronski took both joy and pity in Jethro's condition. He fervently wished that they could return to the Nashville local and wrestle with pensions, threatened layoffs, and jurisdictional disputes. A jurisdictional dispute would be good now. Of jurisdictional disputes, he knew. This was all strange.
"Okay," said the Pig. "So I got Connor up close to the door as the first layer right. He would fire the first shot. And he's good. He hunts a lot and you know his rep. Like he's made of bones. He's the best man for that first…"
"Get to it. Get to it, dammit," said Jethro.