"Destroyer 014 - Judgement Day.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo and he was making a polite visit to a Detroit suburb, a gracious large-lawned sprawling house in Grosse Pointe, miles from the inner city where people injected death into their arms or sniffed it or sold it in "protected" houses.
Those who used the product that provided the income that enabled this lawn to get a daily manicure, the house to receive daily cleaning by two maids, the swimming pool to remain heated and functioning-all winter-were not allowed in this neighborhood. If they were seen walking the streets after dark, policemen asked them what they were doing. Unless they could name a house where they were going to tend bar, make beds, or take out garbage, they were whisked away. They were very easy to spot in this neighborhood because black faces stood out very well.
Remo's face did not stand out. He had high cheekbones and dark eyes that seemed to go on for eternity and the paleness of a just lost tan. He was about six feet tall and, except for his large wrists, appeared almost lean. He rang the doorbell of the Jordan home, a name which had once been Giordano when Angelo Giordano was running numbers in downtown Detroit, before he had found the awesome profitability of bulk-supplying black pushers with the white powder that continued its fine sales despite a lack of advertising and the marketing handicaps, like fifteen years to life.
Arnold Jordan had so many broken links between himself and the final sale, that it was very unlikely that he would personally face these handicaps. That was for the little men.
A maid answered the door.
"Good evening," said Remo. 'I'm from the Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League and I would like to talk with Mr. Jordan."
"Is Mr. Jordan expecting you?"
"No," said Remo.
"If you would wait here, I'll see if Mr. Jordan is at home."
"Thank you," said Remo. He began to whistle somewhat nervously while he waited for a reply. He had an unusually busy schedule for the evening. Upstairs-where his orders came from-had become highly unreasonable recently, almost bordering on the worst of all possible sins, incompetence. It was this IDC thing. It had to be the IDC thing, although Remo had not even been formally notified that there was such a thing as an IDC thing. He had just been given the names and general whereabouts of three computer programmers. Disposing of the last one on a Long Island beach had taken fifteen seconds. Remo spent the first fourteen of them laughing as the man had assumed some sort of silly Kung Fu stance, which was fine for a martial arts school, but which left the chest as open as the ocean.
Remo did not know the name of the stance, because as the Master of Sinanju-Remo's trainer-had explained, one should not waste precious time cataloguing someone else's foolishness. Sinanju, unlike the known variations of the martial arts, was not an art but a working tool. Less and less could Remo fathom how people would want to make games out of daily work, even devoting leisure hours to it. But then there were even lawyers who mowed lawns for relaxation.
The maid, in starched white apron, returned with apologies that Mr. Jordan was unavailable.
"It will just take a minute. I'm really in a rush," said Remo, gliding around the maid who could have sworn she had a hand out there to stop him. She watched the visitor seem to slip through it as she stood there, hand upraised in empty air.
Arnold Jordan was having dinner with his family. He was poised with a forkful of blueberry pie when Remo entered the somewhat overfurnished dining room.
"I'm awfully sorry to bother you," said Remo. "This will only take a minute. Finish your pie. Go ahead. Don't let me bother you."
Jordan, a massive man with the strong rocklike face of a Roman legionnaire but the styled dry hair of a TV announcer, put down his fork.
"Go ahead, finish it," said Remo. "You like blueberry pie?"
"May I ask who you are?"
"Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League. It will only take a minute. I really don't have more than a minute for you anyhow."
"You can phone my secretary in the morning. I am eating now."
"I said, finish it."
Arnold Jordan wiped his mouth with the fine white linen napkin, excused himself from the table, receiving scarcely a nod of recognition from his wife and children. "I will give you a minute," said Jordan heavily. "But I think I should warn you that you are not doing yourself any good by interrupting my supper."
Remo merely nodded. He did not have time for polite chitchat. Jordan led Remo into a book-lined den.
"All right. What's your name? What are you here for? What's your employer's name? I told you, you didn't do yourself any good by interrupting my supper. I want his name and phone number."
"His name's Smith, but don't worry about making any phone calls. That's not why I'm here. You see, you've just connected with a massive shipment, and it's so big I was sent to dispose of it." Remo muttered under his breath, "No one bothered to think that I can't be two places at one time or there are so many hours in the day. No, just go to Jordan's house, find out where it is, then do the normal thirty-five hours work in one night. And we're supposed to be efficient."
"I beg your pardon," said Jordan.
"C'mon. I don't have all night," said Remo.
"That's right," said Jordan. "That's very right. You don't have all night at all. Now why don't you do yourself a very big favor and leave."
"I take it that's one of your subtle threats." Jordan shrugged his shoulders. He estimated that he could crack this man in two if he had to, but why should he have to. He merely had to phone the police and have the man arrested for trespassing. Then when the man was released in his own recognizance, he would prove that the courts were too lenient by just disappearing. Perhaps in Lake Michigan.
Jordan's self assurance was somewhat shaken by a searing, biting pain in his right shoulder. It felt like a hot iron. His mouth opened to scream but there was no sound. Just the pain and his visitor's forefinger and thumb where the pain was. Jordan could neither move nor speak.
He sat at his desk, like a frog that had just had its stomach rubbed, helpless.
"All right," said the visitor. This is pain."
The shoulder felt as if hot needles pricked the socket But the visitor's fingers hardly moved.
"This is an absence of pain."
Jordan felt a relief so blessed he almost cried.
"You can have an absence of pain, or this."
The hot needles again.
"This goes when I find out where the heroin shipment is."
Jordan tried to speak but he had no voice.
"I don't hear you."
Jordan tried to yell but he couldn't.
"You've got to speak up."
Didn't this man realize that he couldn't speak? He was a crazy and the shoulder felt as if it were coming out of the socket and Jordan would say anything, tell anything, if only his voice would cooperate. He felt the pain shift to his chest and suddenly his vocal cords were free but he could hardly breathe.
Hoarsely he mentioned a "protected" house downtown. But the crazy visitor wouldn't believe him, just kept saying that it wasn't true.
"My god, I swear it's true. Fifty-five kilos. I swear it. My god, please believe me, it's true. Please. The heroin's behind a wooden panel that secures the front door. Believe me."
"I do," said the visitor. And then the pain was magnificiently, gloriously, joyously gone and a sudden night descended on Angelo Giordano, alias Arnold Jordan, who encountered the ultimate marketing difficulty that can result from merchandising heroin.
Remo put the body in a lounging chair, closed Jordan's eyes, and left the room, jamming the lock to give himself twenty to thirty minutes. He expressed regrets to the Jordan family that he could not stay for dessert, and told Mrs. Jordan her husband was busy working on a decomposition and should not be disturbed.
"Composition, you mean," said Mrs. Jordan.