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He walked out on the balcony again and watched the lights on the George Washington Bridge that linked the two great eastern states.
He had ruled as champion in these states for nearly twenty years. And in a decade, he had never had to use his own muscles until… he glanced at the broken palm pot… until tonight.
He had built up a system of contract torpedoes and sub-let torpedoes. With just four regulars who could buy the hit-men and with the perfect way to get rid of bodies, he reigned unmolested in the quiet of Lamonica Towers.
But one of his regulars, O'Hara, had bought it, right in the living room. One blow, a slash of the hook, a head opened and twenty-five percent right off the top, the top of the system.
Felton stared at his hands. Now there were three: Scotty in Philadelphia, Jimmy here, Moesher in New York. A multi-million-dollar system and it was under attack from an invisible enemy. Who? Who?
Felton's hand tightened into a fist. There'd have to be hiring. Moesher would lay low and come in only on cue. Jimmy would stay in the Towers.
It would be like the forties again when nothing could stop him, nothing, not the crummy rotten world, the cops, the FBI, the syndicate, nothing could stop him. When, with his hands and mind, his team had made Viaselli, the punk, chief in the east; made a second-rate numbers banker the king and kept him there.
Felton breathed deep the clear cool night air and a smile formed on his face for the first time that night. The tinkling of a phone floated out to the patio.
Felton returned to his study and picked up the black receiver on the mahogany desk. «Yes?»
«Hi, Norm,» came the voice, «This is Bill.»
«Oh, hello, Mayor.»
«Look Norm, I'm just calling about that suicide. He carried identification as an outpatient from Folcroft Sanitarium. It's in Rye, New York. Ever hear of it?»
«Oh, he was mentally disturbed.»
«Yes. Looks like it. I spoke personally to the director up there, a Dr. Smith. And, Norm, I warned him that if he released any patients who are cuckoo, he's responsible. By the way, Grover and Reed were all right, weren't they? I have them here right now. They gave me the lead on this Folcroft.»
«They were fine,» Felton said. «Just fine, Bill.»
«Right. Anything I can do for you, just buzz.»
«I'll do that, Bill, and we'll have to have di
«Right, bye.»
Felton waited for the click, then dialed.
A voice at the end said «Marvin Moesher's residence.»
«This is Norman Felton. Please put Mr. Moesher on the line.»
«Certainly, Mr. Felton.»
He hummed as he waited in his study.
«Hello, Marv. Vas masta yid?»
«Eh,» came the voice from the end. «Nothing… and you?»
«We got troubles.»
«We've always got troubles.»
«You know where Scotty is?»
«Home in Philly.»
«We may have to do some hiring again.»
«What? Just a minute. Let me close the door. This is an extension phone, also. Just to be safe.»
There was a moment of silence. Then Moesher again: «Business picking up?»
«Yes.»
«I thought we had cleared the market.»
«A new market.»
«Viaselli expanding?»
«No,» Felton said.
«Someone expanding?»
«I don't think so.»
«What does O'Hara say?»
«He passed away this morning.»
«Mine gut.»
«We won't be doing any hiring yet. There's some things we have to find out.»
«Speak to Mr. Viaselli?»
«Not yet. He sent a representative for preliminary talks.»
«And?»
«And he's still talking.»
«Then it might be Mr. Viaselli who's…?»
«I don't think so. I'm not sure.»
«Norm.»
«Yes.»
«Let's retire. I got a nice house in Great Neck, a wife, a family. Enough's enough. You know. Why tempt fate?»
«I've been paying you good the last twenty years?»
«Yes.»
«You do much work in the last ten?»
«You know it's been nothing.»
«Jimmy, Scotty, and O'Hara been carrying your load?»
«Scotty ain't been working either.»
«He's going to now.»
«Norm, I'm going to ask a favor. Let me retire?»
«No.»
«All right.» Moesher's voice was resigned. «How we going to work it?»
«First, ground work. There's a place called F-O-L-C-R-O-F-T. Folcroft. It's a sanitarium in Rye.»
«Yes?»
«Find out what it is. Try to rent a room.»
«Okay, Norm. I'll get back to you.»
«Marv? I wouldn't be calling if I didn't need you.»
«Forget it, Norm. I owe this much. I'll give you a buzz tomorrow.»
«Love to the family.»
«Zama gazunt.»
Felton replaced the receiver and clapped his hands. A private sanitarium. No government office to hide behind. That was it.
He made two more phone calls that night. One to Angelo Scottichio in Philadelphia; and the second to Carmine Viaselli
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Paoli local clacked along on its ancient tracks through the Pe
This was the fashionable Main Line country surrounding the ghetto that Philadelphia had become. Here the aristocrats of the nation retreated for the final stand against the poor. They had surrendered Philadelphia to the common man a generation ago.
It was a dull, wet afternoon, a chill gray reminder that man should be holed up in his cave around a warm fire. It reminded Remo of his school days, his chore as class monitor, center of the line in high school, and failure after two years of college.
He had never liked school. Maybe it was the schools he went to. And now he was going to see the finest women's school in the Country: Briarcliff, without the publicity of Vassar or Radcliffe or the i
Remo lit a cigarette when he saw others ignoring the no-smoking sign. He was careful not to inhale the smoke into his breathing pattern.
Chiun had been right. Put enough pressure on him and he'd revert. It was the same old story. Remo puffed again. The houses, most of them two-story brick, had personality, lawns, and just breathed old money. Homes.
MacCleary's words came back to him. «No home, no family, no involvements. And you'll always be looking over your shoulder.»
The cigarette was good. Remo toyed with the ash and reviewed his mistakes. He never should have remained in the area after the visit to MacCleary, never should have played games with the bartender, never should have approached that hospital receptionist. A white jacket in almost any hospital would have given him anonymity and passage into any room. It was done, though. That was it. Over. Probably nothing fatal.
Now all he had to do was kill Maxwell, whoever the hell he was. Felton was the key, but his sanctuary seemed unapproachable. Felton's daughter would be his passport. He undoubtedly kept his daughter totally ignorant of Maxwell's organization. He wouldn't have sent her to Briarcliff College if he didn't. She probably had no idea of what Felton did for a living, MacCleary had said.
Briarcliff. She must have brains, real brains. What would he talk to her about? What would be her interests? Nuclear physics, social democracy versus an authoritarian state, Flaubert, his failings and future in the new art form of the novel?
He was just Remo Williams, ex-cop, ex-Marine, and full-time assassin. Would he compare the efficacy of the garotte to the speed of a knife, discuss the elbow as a killing instrument, the windpipe's vulnerabilities, lock-picking, movements? How was he going to open a conversation with a Briarcliff girl? This wasn't any receptionist or waitress.