Remo wanted to hang around long enough to make sure the police had a record of his address. So he could be traced. Long ago, he had been given two authorized ways of dealing with an arrest.
He could do whatever physical had to be done. Of course, that was out of the question, since he was willingly going to leave his name and address, and he didn't need 30,000 cops looking for him at his hotel.
Or, the other way, he was allowed one phone call. He could call the number in Jersey City.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jean Boffer Esq., 34 years old and a millionaire twice over, sat on the brown plush sofa in his penthouse living room, looking across the 71 square yards of lime green carpeting that had been laid that afternoon.
He had taken off his purple knit jacket and carefully removed from its inside pocket the little electronic beeper that was to signal him whenever his private telephone line was ringing.
He had worn the beeper for seven years, and it had yet to beep.
But he was a millionaire twice over because he was willing to wear it all the time, and because, if the private telephone line ever rang, he would be ready to do whatever had to be done. Without knowing it, he was the private, personal counsel to a professional assassin.
Just then, as he held the beeper in his hand, it went off, and he realized that in seven years he had never heard the sound it would make. It was a staccato, high-pitched squeak, but it was muffled at that moment by the bell of his private telephone line which was also ringing.
He reached over, carefully, not quite knowing what to expect and picked up the white telephone without a dial. The beeper went silent.
"Hello," he said, "Boffer."
"You're a good lawyer, I hear," said a voice which was supposed to say "You're a good lawyer, I hear."
"Yes. I think the best," which was what Jean Boffer Esq. had been told to say.
Boffer sat up smartly on the couch and placed the book of forensic medicine carefully on his coffee table.
"What can I do for you?" he said casually.
"I've been arrested. Can you spring me?"
"Is there any bail set?"
"If I wanted to get out on bail, I'd pay it myself. What can you do about getting the whole thing dropped?"
"Tell me what happened."
"I was set up. A restaurant in Chinatown. The owner says I assaulted him but he's full of crap. I'm being booked now."
"What restaurant? Is the owner still there?"
"Yeah, he's here. His name's Wo Fat. The restaurant's the Imperial Garden on Doyers Street."
"Keep the owner there until I get there. Diddle around. Tell the cops you want to press counter-charges. I'll be there in 20 minutes." He paused. "By the way, what's your name?"
"My name is Remo."
They hung up simultaneously. Boffer looked over at his wife who was wearing large pilot earphones, listening to a private stereo concern and putting polish on her fingernails. He waved at her and she pulled off the earphones.
"Come on, we're going to get something to eat."
"What can I wear?" She was wearing a white pants suit with gold brocade trim. It would have been appropriate for the captain's dinner on a Bahama cruise.
"We'll stop and buy you a field jacket. Come on, let's go."
His car was waiting downstairs, and he slid behind the driver's wheel, and tooled the expensive car north on Kennedy Boulevard to the Holland Tunnel approach. They were in the tunnel before either of them spoke.
"It's a case, isn't it?" his wife said, easing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her white pants suit.
"Just an assault. But I thought it was an excuse for a meal."
He pulled out of the tunnel, smiling to himself as he always did when he saw the Port Authority's incredible overhead sign which looked like a bowl of spaghetti run amok.
He eased his car into Chinatown, its streets dark and empty now, littered with zeppole shreds and crusts of pizza.
He stopped in front of the darkened Imperial Gardens Restaurant.
"But this place is closed," his wife said.
"Just a minute." He walked up the steps to the second floor entrance of the Imperial Gardens. The restaurant was darkened with only the faint glow from a ll/2 watt nightlight shining in the rear of the main dining area. He peered in through the glass, noting in the glow the location of the tables around the kitchen door.
With his left hand, he felt up the side of the door, trying to find the external casing of the hinges. There was none.
He went back down the steps, three at a time, and reentered the car. "We'll eat in 15 minutes," he said to his wife, who was refreshing her lipstick.
The police precinct was only three blocks away, and he left his wife in the car as he went inside and walked up to the sergeant behind the 30-foot long oak desk.
"I've got a client here," he said. "Remo something."
"Oh yeah. He's in the detective's room. Hun and some Chinaman are screaming at each other. Go right in, and look for Detective Johnson." He waved toward a room at the end of the large open room.
He walked in through the swinging wood door gate, to the open door. Inside he saw three men: one a Chinese; one sitting at the typewriter laboriously pecking out a report with two fingers was obviously Detective Johnson. The third man sat in the hard wooden chair, leaning back against a file cabinet.
Through the doorway, Boffer could see the skin slightly paler and tighter over his cheekbones, the mark of plastic surgery. The man's deep brown eyes looked up and burned into Boiler's for a moment. The eyes lipped off on everyone. But not on his new client. His eyes were deep brown and cold, as emotionless as his face.
Boffer rapped on the open frame of the door. The three men looked at him.
He stepped inside. "Detective Johnson, I'm this man's attorney. Can you fill me in?"
The detective came to the door. "Come on in, counsellor," he said, obviously amused by the striped purple suit. "Don't know why you're here? Nothing much to it. Wo Fat here says your client assaulted him. Your client is filing counter charges. They'll both have to wait until arraignment in the morning."
"If I could talk to Mr. Wo Fat for a minute, maybe I could clear the whole thing up. It's more of a misunderstanding than a criminal thing."
"Sure, go ahead. Wo Fat. This man wants to talk to you. He's a lawyer."
Wo Fat rose and Boffer took his elbow and steered him to the back of the room. He shook his hand.
"You run a fine restaurant, Mr. Fat."
"I've been in business too long to allow myself to be assaulted."
Boffer ignored him. "It's a shame we're going to have to close you down."
"What do you mean, close down?"
"There are very serious violations at your establishment, sir. The exterior doors, for instance, open inward. Very dangerous in the event of a fire. And very unlawful."
Wo Fat looked confused.
"And then of course, there's the seating plan. All those tables near the kitchen doors. Another violation. I know you run a fine establishment, sir, but in the interests of the public, my client and I will have to go into court with a formal complaint and bring about your closing as a health menace."
"Now, we should not be hasty," he said in his oiliest style.
"Yes, we should. We should withdraw the charges against my client immediately."
"He assaulted me."
"Yes sir, he probably did. In outrage at being caught in a restaurant which is an outright fire trap. It'll be a very interesting case. The publicity from the papers might hurt your business for a while, but I'm sure it will blow over. As will the stories about your assaulting a customer."