"I'm sorry, Cynthia," Horowitz stammered. "I didn't mean. . . ."
"Forget it," she said. "Anyway this federal man, this Remo Barry. He should be out of it by now. Some of the boys took care of him tonight. And I've found out how to make deliveries. You sure you can do 500 pounds a week?"
"At least 500 pounds," he said. "And 98 per cent pure heroin. Do you know what that's worth?" he asked.
"Better than you do," she said. "Fifty million on the street. But we're wholesalers. To us, only one-fifth of that. Ten million."
"But every week," Horowitz said. "Ten million every week. And we can go on forever."
"Just don't get careless. I've gone to a lot of trouble to set this up." She lit a cigarette. "I've let the leaders know that the stuff is still available, same prices, same quality, same terms. And now I can guarantee delivery."
"How are we going to do that? Everything's being watched."
"We're going to ship it out with carrots."
"Carrots?"
"Yes, carrots. In vegetable trucks. Don't worry about it, it'll work. And I want to move this stuff out of here as fast as I can, then I want to burn this place down, cover it over with dirt, and go live someplace civilized."
"The two of us," Horowitz said.
"Hmm? Yes, the two of us, Myron," she said. "Keep preparing the stuff and stashing it. I'll be in touch with you about delivery." She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up.
"Cynthia?"
"What?"
"How about tonight?" he said. "Please."
"I've told you. I'm not in the mood."
"I bet you're in the mood when you're with that hairy ape I've seen you with."
"No. He's got nothing to do with it," she said. "Besides he's dead." And she thought of Remo who by now was also dead and she smiled at Myron and said, "I'm sorry, Myron. I'm really just not in the mood."
She left quickly. Myron watched her go out the door, then phoned the protective service again to let them know he had opened the door. While he was on the phone he opened the center drawer of his desk, took out a small bottle labelled aspirins and popped one of the pills into his mouth. It was good for the nerves, even better than real aspirin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first word came from Great Britain. It came unofficially, so that it could be denied if need be, but it came accurately.
Her Majesty's Government regarded the lack of effective action on the part of the United States regarding the massive heroin shipment as inexcusable error. And since so much of Great Britain's narcotics traffic was tied hand-to-hand with the availability of drugs in the United States, Her Majesty's Government had decided it must protect its own best interests.
And in Charing Mews, a hard-faced man who looked like Hoagy Carmichael put his exploding briefcase in the back seat of his supercharged Bentley to begin the drive to London Airport for a BOAC plane to New York.
Elysee Palace shared Her Majesty's Government's feelings exactly. After all, had not France offered to close down the heroin operation and had not the White House prevented them from doing so? And did not the American ineptitude now threaten continued friendly relations and cooperation in the field of law enforcement between the two countries?
Therefore, the government of France would now feel free to take whatever steps were necessary to close down this narcotics operation and in the process protect France's international reputation as a battler against the drug menace.
And Japan, too, had heard. It joined in the general panic at the prospect of so many tons of heroin being moved openly into the world's illegal narcotics market. And from Tokyo also came the same message, unofficially of course: "whatever steps we feel are necessary."
In his office at Folcroft Sanatorium, Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE, read the reports.
They meant manpower. It meant that these governments would send in to the United States their top operatives, gun-happy lunatics to try to track down the heroin gang. What the hell did they think they could do that Remo Williams couldn't do? Except get in Remo's way.
Smith looked at the reports again. He could tell the President that he was pulling Williams off the assignment. He would be justified in doing that.
Then Smith pursed his lips and thought of the pictures and reports he had shown to Remo: the stories of agony those dry statistics told; the young children hooked on drugs; the addict infants born to junkie mothers; the lives ruined and lost; the millions stolen and wasted. He thought of his daughter now cold-tur-keying it at a farm in Vermont, and he pulled back his hand which had strayed close to the special White House telephone.
America's best hope to crack the case was Remo Williams, the Destroyer.
In the hope of preserving international relations, Smith prayed softly that none of the friendly countries' operatives would get in Remo's way.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Don Dominic Verillio had been laid to his eternal rest in the green rolling hills of a cemetery fifteen miles outside the city, where the air was still semi-breathable and where birds sang.
A police motorcycle escort and honour guard had led the hearse and the flower car. One hundred persons had followed in limousines and stood at the graveside, in early morning dew, as the final funeral rites were held.
Then people had separated and gone their own ways.
Willie the Plumber Palumbo had been directed to take Mrs. Hansen, the mayor's wife, back to her home. She was still crying uncontrollably.
Cynthia Hansen joined Mayor Hansen in driving back to City Hall. She left him at the door of his office and went to her own office.
Craig Hansen took off his homburg, which he disliked wearing because he felt it added too much age to his face, and stepped through the massive wooden door into his office.
A man sat there, in his chair, feet up on his desk, reading the sports section of the Daily News.
The man put down the paper and looked up as the mayor walked in. "Hello, Hansen," he said. "I've been waiting for you."
Hansen had seen the man last night at the funeral home. It was that writer fellow, Remo something or other, who had been pestering Cynthia. Well, Mayor Craig Hansen would make short work of him.
"Hi there, fellow," he said, tossing his homburg onto the fourteen-foot long mahogany table. "Something I can do for you?"
Remo stood up. "Yeah, Hansen. Where's the heroin?"
"It's a terrible problem, the entire problem of drug addiction," Hansen said. "It feeds at the vitals of America and there is no real cure for any of our urban ills until this social cancer is removed from the body politic."
Hansen had walked over by his desk and Remo stepped aside to make room for Hansen in the mayor's chair.
"Yeah, but where is it?" Remo persisted.
"Where is it at? That's the question we continuously hear in the streets of the city. I regard it as an anguished cry for help from those upon whose strength and vigor the city relies for its renewed vitality," Hansen said. "Can there be any doubt. . . ."
As he talked, Remo looked at the vapid, bland face and he knew that Mayor Craig Hansen could no more plot a heroin operation than he could clean a street. He looked closely at his face, all of it seemingly in correct proportions-the right shape-but apparently without a bone in it.
And Remo thought of other faces. Hansen's wife, with her fine Roman lines. And Verillio who, before his own bullet had removed the top of his skull, had worn a face with character and strength. And he thought of Cynthia Hansen and he realized suddenly where that fine Etruscan face had come from, and why Mrs. Hansen had cried so much, and why Verillio had conceded his own death so quickly.
Mayor Hansen had spun toward the window and was staring through the dirty dusty glass at the city -his city-and his voice droned on, "without social strength, no real progress is possible, particularly inasmuch as our real estate tax base. . . ." and he continued on as Remo slipped outside and quietly closed the door behind him.