Such fools.
Chiun sat and waited while they worked their courage up. The effete star of his program-length commercial was now on a boat. His MTV friend had been joined by two other shrill females. The three of them flounced around the boat and the wig- wearing seer with equal amounts of awe and insipidity.
It was truly horrible.
Even so, Chiun watched.
By the time the program ended, Chiun knew his enemies as Ernie, Jack and Dave. They were such idiots that they used names when speaking to each other, certainly too stupid to have chosen false names in advance. Chiun might have pitied them if they had not brought such dishonor on his own profession with their negligence.
They were deserving of no mercy, and would get none from the Master of Sinanju. It was not his job to teach them what they should have learned in nursery school.
He did have lessons for them, though. It was a pity they would not survive to share his boundless wisdom with their friends.
On second thought, Chiun reckoned it unlikely that such fools had any friends. The world would miss them not at all.
It was supposed to be an easy touch-and-go, the way it was described to Ernie Becker. Two guys at the Dogwood Inn, who had been asking questions out of turn. He was supposed to brace them, find out what they wanted, who they worked for and eliminate the problem.
Simple.
Getting stuck with Jack and Dave was something else, though. Becker didn’t mind them normally, when all he had to do was sit around and shoot the shit, throw back some beers and talk about how tough they were—that kind of thing. They were all right for breaking legs, collecting debts, a minor rubout now and then, okay. No sweat.
He had some doubts, though, when it came to matching Jack and Dave against professionals.
Of course, he didn’t know these jokers at the Dogwood Inn from Adam. They could both be stumblebums for all he knew, real losers, but he didn’t walk in taking anything for granted.
That was how you got your ass shot off.
Another prime example—how they’d almost bitched it, running off to find the motel manager instead of simply going in and getting down to business. It was downright unprofessional, a show of ignorance and weakness, wasting time and energy.
Their orders were specific. On the telephone that evening, Garrick Tilton had allowed no room for argument or improvising. Grab the nosy bastards, squeeze them dry and dump them somewhere inconspicuous, so it wouldn’t reflect on Tilton’s moneymen.
The motel manager had called it in apparently, and he had given up the number of the room. It was miraculous what bribes could do in terms of nailing down security. A few bucks here and there at key positions in some pissant little town, and you had spies prepared to give their mother up if she got out of line. It wasn’t Ernie Becker’s place to ask what Tilton was protecting here in Dogshit, Indiana, and he didn’t care. As long as he was working, getting paid to do what he loved best, then everything was cool.
He pulled his .45—a knockoff of the old Colt classic manufactured by the Springfield Armory— and thumbed the hammer back, then waited while his two companions drew their automatics, jacking shells into the firing chambers.
Ready.
Becker figured there were two ways they could do it: either knock and hope for a polite response, or walk right in and take their chances. He had been told the Dogwood Inn was empty at the moment, all except for his targets and the managers—a man-and-wife team who were smart enough, presumably, to keep their heads down and remain invisible until the smoke cleared.
As they pulled in off the highway, Becker wondered why there were no vehicles in evidence. The old sedan down by the office didn’t count; he figured it belonged to the proprietors. He almost decided to hide somewhere and wait awhile, but there were lights in number 17, all flickery like television on the blinds, and Becker reckoned someone must be home.
He had another brainstorm, standing on the sidewalk with the pistol in his hand. Suppose one of the snoops was out, and he returned to find a strange car parked outside his door. There went surprise, and it could ruin everything.
“Hang on a second,” he told his colleagues.
“What’s the matter?” Jack demanded, looking nervous in the semidarkness.
Becker took the car keys from his pocket, handing them to Dave. “Go stash the car around in back,” he said.
“What for?”
“Because I said so, dammit! Jesus, do I have to get an argument from you on every fucking thing?”
“Hey, man, relax!”
“Just move the car, all right?”
“I’m going! Shit, man.”
As Becker stood and waited, he felt Jack watching him like he was something just descended from a UFO. To hell with explanations, he decided. If the two of them weren’t smart enough to figure out the simple things without a damn diagram, he didn’t have the time to wise them up.
Five nervous minutes later, Dave came strolling back like he had nowhere to go and all night to get there. Becker felt like decking him, but resisted with an effort as his so-called helper joined them.
“What took you so long?” he demanded.
“Had to take a leak,” Dave said, and shrugged like it was nothing, hauling out his piece.
Becker gritted his teeth. “Okay,” he said at last. “On three.”
And started counting.
“One.”
“You mean we go on three, or after three?” Dave asked.
Becker clenched his teeth, ignored the stupid bastard.
“Two.”
“’Cause I don’t wanna fuck it up, you know, and—”
“Three!”
He gave the door a solid kick, no serious resistance from the cheap pot-metal lock. Across the threshold with his pistol leading, Ernie Becker swept the room and stood there blinking, while the others blundered into him and almost knocked him down. “Back off! And check the toilet!”
There was no one in the bathroom; just a little old man sitting on the floor and watching television, like he didn’t notice three armed men had just kicked in his door. A gook, at that, if things weren’t weird enough already. Maybe, deaf, the way he sat there, staring at the tube, oblivious to Becker and his boys.
“You never said he was a Jap,” Dave muttered.
“Shit,” Jack said, “he’s older than my grandma.”
Ernie Becker felt himself relaxing just a little, even as he wondered what the hell was going on. There was an outside chance that Tilton had been led astray by his informants, but that wasn’t Becker’s problem. He did what he was paid to do, and if he had to come back later, maybe punish someone for misleading Tilton in the first place— well, that simply meant he got paid twice.
And what was wrong with that?
One ancient Jap who hadn’t even faced them yet…but where was number two? Forget it. They could wrap the old fart up before his buddy came back with their take-out meal, whatever, and it would be easier that way.
First, though, he had to try and talk to the old man. And that meant getting his attention.
Ernie stepped between the old Jap and the television set that had him captivated, reaching backward with his free hand, switching off the sound.
“Hey, Pops,” he said, “we need to talk.”
The psychic infomercial had faded into another of the insipid programs. In this one, a woman with factory-molded teeth and a stomach flatter than a crepe extolled the virtues of a thirty-cent piece of plastic that was supposed to be the next exercise breakthrough. It was shaped like a potato chip and cost eighty dollars, plus tax. Terrible. Still, it was better than the various insipid comedies or bland newsmagazines stacked up as competition on the other channels.
Chiun would suffer the idiot woman and her stupid device with his usual good grace…if only the barbarians would let him watch in peace.