Of course. He had seen that cigarette-holding number once before, when he was arresting P. J. Kenny on a gambling charge.
Remo had been a rookie patrolman, walking a beat in the Ironbound section of Newark. He was walking past the store-front headquarters of somebody's Social and Athletic Club-the kind that proliferated every mayoral election year-and when he glanced inside the brightly lighted room, he saw men, sitting at a table, playing cards, with mounds of bills and silver stacked on the table.
Gambling was against the law in New Jersey, even though no one seemed to notice. Remo did what he thought was best.
He stepped inside the clubrooms, and waited until he was noticed.
"Sorry, fellas," he said with a smile, "you'll have to close down the game. Or move to a back-room where people can't see you from the street."
There were six players at the table. All had large stacks of money in front of them, except one. He was a tall, lean man; his nose was squashed over his face and he had scars over both eyes. He had only a few singles on the table in front of him.
The others at the table turned to look at him. He carefully inspected his cards, then looked up at Remo, slowly, contemptuously.
"Fuck off, kid," he said. There was no humour in his voice. It was thick, guttural, New Jersey street-talk.
Remo decided to ignore it. "You'll have to end the game, men," he said again.
"And I said, fuck off."
"You've got a big mouth, mister," Remo said.
"I got more than that," the man said. He stood up, pulled his cigarette from the ashtray, and came toward Remo.
He stood in front of him and said again, "Fuck off."
"You're under arrest."
"Yeah? What's the charge?"
"Gambling. And interfering with an officer."
"Sonny, do you know who I am?"
"No," Remo said, "and I don't care."
"My name's Kenny. And in forty-eight hours, I'm going to have you dragging ass on some miserable beat in Niggertown."
"You do that," Remo said. "But do it from jail. You're under arrest."
Then the cigarette pointed toward his face, held that way between thumb, index and middle fingers, and it punctuated Kenny's words.
"You're going to be sorry."
He booked Kenny that night for gambling and interfering with an officer. Forty-eight hours later, Remo was walking a beat in the heart of the black ghetto. PJ Kenny's attorney waived a hearing in municipal court and the case was sent to the grand jury. It was never heard of again.
Remo never forgot the incident. It was one of the first of a series of disappointments he encountered, when he tried to act as if the law were on the level.
From his beat in the ghetto, Remo was framed for murder and brought to work for CURE, after having been "executed" in the state prison in an electric chair that didn't work.
PJ Kenny moved on to better things, too.
He became well-known in gangland as a professional killer who hired out to all sides. He was the top contract man, the man who never missed.
He had a reputation a department store would envy. He was all business and he gave top value for the dollar.
Because he was so good, he was feared, and thus he never became a target for one side or the other in the gang wars that periodically infected the country.
It was known that there was no animosity in his work, no personal enmity. He was just a professional. And a side that knew it had lost a man to PJ Kenny seemed not to take it personally. If they came up with the right price, they could hire him themselves to even the score.
He turned down dozens of offers to join forces with different families. He was probably wise, because it was his reputation for even-handedness that kept him alive. He was not a partisan and therefore not a man partisans should go after.
One man had tried it once, after PJ had carried off a contract against the son of a mob-leader. The hood was trying to impress his boss. The hood wound up dead, along with his father, two brothers, wife and daughter. All carved with a knife like Thanksgiving turkeys.
That was the last time anyone took personal umbrage at any contract PJ Kenny carried out. Now he was considered the Tiffany of the trade, and he had more work than he could handle.
Then a few months ago, there had been a Senate investigation into racketeering. A subpoena was issued for PJ Kenny to testify. He vanished. Remo had read it in the papers and hoped that CURE would be involved, that he would have a chance to go after PJ Kenny.
But CURE wasn't, he didn't, the Senate hearing died out, and P. J. Kenny remained out of sight.
And now here he was, with a new face, on his way to Algeria. Smith's report had told Remo that many of the top Mafia leaders in the country were on their way to meet with Baron Nemeroff.
Was there any doubt that PJ Kenny was travelling on a professional mission? Nobody vacationed in Algeria. Not even Algerians.
Remo read, while the plane whistled on across the Atlantic, double-timing from day to night.
Remo heard steps behind him and glanced up as Kenny walked down the aisle of the plane, swaying from side to side, drunk from seven straight hours at the bar in the lounge.
He staggered to his seat, sat down heavily and looked around belligerently. His eyes caught Remo's and he tried to stare Remo down. He finally gave up, turned around and slumped back into his seat.
The blonde stewardess came from the pilot's cabin and walked slowly down the aisle, her head clicking from side to side, looking to see if passengers needed anything.
Remo heard PJ's guttural voice. "Come here, girl."
From his seat, Remo saw the young blonde step up to Kenny. "Is there something I can do for you?" she said, smiling, willing to let bygones be bygones, as they learned in lesson seven at stewardess school.
"Yeah," Kenny growled. He motioned for the girl to come closer and he spoke softly in her ear. Remo saw her face turn red with embarrassment, and then, just as suddenly, turn into a pain-filled mask.
PJ had his hand up under her skirt and Remo could tell he was squeezing her flesh. It must have hurt too much for her to yell.
PJ laughed and put his other hand on her wrist, then pulled her down toward him again. Her face was still pained, and his left hand was still working under her skirt. He spoke again into her ear, cruelly, viciously, and Remo could see tears welling in her eyes.
He got up from his seat and walked forward to the aisle seat where PJ Kenny held the girl prisoner in his grip.
"Johnson," he said.
There was a pause, then Kenny looked over his shoulder at Remo.
"Yeah. What do you want?"
"Let go of the girl. We've got to talk."
"I don't want to talk," he said thickly. "I don't want to let go of the girl."
Remo leaned close to Kenny's face. "Let go of that girl or I'll peel that scar tissue off your face and stuff it down your throat."
Kenny looked up again-annoyed this time, as well as surprised. He hesitated a moment and released the girl.
Remo took her hands in his. "I'm sorry, Miss." Tears streamed down her face. "Mr. Johnson had too much to drink. It won't happen again."
"Hey there," Kenny demanded. "Whaddya mean, too much to drink?"
"Just close your face," Remo said. He released the girl's hands with a comforting squeeze, then watched as she slowly walked away, up the aisle.
Remo slid past Kenny's knees and took the seat next to him.
"Your face looks pretty good," he said.
"Yeah?" Kenny answered suspiciously. "Yours doesn't."
"I'll have to get the address of your plastic surgeon. Maybe he can make me as distinguished looking as you."
"Look, mister," Kenny said. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but why don't you just fuck off?"
"I'm from Nemeroff," Remo said.
"Yeah? Who's Nemeroff?"
"Don't get cute with me," Remo said. "You know damn well who he is. He's the guy you're taking this trip for."