"Shit," he said and waited courageously for the onslaught.
"What are you going to do with that?" asked Remo, pointing to the ice-pick.
"Gonna cut yo' head off if you don' move back."
Remo moved back.
The young man was delightfully surprised, yet still suspicious. One of his elders managed enough courage to yell from across the street.
"Get outen there, Skeeter."
"You' ass get outen heah. I got the honky. You move, Charlie, you dead."
"I'm not moving," said Remo.
"Less yo' has bread."
"You won't kill me if I give you my money?"
"Gimme," said the youngster, his hand outstretched.
Remo unfolded a ten-dollar bill.
"All."
"No," said Remo.
"You gonna get this in you belly," Skeeter waved the ice-pick.
"Ten dollars. Take it or leave it."
"I take it," said Skeeter. He folded the bill into his chest pocket and sauntered from the park.
"Thet honky ain't so tough," he yelled to his hiding friends. The older man promptly smacked Skeeter in the head, knocking him into a trash can. Another held him down while the third grabbed the ten-dollar bill. They left the youngster bloodied, hanging on to the edge of the trash can.
Chris slept in unconsciousness. Remo went over to the youngster, and stuffed two twenties in his shirt.
"That was pretty stupid going back to those guys with ten bucks," he said.
The youngster blinked and staggered to his feet.
"Those my bruthas and one's my old man, I think."
"I'm sorry," said Remo.
"You white honky shit, I hate you. Ah'll kill you," arid the youngster went tearing at Remo who sidestepped and walked back to Chris, leaving the kid swinging wildly in the street.
Remo kissed her awake.
"Oh," she said. "They took me while I was unconscious."
"Nobody touched you, honey. It's all right."
"They didn't take me?"
"No."
"Oh."
"C'mon, dear. We've got some phone calls to make and the numbers are in your beautiful file cabinet," he said and he kissed her forehead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wives of the presidents of the three other transportation unions were scattered around Chicago in motels. They had been told their husbands were to be working straight through Friday, April 17. They could reach their husbands by phone, but so secret were the negotiations they were conducting, they could not see them.
The wives had ample spending money and constant surveillance. This according to Chris.
"Gene figured that the chance to whoop it up free of interference from their wives was another strong inducement for them to join with the drivers. He said you'd be surprised how many major decisions were made for minor self-indulgences."
Remo and Chris sat in the car parked in front of the 'The Happy Day Inn," which boasted, as did all Happy Day Inns, a big marquee. This one said; 'Welcome Drivers. Truck Stop."
"I can't see the union chiefs making risky decisions like that for, well, some female companionship."
"Oh, no," said Chris. "Gene knew they wouldn't do it for that reason. They got money personally, plus he gave them good deals, higher guaranteed base salaries for their union members. You know with a national union like that, they don't have to bargain for a wage, they submit it. They've got to get what they want or the country starves."
"Did he think Congress wouldn't pass a law?"
"Oh, Congress could pass a law. But Congress can't drive a truck or fly a plane or unload a ship."
"Why didn't he bring the seafarers' union in on this?"
"He didn't need them. They'd only be more of a burden. They got to bring the stuff in. As Gene explained it, the seafarers are pretty much at the mercy of the dock-workers. The dockworkers go on strike and the seafarers can just go play with themselves. It's the delivery to the heartland of America that counts."
"And this Nuihc figured it all out."
"Right. He's a creepy little twirp. But he knows what he's doing."
"What does he look like?':
"A skinny gook."
"Oh, great. Now we have it down to a third of the world's population. Stay here. I'm going in."
"Room 60," said Chris.
"I remembered."
"It's just a precaution. Most people can't remember real good."
"Thanks," said Remo.
It was 3 a.m., the night was still and quiet. A floodlight lit the Happy Inn sign, and small orange lights outside each door in the courtyard burned a pungent chemical, obviously to keep away bugs.
Remo found 31 and knocked. A man cradling a long pole—Remo peered closer—no, it was a shotgun, turned the corner and approached him.
"Why are you at that…" the man said and then suddenly was saying no more. The gun clanked to the cement walkway. The door opened. A head awash in a collection of curlers and a sea of cold cream poked out of the open door.
"Mrs. Loffer?"
"Yes."
"My name is Remo Jones, moral squad, Chicago police."
"There's no one in here," said the sleepy woman. 'I'm alone."
It's not you, ma'am. It's some bad news about your husband;
"Can I see your badge?"
Remo reached into his pocket and with his right hand grabbed a half-dollar. With his left, he removed his wallet from his jacket. Then with hands covering the movement, he presented to the woman what appeared to be a wallet open with a shiny badge of some sort. In the dark, it worked.
"Okay. Come in."
Detective Sergeant Remo Jones told Mrs. Loffer the sad and true story of her husband and underage girls.
"The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
He told her the girls were sick and probably even seduced her husband.
"The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
He told her how the girls were probably being used in some national union manipulation and that her husband should probably not be blamed at all.
"The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
Bluntly, he told her he thought her husband was the victim.
"Bullshit. He's a bastard and he always will be," said Mrs. Loffer.
If Mr. Loffer would leave town this very morning, Chicago police would drop charges.
"You may, but I won't. The bastard," said Mrs. Loffer.
By 4.30 a.m. Remo had three angry wives in the back seat of the car. The first wife helped convince the second, and the third was dressed and ready to go before Remo had a chance to explain that it wasn't her husband's fault.
At 4.30 a.m. just outside the city limits in a new building with some of the plaster still drying and the plumbing just beginning to work, Gene Jethro sat beside a pool in an indoor garden listening, nodding, working his hands nervously, and perspiring profusely.
"Can't we just ignore the guy?"
"No," said the other person in a high, squeaky voice.
"Look. I don't have anything against him. So he walked with Chris. She was just another broad, anyhow."
"It is not that he has taken your woman. It is not that he is most dangerous. It is that proper precautions indicate he be dead."
"We used the truck. It didn't work. The guy gives me the creeps, Nuihc."
"This will work."
"How do you know?"
"I know what will work on this man. And once he is gone, then the other person will go."
"Oh, we can take the little gook, I mean Oriental gentleman."
"Did your three men, as you say it, take the gook?"
"I'm sorry for that expression, sir."
"Let me tell you something. Neither you nor your men nor your children, given weapons of the utmost ferocity, given coordination beyond your pitiful imagination, could, as you so crudely say it, take that little gook."
"But he's an old man. He's ready to die."
"So you say. And so you have lost three men. You think your eyes can tell you truths, when you cannot see. You think your ears can tell you truths, when you cannot hear. You think your hands can tell you truths, when you do not know what it is you feel. You are a fool. And a fool must be told in detail what to do."