She knew she was going to get what she wanted when demand number twelve, the sealing of the keyhole against intrusive odors, was carried out. Total obedience. That's the way it always should be, she thought smugly.
"When I'm in charge of this state," she muttered to herself, "people are going to jump when I bark."
"Woof-woof," a voice said, as the door opened.
"Hold it right there," Rona commanded.
Remo Williams paused on the threshold.
"Before you enter, do you, or have you ever, smoked in your life?" demanded Rona Ripper.
"Not in years," Remo said.
"Then you can't come in."
"Too late. I'm in," Remo said, flashing his Secret Service ID. He looked around the room and noticed it was empty.
"No press?" he asked.
"They know I'd sue them if they so much as pointed a camera in my face," sniffed Rona Ripper.
"I don't think your face is where they'd be pointing their cameras," Remo said dryly. "No offense," he added quickly, as he saw Rona Ripper's bloated face turn purple.
"You get out of here right now!" she screamed.
"Now now, you'll wake the homeless," Remo chided.
"Too late," came a growling voice from under the bed. "I'm already awake, man."
Remo looked under the bed, where he discovered a man in a dirty green nylon sleeping bag. The man said, "City Ordinance 42-D. We get the beds if they're empty, and the space under them if they ain't."
"I would like to have a private conversation with this woman," Remo said wearily.
"He stays," said Rona Ripper. "He's part of my natural constituency."
"No, I ain't. I'm voting for Esperanza. He gives me hope."
"Get that bum out of here!" Rona screamed.
"A pleasure," said Remo, reaching down and pulling the sleeping bag into the light. The man was struggling to get out. Remo zipped the sleeping bag as far as it would zip, entangling the slide in the man's blond beard.
Remo then dragged the sleeping bag out into the corridor and into the elevator, where the card game was still in progress. He set down the wriggling, nylon-sheathed form on the pot.
"Going down!" Remo called, hitting the LOBBY button. The steel doors closed as the players scrambled for the pot.
Back in the hospital room, Rona Ripper was in no better mood.
"I don't talk to pigs from Washington," she snarled.
"Then listen. Someone tried to kill Enrique Esperanza. Someone tried to kill Barry Black. You're the only other candidate in the running. The finger of guilt points to you."
"It does not."
To prove his point, Remo took the steel-hard index finger of his right hand and used it to test the thickness of the bandage over Rona Ripper's generous left cheek.
This produced an ear-splitting howl from Rona's other end.
"Answers. Are you behind this or not?" No.
"Then someone in your organization is?"
"No, I swear!"
"There's no third suspect. Do better than that. The finger of guilt is very, very angry."
Remo pressed harder. Tears streamed from Rona Ripper's pain-squinted eyes. Her long black hair threshed about, like a bloated octopus struggling to free itself from a net. She bit her lips to fight back the waves of hot pain.
"I can't tell you what I don't know!" Rona Ripper moaned.
"Okay," Remo said, trying not to sound disappointed.
"You're not behind the shootings. But someone is. Maybe someone who's willing to go pretty far to put you in office. I need entry into your organization."
"Any . . . anything!" Rona gasped. "Just . . . just stop!"
Remo scooped up the telephone and handed the receiver to Rona Ripper. "Set it up. The name's Remo Gerrymander."
"The card said Drake."
"The card lied." Remo folded his arms as Rona Ripper called her campaign headquarters.
"Blaise? Rona. I have a new man for you. What? Of course I sound strange. I'm lying on my belly with a slug in one cheek. How do you think I should sound? Bubbly? Now this guy. His name is Remo. When he shows up, put him to work where he'll do the most good."
Rona Ripper hung up, saying, "It's all set. Go to the Main Street office."
"Remember, mum's the word," said Remo, as he left the room.
After Remo had gone, Rona Ripper scooped up the telephone and stabbed the redial button.
"Blaise. Rona again. That Remo I told you about. He's dangerous. Get rid of him before he learns too much."
Chapter 21
In the Santa Monica headquarters for the Rona Ripper campaign, Blaise Perrin hung up the telephone with trembling fingers.
Almost immediately the phone rang again. Thinking it was the candidate herself calling a third time, he scooped up the receiver and fumbled it to his pinched face.