Remo tried to set the men, something Chiun had been working on him for years. That extra sense of danger, who was a killer and who was not. Chiun sometimes could chart the violence in a man's heart and compute exactly how much would be used.
One night in a restaurant in Kansas City, Chiun had Remo scan the crowd and pick out those who were dangerous. Remo picked three men and couldn't narrow it down any further. Before the night ended, an old woman in a flowered hat tried to kill Remo with a hat pin. The men were harmless.
Chiun had known it was her by instinct.
Now Remo tried. He sat around the table with the four men and he graded them and this time he was sure he was right.
Wyatt might kill somebody by accident. The notches in the gun were for what he thought he should be, not what he was.
Rucker and Boydenhousen appeared like fairly healthy specimens and might, if circumstances led them to it, or if backed into it, kill.
But Lester Curpwell IV, with the fine, graying temples, the honest blue eyes and the strong but warm sympathetic smile of America's nobility. ... He could drive a spike through your retina and not miss a meal.
"We face a serious problem here in San Aquino, Mr. Blomberg," said Curpwell, folding his strong hands together as in prayer. "This is earthquake country, you know."
"That wasn't explained to me when I bought Feinstein's."
"I guess everyone thought everyone else knew. By and large, earthquakes are like any other natural disasters. Things you risk, like getting hit by lightning. A man could, as they say, get killed walking across the street."
"Yes. But in an earthquake, the street walks across you," Remo responded. "And if you have a store, it tears it down."
Remo saw Boydenhousen exchange glances with Rucker, and Sheriff Wyatt extend his manliness to a smothered snort.
"Well, that may be, but earthquakes and tremors are a part of life in California. I believe we've had fewer people killed here by quakes than by car accidents."
"We've had fewer people killed in Vietnam than in car accidents," Remo said.
Remo drummed his fingers. He caught hostility from Wyatt and confusion from Boydenhousen and Rucker. From Curpwell, he got the continued, unruffled presentation. Curpwell was a killer. The earthquakes were his show. No doubt about it.
"Since you feel that way," Curpwell said, "it makes this meeting easier. We are in a position to guarantee you no more earthquake worries."
"Put it in a bottle," Remo said. "I'll drink it."
Curpwell went on to tell the story: how Sheriff Wyatt had been contacted by people who could sell earthquake insurance. Not payment after damages were incurred by earthquakes, but prevention. And after a demonstration, the leaders of San Aquino had decided to pay. Eight thousand dollars a month, twelve months a year.
"Who are these people who sell the insurance?" Remo asked.
"We don't know," said Lester Curpwell IV. "Sheriff Wyatt delivers the money, but he's never seen them."
"You pay a small fortune to someone for protection and you don't know to whom you're paying it? Is that what I'm being asked to believe?"
"I never see them," insisted Sheriff Wyatt, leaning forward under the yellow light so that his reddish face oranged in its glow.
"What do you mean, you never see them?," Remo said. "They're ghosts? They're little elves? What?"
Wyatt was getting huffy. "I never saw them. They called on the phone. They told me where to leave the money. I left it. That's all," he said heatedly.
"You talk to them on the phone," Remo said. "So they have voices. What are they? Squeaky little Munchkins? Moog synthesizers? Men? Women? What kind of sheriff are you, anyway?"
Wyatt half rose to his feet. "They're men," he roared, "and I hope you have a chance to meet them sometime!"
"This isn't really advancing our discussion," Curpwell interrupted. He explained how the four wealthiest men in San Aquino had to pay the tab. To prevent panic. To keep the area growing. To make the small investment against earthquakes to protect their big investment in the area's growth. All in secret. The quake people demanded secrecy.
"And who decided who would pay?," Remo asked.
"Well, I guess I did," said Lester Curpwell.
"And you own the big banking investment place here, right?"
"Right."
"So you would naturally know who had the money, right?"
"Right."
"And now, because I own Feinstein's, you assume Fm going to fork over $24,000 a year to you," said Remo. When he said "you," he looked directly at Curpwell.
"Not exactly," said Curpwell, looking down at his hands. "You see, because of the Feinstein incident-he had disobeyed instructions and reported the whole thing to Washington-we had a quake last night."
"I didn't feel anything," Remo said.
"Well, it was a low one on the Mercalli intensity scale and only inferior structures were damaged. Your home is not an inferior structure."
"Just some wetbacks got killed. No one hurt," contributed Sheriff Wyatt. Curpwell looked pained.
He said, "Sheriff Wyatt got a phone call that the quake was in retribution for Feinstein's contacting Washington. And now the tab has been raised. It's $4,000 a month for each of us. Look at it this way, Mr. Blomberg. It's an investment. A good investment."
"If it's such a good investment, keep it to yourself."
"Look, Remo," said Doum Rucker. "It's for all our benefits."
"Fine. Enjoy it. I don't intend to pay for it."
Rucker brought a fist down on the heavy table. Remo looked at Rucker disdainfully and dandled a foot.
"I can't afford to pay a third of $16,000 a month," Rucker growled. "I don't have that much. I have trouble paying $2,000 a month."
Remo contained a smile. It was working. He might even have the whole thing wrapped up in a day or two. In a voice of angel's clarion innocence, Remo asked:
"Why bother to pay at all?"
"Because I want my family in one piece and my business in one piece. These people have us by the balls. By the balls, Feinstein."
"Blomberg," Remo corrected.
"By the balls, Blomberg."