Wyatt sounded like a recording. "This is the San Aquino County sheriff's office. This is Sheriff Wade Wyatt speaking."
"Remo Blomberg, sheriff. When do you expect those people to contact you again?"
"Probably in the morning."
"All right. I've heard from some people in Washington. They'll pay. And they'll pay an extra $500,000 if tomorrow's earthquake is cancelled. Do you think they'll stop it?"
"I don't know," Wyatt said. I'll ask. How will I get the money?"
"I'll have it tomorrow," Remo said. "You can get it from me."
"Okay," Wyatt said. "They told me small, used bills, not in series."
"Right," Remo said. I'll take care of it. And you let me know how much tomorrow."
"I'll call you as soon as I hear from them," Wyatt said.
"Okay, sheriff. Good night."
Remo hung up, glanced at his watch, and practiced his timing. When he felt a minute had passed, he looked at his watch again. Fifty-nine seconds. Not again. The line was busy. So Wyatt was contacting them. He was probably part of it.
Well, then, tomorrow, Sheriff Wade Wyatt would get it too. Remo could not take a chance of killing him now. Not until he had the whole gang together along with whatever equipment they had. He could take no chances with a pre-set timing device that might touch off a quake.
Wyatt drummed his fingers on his desk. The phone rang eleven times before it was answered.
"This is Wyatt."
"This is Jacki. What are you calling for, pig? I told you never to call."
"It's important. Tell your sister she was right. Blomberg does work for the government. And they'll pay one and a half million if you call off tomorrow's quake."
Jacki paused for a moment, then said, "Okay, we'll do it. When are you going to get the money?"
"From Blomberg. Tomorrow afternoon."
"All right, pig. Bring it here after dark. And make sure you're not followed."
"That Blomberg tries to follow me, I'll blow him apart."
"Don't worry about him. If anybody follows you tomorrow night, it won't be Blomberg. Our friend Remo's going to be dead."
At that same moment, that very thought was in the mind of a man checking into the Cowboy Motel. His name was Musso.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"It's all there, sheriff. A million and a half."
Wade Wyatt stood in Remo's living room, his beady little eyes peering out from under his Stetson, looking down into a brown leather valise, filled with bills.
"Small bills, old, not in series," Remo said. "Where are you going to deliver it?"
"I got to leave it tonight out on Route 17 at a special spot," Wyatt said.
"What spot?"
"Sorry, Blomberg. I can't tell you that. If I was to be followed, the whole deal'd be off. And you know what that would mean."
"Yeah, I guess so," Remo said. He was wearing a white bathing suit, having just come in from the pool to meet Wyatt. "Well, good luck," he said. "And listen. If you could get some idea of who those people are, I know folks in Washington who'd like to know."
"I'll try. You can count on that," Wyatt said, wrinkling his chin in a grimace of determination. He picked up the suitcase and left. Remo watched him walk toward his patrol car.
So much for Wyatt until nightfall. When Remo had spoken to him in the morning on the telephone, Wyatt hadn't been at all worried when Remo lied
So his delivery wasn't until dinner-time, at least. Reno would pick him up before that.
Remo went back through the dining room's sliding glass doors to the pool area. As he passed through the dining area, he heard the television in Chiun's bedroom blasting forth the continuing saga of Dr. Lawrence Walters, psychiatrist at large. Chiun's vice: hopeless addiction to TV soap operas.
What was it the man said about California? Remo wondered, as he lay himself down on the slate deck around the pool? The place where all the misfits of the world congregate, under the assumption that since they were going to be miserable anyway, they might as well be warm.
He'd buy that, he thought, as he felt the California sun toasting his bones. Wade Wyatt, Doctor Quake, the twins, Curpwell, the Mafia. He should write a book. About the interesting people he'd met. And the interesting people he'd killed. How many now was it? He had stopped counting. In the hundreds anyway. Just one at a time. Even the slaughter of a thousand persons begins with but a single death. Yep, he should write a book. Smith'd like that. Cut him in for part of the royalties. He'd like that better.
Remo felt himself fading away into a nap. And then he realized he was not alone.
He rolled to his side and in one motion was on his feet, his hands curled at his sides, poised on his toes.
Jacki and Jill stood there. They wore thin yellow dresses that barely reached the tops of their thighs and that hid none of their curves. They ran their eyes openly and hungrily along Remo's body; suddenly he felt naked.
"My, my, the nervous type," the one on the left commented. Remo compared her bustline carefully with her sister's. The one who spoke was Jill. She was bigger.
"And what balance," added Jacki. Remo felt foolish poised on his toes that way, in fighting position. He let himself softly down onto his feet.
"Speaking of balance," he said, "how do you two manage to stand up? It seems a violation of a natural law."
"We encourage violation," Jill answered.
"Moving violation, I hope?" Remo asked.
"There's no other kind," Jill returned. "Tell me, is this all you do? Lie around the side of the pool? Don't you swim?"
"Sometimes."
"We came to thank you . . . really thank you, for helping the professor yesterday."
"Glad to help." He fought to keep his eyes on the girls' faces. Once a tit man, always a tit man.
"Now that we're here, aren't you going to invite us in the pool?"