: KILLING TIME
Copyright ® 1982 by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.
First printing, October, 1982
ISBN: 0-523-41560-5
Cover illustration by Hector Garrido
Printed in the United States of America
PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.
1430 Broadway
New York, New York 10018
KILLING TIME
Chapter One
The vintage 1940 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow glided noiselessly through New York's Central Park, its smoked windows sealing off the lilting strains of Pachelbel's Canon from the humdrum sounds of the city.
inside, behind the liveried chauffeur, sitting in a sea of velvet the color of his dark wavy hair, Dr. Felix Foxx sipped at a daiquiri from a glass of cut Baccarat crystal. He pressed a button on the partition between the front and rear seats.
"Any joggers?" he asked the chauffeur.
"No, sir."
"Keep looking," Foxx said in richly modulated tones, and switched the microphone off.
Ah, this was the life, he thought as he sniffed a rose in its Lalique bud vase. He finished his drink and set the glass back into the small lacquer bar built into the Rolls. He slid his hand over his $55 tie from Tripler and the flawlessly tailored lapels of his $1200 Lanvin suit. He looked down at his Botticelli shoes, gleaming a dark mahogany against the white plush of the carpeting.
A perfect life.
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The rear speakers buzzed to attention, "Joggers, sir."
Foxx's eyes narrowed into hard little slits. "Where?"
"Ahead and to the left, Dr. Foxx."
He peered through the darkened glass. Ahead, running alongside the road, were a man and woman dressed in running clothes, their Adidas sneakers kicking up the dust behind them. Their faces were flushed and glistening with sweat.
"Get into position," he said.
The car sped up alongside the joggers, then spurted slightly ahead. "Ready?' Foxx asked, a small spark of lust coming to his eyes.
"Ready, sir."
Through the smoked windows of the Rolls, Foxx took a good look at the joggers. They were sparkling with good health, two fine specimens flirting with one another. "Now," he growled.
The car zoomed forward, kicking gp a cloud of dirt and pebbles onto the astonished joggers. Through the rear window, Foxx could see them coughing and sputtering, their shiny perspiring faces coated with soot.
"On target," he yelled, laughing uproariously.
"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said.
"Shut up." He slammed off the communications system and chuckled while he took out a silver vial from his vest pocket and snorted a noseful of cocaine from a tiny silver spoon.
He hated joggers. He hated health. If it weren't for the miilions brought in from Running & Relativity and Live Free On Celery-Foxx's two books concurrently on the New York Times bestseller list-he'd see to it that runners, hikers, dancercisers, tennis players,
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ski bunnies, and all the assorted other health nuts of the world were put on priority lists for euthanasia.
The car swept out of the park and pulled up slowly beside the curb. "It's two blocks to the television studio, sir," the chauffeur said.
Foxx sighed and put away the cocaine vial with a growl. "All right, all right," he said with the resignation of the doomed. "Hand them over."
The sliding partition behind the driver slid open, and the chauffeur handed him a neatly stacked pile of clothing. There was an undershirt, a pair of pale blue custom-tailored sweatpants, and a jacket to match. Foxx unfastened his own clothing reluctantly and handed it up to the driver, then put on the running clothes with a grimace. He hated the feel of them.
"Sweat," he commanded morosely.
Obediently, the driver handed him an atomized bottle of Evian Tonique Refraisant, which Foxx dutifully sprayed over his face to simulate perspiration.
It was hell being a health guru. "Anyone around?" he asked.
"Coast is clear, sir." The chauffeur slid out of his seat and came around to open the door for Foxx.
"Pick me up in an hour," Foxx said. He retched once and trotted away.
By the time he reached the WACK studios, the retching had subsided and the expression of bitter resolution on his face had changed to one of radiant cheer. He waved to onlookers outside the studio entrance. He joked with the receptionist in the studio. He told funny stories to the other guests waiting to go on the "Frank Diamond Show" in the studio's green room. He jogged triumphantly on stage.
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On camera, he was greeted with shouts and cheers. Frank Diamond introduced him as "Feiix Foxx, the Phantom of Fitness."
Smiling warmly, he admonished the overweight housewives of the nation to find happiness through fitness and his books. Audience members gave testimony to the life-changing effects of Dr. Foxx's inspirational talks. Middie-aged women screamed in ecstasy as he demonstrated jumping jacks. Fat girls threw their candy bars into the aisles with the fervor of zealots.