"I don't know what it is either. It looks like a man in a dark T-shirt and gray pants, swimming toward us."
"At twenty knots? Fourteen miles out in the Pacific?"
"It must be a small boat," said the first mate.
The captain took back the binoculars. He looked out toward the object.
"Right-a boat. With arms and legs that move. How can he swim that fast?"
The first mate got his own set of binoculars.
"You're right. He is swimming fast, and he hardly seems to be making an effort. Not like any swimmers I've seen. They splash a lot. Boy, is he smooth. Do you think we should tell Mr. Muscamente?"
"Those animals back there would tear us apart. He's having one of his meetings."
"Then what should we do?"
"Maybe that guy isn't heading toward us."
"Looks like it to me."
"If he's a man overboard, we have to pick him up," said the captain.
"Doesn't look like a man overboard to me," said the first mate.
"We'll all find out pretty soon."
One of Mr. Muscamente's guests spotted the man overboard soon after. The captain knew this because the guest fired a small pistol at the figure. The figure disappeared under the water. The figure came up at the rear of the yacht and began talking to Mr. Muscamente.
The first thing he did was to convince Fingers to let go of his gun. He did this by separating Fingers from the wrist that held the gun. Big Jelly went overboard like a bucket of chum. Then everyone sat back down quietly, including Mr. Muscamente.
It was a day that would be remembered forever in the annals of the California mob. It was a day that brought tears to the eyes of Mr. Muscamente. These tears came when he could not explain why the witness, "Drums" Drumola, failed to remember testimony.
Mr. Muscamente explained it as forces of the universe, while his underbosses listened politely. The guest who swam aboard had a strong tendency to respond with slaps and twists of arms.
Within a few minutes Mr. Muscamente was a helpless ball of flesh, his double-breasted blue blazer in shreds, his Top-Sider deck shoes kicking helplessly in the air. At that point, the guest who had swum aboard threw Mr. Muscamente over the stern. Every time Mr. Muscamente came up for breath, the guest asked how Mr. Muscamente made Drums forget his testimony. On the third and last time Mr. Muscamente surfaced, everyone on board realized he was telling the truth. He believed he had unlocked the forces of good on his side.
Everyone on board agreed on something else. They certainly didn't want to tamper with government witnesses if this man was protecting them, because they believed, as Mr. Muscamente had shouted, that indeed this man was the supreme force of negativity. And if that were the case, none of them wanted to be on the side of the positive.
Remo sailed back sullenly with the remnants of the California mob and a very impressed captain and first mate. He was quiet, even as his clothes dried. He had failed again.
Several of the underbosses wanted to know who he worked for, not that they were curious, Remo should understand. But they would be totally delighted to employ him. They saw in him the sort of person who shared their most basic convictions. They saw in him someone who would fit perfectly into the California rackets.
"No," said Remo. "I happen to be the good guy." And since he said this as he threw someone overboard, there wasn't a soul to disagree with him as the Mama docked at the Los Angeles marina. They all allowed him to leave first.
When he phoned in to headquarters, he knew he had to be slipping somehow, because Smith was now conciliatory, telling him it was not his fault.
"I would say go at the Poweressence people because that's the only common thread we have here. But if they were behind this, why didn't they use this power to turn witnesses for themselves? It doesn't make sense. The only thing we know is that the whole justice system seems to be coming apart in California."
"Yeah, and if it happens in California, the whole nation catches it soon thereafter," said Remo.
"Are you trying to make me feel good?" asked Smith.
"I don't feel so hot myself."
"Why don't you take a look at that organization? Take Chiun."
"You don't think I can handle things anymore."
"Take Chiun."
"Are you telling me I can't do the job?" asked Remo.
"I am telling you I don't understand how you and Chiun work, and if he tells me you are out of synch with the cosmos, then that means there is something wrong. And you are for some reason not coming up with results."
"You just told me it wasn't my fault."
"I just told you I had no reason to believe it was your fault. I can't be sure."
Remo pulverized the receiver of the pay telephone. It was so much more satisfying than hanging up.
Chapter 6
Lawyer Barry Glidden sent his children off to Switzerland, telling them to use another name for a while. He would contact them when the situation improved.
"Have you done something wrong, Daddy?" asked his daughter.
"No," said Glidden. "I have a very difficult client who is very mad now."
"They won't pay you?"
"No. That's the least of my worries. There is a client I have who thinks the only wrong thing in the world is if something bad happens to her. And she does bad things."
"Like what, Daddy?"
"Like anything, honey. Absolutely anything. Anything, sweetheart. Do you understand?" Barry held the girl's head in his hands. He shuddered. "There is nothing beyond this sick, sick lady's imagination. Nothing that she won't do. To anyone. So that is why you have to leave. She is mad at me now."
"Couldn't you get policemen to protect you?"
"Doesn't work like that, sweetheart. Not with those two."
"Then why do you defend them?"
"Wall, she paid a lot of money. Lots. And I didn't ... couldn't believe they were as bad as they turned out."
"Oh, Daddy. You have had some absolutely horrid clients."