"Got it right here," Remo said, reaching into his pocket. But of course his cash was in the pocket of his black chinos, underneath the white hospital trousers he was wearing. So he drove his fingertips through the bottom of the empty pocket, ripping the fabric, then reached through the hole into his chino pocket and brought out a roll of bills.
As he pretended to count off fifty dollars, Remo said, "I've heard that some of you guys are pulling the plugs on these patients. That doesn't seem fair."
The thin orderly grinned. "Everybody's got the same chance. If Mrs. Grayson lives to your day, and you pull the plug on her and nobody notices and she conks, well, then you're the winner." He grinned. "It's simple. Everybody's got an equal chance to get the pool."
Remo held fifty dollars toward the man, who ex-
tended his hand for it. killing patients.
went back into the room. He sat at the table with the sheet flattened out before him.
Another orderly entered the room. He was a squat blond, whose bristled haircut made him look
'Where's Arnie?" he asked Remo.
"What day you got?''
"Nineteenth." The man poured himself a cup of coffee. "How much we collect so far?" he asked.
"Look for yourself," Remo said. He pushed the sheet across the table. The man reached for it and Remo said, "Arnie's dead."
"Dead? How ..."
"I pulled his plug," Remo said. "Like this." The husky blond saw Remo's hand start to move, but he never saw it reach him, never saw the fingers flip out from the coiled fist, never felt them slap away at his throat, deftly removing his Adam's apple and windpipe with no more effort than if Remo had been flicking a saudfly from his wrist.
He put the blond in the same closet where he'd put Arnie and sat waiting for the third orderly. These three were the organizers; the rest of the bettors were just having some macabre fun. They were content to lose if the patients lived. So far as upstairs knew, none of them had anything to do with
"Ever wonder?">Remosaid. Arnie was ¿e fest The gecond had been BiUy
"Wonder what? according to his name tag. That left Jackie. The
"How it feels to get your own plug pulled? The b&
man looked up, and met Remo's eyes. Remo smiled, reached out and unplugged the orderly's windpipe. Remo tossed the body into a coat closet, took the
typewritten sheet from the man's shirt pocket and
16 17
door opened and an orderly came in wearing the name tag of Jackie.
It was a woman.
Remo hadn't suspected that. But "Jackie" could
be male or female. He should have known that upstairs would forget to tell him about a minor point like that.
It didn't bother him. He had killed women before.
"Where's Arnie and Billy?" she asked.
"Dead," he said.
She was too busy looking into his eyes and smiling to hear him. She sat in the chair across from him. "When will they be back?"
She was pretty. Green eyes, auburn hair, good breasts, and a clean-well-washed smell.
"What are you doing with that sheet?" she asked, pointing to the paper in front of Remo.
"Arnie gave it to me," Remo said. "What day do you have?"
"Eighteenth," she said. "Tomorrow. Guess Til have to pull a plug," she said with a smile. "What'd you say happened to Arnie and Billy?"
"Ask them yourself," Remo said. Her eyes widened as he unplugged her windpipe. Her eyes really were a pretty green.
He dumped her into the coat closet with the two men, and stood back to savor his handiwork.
"That's the lottery biz, sweethearts," he said and slammed the door.
He waved to the peppermint striper on his way out, dumped his whites into a laundry bin, waved to the older nurse at the front desk and left the hospital.
The terminal cases could now terminate on their own. It made Remo feel good.
But not for long.
He had other assignments that night.
18
CHAPTER THREE
Elmo Wimpler had been frightened of becoming a burglar but he was more frightened of starving to death, penniless, unknown, friendless.
He had waited until late night, and then had donned his black uniform. He turned out the lights over his front door, then stepped out into his yard.
He looked down at himself. He could barely see the outline of his feet and legs. He understood that he was slightly visible in silhouette because of the lights reflecting around the street. He would have to remember that he was most effective in pitch darkness.
He cut through backyards, behind houses, once passing only inches from a sleeping German shepherd who did not stir as Wimpler walked by. With each step, Elmo felt the power growing in him.
He knew what house he would hit. It was in the Park Slope section only a few blocks from his home. He had often walked by the house, a big brick and stucco English tudor design with a long, black Cadillac parked out front.
Elmo slipped around the back of the house and waited on the darkened porch, trying to calm his nerves and still the thumping of his heart. He might be invisible but his heart was making so much noise he could be heard a block away.
Finally, he tapped lightly on the doorbell and
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