Behind a faceful of overlapping hands, DiGrotti's brow dropped low. "Wylander?" he asked from between his fingers. "Ain't she dat heifer country star? She's awful, ain't she?"
His guileless eyes stared hopefully down at the old man as he nodded at the truth of his own words. DiGrotti continued nodding even as he saw the faint rustle of fabric at the old man's kimono sleeve. He thought he was nodding even as he felt the sudden pressure against his neck. He was only marginally certain he'd stopped nodding when his head slipped off his shoulders and the floor came racing up to meet him. He hit, rolled, stopped nodding and stopped processing all conscious thought at the exact same moment.
Remo jumped forward even as Chiun's hands were returning to his sides.
"What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded as DiGrotti's headless corpse toppled backward to the floor.
"I was merely saving you from wasting any more precious time," the old man said. "If this shaggy thing would lie about the comely Wylander, he would lie about anything."
He flicked a single droplet of blood from one tapered fingernail before replacing his hands in his kimono sleeves.
"Next time, could you check with me before doing me a favor?" Remo had to take a step back to avoid the widening pool of blood.
"It was not only for you," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "By insulting the fair Wylander with his words of hate, he offended all of what it means to be truly American. Such a slur could not be allowed to pass unpunished on this most solemn and holy week for your fledgling nation. I was merely doing my patriotic duty."
"Why don't you let me worry about the national honor and you worry about not getting filmed lopping people's heads off," Remo said sourly. "Or didn't you notice that?" He aimed a finger ceilingward.
In the far corner of the room, a single motionless video camera peered out across the office.
"Of course I noticed," the Master of Sinanju replied blandly. "Now go and collect the tape. You may use it as an educational tool when we return to Castle Sinanju. I will be in the car."
With that, the old man spun on one sandaled heel and marched from the building.
Alone, Remo shook his head. "Old buzzard," he muttered.
He ducked into a back room. At the ceiling, the camera wires ran in from the front. When he followed them to a supply shelf, Remo expected to find a VCR.
The wires continued out into a back hallway.
He began to worry when he found that the cable wire ran up a dark stairwell.
Three flights up, the cable snaked out onto the roof. Remo's stomach sank when he saw where it led.
A squat white satellite dish was affixed to the icy roof ledge. Tilted up, it was aimed in a southerly direction. The fat black cable was connected to the back of the dish.
With troubled eyes, Remo looked up at the night sky. The city lights dulled the diamonds of the stars. A cold breeze blew up, tousling his short hair and flapping his chinos. When he spoke, Remo's voice was small.
"Uh-oh," he said to the desolate wind.
Chapter 12
There wasn't even a hint of movement. Maybe a tiny flutter of purple. If you looked hard enough.
Louis "The Bear" DiGrotti was just standing there one minute, hands over his mouth, scared-Louis the Bear actually scared-and the next minute, he was in pieces on the floor.
"Damn, his head just up and drops off," one of the men in the small bedroom said, his gruff voice amazed.
Behind him came a terrified peep. It was the tenth time they'd watched the video, and it still shocked Paul Petito.
"Maybe it was already loose," Mikey "Skunks" Falcone suggested. "Like a tooth."
"Heads don't just come loose," Petito insisted.
"I had a toenail that did once," Mikey Skunks said. "And toenails ain't supposed to come off. Maybe Bear's head's like my toenail."
"No," Petito stated firmly. "That old Chinese guy chopped it off."
On the TV screen for the tenth time that evening, Chiun flicked a dollop of blood from the tip of his index nail.
Although the three men in that room had seen the tape multiple times, the man they had beamed it to in New York was viewing it for the very first time. Apparently, he hadn't expected so grisly a scene.
"Oh, my God," Sol Sweet's nasal voice gasped over the speakerphone.
For several long seconds afterward, Anselmo Scubisci's lawyer could be heard retching over the crisp line.
Paul Petito couldn't blame him. He'd had the same reaction the first few times they'd watched the images that had been beamed into his Massachusetts home. Fingers stained black with old ink wiped sweat from his forehead.
"My God, he just-" Sweet's voice finally managed to say. "How did he do that?"
"I guess with them fingernails," Mikey Skunks suggested. "They're pretty long. Maybe he's got, I don't know, razors or something taped to the backs."
Sol Sweet seemed to not even hear the speculation. "This isn't-" he began. "I mean, it can't... Who are they?"
"I don't know, Mr. Sweet. Coupla guys, I guess. Hey, you want us to do 'em?"
Paul Petito's eyes went wide. He wheeled around. Mikey Skunks was calmly watching the screen. Along with the other New York import, he sat on the edge of Paul's bed, a bored look on his face.
There was a pause on the line as Sol Sweet collected his thoughts. "Yes," he ventured finally. "Now, let me think. I'm not sure I heard the last thing you said, but I think our mutual employer would want you to do what he'd do under these same circumstances." He didn't want to get roped into giving any direct orders. These days, there was no telling who might be listening in on private conversations.
Mikey Skunks scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure Don Anselmo would want us to kill them, Mr. Sweet," he suggested.
There was another gasp from the speaker, this one panicked. The line abruptly went dead.
"Yeah," Skunks nodded. "He wants us to kill them." Tongue jutting between his broad lips, he thumbed the VCR remote, rolling back the tape once more.
"So how do we find them?" Petito asked.
He sounded ill. This business at the Boston Raffair office was like some awful dream. Paul Petito was just a counterfeiter. He'd been roped into this for selfish reasons that had nothing to do with killing or being killed.
"We get a picture from here," Skunks said, waving at the image of Remo and Chiun on the screen. "Then I guess we circulate it, start asking around. Can you get their pictures from the TV?"
Petito nodded. "I know a guy who can do it digitally," he said weakly. As he spoke, he was vaguely aware of the front door opening.
Skunks heard the sound, too. "It's about time," he snarled. "We're in here!" he hollered.
By now, the tape had rolled back to the start. Remo and Chiun were standing at the desks in the Boston Raffair office when Paul Petito's bedroom door opened. A fourth man entered the room, lugging two big paper bags. The warm smells of greasy sausage and tomato sauce poured from the bags.