"Why Iran?"
"Well, he had plenty of Iranian supporters when he was in politics. The Iranians feel they're contributing to the downfall of the United States by supplying Moorcock with the drugs."
"But the drugs are brought in by Mexicans, isn't that so?"
"Yeah, but see, the Iranians fly to Mexico City, where they turn the stuff over to some Mexican diplomats, then the diplomats fly here to Detroit to see how cars are made."
"But they also stop at the Church of Modern-day Beliefs."
"Right, and they drop the stuff off there."
Wagner seemed to be warming to his subject. He was really quite impressed with Moorcock's operation. And if talking about it would keep him alive, it was fine with him.
"Where is the stuff processed?"
"We step on it right there, in the basement. We got a regular factory down there."
"And then it's doled out to the kids to sell on the streets, right?"
"Yeah, right."
"Kids like Billy Martin and Walter Sterling?"
"Yeah, them and others."
"By 'others', you mean kids whose fathers work in automobile factories?"
"Just some of them. We don't need too many."
"What's their end of it?"
"That's the beautiful part," Wagner said. "They hide the stuff in the fender wells of the cars, and then somebody at the other end picks it up. It works like a charm."
"So what went wrong?"
"Wrong?"
"Why did Billy Martin kill his parents?"
"That was the kid's own doing," Wagner said. "He said his father was starting to get nervous about the drug money and was gonna talk to the cops."
"So why'd he kill his mother too?"
Wagner shrugged and said, "Maybe she woke up at the wrong time, or maybe the old man confided in her. Hell, maybe the kid just wanted to use the opportunity to get rid of both of them at one time."
"And then what happened to him?"
"Well, when he got caught, we figured he'd talk his head off to help himself, so Moorcock gave the order to have him killed."
"After he was bailed out."
"Right. I had one of my boys call that lawyer and make the arrangements to get him out, and then a few of the boys took care of him."
"Who blew up my car?"
Wagner fidgeted on that one. "Well, I went to the rental office and got your name and your hotel and then sent in one of the men to plant the explosive."
"One of the men up on the catwalk?"
Wagner looked up nervously and said, "Yeah, a guy named Jim Burger."
"Good," Remo said. "I'd hate to leave that little bit of business unfinished."
"Can I go now?"
"No, not just yet, my friend. Shipping the drugs in the cars couldn't be going on at the plant without somebody in authority being in on it. Who is it?"
Wagner frowned and said, "All we needed was the foreman on the assembly line, and we bought him dirt cheap. They don't pay their workers all that much."
"Boffa."
"Right."
"Then he must have killed Louis Sterling."
"Right again."
A cool customer, that foreman, Remo thought. He must have just killed Sterling and then calmly shown Remo where the body was.
"And that's it?" Remo asked. "That's all you can tell me?"
"What else do you want to know?"
"Who makes the pickups at the other end of the car shipments?" Remo asked.
"That I don't know," Wagner said. "I only know the Detroit end of the business. Moorcock is the only one who knows the whole operation."
"Is that so?"
The cold look in the man's dark eyes sent a chill through Wagner's body, and he knew that he'd just signed his own death warrant unless he could talk his way out of it. "Of course, I could always find out for you," he said quickly. "I could go back to the church and—"
"Forget it, pal."
"No, really, I wouldn't mind—" Wagner stammered, but he could see that it was too late.
"I think it's time for you to join your friends."