"You couldn't let it pass?"
"Not really," Remo said. "The situation was escalating, getting out of hand. Besides, they're alive. No problem, Smitty."
"No problem? What about the publicity?" Smith said. "My God, I hate to think of it."
"No sweat," Remo said. "It's a restaurant, okay? It's not like they take names or check ID unless you walk in looking twelve years old and order booze. Which I don't and I didn't, and if they did card me I'd tell them I'm Remo Toohugandkiss or whatever the hell name I'm going by today."
"But you were seen," the director of CURE reminded him stiffly. "Keep in mind you're not exactly a stranger at Folcroft. Someone on the staff would know you if they saw you, and it isn't inconceivable that some of our staff were there or on the street. Larchmont's practically in our own backyard."
"I had my mean face on," Remo griped. "Nobody'll be able to pick me out of a lineup, I swear." Smith spread his hands and turned his lemon face toward the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from the stained tiles. He shook his head at last, fingers coming to rest on the onyx surface of the desk and eyes focusing on the computer screen that came to life, hidden under the desktop.
"All right," he said, "let's all forget about this noodle business for the moment, shall we?"
Remo glanced behind him, wondering if Mark Howard, Smith's associate, had joined the party, but they were still alone.
Smith was focusing his attention on the glowing screen that was quite literally his window to the world.
"There's been some kind of cock-up in the federal witness program," Smith said. "We-"
"Some kind of what?"
The lemon face was raised. "Excuse me?" Smith appeared confused.
"Some kind of what?" Remo repeated.
"What?" Smith's frown showed irritation now.
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Right." Smith stared at Remo for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, then his eyes dropped back to the hidden display. His fingers had never stopped moving, as if they had their own guiding will.
"The Witsec program has begun to leak," he explained. "Or, more precisely, it's begun to hemorrhage. We have three witnesses eliminated in the past two months, along with relocated members of their families. Nine victims altogether, plus a bystander who may have stumbled on the second hit in progress."
It was Remo's turn to frown. "This is something new? They go through witnesses like I go through shoes."
Smith looked at him sharply. "You don't go through shoes so much as waste them."
"They wear out fast," Remo said with a shrug. The sour face Smith made was potent with doubt.
"Perhaps you would like to see an accounting of CURE expenses arising from your shoe habit."
"Hey, what's wrong with having a shoe habit? Most of us have shoe habits. I hardly ever see you strolling around here in your socks."
"Your shoes are handmade in Italy."
"Forgive me for appreciating quality."
"And they are exorbitantly expensive," Smith persisted.
"So are yours, I'm sure," Remo protested. Smith pursed his lips.
"Remo, I have three pairs of shoes. Today I am wearing my newest pair. Black wingtips. I purchased them in 1989."
"They must be really stinky."
"A good pair of shoes lasts a long time, that's my point," Smith said in exasperation.
Remo made a resigned face. "Okay, Smitty, so when do you throw your shoes away?"
"When they're worn-out, of course."
"Me, too. Case closed. Now tell me why we should care about the Feds losing witnesses." Smith knew Remo was right. Shoes was not the subject at hand-but he made a mental note to have Mark Howard generate the expense report he had mentioned.
"The federal witness program has had its glitches over the years, and a protected subject is inevitably lost from time to time," Smith admitted. "The typical scenario involves a homesick witness who can't resist a phone call or a visit home. He is spotted or traced, and then it's not long before he's neutralized. It is an effective reminder to other witnesses in hiding that the act of reaching out to touch someone is often tantamount to suicide."
"I guess it oughta," Remo said.
"Three witnesses in two months' time is different," Smith continued. "It defies the odds of mere coincidence. It should be impossible."
"Never underestimate the screw-up potential of a federal bureaucracy," Remo said. "Were the killings connected?"
"Indeed they were," Smith said. "Are you familiar with the Cajun Mafia?"
"They put hot sauce on everything," said Remo. "Cross them, and you wind up sleeping with the blackened fish."
Smith was used to Remo's quips and ignored them whenever possible. "In fact, they're ruthless. Deadly. Thugs and outlaws from the bayou country of Louisiana who have learned by watching other, larger syndicates, adapting the procedures to their own requirements. Since Marcello died, they've given the Sicilians lots of competition in New Orleans and throughout the state, with feelers out to Arkansas and Texas, drug connections of their own in Mexico, Colombia and Southeast Asia. They're involved in everything from vice to crooked politics and real estate. You name it, and the Cajuns have a slice of the potato pie."
"That's sweet-potato pie," said Remo.
"Whichever." Smith had already allowed Remo to distract him too many times and the conversation was only ten minutes old. "Until a few months ago, the leader of the so-called Cajun Mafia was Armand Fortier, known to his cohorts as the Big Crawdaddy. Please don't ask me why."
"Why?"
"Recently," Smith continued sternly, "after several failed attempts, he was convicted on a RICO charge including several homicides, extortion, drugs-the works. Unlike the previous attempts, which ended in acquittal or hung juries, this time there were witnesses prepared to talk, insiders who believed that Fortier was planning to eliminate them, just in case."
"And was he?" Remo asked.
"Probably. What difference does it make? My point is that they testified, resulting in conviction, and all four were relocated, with their wives and minor children."
"As opposed to major children?" Remo said. Smith wished Chiun were there. The presence of the old Korean seemed to have the effect of humbling Remo or at least reducing the number of pointless comments. But Chiun was spending a lot of his time "meditating" these days. Smith had been assured the old Korean wasn't ready for retirement, but he wasn't sure what else the old Master's decreased involvement could signify.
The chief of CURE forged on. "As you may imagine, whether Fortier was after them before the trial or not, he wants them now. Or, rather, he wanted them, since three are dead. Mark will be here in just a moment with some shots from the crime scenes."
There was a knock at that very moment and the door opened. Mark Howard entered with a manila envelope. "Remo," Howard said with a nod.
"Did he train you to do that, Junior?"