thedestroyer.deathcheck-第3节

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　thought。　When　he　was　a　policeman　in　his　twenties；　he　would　have　been　puffing　if　he　ran　a　block；　and　probably　would　have　had　to　engineer　a　desk　job　by　thirty　five　or　face　a　heart　attack。　It　was　nice　then。　Just　walk　into　any　bar　you　wanted　when　off　duty。　Have　a　pizza　for　supper　if　you　wished。　Get　laid　when　you　had　a　chance。
　But　that　was　when　he　was　alive。　And　when　he　was　officially　alive；　there　were　no　such　things　as　peak　periods　with　rice　and　fish　and　abstinence。　Actually；　he　didn't　really　have　to　follow　the　regimen。　He　thought　about　that　often。　He　could　probably　do　very　well　at　less　than　full　capacity。　But　a　wise　Korean　had　told　him　that　deterioration　of　the　body　is　like　a　stone　rolling　down　a　mountain。　So　easy　to　start；　so　hard　to　stop。　And　if　Remo　Williams　couldn't　stop；　he　would　be　very　dead。
　
　He　lowered　his　shoes　to　the　rim；　getting　the　feel　of　its　grip　into　the　backboard。　If　you　know　the　feel　of　objects；　the　feel　of　their　mass；　their　movement　and　their　strength；　you　could　use　that　as　your　strength。　That　was　the　secret　of　force。　To　not　fight　it。　And　to　not　fight　it　was　the　best　way　to　fight　people　when　you　had　to。
　Remo　stood　up　on　the　rim　and　gathered　the　where　of　the　floor　into　his　balance。　He　should　have　changed　the　height　of　the　hoop；　because　sooner　or　later　he　would　be　performing　muscle　memory　instead　of　proper　use　of　balance　and　judgment。　When　he　had　first　learned　the　exercise；　he　watched　a　cat　for　a　day　and　a　half。　He　had　been　told　to　bee　the　cat。　He　had　answered　that　he　would　prefer　to　bee　a　rabbit　so　he　could　get　laid；　and　how　long　was　this　dingaling　training　going　to　go　on？
　〃Until　you　are　dead；〃　he　was　told。
　〃You　mean　fifty　years。〃
　　〃It　might　be　fifty　seconds；　if　you　are　not　good　enough；〃　said　the　Korean　instructor。　〃Watch　the　cat。〃
　And　Remo　had　watched　the　cat　and　for　a　few　moments　thought；　really　thought；　he　could　bee　the　cat。
　Now　Remo　Williams　indulged　his　own　private　little　joke　which　signalled　the　start　of　the　exercise。
　〃Meow；〃　he　whispered　in　the　silent；　dark　gym。
　He　stood　on　the　rim；　straight　up；　and　then　his　body　fell　forward；　shoes　gripping　the　rim　by　pressure；　head　going　forward；　shoes　flipping　up；　rim　adding　force；　body　heading　straight　down；　hair　and　head　aiming　straight　at　the　floor…like　a　dark　knife　dropping　into　a　dark　sea。
　His　hair　touched　the　varnish　of　the　floor　and　triggered　a　body　trunk　flip；　the　dark　form　in　the　blackened　gym　spinning　in　space；　the　sneakers　ing　around　quick…　rocket　fast…arching　and　down　steady　standing　on　the　wooden　floor。
　
　Blat。　The　sound　echoed　in　the　gymnasium。　He　had　held　for　the　last　hair…touching　instant　and　then　let　the　muscles　take　over；　the　muscles　of　a　cat　which　shifted　the　body　in。air　and　put　the　feet　on　the　floor。　An　exercise　the　body　could　do　only　when　the　mind　was　trained；　trained　to　steal　the　balance　of　another　animal。
　Remo　Williams　had　heard　the　blat　in　the　gym；　the　sound　of　his　sneakers　hitting　the　floor。　He　was　not　purring。
　〃Shit；〃　he　mumbled　to　himself。　〃The　next　time　it'll　be　my　head。　That　dumb　bastard　is　gonna　get　me　killed　yet；　with　his　goddam　peak　period。〃
　And　he　returned　to　the　balcony　and　the　backboard；　this　time　to　do　it　right。　Without　a　sound　when　his　sneakers　hit　the　floor。
　
　CHAPTER　THREE
　
　The　sun　reflected　on　the　scales　of　the　fish　and　played　on　the　water　and　warmed　the　covered　wood　…pier　of　Giuseppe　Bresicola's　wholesale　fish　market　which　jutted　out　into　San　Francisco　Bay　like　dirty　toy　sticks　on　a　blue　plate。
　Bresicola's　did　not　smell　of　fish：　it　breathed　of　fish　and　sounded　of　fish；　from　the　splat　of　mackerel　piled　on　mackerel　to　the　scrape　of　steel　across　scales。　Entrails　in　giant　barrels　in　seconds　began　the　inevitable　decay。　Fresh　seawater　sqnooshed　over　the　scale…caked　wood。　And　Bresicola　smiled　because　his　friend　was　again　visiting　him。
　〃I　no　tella　you　the　orders　today；　Mr。　Time…Study　man。　Not　today。〃　He　made　a　playful　stab　at　his　friend's　head。　How　nice　this　boy　moved。　Like　a　dancer。　Like　Willie　Pep。　〃You　don't　get　the　orders　today。〃
　〃What　do　you　mean；　not　today；〃　asked　the　friend　who　was　six　feet　tall　and　husky。　He　scraped　his　brown　shoes　playfully　on　the　wood；　a　small　dance　without　motion。　They　were　good　shoes；　50　shoes。　Once　he　had　bought　ten　pairs　of　100　shoes　and　then　heaved　them　out　into　the　Bay；　but　the　next　day　all　he　did　was　draw　money　from　his　account　and　buy　new　shoes。　So；　he　had　gotten　that　out　of　his　system　and　throwing　shoes　away　meant　only　that　you　had　to　take　the　trouble　of　buying　more。
　〃It's　abalone；〃　said　Bresicola。　〃We　got　another　order　from　New　York。　Just　now。〃
　〃So？〃
　〃So　the　last　time　I　tell　you　about　abalone；　I　no　see　you　for　a　month。〃
　〃You　think　abalone　has　something　to　do　with　my　work　here？〃
　〃You　think　maybe　Giuseppe　is　stupid；　Mr。　Time…Study　man？〃
　〃No。　Many　people　are　stupid。　Especially　back　east。　But　not　you；　paisan。　Not　you。〃
　〃It's　something　maybe　to　do　with　the　stock　market；　yes？〃
　〃If　I　said　yes；　you　wouldn't　believe　me。〃
　〃I　believe　anyting　you　say。　Anyting。〃
　〃It's　the　stock　market。〃
　〃Not　for　a　minute　does　Giuseppe　believe　that。〃
　〃I　thought　you　said　you'd　believe　me？〃
　〃Only　if　you　makea　sense。　Stock　market　makea　no　sense。〃
　〃Abalone　makes　no　sense？　Time　studies　make　no　sense？〃
　〃Nothing　makes　no　sense；〃　Bresicola　insisted。
　Very　good；　thought　the　time　study　man；　because　now　was　no　time　to　be　giving　out　signals。　It　would　be　a　very　nice　way　to　get　oneself　killed。　First；　loss　of　your　vibrations；　then　your　awareness；　then　your　balance；　and　before　long；　you　were　just　a　normal；　cunning；　strong　human　being。　And　that　would　not　be　enough。　Not　nearly　enough。
　He　shared　with　Bresicola　a　glass　of　sharp　red　wine；　made　plans　for　dinner　with　no　definite　date；　and　when　he　left；　had　decided　it　was　long　past　time　to　eliminate　the　time…study　man。
　He　would　exist　until　a　plane　ticket　had　been　purchased　with　his　American　Express　card　and　until　800　in　travelers'　checks　were　cashed。　He　would　exist　all　the　way　from　San　Francisco　to　Kennedy　Airport　in　New　York　City。　He　would　walk　into　the　men's　room　closest　to　the　Pan　American　counter；　look　for　a　pair　of　blue　suede　shoes　indicating　that　the　wearer　was　reposing　on　the　mode；　wait　till　the　room　was　clear；　then　mention　that　the　urinals　never　worked　and　that　he　hoped　some　day　the　Americans　could　learn　plumbing　from　the　Swiss。
　A　wallet　would　e　out　from　under　the　closed　mode　door　and　the　time…study　man's　wallet　would　go　in　as　exchange。　The　man　inside　would　not　open　the　door　to　see　who　got　the　wallet。　He　had　been　told　that　to　open　the　door　was　to　lose　his　job。　There　was　even　a　better　reason。　If　he　should　even　glimpse　the　man　who　got　the　wallet；　he　would　lose　his　life。
　Remo　Williams　flipped　the　time…study　man's　wallet　into　the　hand　ing　from　beneath　the　door　and　snatched　the　other　wallet　in　a　motion　so　fast　the　person　in　the　mode　only　knew　there　had　been　a　switch　by　the　change　in　the　shade　of　the　leather。
　So　much　for　the　time…study　man。　Remo　Williams　left　the　men's　room　for　a　small　cocktail　lounge　on　the　second　level；　from　which　he　could　look　back　down　to　make　sure　the　blue　suede　shoes　left　the　terminal　without　looking　around。
　The　bar　was　dark；　hiding　the　afternoon；　a　perpetual　womb；　a　dispenser　of　nerve　killers　that　Remo　Williams　was　not　allowed　to　have　because　he　was　on　peak。　He　ordered　ginger　ale；　then　checked　the　wallet。
　
　
　The　seals　were　unbroken。　He　checked　the　credit　cards　and　the　wallet　flap　for　the　needle　he　had　been　assured　would　bring　instant　death。　With　the　credit　cards　was　a　small　card　with　phone　numbers　that　were　not　phone　numbers。　By　adding　the　numbers　in　the　series；　Remo　learned　that：
　1）　The　Reach…Me…Urgent　was　the　same。　A　Chicago　dial…a…prayer。　（That　would　have　to　be　changed　because　of　deteriorating　phone　service。）
　2）　The　next　training　checkout　with　Chiun；　his　Korean　teacher；　was　scheduled　six　weeks　later　at　Plensikof　Ps　Gym　on　Granby　Street；　Norfolk；　Va。　（Dammit；　Chiun　could　stay　alive　long。）
　3）　The　assignment　meeting　was　at　the　Port　Alexandria　at　8　p。m。；　a　face…to…face；　with…oh　no…Harold　W。　Smith　himself。
　4）　He　was　now　Remo　Pelham。　A　former　policeman。　Bora　and　raised　in　the　Bronx。　DeWitt　Clinton　High　School；　where　he　remembered　only　the　football　coach；　Doc　Wiedeman；　who　would　not　remember　him。　An　M。　P。　in　Vietnam。　Chief　of　industrial　security　at　a　Pittsburgh　mill。　No　family。　No　furniture；　but　books　and　clothes　would　be　arriving　in　two　days　at　Brewster　Forum；　which　had　just　named　him　director　of　security　at　17；000　per　year。
　He　scanned　the　sheet　and　mitted　it　to　memory。　Then　he　folded　it　up　and　dropped　it　into　the　remnants　of　his　ginger　ale。　In　ten　seconds；　it　had　dissolved；　making　the　drink　murky。　It　had　been　the　intention　of　someone　that　Remo　should　be　able　to　dispose　of　the　paper　by　swallowing　it。　There　were　two　reasons　he　would　not　swallow　it…one；　it　tasted　like　glue；　two；　he　didn't　swallow　things　sent　to　him　by　anyone。
　He　took　a　cab　into　New　York　City　with　a　woman　who　didn't　like　New　York　City；　didn't　know　why　she　was　visiting　it　and　would　never　visit　it　again。　So　many　people　with　only　one　thing　on　their　minds。　Not　like　Troy；　Ohio。；　Had　Mr。　Pelham　heard　of　Troy；　Ohio？
　〃Yes；　I　know　Troy；　Ohio；〃　said　Remo　Pelham。　〃It　has　an　i