Destroyer 001 by the Destroyer Created

Author:the Destroyer Created [Created, the Destroyer]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

Remo had been in the bar for hours. The receptionist had muttered something about her husband, finished her drink and left. He was the only one drinking. The bartender just refilled his glass whenever he nodded. A mess of bills soaked up the spilled liquid. The bar was dark and slightly overheated. It was too big and too empty.

Occasionally, the bartender complained about how business had left when the burlesque nearby closed down. It was a tourist bar that had had to go local and couldn't make the switch. Prices were still eighty cents a shot. The bartender never bought one back, as was the custom in New Jersey.

The hospital was about ten blocks away. It was the wrong place to stay, as he had been taught, and it was the wrong thing to be doing. But he was there and he was drinking and he would keep on drinking until he bought a bottle and brought it to a hotel room where he wouldn't be rolled for the cash.

Remo nodded and the glass filled up with a double shot of imported Canadian whiskey. He wouldn't even register at the hotel. He would keep on drinking until he could not think, until he could not feel or know and then he would be rolled undoubtedly and then thrown in jail and then CURE would find him and they would end it all.

They would do a good swift job, as fast as an electric chair, maybe faster. And then the judge's sentence would be carried out and may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Remo nodded again and the glass filled again and some more hills disappeared again and by the white lighted clock over the bar it was one p.m. or something or was it one a.m. or something?

There was sun in the street out there, too much sun and light. People played in the light, didn't they? They were the day people. And the whiskey was good. It was doing its job. "Whiskey," Remo mumbled, "can contain without taste traces, small amounts of cyanide, any amount of arsenic and various toxic chemicals."

"What, sir?" the bartender asked.

"Toxic chemicals," Remo said.

The bartender, whose greasy graying hair gave him the appearance of an Italian count gone broke, said: "No, this is good stuff. We don't lace it. You're drinking the best."

Remo raised the glass. "To the best. To Chiun."

"To what, sir?"

"Take the money."

"All of it?"

"No. Just for the drink."

The bartender made a sloppy snatch on the extra bill. He'd never pass a CURE test.

"What, sir?"

"Another."

"You haven't finished that."

"I will. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back." Maybe he should kill the bartender, then he'd be safe in jail. Maybe life. Life. Life. But jail walls didn't stop CURE. Oh, no. Not the team. Protect the team. The team must be safe at all times.

"You played on a team, sir?"

"I played on the best." Damned stool. Remo grabbed the bar ledge. "No one ever got through the center of the line.

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