Dr. Quake, page 10
part #5 of The Destroyer Series
“Well, you could call it a water laser.”
“A water laser?” Remo’s mind shuffled through the one percent of the geology book that he still remembered.
Then, “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Of course not. It’s still experimental.” Jacki’s voice came from over Remo’s shoulder.
“What does it do?”
Jill answered. “You’ve seen light lasers, which intensify the power of light by amplifying their waves. You know. Lasers can cut stone and metal. Even diamonds. Well, the professor has done the same thing with water. Water flows in a wave pattern, crests and troughs. Doctor Quake has smoothed out the waves, so that the force is steady—no pulsations and no vibration. This machine will be able to focus a flow of water into a stream of tremendous power.”
“What has that got to do with earthquakes?” Remo asked, forgetting Jill’s boobs for the moment.
Dr. Quake spoke up, in that funereal, words-of-God voice. “The San Andreas fault is six hundred miles long, Mr. Blomberg. Every mile along the fault, we have drilled and dropped shafts. These shafts are loaded with sensors—to measure heat, pressure and other things, too—and their readings are recorded back on the computer in the other room.
“With constant monitoring, we can tell when the pressure on one side of the fault is building higher than the pressure on the other side. That’s the pressure that creates an earthquake as nature tries to equalize the pressure.”
He stopped as if he had answered Remo’s question.
“Yes,” Remo said. “But what does this machine have to do with earthquakes?”
“Oh, yes. The water-laser. Well, by hooking this device up to those shafts before the pressure reaches a critical point, we could pour water pressure down into the fault. The tremendous power of the water surge will literally force the rock apart, with only a modest tremor. But it relieves the pressure instantly and can prevent a major earthquake.”
“If it works,” Remo said, “That’s a great invention.”
“Oh, it works,” said Jacki, standing alongside Dr. Quake. “We know it works. But do you think we can convince your idiotic government that they should assist us with our research? No,” she hissed. “They’d rather be building bombs and spending billions to mess up people’s lives in Asia. And the Professor has had to struggle along without funds.”
“Without funds?” Remo said. “Somebody built the building. Somebody pays your salaries.”
Jill interrupted. “Friends,” she said. “Donations from people and foundations that understand the importance of our work. Without them, we never would have gotten this far.”
“How far?”
“Far enough to test the device,” Jill said. “And it works. At least, theoretically. What we have to do now is to improve our water-laser. Its power and its endurance.” She thumped her hand on the side of the blue metal pump. As she hit it, her breasts jiggled under her thin tee shirt.
She smiled at Remo. “Like a demonstration?” she said.
“Anytime,” he said, and then realized she was talking of the water-laser. “Sure,” he said.
From a pitcher on the table, she poured a small glass of water. “Mind you,” she said. “This model’s just experimental. But it shows the principle.”
She turned off the motor and the laboratory rang with the sudden silence. She lifted off the top of the water-laser and poured in the glass of water. “The device uses its own internal water supply,” she explained.
From the side of the water-laser, there was a nozzle similar to a spout on a gas can. She began to twist a knurled nut. “I’m narrowing the stream,” she said. “It’s adjustable.”
She turned the laser so the spout faced Remo. From the table, she picked up a steel plate, twelve inches square, and handed it to Remo. “Hold it in front of the spout,” she said. “And brace yourself.”
Remo took a good grip on the steel plate and held it in front of the spout. Just one cup of water. How much force could be generated from one cup of water?
Jill tossed a switch and the pump began to groan again. Remo could hear it churning and could tell by its rising pitch that it was building up to top power. And then he was almost lifted off his feet, as a jet of water shot from the front of the water-laser, smashing against the steel plate. His arms were rigid and Remo had gripped the plate with all his strength, but the force of the water acted as a battering ram and knocked Remo five feet backwards.
Remo’s arms throbbed with the pressure of the water against the plate, and then the pressure suddenly stopped as the machine stepped itself down, resuming a steady, low throb.
Jill laughed at the look on Remo’s face.
“I’m impressed,” Remo said.
“The secret is the lack of wave pattern in the water,” Jill said. “There’s no surge, just a steady force. If we focus a stream of water to a narrow extreme it can cut through metal. If we use a wide stream, it can crush. You just saw us use a cup of water. The water-laser holds five gallons when it’s full.”
She turned a dial and the machine slowed down even more. “We’re testing it now for endurance,” she said.
“And this is the only one?” Remo asked.
She paused. “Yes. The only one. Why?”
“Because I think someone may have stolen your plans. Do you know that someone is able to cause earthquakes and is trying to shake down people in this area for protection money?”
“Well, they couldn’t do it with this machine. It’s too small. Still experimental,” Jill said. “And as for stealing our plans, there are no plans. We built the water-laser from scratch, improvising as we went. And who’d be crazy enough to make an earthquake?”
“Who indeed?” Jacki snorted, behind Remo.
“If enough money’s involved,” Remo said, “you can find somebody crazy enough to do anything. That’s why your Mafia friends were here today. They’re trying to move in.”
“Are you a detective, Remo?” Jill asked. “You seem very concerned.”
“A detective? No thanks. I’m just a store owner trying to make a living and I’m not going to be able to if I have to pay shakedown money.”
Dr. Quake walked away and sat himself down behind a desk, looking through a sheaf of papers.
“Listen,” Remo said softly to the girls. “I think you ought to get a guard here or something. Until this whole thing is cleared up. The Mafia might be back.”
“Oh, I think that’s silly,” Jill said. “By the way, what happened to those two men who were here? What did you tell them? We saw them driving away in a real hurry.”
“Only one drove away. The other one’s dead in your kitchen.”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
She started to say something, then stopped. She turned to walk away. “If you haven’t any more questions, Remo, we’ve got work to do.”
“Sure thing,” Remo said. “We’ll talk again. Why don’t you stop sometime and have a swim in my pool?”
“Maybe we will,” Jill said.
“I’m sure we will,” Jacki said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WADE WYATT WAS STANDING ALONGSIDE the road, throwing up Gertie’s lunch into a ditch.
Remo saw the black and white sheriff’s car on the side of the road as he drove back from the institute. Speed-trap, he thought. But as he drew abreast of the star-studded patrol car, he saw Wyatt at the side, his burly back heaving spastically as he upchucked. Next to Wyatt was a cadaverously thin man, dressed in the same tan uniform as Wyatt. The deputy, Remo remembered.
Remo pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, left the motor running, and got out. He walked back to Wyatt, who was still heaving.
“Must be something you ate, sheriff,” he said pleasantly.
Wyatt turned. “Oh, it’s you.” He pointed down into the ditch and resumed vomiting.
Remo looked down. Two men were at the bottom of the ditch. They wore blue suits and had elaborate hair styles that would delight a hair spray manufacturer. It looked as if the two of them had choked on their intestines. Gobs of guts were stringing from their mouths as if their stomachs had been crushed and their intestines had taken the only way out, through their mouths.
“Man,” Remo said, “they must eat in the same place you do.”
Wyatt had his stomach under control now. His deputy said to Remo, “Don’t be talking to the sheriff that way.”
“I’m a taxpayer, sonny,” Remo said.
“Even a taxpayer got no right to go mouthing off to Sheriff Wyatt that way.”
“Sorry,” Remo said. “No offense.”
“All right,” the deputy said. “Just so’s you know.”
Wyatt hitched up his pants and slid down into the ditch.
“Who are they, sheriff?” Remo asked.
“Don’t know yet. Ginzos. Eye-talians,” he explained. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if these were the wops that killed Curpwell.”
“Good thinking,” said Remo who knew better. “Who found the bodies?”
Wyatt was now reaching a hand delicately into the first man’s pocket, looking for a wallet.
“Phone call from a motorist,” he said.
Satisfied the first man’s pockets were empty, Wyatt began to look through the second man’s clothes. Nothing there, either. As he stood up, Remo noticed that the men’s trouser flies were open. He noticed something else too. Around their waists, their shirts and trousers were slightly discolored. As if they had been wet, and then baked dry quickly by the sun.
Wyatt clambered to the roadway again. Almost to himself, he said, “Two unidentified white males. Hit and run victims.”
“Hit and run?” Remo said. “I never saw anybody hit by a car who looked like that.”
“Yeah? What do you know about it? You seem to know a lot about a lot of things.” Wyatt said.
“Nothing,” Remo said. “Sorry to interfere.”
“Yeah. You’re big on interfering. First at Curpwell’s office. Now here. We’re going to have to talk about that,” Wyatt said menacingly.
“Well, I’ll get out of your way then and let you do your job,” Remo said. “By the way, sheriff, one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“You know anyplace in town where I can get raw oysters? You know, all slippery and slimy on the half shell?”
Wyatt spun and began upchucking again.
“Guess not,” Remo said to the deputy and walked away.
“Fagola,” Wyatt hissed after Remo’s car departed and then heaved some more. It was not the idea of raw oysters that had made him chuck and not even the sight of the two mutilated bodies. He had seen men die like that before. Weinstein and McAndrew.
What upset Sheriff Wade Wyatt’s stomach was the phone call he had received. The young female voice had told him where to find the bodies and had done something else too. She had summoned him to a meeting that night. And that could mean only trouble.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“REMO. REMO. REMO.”
Don Fiavorante Pubescio slammed the telephone receiver back onto its stand.
“Always Remo. Is my life to be destroyed by some department store owner?”
He looked down at Manny the Pick Musso, who sat sweating unhappily in a canvas sling chair next to Don Fiavorante’s swimming pool.
“I am unhappy with you, Emanuel,” Pubescio said. “Very unhappy.”
Musso extended his hands to his sides, palms up, and shrugged. He tried a smile that was meant to be ingratiating but turned out to be sickly.
“That was Gromucci on the telephone. Gummo is dead. Albanese is dead. Palermo is dead. Killed by this Remo, whoever he is. And you!”
“I send you to find out something about earthquakes. You wind up killing a man. Then instead of doing the job right, you come back and let your men go talk to that professor. And now two of your men are missing. One of your men is dead. Another one has a broken arm. Why? Because of this Remo.”
He leaned over, tall and tanned in a pale flowered bathing suit, shook a finger into Musso’s sweating face.
“Do you know what is wrong, Emmanuel? I will tell you what is wrong. I like people too much. I put my trust and my faith in fools. I trust Gummo to straighten out a little labor problem at a grape farm. It is too much for him. He is dead.”
“I trust you to find out a little piece of information for me. Do you do it? No. It is too much for you, so you come back here with your tail between your legs.”
“Why? Because of somebody named Remo.”
Pubescio turned and walked toward the edge of the pool, then turned back to speak again.
“What should I do with you, Emanuel?”
Musso opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Pubescio went on.
“Should I do what they did in the old days, to punish failure? I would have cause. No one could point a finger at me and say there is Don Fiavorante Pubescio, who treats his men unfairly and in anger. No one could say that, should I do what I have a right to do. But, no, I am too kind. I like you too much. So I will tell you something.
“This Remo is not just a department store owner. What he is, I do not know. But what he is not, I know. And what he is not is just a shopkeeper. Somehow, he is involved with the earthquake people. He knows about it and he can tell us what we want to know.
“But will he tell us if we walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, Mister Remo, tell us about the earthquake people?’ No, he will not tell us that way. He will tell us if he is forced to tell us. He will tell us only to stop the pain.
“Now, do I have a man who can inflict this kind of pain? Yesterday, I would have answered: ‘Yes. I have Emanuel Musso. He is just the man for the job.’ But today, I am no longer sure. Perhaps Emanuel Musso has grown soft. Perhaps he has become too old for his job. Perhaps I should seek a younger, stronger man.”
Musso stood up from the sling chair. “Don Fiavorante, I am not too old or too soft and so I ask a favor. Send me after this Remo. We will make him talk, my friend and I,” he said, patting his jacket pocket where his icepick was jammed into a cork.
“You ask to go? You ask to go after a man who has told you never to reappear or you will be carried out feet first?”
“I ask to go.”
“Perhaps you are still the Emanuel Musso of the old days. Perhaps you are ready to gamble all on your skills. Because this is a second chance and there is no third chance.” He looked searchingly into Musso’s eyes to make sure that Musso had understood. Succeed this time or chips out of the game.
Musso understood. “I will not fail, Don Fiavorante. I will get the information you seek. And then I will repay this Remo for his insolence to you. I will teach him a very painful and enduring lesson. After all, he is only a man, isn’t he?”
Don Fiavorante Pubescio did not answer. He flexed his legs, dove into his pool and began to swim its length underwater.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHERIFF WADE WYATT WAS GOING TO have to deliver a message to Washington. An important message.
“Shoot,” he said. “I don’t know nobody in Washington.”
“Then ask John Wayne for an introduction, pig. We don’t care how you do it.”
The girl who spoke to Wyatt across the living room of the small trailer wore blue jeans that stretched taut over the muscles of her buttocks and legs as she walked. She was naked from the waist up and the nipples of her enormous breasts played peekaboo through her long, swirling black hair.
Wyatt licked his lips.
“Sheriff, I do believe you’re thinking impure thoughts,” she said. She stepped closer to Wyatt who sat in a straight-backed wooden chair with no cushion. It was uncomfortable on his butt and he felt like a schoolboy at a desk, being scolded by his teacher.
She stopped in front of him and flung her hair back behind her with a toss of her head. The rising mounds of her breasts stared back at Wyatt’s staring eyes.
“Like them, sheriff?” she taunted. “Like them?” she demanded.
“Yes,” he sputtered.
“Well, don’t touch, pig. Not if you want to stay alive. You know what happens to men who touch. Feinstein. McAndrew. The two Mafia goons. They liked them too. You want to wind up like that?”
“Nope,” said Wyatt promptly and honestly.
“Okay. Then keep your fly zippered and your lip buttoned. I don’t know what you’re so upset about anyway. We’re going to make you a rich man.”
“I don’t want to be a rich man. I just want to be a good sheriff.”
“You were precluded from being a good sheriff the instant the sperm hit the egg. And if you worried so much about being a good sheriff, you should have thought of that before you took that girl to the motel. Before you posed for all those nice dirty pictures that we’ve got of you. You know, pig, you do what we want you to, just so we don’t send those pictures around. We’re just cutting you in on the money because we like you. We really do. You’re a sweet guy. For a pig.”
She turned and walked back to the sofa and lay down on it. Her giant globes flattened against her chest and she began idly to inspect her nipples as she spoke.
“First, Washington got involved by sending McAndrew. And we warned them, no more. And then they send this Remo Blomberg.”
“That fairy? A government man?”
“Yes, with your usual perception, you would think he was a fairy, wouldn’t you? Well, now you’re going to get a message to Washington. You’re going to tell them that because they keep sending people in here, it’s going to cost them. Exactly one million dollars. Small, used bills. Not in sequence. And they’re going to give the money to you. And you’re going to bring it here and put it in that refrigerator.
“And this is going to be the last money delivery for you. And to celebrate we’ve got a big bonus for you.
“You could use $25,000, couldn’t you? You could buy a matched set of pearl-handled revolvers. A genuine gold statuette of the raising of the flag at Mount Suribachi. Lapel flag pins for all your friends. Season tickets for the gas chamber.”
She rolled onto her side, her breasts preceding her by a split second and looked at Wyatt. “Unless you don’t want that,” she said. “Unless you want those nice photographs of you in the motel being sent to every home in San Aquino. You want that instead?”
