Ghost in the Machine, page 9
When Remo picked up human lung action and an accelerated heartbeat, he opened his eyes.
The gloom quickly lifted as his visual purple kicked in.
There was a man almost at his feet. He was on his hands and knees–actually, on his knees only. He was using his hands to try to climb the set of concrete steps that led to the upper basement. His hands were going through the hard-looking steps. As if he refused to accept his inability to make contact, he kept trying.
A sob broke from his lips.
Gently, Remo said, “Hey, buddy. Let me give you a hand.”
“Help me. Help me. The steps won’t let me touch them. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s going on.”
The man sounded as if on the verge of nervous collapse. Remo decided to deal with him in the most expedient way. He reached down, got the back of the man’s neck vertebrae, and found a responsive nerve. The man simply fell into the steps, as all volition left him.
Remo gathered him up, realizing only then that he had a fireman. The black-and-yellow slicker told him that.
Once more closing his eyes, Remo retraced his steps. This time, he zeroed in on the breath of cool night air that was coming from the earthen tunnel.
When he saw pink light through his lids, he opened his eyes.
Remo, the limp fireman in hand, emerged onto deserted Fifth Avenue. He laid the fireman out on the sidewalk. The man kissed the solid pavement and began to crawl toward the distant police lines, as if fearing that to stand up would cause him to lose all support.
“Remo! Come quickly!” Chiun’s excited voice squeaked.
It was coming from around the corner. Remo moved in the direction of the summons, thinking, “What now?”
He came around the corner to find the Master of Sinanju, Delpha Rohmer, Cheeta Ching, and the man who could only be Cheeta’s missing cameraman, staring at an antique store’s display. The cameraman was capturing it on film. He looked as steady as a three-legged chair.
As Remo came up, Chiun said, “We have found the zone of disturbance.”
“We have?” Remo asked, looking over their shoulders.
“Lo!” announced Delpha Rohmer, pointing to the display. Around her, the faces of the others were grim and drawn.
It was a Halloween display. Centered around a black velvet surface were assorted ikons, chief among them a goat’s head set in the middle of a silver pentagram.
“I see the head of a goat and the Star of David,” Remo said tightly. “So what?”
“It is the symbol of Baphomet, the Horned One,” Delpha intoned in a chilly, distant voice. “Some ignorant window decorator, unaware of the forces he was unleashing, made this display and brought ruin down on his head.”
“‘He’? What makes you say ‘he’?”
“No woman would do this,” Delpha snapped. “Women are naturally intuitive. A woman would know better than to create such a potent configuration. Besides, those horns are so phallic.”
“I give up,” Remo said.
“No. We must not surrender to the dark forces. There are countermagics we can summon up.”
“That’s not what I–”
Delpha cried, “Back! I must unleash my full charms!”
“Everybody step back thirty or forty miles,” Remo growled. “This could be serious.”
“What did I ever see in you?” Cheeta sniffed, pulling her cameraman back and pointing first him, and then his lens, in the direction of Delpha Rohmer.
“A snack.”
Chiun’s wizened cheeks puffed out in indignation. “Remo!”
“Sorry, Little Father.”
As Remo watched, Delpha squared her wan shoulders and began to chant, “Max Pax Fax. Spirits of darkness, dispel before my feminine talismans.”
She threw up her arms. Nothing happened, except that Remo reached up to pinch his nose. The toadstool odor was there again. He realized it was coming from under Delpha’s armpits.
“Is it working?” Cheeta breathed.
Remo looked up. He saw a gray-streaked pigeon attempt to land on one of the trees that decorated the lower setbacks of the Tower and fall through, only to jump out of the trunk in a scattering of frantic wings. “No.”
Delpha frowned. “My female powers are not strong enough.”
“Tell that to my aching nose,” Remo muttered.
“Is there anything I can do, as a female?” Cheeta called.
Delpha looked back over her shoulder.
“Do you shave your armpits?”
“What kind of question is that?” Cheeta wondered.
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you are powerless,” Delpha said flatly.
Remo looked at Chiun. “Anything about this you care to explain to a skeptic?”
Chiun sniffed. “It is white magic. It may not be as good as yellow.”
“Yellow couldn’t smell as bad, that’s for sure.”
Delpha continued to hold her pose. She stood rigid and unmoving. In the distance, the cacophony of New York traffic noise came and went. It was quieter than usual, and had an almost frightened quality.
Remo noticed that the crawling fireman had finally reached police lines, and was being lifted over the barbed-wire barrier by helpful hands.
His “Thank God!” was probably audible in Hoboken.
When Remo’s attention returned to Delpha Rohmer, he saw nothing that made any more sense than before.
Curious, he moved to a better angle.
He saw that under Delpha’s armpits were two clots of black hair, thick enough to pass for twin muskrats.
“Is there a name for what you’re trying to do?” Remo called. “Or are you just imitating Elsa Lancaster?”
“It is hair magic.”
“Hair magic?”
“A potent talisman,” Delpha explained, straining to keep her arms high. “Modern women have been brainwashed into shaving their bodily hair.”
“I heard it had something to do with good hygiene.”
“It is a scheme by men to deprive them of their most attractive lures, their greatest power, before which most gods and male demons are powerless. Delilah understood this.”
“Yours aren’t exactly raising the dead here,” Remo pointed out.
“You are right. I must unveil my most fearsome talisman.” Her hands dropped to her shoulder straps.
Remo’s eyes went surprised. “Not–”
“I must be skyclad!”
At that, Delpha shrugged her shoulders and her black spidery gown slipped to the sidewalk, revealing a third muskrat.
Remo looked to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju brought one sleeve of his kimono up to his eyes to shield them from the white woman’s shameful nakedness. Cheeta was positioning the cameraman and hitting the zoom button.
Remo decided to withdraw.
“Nice show, huh, Little Father?” he asked dryly.
“Why is she naked?” Chiun asked.
“She’s trying to flash the goat’s head into surrendering.”
“Ah, Flash Magic. I have heard of this. Is it working?”
“Well, she is turning bluer.”
The Master of Sinanju stole a peek, then quickly looked away again. “Remo, this is embarrassing.”
“Glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking. How about we ditch the two dips and get down to work?”
“Cheeta is not a dip,” Chiun sniffed.
“Okay. She’s a dipette. My offer stands.”
“Quiet,” Cheeta hissed. “You’ll ruin the magic spell.”
“Perish the thought,” Remo said. To Chiun he added, “I rest my case.”
Remo folded his arms. “Then I wait here until the moon turns blue.”
Chiun looked up. The moon was high overhead, very full and not at all blue.
“It is no such color,” he sniffed.
“That isn’t the moon I meant,” Remo said, pointing to Delpha’s pale, goose-bumpy backside.
Chiun hid his face anew.
· · ·
Remo was saying, “Give it up, Delpha,” when the helicopter arrived with a noisy clattering.
“Get a shot of that!” Cheeta told her cameraman, slapping him on his head like a spotter signaling a mortar man to fire.
The cameraman pointed his videocam up at the descending helicopter, an eggshell-colored Bell Ranger with a red stripe.
It settled into the middle of Fifth Avenue, revealing the world-famous BCN logo.
Cheeta screeched, “You idiot! That’s us!”
“But you said–”
“Never mind,” Cheeta said, rushing to meet the pilot, who was braving the prop wash to come in her direction. He actually saluted before speaking.
“Miss Ching. The station just received a call from Randal Rumpp. He’s offering you an exclusive if you’ll meet with him.”
“But we can’t get in!” Cheeta fumed. “We tried.”
“The news director said to do whatever you had to.
Cheeta looked at the pilot, at the helicopter, and back at the streaked-by-sunset Rumpp Tower.
She wrapped her bloodred fingernails about the pilot’s tie. “How do you feel about flying into Randal Rumpp’s office?”
“Miss Ching?”
Cheeta grinned like a happy moray eel.
“I promise you the ride of your life,” she said.
Chapter Twelve
Randal Rumpp was explaining to the mayor of New York City the facts of life.
“Look, you can’t collect property taxes on it, you can’t move it, you can’t sell it, and let’s face it, Mr. Mayor, you run the greatest city on the face of the earth. Do you want an embarrassment like a sixty-eight-story skyscraper that no one can enter on your hands?”
The mayor’s voice was suspicious and taken aback at the same time. A unique combination.
“What do you...propose?” the mayor asked.
“You waive all property taxes for the next hundred years, provide the manpower and the material, and I’ll build a new, bigger, and brassier Rumpp Tower on this exact spot,” Randal Rumpp said quickly.
“Can you...do that?”
“Why not? You can’t touch, taste, or feel the current one. It’s as useless as tits on an avocado. So we build up from the current foundation, and through it. Make it taller. Of course, I’ll need a piece of all frontages.”
“Why?”
“We gotta bury the old facade, don’t we? You don’t want it to show through. It’ll ruin the effect. I think the new one should be green. Like glass money.”
While the mayor was digesting all this, Randal Rumpp took a sip of Marquis Louis Roederer Cristal champagne from a Baccarat crystal goblet with the name “Rumpp” carved into the base. It was the only one of its kind. Rumpp had had two made, but upon delivery smashed one, in order to make the survivor more valuable. In another year, Randal Rumpp figured, it would be a collector’s item and he had plans to move it through Sotheby’s.
The mayor’s voice came again.
“What about the people trapped inside? What about you?”
“I’m working on that, Mr. Mayor. It took a lot to pull this off. It’s going to take a lot to undo it.”
“This is insane, Rumpp. You can’t get away with something this big.”
“Everything I ever got away with in my life was big,” said Randal Rumpp coolly, draining the goblet. “Get back to me when you have something I can work with.”
He hit the OFF button on the cellular, then bounced out of his seat, humming.
“It’s working!” he chortled. “It’s really, truly working! I’m going to get a higher tower, and I won’t even have to pay for it. This will be the deal of the century!”
In the outer reception room, a phone rang. Rumpp marched in and confronted his executive assistant.
“I thought I told you to leave every phone off the hook!” he snapped.
The woman was shaking. “I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see if it worked.”
“Try it.”
She picked up her receiver and said, “Hello?” A notch appeared between her brows. After listening a moment, she handed the receiver to Randal Rumpp, saying, “I...think it’s for you.”
“Who is this?” Rumpp demanded.
“I am Grandfather Frost,” said a strange voice.
“Never heard of you.”
“I am like your Santa Claus. I bring presents to those who are good.”
“Yeah? How come I never heard of you?”
“I am secret. You understand?”
“No.”
“Let me out and you will understand.”
“Are you that crazy guy?”
“No, I am not crazy,” the voice insisted. “I am Grandfather Frost. I am able to do amazing things. Remarkable things. Set me free, and you will see with your own eyes.”
There was something about the voice–Randal Rumpp realized it was the same voice as before–that intrigued him.
“Amazing things, huh?”
“Yes,” said the confident voice. Randal Rumpp was beginning to like this voice. Its smooth tone reminded him of his own.
“Listen, do you know who you are talking to?” he asked.
“No.”
“I am Randal Tiberius Rumpp.”
“I have heard of you,” the voice said instantly. “You are very famous and very, very rich.”
Rumpp smiled. “That’s me. Impressed?”
“Very. You are exactly the man I have been seeking. You are powerful.”
“Right. Good,” said Randal Rumpp, growing bored with the conversation. He had the attention span of a flea. And suddenly, he got the idea that the weird voice was about to put the arm on him.
“Listen, pal,” he said, his tone becoming brittle, “I have my own problems.”
“Which I alone can solve.”
“Is that so? Well, right now I’m in my office in the Rumpp Tower and the whole place has gone crazy. The people inside can’t get out without falling into the ground. And nobody can touch this place. It’s like Spook Central here. I’m inhabiting a haunted skyscraper. How are you going to help me with that?”
“It is not I who can solve your problem,” the voice said.
“I thought so.”
“You can solve your own problem.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Set me free.”
“How will that help me?”
“I am cause of problem,” the voice said. “I am making your Tower like ghost. You set me free, and your building will return to normal once more.”
“Why should I believe you?” asked Randal Rumpp.
“What have you to lose?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. How do I set you free?”
“I do not know. I am trapped in telephone. Usually, I come out without any trouble. I think maybe you must pick up correct telephone receiver to release me.”
“Do you have any idea how many individual phones there are in the Rumpp Tower, on this floor alone?” Rumpp said hotly.
“I do not care. One of them will release me. You must try, if you desire normalcy again.”
Randal Rumpp slapped his hand over the receiver and muttered to his assistant, “This guy doesn’t know what he’s asking. Wants me to answer every phone in the building.”
The secretary simply looked blank. The side of the conversation she was privy to wasn’t exactly balanced. And Randal Rumpp was standing there in his monogrammed argyle socks and boxer shorts.
Rumpp pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “Okay. Tell you what. I’ll give it a shot, see how far we can take it. No promises.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s one other thing.”
“Anything.”
“A while ago, you said something about three billion.”
“I did.”
“I still want it.”
“It is yours.”
And the weird voice was so smooth and confident that Randal Rumpp, for a wild moment, actually believed it to be sincere.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said breezily.
“I will be here. In telephone.”
Randal Rumpp hung up, and told his secretary, “Hold all my calls. Especially if that loser calls back.”
“But...what about the promise you made to that man?”
“In my own sweet time. If that chump can un-jinx the Rumpp Tower, I don’t want it to happen until after I close my deal with the mayor.”
Randal Rumpp closed the door to his office.
His executive assistant stared at the oaken panel for several long moments. Her oval face was stone. Then, without a word, she moved out into the corridor. She began going from office to office, lifting every receiver and whispering “Hello?” into each one.
Chapter Thirteen
Delpha Rohmer was saying, “Shaving your armpit was the absolutely worst thing you could do.”
“Really?” shouted Cheeta Ching over the rotor churn. The BCN news helicopter was rising into the Halloween sky. It was very dark now. The hunter’s moon hung in the black sky like a sphere of shaven ice.
“Without doubt,” said Delpha, arranging her gown. “This hair is called shade. In the old days, those who persecuted my Craft depowered witches simply by shaving their armpits.”
“No!”
Delpha nodded. “Yes, Shade has many uses. Tied in a silken bag, it makes an infallible love potion. Thus, if you wish to succeed in love and in life you must let your natural hair grow.”
Cheeta Ching was looking at Remo when she asked, “Would that explain why certain people don’t succumb to my obvious charms?”
Remo avoided Cheeta’s pointed glance. He watched the darkened Rumpp Tower floors drop away, frowning.
“Yes,” returned Delpha. “In ancient days females went bare-breasted. It wasn’t until men made them cover their natural breasts that the breast became an erotic icon. However, underarm hair has always been one of the most erotic sights a man can see. And one of the most intimidating.”
“Is that why they made us shave them?” Cheeta asked.
“Yes.”
“The beasts!” Cheeta huffed.
Seated in the rear, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. “Is it just me, or are those two making even less sense than usual?”
