In the panic the bodyguard had shifted into reverse, then forward, then reverse again, all while pressing the accelerator to the fullest. The gears clashed, ground, and crashed.
The man made it to the car.
“We pay more than your employer,” said Beatrice.
“I will abandon the force of Yes for the force of No,” said Rubin.
“Damned car,” said the bodyguard.
“Hello,” said Remo.
“Hi, sweetheart,” said Beatrice.
“Hail to your negative influence,” said Rubin.
“Look,” said Remo. “I've got a little problem.”
“We'll solve it with you,” said Rubin.
“Not a big deal,” said Remo. He was forcing the breath now. “I keep seeing things. Faces.”
“We have three of them,” said Rubin.
“No. Not real faces. A face. Chinese or something. With a wisp of a beard and wisps of hair. He is talking to me. Even now he's talking to me. And I don't know what he's saying.”
“He's not telling you to harm someone?” asked Rubin. “Those are the voices you cannot trust.”
“No. He's just telling me I am going to be all right. Well, I don't know what it is. I guess I'll just have to give you a ticket. Where's the ticket book? Where's my gun? Where's my uniform? Am I on vacation?”
“You're on vacation. Go back inside and enjoy yourself.”
“No. The old guy is telling me not to go back in there. He's like a mirage. Have you ever seen a mirage?”
The bodyguard stepped out of the car and took the man by the hand and in so doing got some of the substance on his own palm. It felt oily. He liked oil. He liked it when his mommy put oil on his bottom after a bath. His mommy was not here. So he cried.
Rubin saw the bodyguard cry.
“That proves it. What power the man has. You are the agent of No.”
“Is that my name?” said Remo. “I remember it as Remo.”
“Hail, No. Good-bye, No,” said Rubin Dolomo, and transferred the suitcases of money to another car, this one unfortunately with license plates that belonged to them. He had planned this escape even before the first trial began. He had the proper phony passports and a car to drive them to the airport that would not be spotted as theirs. No matter, he would have to use the large white sedan with the lettering “Power Is What Power Does.”
It was usually used to pick up franchise owners from the airport. Maybe it wouldn't be noticed at all, now that the forces of negativity were in abeyance. Maybe they could just park it at the airport and not be noticed.
Remo saw the man and woman loading a long white car with luggage. He offered to help but they didn't want him to touch anything. When he grabbed one suitcase they simply left it there and drove off without it. This was surprising because when he opened it he found bundles of hundred-dollar bills. He would have to turn it in to police headquarters. He wondered where it was. He looked around. He saw the bright sun and the rolling lawn and the palm trees. Palm trees?
Palm trees in Newark, New Jersey? He didn't remember ever seeing palm trees there. The Oriental face was in front of him now, telling him how to breathe. Breathe? He knew how to breathe. He'd known how since he was a baby. If he didn't know how, he would have been dead.
Was he dying? He walked around to the front of the house. He felt an oily substance on his hands and he tried to wipe it off. It didn't seem to come off too well. He knew his body was fighting it, but why he knew that he did not know.
An attractive young woman lay on the ground in front of the house. She wasn't moving except for an occasional kick. Her hands were curled up near her chin. She didn't seem to be in much trouble, other than being dead drunk. Her breath had that awful oniony garlic smell that was all around him.
Apparently it was a new form of liquor. Two dogs seemed quite afraid of him as he walked to the gate with the suitcase full of money.
He liked that, especially since they were Doberman pinschers. A man with a crewcut lay unconscious on the lawn. This place was crazy, he thought. The whole place had to be investigated. He wondered if he should call in for detectives. He would have done that but he forgot the number of the station house.
One telephone number kept repeating itself to him. A lemony-faced man kept repeating it. Apparently he was somewhat upset with Remo because Remo kept using it wrong. Finally he repeated the number. Every time Remo thought of telephone numbers he thought of that number. He remembered trying a trick to remember it. The trick was told to him in a funny language. Chinese or something. It was a thing to indelibly engrave something into the memory.
Now how could he know what to do if he didn't know the language? The Oriental was calling him stupid and ungrateful. But the strange thing about it was the man did not dislike him. The Oriental loved him. He loved him as no one had ever loved him. And he loved the Oriental. And what was strange was that he had no reason why. There was no romance involved whatsoever. When he thought of romance he thought of women. Well, that was good. He was straight at least.
Outside the gates of the estate Remo got a lift. He asked to be taken to the downtown police station. He was told there was no downtown. This was a rich residential community in California.
California? What was he doing in California?
“Let me off near a public phone, would you?”
That phone number was still with him.
“Make sure you shut the door tight,” the driver said as Remo got out of the car in a small town with clean streets and elegant little shops.
“Sure,” said Remo, and shut the door so hard two of the wheels came off.
“Hey, what did you do that for?”
“I didn't do anything,” said Remo. “I think.”
He offered to pay for the damage. While he would never steal from evidence in a normal police case, he certainly was not on some normal case. He didn't even know where he was. He took two thousand dollars in hundreds from the suitcase and paid for the damage.
“You some kind of crook?” asked the driver.
“I don't think so,” said Remo. “I hope not,” he said.
He found some change in his pocket. He dialed the only telephone number he knew.
“How's everything going, Remo?” came back the voice.
So the man knew him. Maybe it was headquarters.
“Where are you?” asked Remo. Maybe he was reaching downtown Newark.
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wanted to know if I reached headquarters.”
“Headquarters is where I am. You know that.”
“Sure,” said Remo. “Just where is it now?”
“Are you all right?”
“I'm fine. Where are you now?”
“You knew earlier today. Why are you asking now?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Remo, have you touched anything today?”
“That's a stupid question. Of course I touched things. You can't live in the world without touching things.”
“All right. You sound all right.”
“I'm great. I never felt better. I almost put a car door through its frame, I feel so good.”
“That's not extraordinary for you. Why did you do it? Never mind. Did you find the substance?”
“I've got a suitcase full of it.”
“Good. And the Dolomos?”
“I didn't arrest them. Did you want me to arrest them?”
“You don't arrest people, Remo. I think you are under the influence.”
“I haven’t had a drink for a week.”
