[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Grom drank more beer as he tried to catch up to the conversation. "What about
the Big Stomp?" he finally managed to ask.
The sheriff nodded, revealing nothing, but his cooperation was a foregone
conclusion. The man wasn't stupid enough to not cooperate with a man like Greg
Grom.
"The investigation continues," the sheriff said. "There was an interesting
development at the crime scene."
"Like what?"
"The crime scene was infiltrated. Based on the evidence at hand, we're fairly
certain the Nashville Azzopardi Family has formed a joint venture with aYakuza
branch. Their purpose is undoubtedly to launch a protection business
Page 34
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
specializing in high-profit, private, unregulated businesses, such as the Big
Stomp. Their interest in our crime scene is obvious-whoever poisoned the well
needs to be taught not to tamper with organized-crime businesses in the
Kentucky-Tennessee district. In other words, they want to find the bad guy
before we do."
"Oh." Grom's head was swimming. "Do you think they will?"
The sheriff finally showed an emotion in the form of a smug twitch of the
colorless lips. "Mr. Grom, we're professionals. Highly trained. Superbly
equipped. We're not going to be outsmarted by a bunch of import thugs."
Grom let out a silent sigh, nodding with what he hoped looked like
dispassionate satisfaction.
"Good to know you people are on the job," he said condescendingly as he walked
the sheriff to the door. "What did these men look like, anyway? The men who
came to the crime scene?"
"Well, that's not an easy one to hammer down. Nobody seems to have gotten a
good look at their faces. But I'll tell you this much. One of them was a Far
Easterner, old as Moses and no bigger than my dog Bert when he gets on two
legs to give me a face lickin'. Other guy was just some white feller. I guess
he must look like all us white fellers."
As the sheriff was on his way out the door, Grom asked, "That's the best
description you have?"
"We have other clues to their identity," the sheriff said, and told Greg Grom
about the federal IDs.
The sheriff was the one looking sheepish now. "Who knows?" he said, donning
his hat. "Maybe they really was just a couple of nosy Feds."
Greg Grom closed the door, bolted it and moved the annoying little brass
thingy into place for extra security. Then he raced to the other doors and
windows of the suite, checking and double-checking the locks. All the while he
was talking to himself about the possibility of a pair of nosy Feds.
What he actually said was, "Oh God oh God oh God..."
Chapter 13
At first Remo thought it was the snoring that woke him from an easy slumber,
but he was accustomed to Chiun's honking and wheezing. His senses told him
there's nothing out of place in his environment just the typical squeaks,
groans, smells and grumbles of a hotel in the middle of the night.
So why was he not asleep?
Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju, was not the type to wake in the
middle of the night with a niggling problem. But there was something. Wasn't
there?
He rose silently from the floor mat that was his bed, strolling to the window
and contemplating his view of the gravel parking lot.
"You dreamed it," Chiun squeaked.
"Dreamed what?" Remo asked.
"Whatever scary thing roused you."
"I didn't have a bad dream. I was thinking."
"Of course. And I suppose I was snoring."
"Matter of fact, you were snoring," Remo said.
"No, you were dreaming," Chiun said in kindly condescension. "Where else but
dreams do you experience one highly improbable thing after another?"
"Like maybe a talking goat?"
Chiun sat up. "Remo, was there a talking goat?"
"Yes, there is."
Chiun's lips came together as tightly as Remo had ever seen them, his face
going crimson. Chiun stood, the door slammed and Remo was alone in the hotel
room.
Served the old biddy right. Taste of his own medicine. Slice of his own
sour-grapes pie. Chiun had been a thorn in the keister for months. It seemed
he had been getting increasingly grumpy and withdrawn ever since the Time of
Succession, when Remo had finally donned the mantle of Reigning Master of
Sinanju.
Page 35
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Remo hadn't really expected much change. He didn't believe that Chiun was
going to start following Remo's lead or stop trying to drill his head full of
five thousand years of Sinanju history, and in truth that hadn't happened.
But there had been changes. Chiun was less prone to being the harping teacher
to Remo's inattentive student. Sometimes. Well, almost never. For a while the
old Master had become extra-antisocial, spending hours watching TV or
pretending to. Remo knew he was engrossed in deciphering whatever it was that
had happened to him in Sinanju at the Time of Succession.
Remo didn't know what actually had happened to Chiun, and Chiun wasn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl karpacz24.htw.pl
Grom drank more beer as he tried to catch up to the conversation. "What about
the Big Stomp?" he finally managed to ask.
The sheriff nodded, revealing nothing, but his cooperation was a foregone
conclusion. The man wasn't stupid enough to not cooperate with a man like Greg
Grom.
"The investigation continues," the sheriff said. "There was an interesting
development at the crime scene."
"Like what?"
"The crime scene was infiltrated. Based on the evidence at hand, we're fairly
certain the Nashville Azzopardi Family has formed a joint venture with aYakuza
branch. Their purpose is undoubtedly to launch a protection business
Page 34
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
specializing in high-profit, private, unregulated businesses, such as the Big
Stomp. Their interest in our crime scene is obvious-whoever poisoned the well
needs to be taught not to tamper with organized-crime businesses in the
Kentucky-Tennessee district. In other words, they want to find the bad guy
before we do."
"Oh." Grom's head was swimming. "Do you think they will?"
The sheriff finally showed an emotion in the form of a smug twitch of the
colorless lips. "Mr. Grom, we're professionals. Highly trained. Superbly
equipped. We're not going to be outsmarted by a bunch of import thugs."
Grom let out a silent sigh, nodding with what he hoped looked like
dispassionate satisfaction.
"Good to know you people are on the job," he said condescendingly as he walked
the sheriff to the door. "What did these men look like, anyway? The men who
came to the crime scene?"
"Well, that's not an easy one to hammer down. Nobody seems to have gotten a
good look at their faces. But I'll tell you this much. One of them was a Far
Easterner, old as Moses and no bigger than my dog Bert when he gets on two
legs to give me a face lickin'. Other guy was just some white feller. I guess
he must look like all us white fellers."
As the sheriff was on his way out the door, Grom asked, "That's the best
description you have?"
"We have other clues to their identity," the sheriff said, and told Greg Grom
about the federal IDs.
The sheriff was the one looking sheepish now. "Who knows?" he said, donning
his hat. "Maybe they really was just a couple of nosy Feds."
Greg Grom closed the door, bolted it and moved the annoying little brass
thingy into place for extra security. Then he raced to the other doors and
windows of the suite, checking and double-checking the locks. All the while he
was talking to himself about the possibility of a pair of nosy Feds.
What he actually said was, "Oh God oh God oh God..."
Chapter 13
At first Remo thought it was the snoring that woke him from an easy slumber,
but he was accustomed to Chiun's honking and wheezing. His senses told him
there's nothing out of place in his environment just the typical squeaks,
groans, smells and grumbles of a hotel in the middle of the night.
So why was he not asleep?
Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju, was not the type to wake in the
middle of the night with a niggling problem. But there was something. Wasn't
there?
He rose silently from the floor mat that was his bed, strolling to the window
and contemplating his view of the gravel parking lot.
"You dreamed it," Chiun squeaked.
"Dreamed what?" Remo asked.
"Whatever scary thing roused you."
"I didn't have a bad dream. I was thinking."
"Of course. And I suppose I was snoring."
"Matter of fact, you were snoring," Remo said.
"No, you were dreaming," Chiun said in kindly condescension. "Where else but
dreams do you experience one highly improbable thing after another?"
"Like maybe a talking goat?"
Chiun sat up. "Remo, was there a talking goat?"
"Yes, there is."
Chiun's lips came together as tightly as Remo had ever seen them, his face
going crimson. Chiun stood, the door slammed and Remo was alone in the hotel
room.
Served the old biddy right. Taste of his own medicine. Slice of his own
sour-grapes pie. Chiun had been a thorn in the keister for months. It seemed
he had been getting increasingly grumpy and withdrawn ever since the Time of
Succession, when Remo had finally donned the mantle of Reigning Master of
Sinanju.
Page 35
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Remo hadn't really expected much change. He didn't believe that Chiun was
going to start following Remo's lead or stop trying to drill his head full of
five thousand years of Sinanju history, and in truth that hadn't happened.
But there had been changes. Chiun was less prone to being the harping teacher
to Remo's inattentive student. Sometimes. Well, almost never. For a while the
old Master had become extra-antisocial, spending hours watching TV or
pretending to. Remo knew he was engrossed in deciphering whatever it was that
had happened to him in Sinanju at the Time of Succession.
Remo didn't know what actually had happened to Chiun, and Chiun wasn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]