Oh yes, we can be set off by outsiders. Once a bully started in on a smaller man in a post office, making ethnic slurs, and Roberto stepped in ready to fight. A version of that episode leads off our fourth novel, Ninja. If anyone goes after Piers' little girls, he comes running and ugly. The girls carry a whistle, just in case. But we regard these as natural provocations; we try to get along, and the last thing we want is trouble with each other. So we have none. Which seems to be half the secret of successful collaboration.
But why bother to collaborate at all? Because we have complementary skills, so that together we can produce material that neither could alone. We don't care enough about the money to turn out cheap work. We try to do our best, even when it is straight adventure. We like to think that readers of discretion will recognize and appreciate a superior product, even if many editors don't. In the long run we believe that will pay—but even if it doesn't in terms of money, it will in satisfaction. As this article shows, we stand by what we do.
AUTHORS' NOTE: This article was published in the magazine THE DEADLY HANDS OF KUNG FU, June 1975 issue. In the ensuing quarter century some things changed, dating the piece somewhat. Piers' daughters are no longer children, and the novel Dead Morn did find a publisher, for a good price. Piers' 16 novels became 116 and counting. Both authors now live in Florida, Roberto in the Miami area, Piers in the backwoods, actually a tree farm.
WINDBREAKER
Chapter 1:
Cry For Help
Jose woke alertly. The clock said 6 a.m., but it was already too late. The door was opening, its warning buzzer expertly shorted out, and a Beretta was trained on him. This was a professional call. He sat up in bed, drawing the sheet up to cover his bulging naked belly. Jose was a dark, swarthy man with a slight Chinese look. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Señors?" he inquired.
"Don't play cagey with me, spic," the gunman snapped. Two large, grim men trooped in behind him. "The details—now."
Jose turned on him a gaze of bewildered innocence. He had black eyes in a fat face that enhanced the effect. "Señor, I have no comprehension!"
The man glanced at his gun. It was a .32 automatic with a silencer attached. Then he used it to gesture to one of his companions. That one drew a stiletto and approached Jose. The needle point touched the fat of the belly through the sheet.
Jose sweated. He had an oily skin that made the sweat show up rapidly. He scratched nervously at the pimple on his nose. He smiled ingratiatingly, showing his prominent front gold tooth.
"Not the pot," the gunman said. "We don't have time for the fine points. Make him talk fast."
The knifeman looked disappointed. He made a little gesture with the knife. Jose got the message. He stood up, a dribble of blood emerging from his navel where the point had lodged. The sheet fell away, and he was naked.
The stiletto moved down to the exposed crotch. "First balk, one ball," the gunman said. "Second balk, other ball. After that it will get uncomfortable—but you will talk."
Jose knew they were not bluffing. These were professionals, and the man with the knife was a sadist. The eagerness to carve shone in his face. He wanted his victim to balk.
Jose smoothed back his greasy black hair. "Señors, the police are on their way," he said, "The alarm is under the bed. It went off when my weight lifted. If you leave right now—"
The third man bent quickly to check the bed. Neither of the others moved; they watched suspiciously.
"Bastard's right," the man said. "There's a spring-release contact under the front bedleg. Hand cutoff he didn't use. He suckered us."
"I'll take his ears for that!" the knifeman snarled, But the gunman shook his head, smiling. "We heard you were sharp, spic. I'd have been suspicious if you hadn't pulled something like this, You know we can't kill you and run, because we don't have the info out of you yet. And you'd like us to try to haul you out of here, with all your friends watching. We can't move you, dead or alive." He looked out the window, sighting down the alley. "And there's the police now, coming in quiet. One blocking off the back exit. Very neat." He paused momentarily. "But I think we'll bluff it out, this time." He nodded to the knifeman.
The knifeman straightened, reversed his blade, and expertly sapped Jose above the ear. Jose pitched forward, his face crashing into the floor, and lay still.
Then, rapidly, the men tied and gagged him. They did a competent job of both, putting tape over the gag so that he was barely able to breathe; his wrists and feet were tied together, with a cord stretching up into a noose around his neck. If he tried to kick, the motion would tighten the loop and strangle him.
As the heavy footfalls of the police came down the hall, they propped Jose in the solid clothes closet, the hanging suits further muffling him. There would be no sound from him.
Sergeant O'Brien entered. The three hoods were comfortable, drinking Jose's rum over a hand of poker. Two sat in chairs, the third on the bed. The radio played a jangly tune, a little too loud.
"What's the story?" O'Brien demanded, It was an impressive opening, for he was a solid six-two with a red face, and spoke with the authority of twenty years on the force.
All three looked up, startled, "You can't break in here!" the leader exclaimed righteous indignation. "This is a private apartment!"
"Where's Juan Jose?" O'Brien snapped,
"He stepped out to fetch some girls," the gunman said. "About ten minutes ago. He'll be back soon. This is his place, you know."
"I know. We got the alarm signal and I answered it personally. What did do with him?"
"Do? Us? Officer, we're his friends, just in for a game of cards and some fun." The man bounced on the bed. "He promised me a real Chicano girl, know what I mean? I can hardly sit still." Sergeant O'Brien looked at him, realizing that such bouncing could have triggered the alarm, especially if Jose were not there to neutralize it. Was this a false alarm?
For a moment the policeman stood perplexed. He didn't have time to waste waiting around, and he didn't want to make a scene for nothing. The alarm had gone off, but Jose did have many odd friends, some distinctly thug-like. The chances were that this was legitimate.
He turned—and heard a faint cry. "Help!"
Immediately his gun was in his hand, cautioning the three men to silence and immobility. They were professionals in their business—but so was he. No one moved. The outside policeman came in to help while O'Brien walked around the apartment, listening, He turned off the loud radio.
Again it came, more distinct this time. "He-e-lp!" The voice was raspingly hoarse, and ended in a staccato croak, but the word was plain.
The gunman went for his gun. It was a mistake. The officer's bullet caught him in the shoulder.
O'Brien yanked open the closet door. There was Jose's posterior under the suits. In a moment they had him out.
The sergeant got to work on the bonds, cutting the chokerope and freeing the hands and feet. Then he removed the tight gag and tape. Jose was purple from slow suffocation, and there was blood on his lip where the edge of the gag had sawed in. He gasped for air, then rubbed the circulation back into his hands and feet. "Thanks, Mick!" he grunted. "I was on the verge of suffering discomfort."
"You were on the verge of ending all suffering," O'Brien said. "You should have better taste in friends."
"Amigo, I shall heed your advice. Tomorrow."
The three hoods stared. "He was still tied and gagged," the knifeman said, "He couldn't have called!"
"Sure he couldn't!" O'Brien agreed heartily. "Good thing I imagined I was hearing a cry for help."
"But I heard it too!" the third thug said, "But how could he have—?"
"All right, you three. March!" the policeman said. But there was a brief delay while he saw to the bullet wound in the shoulder. O'Brien drooped the banter and looked at Jose with concern. "You okay now, Juan?"
"Fine—now," Jose said.
"Why were they after you? Or can you tell me that?"
Jose
shook his head. "Amigo, I do not know. If I had anticipated company, I would surely have been better prepared." He gestured apologetically at his nakedness. "I was merely reposing between assignments."
"God, the spic even lies to his friends!" the wounded gunman said.
Jose looked at him. "Not at all, señor. I do not lie to my friends—or my enemies. I did not lie to you. I do not know what you wanted of me—but now I shall do my best to find out."
"Hey, none of that here!" O'Brien cautioned. "They're in police custody now, and one's wounded."
Jose smiled. "Certainly, amigo. I meant only that I shall investigate. If this man and I should meet again, after he is free on bail, perhaps then I shall question him a trifle more firmly."
The gunman sneered. "Fat chance, fat boy!"
"The name is Juan Jose." Jose pronounced it the Spanish way, 'Wan Hosay,' "Kindly remember it, for I shall remember you."
"Hah! Flabby coward like you—"
But the policeman was already herding them out.
"How did he call for help?" the third hood echoed plaintively as they left.
Chapter 2:
Assignment
Juan Jose rubbed his head where the butt of the knife had struck. He had not been knocked out, but it had seemed best to play dead. Amateurs could be tricked and overpowered, but he would have been shot if he had tried anything fancy on these operators. Well, perhaps not if he had moved quickly enough and neutralized the gun first. But that would have been a calculated risk that did not appeal. A man did not survive in this business long if he took unnecessary risks—especially when the solution to this particular problem had been so easy. One little cry for help! Still, the blow had hurt, and the bonds had not been comfortable. Those men had really known how to tie a man so he stayed.
He went to the bathroom and mopped his face in cold water. His fingers brushed over the wart on his cheek. It was smaller than it had been a couple of weeks before; he would have to work on it. He looked at his body in the full-length bathroom mirror. Bad, bad—he was getting too lean and muscular. He would have to do something about that, too. Another half inch of blubber on his belly, some fat under the jaw—if he cocked his head back he could still make a nice double chin, but it didn't look quite natural.
Jose sighed. There was no way around it: he would have to go on a diet. Minimum of five thousand calories a day, mostly in sweets and pastries, until he regained his proper rotundity. Meanwhile he had dirt on his ass. He stepped into the shower and rinsed it off in lukewarm water. Then he hefted himself on the bar over the stall, doing pull-ups one-handed: six with the right, six with the left. Sure enough, it was too easy; the solid muscle was sheathed by only a thin layer of fat.
He shook himself dry like a dog, feeling his entire gut swing back and forth with the motion. Then he stepped on the scale. Two hundred and thirty pounds. He shook his head sadly. This was sloppy as hell! At this rate his feet would hardly stay flat.
He dressed. His undershirt had five gold buttons, and he left his topshirt halfway open so that those precious buttons would show. He put an identification bracelet on his wrist, briefly polishing the $5,000 diamond set into it. Two enormous rings graced his fingers. He was now a well-dressed Latin American.
He slicked his hair back until it was a glistening black mass, made sure the welt over his ear didn't show, and stepped out of the apartment. A block away there was a small Mexican-American family restaurant that was excellent for weight gaining. It was time for breakfast.
Jose settled himself in a corner table with his back to the wall and commenced his diet. His appetizer was a quart of sweet orange juice. Then he had a double order of ham and bacon with toast, with six eggs on the side. He washed these down liberally from a jug of cafe-con-leche, a mixture of coffee and milk in 50-50 proportions. He then consumed a one-pound long loaf of Cuban bread with plenty of butter by forming it into sandwiches with round creamy yellow cheese and dunking these into the cafe-con-leche for every bite.
After the initial edge of his hunger had been blunted, he signaled the waiter, "Señor—the telephone, if you please." The waiter smiled and brought the phone on a long extension cord. This was a fairly regular ritual.
First, a business call. He dialed the local police station. "Señor Sergeant O'Brien, if you please, señorita," he said to their switchboard operator.
"Right, Mr. Jose," she said, recognizing his voice.
In a moment Sergeant O'Brien was on the line, "Thought I'd be hearing from you, Juan. How's your digestion?"
"The sound of your voice sweetens it considerably, señor." Then Jose got down to business. "Is there any information from my visitors of the morning? I am wondering why they called on me so imperatively..."
"Juan, they've all got records a mile long," O'Brien said. "But that's not what you mean, is it? You'll be glad to know that they haven't spilled a word about your mission. Won't say who hired 'em or why. But they must have been well paid."
"Señor, I have no mission!" Jose protested.
There was a trace of annoyance in the officer's voice. "Juan, you don't have to tell me anything! I know you get private international assignments, and I'm not prying. I'm just reporting on what these hoods—"
Jose raised his free hand and waved a chorizo, a thick Spanish sausage, expressively before stuffing it into his mouth. "Señor, you misunderstand! You are my friend! You save my life every day of the week and twice on Sundays! I do not lie to you, I do not accuse you. I have no mission!"
There was a pause. "Sure, Juan, that's true," O'Brien said at last. "Sorry I was edgy. We'll try to get something more for you, but it looks as if they think you have a mission. Or their boss thinks so. Unless it's some old enemy—"
"These did not come for revenge, señor. They came for information. Which I sadly lack. It is a mystery."
"Well, you're good at mysteries, Juan!" He disconnected.
Jose pondered for a full minute while he masticated his sausage. It was a mystery. Finally he shrugged and dialed a long distance number, assigning the charge to his home phone. "St. Thomas Military Academy," a secretary answered.
"Robertico, please, Señora," he said.
"Right away, Mr. Jose!"
In a moment Robertico was speaking. "Hi, Papi! Can I come home this weekend?"
"Hijo, I think not," Jose said regretfully. "A matter of business seems to have intruded itself,"
"Aw, Papi, I'll help you fight the thugs! I'm doing real good in judo class, I could—"
"Judo is not always enough," Jose said seriously.
"Well, sure, you could pulverize my teacher with your vis—vis—"
"Visceral control," Jose said. "I probably could—but do not forget I also know and respect the martial arts, judo among them. There is much for you to learn."
"But I could learn much better from you, Papi!"
"It is more than that, Robertico. I may be away for a few days, and it is not good for a young boy to be alone."
"Papi, I'm nine years old! I can take care of myself!"
"Flesh of my flesh, you know that and I know that. But the child welfare authorities, they don't know that! That is why I have to leave you in that hole of a school—"
"Why don't you get married again, Dad? So I'd have—"
"'Dad'? What is this word?"
The boy ignored the interruption. "So I'd have a mother, and I could stay at home all the time—" There was a tremor in the young voice. Robertico really wanted a home.
"This is no life for a woman, Son. She would—"
"'Son'? What is this word?"
Jose smiled privately. Robertico Jose was becoming a real infighter! "She would soon grow bitchy and jealous."
"No she wouldn't! I could pick you a real good-looking wench, sort of stupid, who—"
"Hijo!" Jose snapped. But his grinning face belied his voice.
"It is not right for any woman, even a stupid one, not to know where her man is, what trouble he is in. And you—you need a
mama, not a wench! A woman who can cook and make beds and sing songs and sew and teach you manners."
"Yuck!" Robertico exclaimed. "I'm better off at school!"
"I will visit you soon," Jose said, smiling again. "Take it easy on the poor teachers, hellion. They are only trying to earn a living."
"Adios, Papi," the boy said sadly.
Jose had spoken to his son sensibly, with many a Latin gesture and smile. Now he was sober, and there was a shine in his eyes that was not joy. He did want his boy with him—but marriage was too complex. What would have happened this morning, had those thugs found a woman in his apartment? Or his son? Jose himself would not have told the hoods anything even if he had known what they wanted. But if they tortured his only child—
He shook his head. If only he could be a sensible family man, with regular hours and secure income. But he had tried that once, ten years ago, and now what did he have to show for it? He had Robertico. That made it all worthwhile. But he did not care to go that route a second time. No more marriages, no more serious involvement.
He had one more call, to his answering service. "Yes, señor," the girl said. "One just came in. I think it's an assignment. Call 555-5837 and use the code name 'Windbreaker.'"
"Thank you, señora." Jose put down the receiver and let out a bellow of laughter that startled the other diners.
The waiter rushed up. "Are you well, sir?"
"Very well, despite your abominable chorizo," Jose chuckled. "Bring me another link. One more call, señor—then I shall return your poor tired telephone." The waiter left, perplexed.
Jose dialed the number the answering service had given him. "Windbreaker," he said.
"Who?"
"Windbreaker. Warm sport jacket. Strong man who leads the way into the storm. Hedge or wall to break the—"