The young women in the booths turned, as if on command, and began to advance slowly toward Joleen and the blond man. The youth kept tugging at Joleen, then looked up. He saw a dozen young women moving toward him, their faces expressionless, their feet, mostly sandal-clad, scuffing rhythmically in the gravel, like the sound of a railroad locomotive slowly pulling away from a station.
"Hey," he said. "Okay. Just kidding, you know. I just didn't want her to…"
They were on him then. Four women in front bore him to the ground with their weight. They sprawled their bodies upon him, pinning him, and then the others moved forward and began to strike at him, at his face and body, with hands and feet.
Joleen hung grimly to the steel wire, murmuring, "Blissful One, oh, most Blissful One."
The man at the end of the yard looked toward Remo and Chiun and smiled at them, a smile that showed neither warmth nor embarrassment, then clapped his hands twice again.
At the sharp sound, the dozen women who had fallen upon the blond man stopped, rose to their feet, and shuffled back toward their booths.
"You will be gone in an hour," the man intoned toward the youth who lay bruised and bloody on the gravel of the yard. "You are not worthy of lodging here."
The man lowered his voice and directed his words toward Joleen. "Come, child of Patna, bliss awaits you."
As if on command, Joleen rose and walked toward the end of the yard. Remo and Chiun followed.
"And have you business with us?" the man asked Remo.
"We brought her from India," Remo said. "From Patna." On a hunch, he flashed the gold shield he had picked up in Patna on the floor of Dor's Palace.
"Actually," Chiun said, "we were on our way to Sinanju, but we were stopped by a white man's promise."
"Oh, yes, Sinanju," the man said, a note of confusion in his voice. "Come in." He nodded knowingly to Remo.
He led them through the door in the fence and through a garden with large, smelly, tropical-appearing flowers, then into the back door of a building and into a large sunlit room that had been carved from four smaller rooms on the first floor of an old home that fronted on another street.
The room was immaculately clean. In it were nine young women, wearing long white gowns that flounced out around them as they sat on the floor, sewing.
They looked up at the four people entering the room.
"Children of bliss," the man in the pink robe said, clapping his hands to bring them to attention. "These voyagers are from Patna."
The young women, whose faces were white, whose hair was yellow and brown and black, rose to then: feet and suddenly were clustered around Joleen.
"Have you seen him?"
Joleen nodded.
"And shared in his perfection?"
Joleen nodded.
"Make her at home among you," the man said, and motioned Remo and Chiun to follow him toward a side room.
Behind them was the happy chatter of the young women.
"What of the Master?" one said.
"He is perfect," said Joleen.
Chiun paused and nodded.
"And what of his perfection?" another asked.
"He is of perfect perfection."
Chiun nodded again, more vigorously this time.
Joleen warmed to her work. "He is the wisdom of all wisdom, the Master, the goodness of all that is good."
Chiun agreed with that.
Remo leaned to him. "Chiun, they're talking about the maharaji."
"No," said Chiun, disbelievingly.
"Yes," said Remo.
"Americans are all fools."
As Remo followed the priest and Chiun into the office, he turned. The nine girls had swelled in number to some fifteen. One whispered in Joleen's ear, and Joleen blushed and nodded. The girl clapped. "You must tell us all."
"I wanted to go to Holy Patna too," another girl complained. "But my father took away my Diner's Club Card."
"Come," one girl called to the newer arrivals into the house. "Meet Sister Joleen. She has been to Patna and seen the Master. She has…"
Remo closed the door behind him. The man in the pink robe was sliding behind the desk and graciously waving Chiun and Remo into two soft leather chairs facing it.
"Welcome to our house," he said. "I am Gasphali Krishna, chief arch-priest of the California district."
"Where is the Master?" Remo asked.
Krishna shrugged. "All is in readiness for him here. A suite of rooms has been arranged. Even the electronic games for his amusement."
"Yeah, but where is he?" said Remo.
"We have not talked at all," said Krishna. "Are you disciples?"
Chiun said, "He is a disciple. I am I."
"And who is 'I'?"
"I is a person cheated with promises broken by unfeeling racists."
"Chiun, will you please?"
"It is true. It is true. Tell him the story, and ask him if it is not true."
"What is true is that we are here to make sure all is well for the Master's big thing," Remo told Krishna. "For that, we came from Patna."
Chiun laughed softly. "Master," he said derisively.
"We were told to prepare for his coming," said Krishna. "But he may be staying elsewhere."
"In a zoo. With the other frogs," Chiun mumbled.
"Chiun, would you go outside and talk to the girls? Tell them how wonderful the Master is," said Remo.
And thus it was that the Master of Sinanju did go out of the office where Remo and a fake Indian were talking nonsense, and he did talk to the young women gathered about there, and he did tell them the absolute truth, as long as one did not get too specific about whom he was talking about.
"What think you of the Master?"
"He is the noblest, warmest, kindest person on earth," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Is he perfection itself?"
"Some men approach perfection; he has reached it and gone beyond."
"What is the lesson of his way?"
"Do well and love justice and practice mercy and all will be well with you," said the Master of Sinanju.
"How may we approach perfection?"
"By listening to his words and acting on his dictates," said the Master of Sinanju. "That is a jewel of truth I give you."
"Come. Come hear the wise man. Come learn of the wisdom of the East that recognized the bliss and perfection of the Master."
Thus did the Master of Sinanju comport himself, while nearby, in the small office behind the closed door, Remo and Krishna continued to talk.
After the door had closed behind Chiun, Krishna had removed the pink turban from his head with a hoisting movement of both hands and a mass of reddish blond frizzy curls had exploded around his head.
"Man, that's a drag," he said.
"It's tough being in charge," said Remo.
"Nah, I'm not in charge of anything. They just give me a title and 20 percent of anything I bring in. Man, I'm like a salesman for bliss. Hey, where's that accent from?"
"Newark, New Jersey," said Remo, annoyed at himself because he was no longer supposed to have an accent.
"Put 'er there, old buddy," said Krishna. "Hoboken myself. Newark's changed."
"So has Hoboken," said Remo as Krishna grabbed his hand and pumped it up and down.
"How'd you get into this business?" asked Krishna.
"Just kind of drifted in," said Remo. "You?"
"Well, revolution, man, was out, like they was starting to shoot back. And I didn't really have much stomach for that Third World bullshit. I mean, I guess you could do something with it if you wanted, but so many bad elements. And then this came along a couple of years ago, so I signed up. Dor wasn't so big then, and they needed professional organizers. So old Irving Rosenblatt was Johnny-on-the-spot. But it's like everything else. They start growing, and they're putting their buttered buns in the best jobs. Hey, you like a drink?"
Remo shook his head.
"Grass or something? I got some great shit in from Haw
aii."
"No," said Remo. "I'm tapering off."
"Well, the only thing I hate worse than drinking alone is not drinking."
He went to a small cabinet, pulled a bottle from behind a string of books, and poured himself a full glass of Scotch. Chivas Regal. He smiled at Remo. "When the peasants pay, ride first class."
"Everything ready for the big thing?" asked Remo.
"Damned if I know. That's why I'm graumed. They make me the boss out here, and I'm in for 20 percent, and I'm not complaining, 'cause it's been pretty good. But now, when we got the big Blissathon coming up, do they let me run it? No, they send in all these hotshots from every place else, and I don't even get a look." He angrily gulped at the Scotch. "I know what's going to happen. They're going to tell me that the revenue from the Blissathon, man, well that's not part of the San Francisco receipts, and they're gonna try to beat me out of my 20 percent."
"That's a damn shame," Remo said. "You mean you haven't even been in the planning?"
"Not even a smell. Tell me. What's going to happen? I keep hearing these rumbles about something big."
Remo shrugged and tried, without too much difficulty, to look unhappy. "Orders, pal. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I guess so," said Krishna, sipping heavily again. "Don't worry though. The San Francisco mission will be there in all its glory to cheer on old Blissful."
"You still think the swami's going to show up here?" asked Remo.
"The swami," Krishna laughed. "That's a good one. I don't know. But we've rolled in his ping-pong machine in case he does."
"I want to congratulate you, by the way," Remo said. "You run a pretty tight security ship. That was good with the girls out in the yard. With that blond guy."
"Yeah. Well, the chicks are always your best freedom fighters. It must be a bitch being a woman."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Otherwise, why are they always running around after bullshit? Like looking for some secret thing or some special way that's going to make everything perfect. What a way to have to live."
Remo nodded. "I see the silver stripe. You've been to Patna, but you seem to have kept your wits about you."
Krishna finished the glass and poured himself another. "Well, you know what they say, you can't crap a crapper. Dor's running the oldest hustle in the books. A little drugs, a lot of sex, and a lot more of make everybody feel good. Wanna blow up your mother? Go ahead. It is the way to bliss. Want to rob your boss or cheat the stockholders? You must if you are to attain bliss."
"And you?"
"When I went to Patna, I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. And it didn't work. I've been on drugs, I've had enough sex, and he couldn't impress me with that. And feeling good? Man, I always feel good. Anyway, I faked it and acted like everybody else, and here I am, a chief arch-priest. And I think they're gonna try to beat me out of my 20 percent. They better not try. If they do, man, I'm going into transcendental meditation."
Remo stood up. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'll give you a good report on the security here. You've got a good operation."
"Thanks. You fellas have a place to stay?"
Remo shook his head.
"Well, stay here. We've got plenty of rooms upstairs. This place used to be a whorehouse."
"I think we'll do that," Remo said. "That way we'll be close to everything. Particularly if Blissful shows up. Tell me something. How do you get your skin that color?"
"Tanning lotion," said Krishna, who had put down his glass and was now trying to stuff his hair back under his pink turban. "You know, that chemical crap. Use a lot of it, it's perfect Indian color. Only thing is when I go to Malibu for the weekends, man, I look like I got yellow jaundice."
The telphone rang. Krishna cleared his throat, and then, in a mock Indian accent, said, "Divine Bliss Mission, may Krishna bring you happiness?"
He listened, then whistled. "No shit," he said. "Thanks for calling."
He hung up the telephone and smiled at Remo. "Christ, I'm glad you're here."
"Why?" said Remo.
"We heard a rumble last week that there had been some kind of trouble at the San Diego mission. But everybody was clammed on it. But I just heard. The arch-priest down there, Freddy, done bought the farm. Somebody crushed his neck."
"Who did it?" asked Remo casually.
"They're not sure yet. Everybody in the place split so they wouldn't have to deal with the fuzz."
"You think it might be an attempt on the maharaji?"
Krishna shrugged. "Who knows? But I'll tell you, I'm glad you're here. I don't need any crazy people going around killing up my folks."
"Don't worry," Remo said. "We'll protect you."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"What is he, Elton?"
"He's an Indian."
"G'wan, Elton, they ain't no more Indians in this country."
"Not that kind of Indian. He's a from India kind of Indian." Elton Snowy leaned across the cigarette-scarred wooden counter and whispered into the florid ear of the bartender: "Like a nigger, he is."
"Sheeit. With your Joleen?" The cooked crab face of the fat man registered disbelief.
Snowy nodded glumly. "Drugs. He must have her on drugs. And I went and sent the nigger preacher to go and get her, and he never came back. He must be on those drugs too."
"Elton, I think things started to go bad when that peckerhead asked for that cup of coffee."
Snowy nodded his head, slowly, thoughtfully. He looked down at the glass of sarsaparilla in his hand.
"We shoulda shot him then," said the bartender. "Yep," he agreed with himself. "We shoulda shot him then."
Snowy, exhausted after a day of rounding up volunteer warriors for the posse to rescue his daughter, said sharply, "But how would that do anything to this little bastard from India?"
"Show him a lesson. Trouble was we let everybody get uppity. First it was niggers, and then it was Putto Rickens, and then it was real Indians, and now it's these funny Indians who are really niggers. Everybody's stepping all over us. Next thing you know, Catholics are gonna start getting uppity around here."
"Pray God it never comes to that," said Snowy.
"We'd better. 'Cause if they come, the Jews will be right behind them."
The horror of that thought stimulated Snowy's thirst, and he drained his glass of sarsaparilla and put it on the bar with a clunk.
"Want more, Elton?"
"No. That's enough. Well?"
"Whatever you want, I'm with you."
"Good," said Snowy. "Pack yourself a bag. We're leaving tonight."
"We?"
"You and me and Fester and Puling."
"Eeeeyow," said the bartender. "All of us going to San Francisco?"
"Yup."
"Won't that be one hell of a nut-busting time? No wives, neither. Yahoo." His voice was so loud that others further down the bar looked at him, and he moved closer to Snowy and said, "I can't wait, Elton."
"My house tonight. At six."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Out of Frisco, toward the west, toward Japan, which called itself the land of the rising sun but was really the land of the setting sun from America's viewpoint, which might have provided a clue about the ending of World War II, over the Golden Gate Bridge, awkwardly red in the daylight sun, the late morning heat having burned off the fog shroud, the ubiquitous workmen giving the bridge its daily dose of ugly red paint, out off the bridge, onto a highway, then into a tunnel, its open mouth painted with arcs of rainbow color, then back out onto the highway.
He drove with an easy discipline, his mind not on the car or the wheel, his finely tuned body and instincts reacting automatically to the swerve of the road, weighing the mass of the car against the centrifugal force, balanced by the coefficient of friction for the tires, all without thought, just through fingertips and palms connected to arms, connected to spinal cord and brain.
Ferdinand De Chef Hunt had never been on this side of San Francisco before. He had visited t
he city years earlier on business but had no ambition to see the surrounding countryside.
Hunt had learned early of his ability to manipulate objects, and he regarded places as just more objects, only bigger. He was not curious about places he had not seen.
Another tunnel up ahead. On the rock face above it, white paint had been splashed, like a gigantic Tom Sawyeresque attempt to whitewash not just a fence, but the world. Hunt's sharp eyes picked out an outline under the paint. He slowed the car. Yes, it was the outline of a woman, a forty-foot-high painting of a naked woman, and already the white paint was wearing off, and the woman's voluptuous outlines showed through the paint, and the woman was sexy.
Hunt gave the white paint two more weeks before the elements made it almost perfectly transparent, and he hoped he would still be in the area because he wanted to see the painting of the naked woman. He could tell, from the harshness of the lines used for the curves of the body, that the artist was a woman. Men painted women in all kinds of soft curves, curves that women never had, but most men never knew because they were afraid to look at women. It took a woman to measure a woman and to know the hardness underneath, and this was a woman's work.
The discovery of the covered-over painting made his day. It was like one of those fine details sometimes found in a corner of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, one of those details that you might overlook the first hundred times you saw the painting, and then on the 101st you would discover it, and the shout of surprise would rise in your throat, and you would not even care that other men had discovered it first. For you, it was your own discovery, real and personal and immediate. It made you a Columbus, and so Hunt felt as he tromped on the gas pedal and sped on.
On further, off the main highway, down into the working-hard-at-it artsy-craftsy towns that gave the north Bay area its bad name among art lovers, and then he was coming over a hill and then down a long grade and then, in a flash, he went from Marin County countryside into outskirt suburbs that could have been picked up and relocated anywhere in the United States, and then he was past that into a town center that was frontierlike and gallery-perfect.
Mill Valley. He drove into the heart of town, past the modernistic lumber store. Stopped for a light at a corner, he could see an old corner pub. In front were three motorcycles with stickers proclaiming that Jesus Saves, and the savings must have been substantial because the bikes were customized Harley Davidson choppers that went for three thousand dollars each.
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