"Who..." Bombarelli started again.
"Who doesn't matter," Remo said. "What matters is that this is the kind of work I do. Every so often, I just get somebody who's a piece of garbage like you and fix him up so that he's kind of a lesson to the other pieces of garbage. It's your turn in the barrel, Bombarelli."
Bombarelli went for Remo's throat with his hands. He was a big man, with shoulders like the hams of a champion hog, but Remo met the hands with his own hands, and squeezed his thumbs into the inside of Bombarelli's wrists, and the firecracker manufacturer's fingers didn't work any more. He tried to yell, but there was another thumb in his throat and he couldn't yell. He tried to run, but there was a thumb in the base of his spine and his legs didn't work, not even to hold him up, and Ernie Bombarelli crumpled onto the cellar floor. All that worked were his eyes and they worked too well because as Bombarelli watched in growing horror, the thin man began scooping up M-80s from the work-bench, firecrackers almost three inches long and an inch-and-a-half thick, and with tape, he began fastening them to Bombarelli's thick, hairy fingers.
"No," Bombarelli tried to say but no sound came.
The only sound in the cellar was the thin man in the black shirt and the black chinos. He was softly whistling. He was whistling "Whistle While You Work."
He put a cluster of the lethal firecrackers around Bombarelli's neck and fastened them with tape. Then the looney had a piece of fuse, a long piece, and he was twisting it around the other fuses, wrapping it around the firecrackers, each of them the power of a third of a stick of dynamite, and he still whistled and smiled down at Bombarelli.
"Don't think about it, Bombarelli," he said. "There's no real why. It's just that every so often I do one like you. Kind of a Bum of the Month club." Remo dragged the fuse toward the cellar door. He dropped it on the floor and looked around in his pockets for a match. But he did not have one and came back to get one off the work bench, stepping casually over Bombarelli's body as he did.
"So long, Bombarelli," Remo said, as he struck a match and lit the long length of fuse. Then he was gone out into the darkness of the cellar. Bombarelli did not hear his footsteps going up the steps to the first floor, but he knew the man was leaving. All he could think of was the spark of the fuse, creeping its hissing way across the floor toward him, closer, closer, five feet, then four feet, then three feet, then closer and only inches, and then he heard the first blast and felt the heat, and then there was blast after blast, but the first one had provided all the pain to Bombarelli that his living body could register, and then the rest of the explosives went off and the cellar exploded in a flash of flame.
There was a cab stopped for a red light at the corner of Halsey Street. Remo waved at the cab. The cabbie pointed to his roof light; it was off, indicating that he was off-duty. Remo pulled open the locked door anyway.
"Hey," the driver said. "I'm off-duty."
"So am I," Remo said. "A hundred dollars if you get me to Manhattan without talking."
"Let's see the hundred."
Remo held it up.
"Okay. On to Manhattan," the driver said.
Remo nodded.
"How'd you open the door? It was locked."
"That's ninety," Remo said with a sigh.
Even though it was past midnight, Chiun was waiting for Remo when he entered the hotel room two blocks from New York's Central Park. The aged, wizened Korean sat in his blue kimono on a straw mat, staring at the door, as if he had waited there for hours for Remo's return.
"Did you bring them?" he asked. His voice was a high squeak with only two gears. Its range went from annoyance to outrage, with no steps in between.
"Bring what them?" Remo asked.
"I knew it," Chiun hissed. "I send you on a simple errand and you forget even what the errand was."
Remo snapped his fingers. "The chestnuts. I'm sorry, I forgot."
"I'm sorry. I forgot," Chiun mimicked. "I do not pay you to forget."
"You don't pay me at all, Little Father," Remo said.
"There are payments other than money," Chiun said. "All I ask for is a chestnut. A simple roasted chestnut."
"You asked for a pound, as I remember," Remo said.
"Now you remember. Just a few roasted chestnuts. To remind me of my childhood in the ancient village of Sinanju. And what do I get? 'I'm sorry. I forgot.' Remo, why do you think I even bother to come to this ugly city, except that they have chestnuts for sale on the street?"
"I'm sorry, already. Get off it. I'll get them tomorrow. All the chestnut salesmen have gone home by now and I had other things to do besides shop for you."
"If you really wanted to help, you would find where one lives and go there and get my chestnuts," Chiun said. He paused. "Your breathing was not correct tonight."
"How can you tell? It wasn't all that off."
"It does not have to be 'all that off,'" Chiun said. "The fall to death does not start with a dive. It starts with a slip."
Remo shrugged. "So the breathing wasn't perfect. You're not going to make me feel bad. I did some good things tonight."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Remo said.
"Did you send money to the poor and sick of my village?"
"No."
"Did you buy me some trinket to show your love for me"?
"No."
"I have it," Chiun said. He allowed his face to smile. It looked like a book, covered in yellow parchment, suddenly being opened. "Actually, you purchased for me the chestnuts and you are teasing me."
"No," Remo said.
"Pfaaaah," Chiun squeaked, turning away from Remo in disgust.
"I got rid of a lawyer who fronts for criminals. I freed a kidnap victim from a gang of revolutionary goons. And I got rid of a guy who peddles dangerous explosives to kids."
"And you call this good?" Chiun demanded. "Good is when you do something that helps the Master of Sinanju. That is good. Good is bringing me my simple chestnut. That is good. Bringing me Barbara Streisand would be even better but I would settle for a chestnut. Bringing gold and diamonds for my village is good. That is good. And what do you tell me is good? Something about a lawyer and a gang and a man who makes booms."
"Bombs," Remo said. "And getting rid of them was good and I don't care what you say."
"I know that," Chiun said. "That is exactly what is wrong with you."
"What I did was good and that means something, Chiun, and you know it. I used to think that what I did with CURE would improve America, then for a long time I didn't think it did. But it does. Maybe not the way I figured. Maybe I'm not going to stamp out crime and terrorism, but I'm stamping out some criminals and some terrorists and that's the next best thing. Not many people can claim to do even that much good."
"What you think is good is moral nonsense," Chiun said. "Chestnuts are good. Moving correctly is good. Not being sloppy is good. Breathing correctly is good. What does it matter who you practice on?"
Before Remo could answer, the telephone rang.
"That is Smith," Chiun said.
"He call before?"
"I presume so. Somebody called. But I do not answer telephones. Then a bell person came with a message and it was from Smith and said that he would call again."
"Thanks for the warning," Remo said.
He reached for the phone again.
"Remo?" Chiun said.
Remo turned. The old Oriental was smiling.
"Yes, Little Father," Remo said.
"If Smith is coming here, tell him to bring chestnuts."
CHAPTER THREE
Dr. Harold W. Smith's face exuded all the natural charm and sweetness of a clam. It was pinched and tight around the mouth and his eyes were cold and unblinking. His natural expression was lemon twist and if he had been older, he would remind people of the original John D. Rockefeller. Except, unlike Rockefeller, Harold W. Smith would never give away dimes to the starving poor. In a fit of rampant good will, he might have tried to find them jobs-working for somebo
dy else.
He could make the overseer of a Peruvian tin mine look warm. He looked like the kind of man you would want representing you if you were trying to negotiate a contract with a publisher.
He sat in a straight-backed chair in the hotel room, facing Remo. Smith's gray suit was immaculately pressed and unwrinkled, as if it had been built out of fiberglass in a custom auto body shop. His shirt collar seemed a half size too small and was buttoned tightly, and the points were heavily starched. His Dartmouth regimental tie was so stiff it seemed made of ceramic.
Remo sat on the bed. Chiun was in the corner of the room, on his grass mat, sitting lightly in a lotus position, smilingly attacking a bagful of roasted chestnuts that Smith had brought with him. Churn's technique was to grab the bottom of the chestnut between two long-nailed fingers and squeeze. The kernel of the nut popped up through the top.
"How did you find us?" Remo asked. "We're not in our regular hotel."
Smith sniffed. "I don't suppose there are too many people in the area registered as 'Remo and Glorious One.'" He nodded toward Chiun, who froze his chestnut-bearing hand on its way toward his mouth.
"I told Remo we should use a different hotel, Emperor," said Chiun. "I saw no reason in our spending so much of your money at that other hotel with the high ceilings, particularly when I know you have only so much money and so many demands on it."
Remo smiled. Chiun being concerned about Smith's budget problems could be nothing but the first step in negotiations for a pay raise.
Chiun chewed the chestnut. "How much were these chestnuts?" he asked.
Smith waved a hand in dismissal.
"No," Chiun protested. "I insist upon paying for them. I think a man should pay for what he gets. I should pay for these chestnuts. I would expect that if I were working for someone, he would pay me what I was worth. How much were they? I insist, Emperor."
"All right," Smith said. "A dollar."
"Remo," said Chiun. "Give the Emperor a dollar."
When Remo's hand did not move instantly for his pocket, Chiun said again, more loudly: "Remo. A dollar for Emperor Smith."
Remo reluctantly fished a roll of bills from his pocket and flicked through it, riffling the corners of the bills as if they were a deck of playing cards.
"Nothing smaller than a five, Smitty. You got change?"
Smith reached for the five. "No," he said. "I'll owe you four."
Remo put the bills back in his pocket. "Never mind," he said. "I'll owe you one."
"I will make sure he pays it," Chiun said. "Because I believe a man should always pay for what he gets. This is the way the House of Sinanju has always behaved." The chestnuts were gone now and Chiun pushed aside the empty bag as if it contained something distasteful.
Smith looked at Chiun, a hard look, and then said blandly: "Ruby Gonzalez is in charge of all salary negotiations from now on."
Chiun's face turned sour.
"Who?"
"Ruby Gonzalez," Smith said.
"This is cruel and unkind," Chiun said. "There is no talking to that woman."
Remo laughed. To watch Ruby, the beautiful street-smart black woman who was now Smith's assistant, engaged in contract negotiations with Chiun would be an event you could sell tickets for.
"Where is Ruby?" Remo asked.
"On vacation," Smith said.
"I figured that," Remo said.
"Why?"
"Because for the past week it's been nothing but work, work, work. Ruby's a pain in the butt and her voice sounds like glass breaking but she has the good sense to space out jobs for me," Remo said. "You just keep piling them on one after the other."
"I will have to speak to Ruby about that," Smith said drily. He fished in his leather briefcase, once tan but turned brown through decades of exposure to wind, rain and sun, and brought out a TV tape cassette.
"Could I have the television player, please?" he asked.
"Chiun, do we still have the tape player?" Remo asked. At one time, they would have travelled nowhere without it because it was the only way Chiun could manage to keep up with what was happening every day on every soap opera. But then the television soaps became "realistic," which Chiun equated with dirty, and he stopped watching them.
Chiun pointed to one of the fourteen lacquered steamer trunks that lined the walls of the hotel room and contained his "few personal possessions."
"It is in there," he said. "I never throw away anything the Emperor has paid for. I will get it."
He rose like a cloud drifting into the air, opened the top of the trunk and bent down into it. His tiny body seemed almost to vanish into the trunk, like a child bent over a tub, bobbing for Halloween apples.
He finally came out with the TV machine, lifting the heavy instrument with no more effort than if it had been a one-page letter from home.
It nearly dropped from Smith's hands as Chiun gave it to him. Smith lugged it over to the television set, efficiently hooked it into the back of the set, and then inserted the cassette into the top.
"Good," said Chiun. "A show. I have not seen a good show in much time."
The TV tape began rolling and the picture came on the screen.
It was a picture of Wesley Pruiss in a hospital bed, his face wan and drawn, crisp white sheets pulled up to his neck.
"Good," Chiun said. "A doctor show. Doctor shows are best."
"This is Wesley Pruiss," Smith said.
"Who's he?" asked Remo.
"The publisher of Gross."
"Serves him right," Remo said.
Theodosia was on screen now. She wore a white linen pants suit. It was tailored tightly to her body, but the basic business cut of the suit surrendered to the cut of her own full, voluptuous body.
"Too fat," Chiun said. "The women are always too fat on these shows."
Theodosia spoke.
"It was only through good fortune that this cowardly attack did not kill Wesley. To make sure that no such attack will ever again have any chance of success, I plan to spend every penny, if necessary, of Wesley's fortune to hire the best bodyguards in the world to protect him."
An off-camera voice drawled: "Why?"
Theodosia wheeled. Her eyes glared at the off-camera voice.
"I'll tell you why," she said. "Because I love him. Because he is going to make his mark in this world. Because what he's doing out here may be the most important thing done in this country since Kitty Hawk. That's why. That's why I'm going to make sure he lives. Does that answer your question?"
The camera slid back and showed Theodosia standing in front of a big building that looked like a pre-Civil War mansion, talking to a cluster of reporters.
"And that's the way it is here in Furlong County," an announcer's voice said. Then the tape ended and the screen went dark.
"So what?" Remo said.
"That's all there is?" Chiun asked. "A fat man in bed and a fat woman complaining about everything? What kind of story is that?"
"That was on tonight's news," Smith told Remo.
"I don't watch the news," Chiun said.
"Again, so what?" Remo asked.
"I want you to get the job as his bodyguard," Smith said.
"What the hell for?"
"Because when Pruiss moved out to that county in Indiana, he said he was going to make the entire county an experimental showcase for solar energy. He has to be kept alive to make sure that project goes ahead."
"Let the government do it," Remo said. "Why him?"
"Because you know as well as I do that the government can't do it," Smith said. "They'll take ten years passing legislation, ten years writing regulations, ten years bringing polluters to court, and at the end of it, we still won't have a solar energy program and we'll be burning blubber in lamps to try to keep warm."
Remo thought about that for a moment, then nodded.
Chiun said, "Blubber has a funny smell."
"Who tried to kill him?" Remo asked Smith.
"We don't know," Smith said
. "Somebody with a knife. God knows he's got enough enemies. But we don't want him killed. Keeping him alive is your job."
Chiun waited until the door was closed behind Smith and said, "That was a stupid show."
"It wasn't a show, Chiun. It's our next job: Keeping Wesley Pruiss alive."
"Who is this Wesley Pruiss?"
"He publishes magazines," Remo said.
"Good."
"Why good?" Remo asked.
"Because now maybe my novels and stories will get published and I can finally overcome this anti-Korean prejudice against great art."
"Your novels and stories won't get published until you write them," Remo said.
"You are not going to discourage me," Chiun said. "All I have to do is put them down on paper. They are all up here." He tapped a forefinger to his temple. "Every beautiful word, every exquisite scene, every brilliant insight. All up here. All I have to do is put them onto paper and that is the easiest part. What is the name of this magazine?"
"Gross," Remo said.
"Yes," Chiun said. "What is the name of this magazine?"
"Its name is Gross," Remo said.
"Hmmmm," said Chiun. "I didn't know you had a magazine named after you."
The Reverend Higbe Muckley could not read or write, but since that had never been a barrier to getting on network television, he had manipulated television very well to become a millionaire several times over. He had always been able to count very well.
The Reverend Mr. Muckley had hit upon the simple trick of selling memberships in his Divine Right church; five dollars to be a deacon, ten dollars to be a minister, fifteen dollars for an auxiliary bishop, one hundred dollars for a full bishopric, along with a life-long free subscription to Muckley's magazine, Divine Right, an almost incomprehensible word-by-word transcription of Muckley's confused ramblings, printed six times a year, more or less, depending on how long it took the copies of the last issue to vanish. Any full-fledged official in the Divine Right church was entitled to men-of-the-cloth discounts in most stores and businesses, and buying a new car at 650 dollars less than the normal going price more than justified the one-time donation to Muckley's church.
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