“Sure, sure,” Remo said. “Someone should try to contact you again. They’ll probably be able to lead us to the general, so make sure I handle it.”
“Of course.”
Remo turned to go and she ran around to stand in front of him.
“You are angry? You do not like what you see?” She held her arms out and proudly thrust forth her young breasts.
“Some other time, kid.”
“You look troubled. What are you thinking?”
“Mei Soong, I’m thinking that you are making it difficult for me to leave now,” Remo said. Which was not what he was thinking. What he was thinking was that she had already been contacted because there was a new copy of Mao’s Red Book on the end table near her bed, and she had not had a chance to buy one herself. Someone must have smuggled it to her. And suddenly, she was interested in going back to Chinatown, and seeing that wonderful karate school.
He said, “Let us sleep now, so we can go to Chinatown very early and look for the general.”
“I am sure that tomorrow you will find him,” she said happily, and threw her arms around Remo, burying her face against his chest.
Remo spent the night dozing in a chair against the door to her room, alert enough to detect any attempt by Mei Soong to leave. In the morning, he woke her roughly and said:
“Come on, we’re going to buy you some clothes. You can’t walk round this country in that damned greatcoat.”
“It is a product of the People’s Republic of China. It is a well-made greatcoat.”
“But your beauty should not be hidden under it. You are depriving the masses of the sight of the new healthy China.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
“But I do not wish to wear goods produced from the exploitation of suffering workers. The stitches made of their blood. The fabric made of their sweat. The buttons of their bones.”
“Well, just some inexpensive clothes. A few garments. We’re already too obvious to people as it is.”
“All right. But just a few.” Mei Soong held up a finger in lecture. “I will not profit from the capitalistic exploitation of slave labor.”
“Okay,” said Remo.
At Lord and Taylor’s, Mei Soong discovered that Pucci workers were well paid. She adhered largely to Italian goods, because Italy had a large Communist party. This fealty to the working class became two print dresses, a gown, four pairs of shoes, six bras, six lacey lace panties, earrings because they were gold and thus undermined the monetary system of the west, Paris perfumes, and to show that China did not hate the people of America, just its government, a checkered coat that was made on 33rd Street.
The bill came to $875.25. Remo took nine $100 bills from his wallet.
“Cash?” said the sales girl.
“Yes. This is what it looks like. It’s green.”
She called the floor manager.
“Cash?” said the floor manager.
“Yeah. Money.”
Mr. Pelfred, the floor manager, lifted one of the bills to the light, then signalled for another by holding out a hand. He lifted that one to the light also. Then he shrugged.
“What’s the matter?” Mei Soong asked Remo.
“I’m paying for something in cash.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to pay in?”
“Well, most purchases are worked through credit cards. You buy whatever you want and they make an impression of your card and send you a bill at the end of the month.”
“Oh, yes. Credit cards. The economical exploitation of people through subterfuge, giving them the illusion of purchasing power but making them merely wage slaves to the corporations that issue the cards.” Her voice lifted to the ceiling of Lord and Taylor’s. “Credit cards should be burned on a fire, along with the people who make them.”
“Right on,” came from a man in a double breasted suit. A policeman clapped. A woman draped in mink kissed Mei Soong on her cheeks. A businessman raised a clenched fist.
“Well, we’ll take your money,” said Mr. Pelfred.
“Cash,” he yelled out.
“What’s that,” said one of the clerks.
“It’s something they used to use all over. Like what you put in telephones on the street and things.”
“Like for buying cigarettes, only more of it, right?”
“Yeah,” said the clerk.
Mei Soong wore one of the pink print dresses and the department store packed her greatcoat, her sandals and her gray uniform. She clung to Remo’s arm, leaning on him and resting a cheek against his strong shoulders. She watched the clerk fold the coat.
“This is a funny kind of coat. Where’s it made?” asked the young girl with fried straw hair and a plastic label that read: “Miss P. Walsh.”
“China,” said Mei Soong.
“I thought they made nice things in China like silk and stuff.”
“The People’s Republic of China,” said Mei Soong.
“Yeah. Chankee Check. The people’s republic of China.”
“If you are a servant, then be a servant,” said Mei Soong. “Wrap the package and keep your tongue tethered to your mouth.”
“You’ll want a throne next,” Remo whispered to her.
She turned to Remo, looking up. “If we are living in a feudal system, then we who are doing secret work should appear to be part of it, correct?”
“I suppose.”
Mei Soong smiled a smile of rectification. “Then why should I suffer insolence from a serf?”
“Listen,” said Miss P. Walsh. “I don’t have to take that crap from you or anyone. You want this package wrapped, then mind your manners. I’ve never been insulted like this before.”
Mei Soong braced herself and in her most imperious manner, said to Miss P. Walsh: “You are a servant and you will serve.”
“Listen, Dinko,” said Miss P. Walsh. “We got a union around here and we don’t have to take that kind of crap from anyone. Now you talk nice or you’re getting this coat in your face.”
Mr. Pelfred was telling his assistant manager about the cash purchases when he heard the commotion. Up running he came, hippity, hippity, his black shiny shoes pattering along the gray marble floors, his breath puffing from his fatty, shiny face, his hands atwitter.
“Will you please?” he said to Miss P. Walsh.
“Watcher mouth,” yelled Miss P. Walsh. “Steward,” she screamed. A gaunt hard woman in iron tweed stomped to the cluster around the packing of the greatcoat.
“What’s going on here?” she said.
“It’s not a grievance, please,” said Mr. Pelfred.
“I don’t have to take this crap from customers or anyone. We got a union,” said Miss P. Walsh.
“What’s going on?” repeated the gaunt woman.
“There’s been a minor disagreement,” said Mr. Pelfred.
“I been crapped on by this customer,” said Miss P. Walsh, pointing to Mei Soong, who stood erect and serene, as if witnessing a squabble between her upstairs and downstairs maids.
“What happened, honey?” said the gaunt woman. “Exactly what happened?”
“I was wrapping this funny coat for her and then she told me to tie my tongue or something. She was real aristocratic and she crapped on me. Just plain crapped on me.”
The gaunt woman stared hatefully at Mr. Pelfred. “We don’t have to put up with this, Mr. Pelfred. She does not have to wait on this customer and if you order her to, this whole store is gonna shut down. Tight.”
Mr. Pelfred’s hands fluttered. “All right. All right. I’ll do the wrapping myself.”
“You can’t,” said the gaunt woman. “You’re not in the union.”
“Fascist pig,” said Mei Soong coolly. “The masses have seen their exploitation and are breaking their chains of oppression.”
“And you, lotus blossom,” said the gaunt woman, “button your lip and get your friggin’ coat out the friggin’ door or you’re going out the f
riggin’ window, along with your sexy looking boyfriend. And if he doesn’t like it, he’s going out with you.”
Remo raised his hands. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“You look like it, gigolo,” the gaunt woman said.
Mei Soong slowly looked to Remo. “Are you going to allow these insults to be heaped upon me?”
“Yes,” said Remo.
Her golden face flushed pink and with great chill, she said: “All right. Let’s go. Pick up the coat and dresses.”
“You take half of them,” said Remo.
“You take the coat.”
“All right,” said Remo. He looked mournfully at Miss P. Walsh. “I wonder if you could do me a big favor. We have a long way to go and if you’d put the coat in a box of some sort, I’d really appreciate it. Anything would do.”
“Oh, sure,” said Miss P. Walsh. “Hey, look, it might rain. I’ll double wrap it. We got a special kind of paper in the back room that’s im-pregnant with chemicals. It’ll keep it dry.”
When the sales girl had left for the special paper wrapping and Pelfred had, as prissily as possible, marched back toward the elevator, and the gaunt woman had swaggered back to the stock room, Mei Soong said to Remo: “You need not have groveled before her.”
And on their way back to the hotel, she added: “You are a nation without virtue.” But she warmed in the lobby and by the time they had returned to their rooms where Chiun sat atop his luggage, she was bubbling over with enthusiasm about her upcoming visit to the karate school she had heard of and what great fun it would be.
Over her shoulder, Remo winked at Chiun, and told him, “Come on, we’re going back to Chinatown. To see a karate demonstration.”
Then Remo asked the girl, “Do you want to eat now?”
“No,” she said quickly. “After the karate school, then I’ll eat.”
She did not say “we,” Remo noticed. Perhaps she expected that he would not be around for dinner.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“SIR, I MUST ADVISE YOU THAT soon you may not place faith in our efforts concerning the matter.”
Smith’s voice had passed the stage of tension and chill and was now as calm as the Long Island Sound outside his window, a flat, placid sheet of glass, strangely undisturbed by its usual winds and waves.
It was over. Smith had made the decision which his character demanded, that character for which a dead President had chosen him for an assignment he did not want, that character begun in his youth, before memory, and which told Harold W. Smith that there are things you must do, regardless of your personal welfare.
So it was ending now with his own death. Remo would phone. Dr. Smith would order Remo to tell Chiun to return to Folcroft. Chiun would kill Remo and return to his village of Sinanju by the Central Intelligence Agency.
“You’ve got to stay with this longer,” the President said.
“I cannot do that, sir. The three of them have collected a crowd around them. A line of ours was tapped, fortunately by the FBI. But if they knew for sure who we were, think of how they would be compromised. We are going through our prepared program before it will be too late. That is my decision.”
“Would it be possible to leave that person still working?” The President’s voice was wavering now.
“No.”
“Is it possible that something will go wrong with your plans for destruct?”
“Yes.”
“How possible?”
“Slight.”
“Then if you fail, I still might be able to count on you. Would that be possible?”
“Yes sir, but I doubt it.”
“As President of the United States, I order you, Dr. Smith, not to destruct.”
“Goodbye, sir, and good luck.”
Smith hung up the special phone with the white dot. Oh, to hold his wife again, to say goodbye to his daughters, to play one more round of golf at the Westchester Country Club. He was so close to breaking 90. Why was golf so important now? Funny. But then why should golf be important in the first place?
Maybe it was good to leave now. No man knew the hour of his death, the Bible said. But Smith would know the exact second. He looked at his watch again. One minute to go. He took the container with the pill from his gray vest pocket. It would do the job.
The pill was white and oblong with beveled edges like a coffin. That was to let people know it was poison and not to be consumed. Smith had learned that when he was six. It was the sort of information that remained with a person. He had not, in his lifetime, ever had use for it.
With his mind now floating in the nether world of faces and words and feelings he had thought he had forgotten, Smith spun the coffin-like pill on the memo that would take the aluminum box to Parsippany, New Jersey.
The central phone rang. Smith picked it up and noticed his hand was trembling and the phone slippery from the perspiration.
“I’ve got good news for you,” came Remo’s voice.
“Yes?” said Smith.
“I think I can latch on to our man. And I’m going to where he is.”
“Very good,” said Dr. Smith. “Nice going. By the way, you can tell Chiun to return to Folcroft.”
“Nah,” said Remo. “He’s gonna work out fine. I know just how to use him.”
“Well,” said Smith. “He doesn’t really fit into the picture now. You send him back.”
“No way,” said Remo. “I need him now. Don’t worry. Everything is going to work out fine.”
“Well, then,” Smith’s voice was calm in appearance, “just tell him that I asked for him to return, okay?”
“No good. I know what you’re doing. I tell him that and he’ll return, no matter what else I tell him. He’s a pro like that.”
“You be a pro like that. I want him back now.”
“You’ll get him tomorrow.”
“Tell him today.”
“No deal, sweetheart.”
“Remo, this is an order. This is an important order.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone, an open line to somewhere. Dr. Smith could not afford to give away what he had just given away and yet he had had to try strength.
It didn’t work. “Hell, you’re always worrying about something. I’ll check with you tomorrow. Another day won’t cripple you.”
“Are you refusing an order?”
“Sue me,” came the voice and Smith heard the click of a dead line.
Dr. Smith returned the receiver to the cradle, returned the pill to the little bottle, returned the bottle to his vest, and buzzed his secretary.
“Phone my wife. Tell her I’ll be home late for dinner, then phone the club and get me a tee time.”
“Yes, sir. About the memo on the shipment of the goods downstairs? Should I send it?”
“Not today,” said Dr. Smith.
There was nothing he would be needed for until tomorrow at noon. The only function he had left was to die and take an organization with him. He could not do that until the first step — the death of Remo — was settled. And since he had no other decisions to make, he would go golfing. Of course, under all this pressure, he wouldn’t break 80. If he could break 90, that would be an accomplishment under the circumstances of today. Breaking 90 today would be the equivalent of breaking 80 under other circumstances. Because of the seriousness of the day, Smith would allow himself a mulligan. No, two mulligans.
It was a peculiarity of Dr. Harold W. Smith that his honesty and integrity, steel bound unto death, would, when he put a white ball on a wooden tee, dissolve into marshmallow.
By the time he waggled himself into a solid stance at the first tee, Dr. Smith had given himself four strokes for his impending demise, winter rules because of his lower body temperature, and any putt within six feet of the pin. The last advantage still awaited a rationale, but Dr. Smith was sure he would have it by the first green.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BERNOY JACKSON PACKED A .357 Magnum revolver into his at
tache case, a pistol known as a cannon with a handle. He would have taken a real cannon, but it would not have fit, either into his attache case, or into the main floor of Bong Rhee’s Karate Dojo.
He would have liked to have brought with him five button men from his own organization and perhaps an enforcer or two from organizations in Brooklyn and the Bronx.
What he really wanted, and he knew this very well when he pulled his customized Fleetwood from the garage around the corner and clipped a hydrant on his way out, was to not be going to the school at all.
As the $14,000 gray vehicle with sun roof, stereo, bar, phone and color TV moved down 125th Street toward the East River Drive, he thought for a moment that if he turned north on the drive he could keep going. Of course, he would have to go back to his pad first, and remove cash from the hidden safe behind the third plant. What was that? $120,000. It was just a fraction of his worth, but he would be alive to spend it. Then he could start again, take his time, set up slowly. He had the bankroll for a good numbers operation and he knew how to run it.
The wheel was sweat-slippery in his hands as he passed under the Penn Central Railroad tracks. He was nine when he realized those tracks did not lead to all the faraway wonderful places in the world but just to upstate New York with Ossining on its way and an awful lot of towns that didn’t want Nigger boys like Bernoy Jackson. His grandmother had been so wise: “The man ain’t ever gonna do you right, boy.”
And he believed it. And when he should have believed it most, eight years before, he didn’t. And now, as befitting life in Harlem, having made the wrong decision, he was going to die for it
Jackson turned the air conditioner to high, but found little comfort. He was simultaneously chilled and perspiring. He wiped his right hand against the soft dry material of the seat. His first Cadillac was lined with white fur, an incredibly silly venture, but one he had dreamed of. The fur wore too quickly and the car was vandalized five times in the first month, even in the garage.
Now his Fleetwood was gray with all the good things neatly hidden. He would be at the East River Drive soon. And when he turned right to go south, to go downtown, to go to his death, there would be no turning back. That was the big difference between Harlem and white America.
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