"Slow down, sport. Let's see the color of your money." Smith passed over the check. Brunt examined it.
"A money order?" he said doubtfully.
"Naturally I do not want to give you anything that could be traced back to me."
"This must not be the first time someone walked off with your teapot. You really ought to hide it when company comes." Brunt took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Okay. So what happens if I'm arrested?"
"I will take care of you in that eventuality."
"Connected, huh? I had you figured for Mafia the minute you walked in."
"I have political connections," Smith said testily.
"This is a lot of potential fuss for a lousy tea service."
"It has sentimental value," Smith repeated, thinking that perhaps he should have made up something more elaborate than a tea service. But anything too valuable might tempt a man such as Brunt to consider pilfering the house of other valuables.
"That so? Come on, Brown. Spill it. Nobody lays down cash in advance over a tea service. What's in it? Diamonds? Gold? Is the exact location of Blackbeard's treasure worked into the filigree? You can tell me. The office cockroaches have taken a vow of silence."
"It is a tea service," Smith repeated stiffly. "And if you are not interested in the matter, we are wasting each other's time."
"Tell you what, Brown. I'll take this little caper. Strictly for chuckles, you understand. Maybe I'll get lucky and your friend will come back while I'm in the house."
"Why would that be lucky?" Smith asked, his voice filling with horror.
Just then the outer door banged open and the click of high heels announced the entrance of Michael Brunt's secretary. A thirtyish blonde in a beehive hairdo stuck her head in the office.
"Here you go, shamus," she said, tossing a box onto the bare desk. Mike Brunt grabbed it and shook it apart. Shiny brass cartridges spilled over the desktop like wayward marbles.
Michael Brunt unholstered a worn .38 revolver and began stuffing slugs into the cylinder. When he was done, he answered Smith's question with a cracked grin.
"Maybe I'll get into a shoot-out."
"You wouldn't," Smith croaked.
"Suuuure, he would," the secretary said wryly, closing the door.
"Perhaps I should see someone else," Smith began. "I do not want any unnecessary complications. This must be done in such a way that the homeowner is unaware of the entry."
"Too late, pal," Mike Brunt said, pulling open a desk drawer and plunking a bottle of Old Mister Boston in front of his face. Two shot glasses came up next. "I've already spent your money. Why don't we just drink a toast to our new business relationship."
"No, thank you," Smith said. "I must be going. The number at which I can be reached is on the check."
"Good," said Michael Brunt, pulling the top off with his teeth and spitting it onto the desk. "I hate drinking with clients. It usually means less booze for me." He then proceeded to drink straight from the bottle. When he was done, he belched.
Smith left the office feeling very ill. It was raining when he got out on the street. It was a three-block walk back to the subway, and Smith hunched his shoulders against the rain. Taxis drove by in each direction, but Smith disdained them. A cab would cost several dollars, and the subway ride back to the airport, even with two changes, was only sixty cents.
Chapter 22
Remo woke to a strange rustling sound.
"Arise, you lazy slugabed," a familiar squeaky voice said. And Chiun entered the room.
"Did someone steal your clothes?" Remo asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "Or have you just gone native?"
Chiun puffed up his thin chest. "You do not like this gift from the High Moo?" He spread his skirts. They were made of rattan strips woven together with vegetable fiber. He wore a blouse of rough-weave wheat-colored cotton over it. Belled sleeves copied from his kimono design rounded out the ensemble.
"It's a new you," Remo said, sitting up on his bed mat. He pulled on his stiff trousers. He left his rag of a T-shirt. "What time is it?"
"Time passes differently on Moo, but you have slept nearly six hours. Are you ill?"
"No," Remo said evasively. "I just felt like sleeping."
"We are summoned to the Shark Throne. Come." Remo reached for his shoes, then realized that he had left them back at the Grove of Ghosts. He pulled on his socks. They would do for now. When he stood up, he noticed his fingernails were even longer than before, almost twice as long as he remembered from the previous night. He rubbed his face. He needed a shave too. He reminded himself to ask Chiun about getting the Moovian equivalent of a barber.
Bare-chested, Remo followed Chiun down a maze of stone corridors to a central room.
Guards stood outside the open door, on the inside, and at every corner of the room, Remo saw as he entered. Chiun bowed before the High Moo, who sat on his low Shark Throne. The Low Moo sat to his right, on an even lower stool. There was an empty stool on the left that Remo assumed belonged to the late royal priest.
"My Red Feather Guard has returned from scouring the island," said the High Moo without preamble. "Emboldened by the trophy you have laid at my feet, they even ventured into the Grove of Ghosts. They found no living men, there or anywhere else. I hereby proclaim today the Dawn of the Era Without Octopus Worshipers."
"Sinanju is pleased to serve," Chiun said simply.
"Full payment will be tendered to you upon your leave-taking of Moo. A leave-taking I and my daughter beg is not soon."
"I have not discussed this with Remo as yet," Chiun said.
"Actually, we can't stay long," Remo said in Moovian. The High Moo frowned. The Low Moo gasped.
"What Remo means," Chiun inserted hastily, "is that we have responsibilities elsewhere. Other clients. None so generous as you, of course. But it does not mean that we cannot pass the span of, say, one moon on Moo."
"So be it," said the High Moo, mollified. "The full moon saw the end of the octopus cult. The next moon will see your going-unless you change you mind before then."
"All things are possible on Moo," Chiun said, bowing.
"Have you any requests?"
"My son has not yet breakfasted. I would like to prepare for him his favorite. I will need lemons and eggs."
"And I could do with something for my nails and beard," Remo added, showing his hands.
Chiun looked at Remo's hands curiously.
"You should have cut them before we left America," he said under his breath.
"I thought I did," Remo shot back.