Seeing this, Remo released the man's wrist.
The erstwhile attacker did not release the knife stuck in his own stomach. He was streetwise, and knew that to extract the blade would be to bleed profusely. So he held on to the knife for dear life-even when he found himself suddenly airborne in the direction of his amigos.
A few upward-pointing gun muzzles went pop-pop-pop! before they fell from surprised hands and Remo stepped into their midst.
He didn't waste time. He used the heel of his shoe to crush the weapons flat, driving his handmade sole home so fast and so hard the metal barrels went flat. His shoe leather didn't pick up so much as a nick.
Technique.
Remo tapped the toe of his right shoe against jaws, and the squirming pile of Hispanics became a slumbering pile of Hispanics. When the last one had gone quiet, the man who had stabbed himself lost his grip. The switchblade fell loose from his stomach-showing that it was in the folded position after all.
When the man woke up he would think it was a miracle, and that God had spared him for reasons unclear.
It would never occur to him, nor would he have believed it if it had, that his mysterious attacker had simultaneously folded the blade shut while driving the blunt hilt into his stomach. The pain had been identical to being stabbed.
Whistling, Remo returned to the car.
The Master of Sinanju was comforting the panting middle-aged man.
"What happened, pal?" Remo asked, as he slid behind the wheel.
"I . . . I had a flat. I got out to fix it. Those hoods tried to jump me."
"Next time, try not to get a flat in Little Havana."
"Little Havana? What are you talking about? This is Little Managua."
"Little Managua? I never heard of Little Managua."
"It's new," the man said.
"Okay. It's new. So where's Little Havana?"
"Give me a ride to a safe part of town and I'll tell you."
"Sounds fair enough," said Remo. "Hop in."
The man got in back. Remo drove off, asking, "Any place in particular you want to go?"
"The airport. I've had enough of this town."
"I know that feeling."
They drove to the airport, and as Remo dropped the man off at the terminal he asked, "So where's Little Havana?"
"It used to be all around Southwest 8th Street."
"So where is it now?"
"Now," the man said, as he turned into the terminal, "it's practically all of Miami."
"He was very helpful," Chiun said smugly after the man had gone.
"Don't rub it in," growled Remo, putting the airport behind them.
They took the Palmetto Expressway back to town and turned off on the Tamiami Trail. Soon, they were cruising along Southwest 8th Street. It looked amazingly like Little Managua. Remo couldn't tell the difference.
He tried asking passersby the question that he had been asking half the night.
"Is this Little Havana?"
People shrugged and said "Que?" or sometimes "Quien?" And Remo fumed.
"You could lend a hand, you know," Remo said pointedly to the passive Master of Sinanju.
"Of course. Que means 'what' and quien means 'who.' "
"Har de bar har har," muttered Remo.
His dark eyes alighted on a neon bar sign: PEPE'S. "When in doubt, ask a barman," he said jauntily.
Remo parked, got out, and went into the bar. Chiun followed silently.
It was a brightly lit saloon. Jukebox salsa music filled the air. Remo sauntered up to the bar, ignoring the hard stares at his white skin.
"I'm looking for Little Havana," he said.
"Por que?"
"He means 'why,' not 'what,' " Chiun whispered.
"Because," Remo answered, "I'm looking for Leopoldo Zorilla."
"I have not heard of this man," said the bartender, elaborately polishing his countertop. Too elaborately, Remo thought.
"I hear he lives around here," Remo said, laying down a twenty.
Disdainfully, the bartender swiped it away with his rag. "Senor, you perhaps hear wrong."
Remo looked around. Dark, liquid eyes glowered at him. He felt like Chuck Connors in a Rifleman rerun.
"Why do I get the feeling that we're being snowed?" he undertoned to the Master of Sinanju.
"Because we are," said Chiun.
"It would be good advice if you were to leave, senor," the bartender said pointedly.