"No."
"I didn't think so," Harmon said glumly.
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza turned to Harmon Cashman.
"Harmon, these men will form the nucleus of our security force from now on."
"Are you sure about this, Ricky?"
"As certain as I am of my ultimate safety," replied Enrique Esperanza.
Frowning, Harmon Cashman walked up to the Master of Sinanju. He offered his hand, saying, "I'm Ricky's campaign manager."
Chiun nodded. "I will allow you to remain in his presence then," he sniffed, ignoring the hand.
"You . . . you . . ." Harmon sputtered.
The Master of Sinanju turned to the dark-horse candidate for governor.
"Is it this man's function to assist you in your work?"
Esperanza nodded. "It is."
"Then he should be about the business of escorting the wondrous Cheeta to our presence, should he not?"
Esperanza gestured. "Harmon. Have Miss Ching brought up here."
"You're giving her a statement?"
"No, I am granting her an interview. On our terms."
Harmon Cashman looked at the Master of Sinanju. "What are you?"
"Korean. "
"Okay, you might be able to help us in Koreatown."
He turned to Remo. "You. What's your name?"
"Remo."
Harmon nodded. "The Italians aren't much, demographically speaking, but we can use all the help we can get with the minority crowd."
"Since when are Italians in the minority?" Remo asked.
"Since this is California at the end of the twentieth century," replied Harmon Cashman in a smug voice, as he went to the elevator.
Chapter 9
Cheeta Ching was furious.
There were those who claimed that Cheeta Ching had been born furious. Certainly she had been born ambitious. In newsrooms from Los Angeles to New York, she was known as "the Korean Shark." Other reporters had hung this nickname on her. It was hardly an affectionate coinage.
Nobody, but nobody, got between Cheeta Ching and a story.
Right now, a trio of LAPD police officers stood between her and her goal, a one-on-one with the most charismatic local candidate for governor since Barry Black's last run.
Cheeta, who had family in Los Angeles, had first heard about Esperanza from her sister-in-law. The stories were intriguing. A spectacular orator, who cleverly dispensed indescribably tasty cookies at his rallies and played to minority aspirations.
Cheeta had a lukewarm spot in her frosty heart for candidates who played to minorities. Being a member of minority groups herself, she felt oppressed on two fronts. One, because she was a woman, and more importantly, because she was Korean.
Nobody seemed to understand what unique beings Koreans were. People lumped her in with the Chinese and the Japanese, and the other Asians who were pouring into this country by the thousand, threatening Cheeta Ching's unique standing as the premier Asian-American anchorwoman of renown.
In fact, she was proud to say, Koreans didn't even belong to the same racial family as those other so-called minority Asians. Ethnically, Koreans were closer to Turks and Mongols.
The trouble was, Turks weren't considered a true minority in America. Minorities enjoyed strength in numbers, and had political-action groups looking out for their interests. If you were a Turk or a Mongol or, God forbid, a Finn, no one cared about you.
So Cheeta bit her tongue every time some fool referred to her as "Asian." Someday she would come out of the closet as an Altaic Mongoloid. When it was politically advantageous. Or when she finally became pregnant. Whichever came first.
At the moment, it was more effective to shout, "I'm an oppressed Asian-American female person, and I demand my rights!"
The police officers looked away, their faces stony. The other media had dropped their camera equipment and were using their index fingers to protect their eardrums. The screech of Cheeta Ching in full cry had been known to shatter wineglasses. This was so well known that several cameramen were pressing their minicam lenses to their chests, to protect them from the sonic assault.
"I happen to be the number-two anchorperson on my network!" she added shrilly.
To which a voice in the media pack added, "Yeah. In the dead-last-in-the-ratings network."
Cheeta whirled on the others. They recoiled at the blazing fury they saw crackling in her predatory eyes.
"I hope every one of you ends up at my network one day!" she hissed venomously. "I'll have you for lunch, with kimchee."
No one said anything in reply. They knew Cheeta was sincere. And they also knew that if they did end up at her network, Cheeta would make their lives miserable.
Having cowed her colleagues, Cheeta Ching returned to hectoring the police detail.
"I used to be an important reporter in this town. Don't any of you remember that?"
"Yeah," one cop said, his voice gravelly. "We remember. Especially that twelve-part series on police insensitivity."
That tack having proved fruitless, Cheeta let her perfect brows knit together. Her flat face-the term "pancake makeup" had a double meaning when applied to her-attempted an unsuccessful frown. She wondered if her hair spray was wearing off. Usually, the estrogen-impaired half of the human race was easier to handle than this. She wondered if it had anything to do with the Rodney King videotape, which her network broadcast, on average, once a week, to illustrate stories on police forces all over the nation. Even positive ones.
At that moment the elevator door separated, and a flustered man Cheeta recognized as Harmon Cashman, campaign manager to the Esperanza campaign, appeared.
Grabbing the handiest minicam, Cheeta knocked over two of the police officers and successfully eluded a third to get to the elevator. She might have saved herself the trouble, because as soon as she had stepped aboard, thrusting a hard elbow into the Door Close button, Harmon Cashman said, "Ricky will see you, Miss Ching."
"Of course," said Cheeta Ching dryly, taking a tiny canister of hair varnish from her purse and applying it generously to her glossy black hair. "I'm Cheeta Ching."