That was enough for Gregory Sagadelli. He was a street fighter, with a street fighter's instincts. Old or not, he took a poke at the frail little gook.
The fist traveled less than a foot. The little gook brought his open hands up to intercept the fist, like a catcher without a mitt.
Gregory Sagadelli felt the impact. He was sure he felt the impact. Swore to it, for many years after.
When they had finished pouring cold water on his face, and after he had batted the smelling salts away with his sprained fist, the membership put it another way.
"You hit yourself in the jaw."
"I hit the gook," Gregory Sagadelli insisted.
"There's a bruise on your jaw, and those knuckles are sprained," a delegate pointed out.
"I felt a fuckin' impact."
"In your jaw. The membership wants to know if we can start putting up the Esperanza posters now."
"The hell with the posters."
"We'd like you to reconsider."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, we gotta run your dumb ass through a rotary press to protect our own dumb asses. Sorry."
It was then that Gregory Sagadelli noticed the little gook standing off to one side, looking stern and confident. It was as if he were looking at the tiny fellow for the first time. There was something cold and deadly in those eyes. They were like steel ball bearings.
Gregory Sagadelli allowed himself to be helped to his feet. "Put up the damn posters," he snarled.
He strode over to the tiny Oriental. He looked down. The Oriental looked up.
"Anything else you want?" Gregory Sagadelli asked.
"Yes. Your endorsement of my candidate."
"Bull! We can't endorse someone who doesn't buy union. What'll we tell the press?"
A low voice whispered in his ear. "Maybe this is the exception that proves the rule."
That afternoon, with the entire ambulatory membership of the California Pressmen's Union Local 334 out affixing Esperanza posters to walls all over L.A. County, Gregory Sagadelli called a press conference and announced that the entire union was coming out for Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
There were only three reporters present. Such was the state of union activity in the nineties. One said, "We understand they don't use union printed placards."
"This is the exception that proves the rule," said Gregory Sagadelli with a straight face. Or as straight as it could be, with his jaw permanently skewed to the left.
"We just picked up our first union endorsement!" Harmon Cashman screamed. "I'm hyped! I'm really, really hyped!"
"Calm yourself," said Enrique Esperanza, hitting the TV remote control. "It is a small victory. We will need much, much more in the weeks that remain."
"But this is the first union endorsement of the campaign! Sometimes that's all you need to get the ball rolling!"
"The ball, as you say, is already rolling."
"What I don't figure is, how did it happen?"
"It is simple. Chiun."
Harmon Cashman dug into his pockets and pulled out a minipack of Oreo cookies. "The little guy? How'd he pull it off?"
"Because there is nothing he cannot do. You must understand, Harmon. He is Sinanju."
"What's that?"
"Sinanju is a house of assassins."
At the sound of the word assassin, Harmon Cashman spit out the half-chewed sticky pulp of an Oreo sandwich cookie. He stared at the dark blob on the rug, as if he were contemplating gobbling it back up. His eyes, sick with fear, went to the bland face of Enrique Esperanza. "Ricky . . ."
"Yes. I did say 'assassin,' " Enrique Esperanza said calmly. "For many, many years the assassins of Sinanju worked for governments all over the Old World, protecting thrones and preventing wars."
"You're joking!"
"Have you ever known me to joke?"
"Never. But I had to check. Okay, let's say this is true. What's this Chiun doing here?"
"Obviously he was sent here."
"To kill you?"
"Hardly. To protect me."
"I don't get it."
Enrique Esperanza fixed Harmon Cashman with his soft, dark eyes. "It is very clear, Harmon. The Master of Sinanju has been sent here by his employer to protect my life and see that the election turns out a certain way."
"Who would that be?"
"I am not sure, but everything in my being tells me it is the President of the United States."
"Oh, him," said Harmon Cashman. "The thank-you-note king."
"Do not hold grudges. Because if what I believe is true, then our campaign has the blessing of the President, which virtually assures us of success."
"Okay," Harmon said, digging out another chocolate cookie. "I'll buy it. But an assassin?"
"Think of him as a protector."