Then, with a flourish of skirts, he returned to his candidate's side.
"They are with you, gracious one," said Chiun.
"That is good. This afternoon, I go to speak before the brown-skinned peoples."
Chiun nodded. "As the prophet of cultimulcherism, it is proper that you do so."
"But it is very dangerous down there," Enrique Esperanza continued. "There are young men with no futures, who carry guns and kill one another."
"Their fates are sealed," Chiun promised.
"No, no. I do not wish to vanquish them. That is not my way. It is my hope that they will join my cause. I know that they will be receptive to the message of Esperanza, if only they can be made to listen."
"Their ears shall be your playthings," vowed the Master of Sinanju.
"These young men go by certain names-the Crips and the Blood. The Crips wear blue bandannas. The Bloods wear red. Both groups carry weapons."
"They will carry their fingers loosely at their sides when you enter their domain in triumph," vowed the Master of Sinanju.
"A driver will take you to this place," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, bowing.
Jambo Jambone X-formerly Melvin Dicer-was all of fifteen, and had killed three men. The term "men" was open to debate, because none of the three members of the blue-jacketed Crips had lived long enough to graduate from high school before he had capped them.
Jambo Jambone X-someone had told him it was a name with true African roots, and so he adopted it as a gesture of black pride and further insurance against paternity suits-considered himself a man. A man killed. Therefore he was a man. Anybody who said different had better watch where he trooped.
Today, Jambo Jambone X was out to prove his manhood. He was going to pull out on someone. It didn't matter who. A cop was as good as a Crip. He might shoot a cop. It was good for a man's reputation to do that sometimes. As he aged, he noticed that younger members eyed him with increasing envy. They called him an "Original Gangster." Jambo Jambone X liked that.
As he trooped along Century Boulevard, Jambo Jambone X noticed the white dude. Not many white dudes rolled through Century Boulevard. Not in broad daylight.
There was something about this white guy, Jambo Jambone X thought. The way the dude walked, cool and casual like he owned Watts. He also, had the thickest wrists Jambo had ever seen. They looked like transplants from a different guy entirely.
Jambo stopped on a corner to light up a cigarette. Really a frio-a menthol cigarette dipped in PCP. It helped to steady his gun hand.
The white guy was looking around as he was walking along. He had deep eyes. Deep and cold. Cop eyes. Jambo Jambone X knew cop eyes on sight. This guy had cop eyes, no doubt about it.
He wore tan chinos, and a white T-shirt that still had that crisp look that meant it had never seen the inside of washer. Brand-new. His arms were bare. No tattoos. No nothing. His clothes were too tight for him to be packing heavy. Maybe a .38 in an ankle holster, at most.
Jambo Jambone X packed a Glock 9. Fifteen-round clip. A man's tool. You just point and pull. Didn't hardly have to aim.
Because he was dead-certain that the skinny guy with the wrists like two-by-fours was an undercover Gang Unit detective, Jambo Jambone X decided that he would put the muzzle of his Glock to the guy's white face and pull the trigger way down.
And because he made that fateful decision, Jambo Jambone X was destined to undergo a unique life-affirming experience.
The white guy walked over to a pay phone. He dropped a quarter in the slot and leaned on the one button with his thumb. Jambo noticed that especially. It was not something people normally did.
He decided it was further confirmation that the guy was a cop. Probably it was some secret cop number he was dialing.
Jambo reached into the inner pocket of his camo varsity jacket and felt the warm plastic handle of his Glock. He slipped up behind the guy on his quiet pump sneakers while he was speaking into the phone.
"That's right, Smitty. No sign of Chiun. If Esperanza is going to make an appearance down here, I'd better get to work. Otherwise we'll have a bloodbath. This place is practically a war zone."
"You got that right, jack," said Jambo Jambone X, whipping out his high-impact plastic pistol and putting it to the back of the white cop's head. "And you be the next statistic." His brown finger caressed the trigger. Caressing the trigger was a trick an older Blood had taught him. He had bubbled out the secret as he lay dying, saying it was his wish to pass on the one great truth he had learned in life before he died, the sum total of eighteen rich years on the street.
"You don't jerk the trigger. You kinda squeeze it. Keeps the sight on the guy you wanna do."
"Squeeze?" Jambo had asked.
"Yeah. Uhhhh." A fountain of blood erupted from the Blood's mouth. Jambo thanked the man as he stripped the corpse of valuables, including the Glock 9 he first used to practice the secret art of squeezing the trigger. He quickly discovered that it worked. After that, he hardly ever popped preschoolers when he was aiming at their older relatives.
So, with the white dude's head before his muzzle, Jambo Jambone X began to squeeze the trigger, not yank it back hard.
He was eternally grateful he remembered to do this. He even said a prayer for the repose of the soul of his dead brother, whose name he no longer remembered.
"Jesus Lord, you watch out for his black ass," murmured Jambo Jambone X, as the cold sweat oozed down his forehead and washed his dark face.
The prayer made him feel much, much better-although it did nothing to clarify the situation confronting him. This was new. He would have to think this through. What does a Blood do when he finds himself with his finger on his own trigger and his Glock tucked up under his chin?
This was definitely new. It would take extra thought. The first thing Jambo Jambone X thought to do was figure out what had happened.
He had been about to smoke the white cop when the dude, casual as can be, had turned around and taken hold of Jambo's steady wrists with the fingers of one cool hand.
The Glock was under his own chin directly after that. Couldn't have taken the blink of a rat's eye.
In this unique circumstance, Jambo Jambone X felt moved to compliment the white dude. "You cool, jack. You the downest."
"Keep it down," said the cool cop in an equally cool voice. "I'll finish with you when I'm through with my conversation."
"Take your time," said Jambo Jambone X respectfully.
The cool cop continued doing his thing.
"Yeah. Right. I'll be in touch, Smitty."
The cool cop hung up the phone. Jambo Jambone X heard the phone mechanism click the quarter into the change-return slot. The dude was so cool he didn't even check the slot. That was way cool.
Still holding on to Jambo's wrist with a grip that felt like a redwood tree had grown up and around it, the cool cop started talking.
"I'm looking for a friend," he said.
"You got one. I am your friend for life, which I hope extends beyond the millennium what is comin'."
"Glad to hear it. But I already got a friend. He's about five feet tall, old as your mother's reputation, and he wears a Korean kimono."
"I know what a Korean is, but the kimono part's got me stumped."
"It's like a robe."