Enrique Espiritu Esperanza emerged, smiling. He walked down the path made for him, as the media surged toward the spectacle.
Cheeta leaped off the cameraman's back, crying, "Get off your knees, you idiot! We're missing the shot of our careers!"
By the time they reached the car, Enrique Esperanza had made it to the podium. He wore white.
He began speaking.
"I have come here to make a speech," Enrique Esperanza began.
A hush fell over the crowd.
"But I will not make a speech," Esperanza said.
A murmur went through the crowd.
"Instead, I will have the fine young men of South Central speak for me."
Enrique Esperanza waved to his honor guard. A black youth in Blood colors took the podium.
"My name is Jambo Jambone X, and until this morning I never heard of Mr. Esperanza. But now that I have met the dude, I see that I got hope. No more gangbanging for me. No more crack. From now on I eat Oreo cookies and go to school. Oreos taste better than crack, anyway."
Nervous applause rippled through the crowd.
The next to take the microphone was the leader of the Crips. He took credit for cleaning up South Central. And quickly added that his brothers from the Blood and Los Aranas had pitched in.
"Mr. Esperanza showed me my pride. I say down with crimes. Anybody doing crimes in my neighborhood had better watch out. I see any more crimes going down, and I drop a dime on his crown."
The leader of Los Aranas Espana came next. His speech was shorter and more to the point.
"I say, 'Esperanza mucho hombre.' "
Wild applause greeted this. The Aranas leader rejoined the honor guard behind the podium.
Then a smiling Enrique Espiritu Esperanza returned to the mike.
"I thank my black and brown friends for their kind words in my behalf," he said magnanimously. "They have seen their future. The multicultural future that is uniquely Californian. When I am elected, all Californians, regardless of skin color or ethnic background, will be able to coexist as friends. No more fear. No more hate. No more trouble. This, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza promises you."
From a dozen places in the crowd, placards rose. They read ESPERANZA MEANS HOPE In three languages.
The cameraman, his minicam capturing the most sensational sight in South Central since the last monthly riot, said, "Isn't this something?"
As the crowd roared its approval, Cheeta Ching looked around distractedly.
"See anything of a dreamboat named Ramiro?" she asked hopefully.
Remo Williams was in hiding.
He lay on his stomach, peering over the crumbling edge of an apartment house roof, his eyes guarded.
"Is she still there?" he asked.
"She is looking about with her magnificent feline eyes," replied the Master of Sinanju in a chill voice.
Remo scuttled away. "Get back. We don't want her to spot us."
"Speak for yourself, white," sniffed Chiun. "I only stand on this dirty roof because I know it would anger Emperor Smith were I to appear on the television."
"I'm glad you're being sensible."
"I am willing to wait until I am Exalted Treasurer of California before stepping into the lemonlight," he said.
"That's limelight, and if you get the urge to step into it, remember what happened to me the last time I got my face on TV."
Chiun retreated with alacrity, saying, "Emperor Smith would not dare to require that a Master of Sinanju submit to surgeons of plastic, as you have."
"My face still hurts from that last facelift."
Chiun stepped back even further. His nose wrinkled.
"All glory comes to him who is patient," he said quietly.
"What do you see in that witch, anyway?" asked Remo, climbing to his feet.
The Master of Sinanju turned his face toward the snowy peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains to the east. His long nails touched one another, his bony fingers splayed.
"Once," he intoned, "I was a young man."
"You and about half the human race," Remo returned.
A hand lifted. "Hush!" Chiun said sharply. "You have asked a question, and now you will hear the answer."
"I guess I asked for it . . . ."
"I was young, and the world was wide," Chiun murmured. "It was in the days when I was still a Master-in-training. Now a Master-in-training must perform many feats. Endure many hardships. Suffer much pain. One day, my father, the Master who began my training, called me into his presence and said unto me, 'My son, you must now face your severest test.'"
"I trembled, for before this I had endured much. I could not imagine what my father had in store for me. And he said, 'You must go to the city of which you have heard, many leagues from this fishing village of ours, and dwell there for one month.'"
Remo grunted. "Horrors."
"My father said that many young men before me had gone to the city and never come back," Chiun continued in an arid voice. "I asked him what dangers awaited me, and he said, 'You will not know their face until they have inflicted grievous wounds upon your soul.' And hearing these portentous words I trembled anew, for I did not comprehend this riddle.
"And so I walked to the city of Pyongyang, which is now in North Korea, but in those days was merely a city in the north of an undivided land. I went on foot, with a few coins in my pocket and only the kimono on my back."
The Master of Sinanju lifted his tiny chin, his hazel eyes going opaque with memories.
"The way was long, and my heart was tight with many emotions," he said. "Would I return alive? Would I be swallowed by the harlot guile of the city-dwellers, tales of which I had heard since childhood?