A sharp voice announced, "This is Cheeta Ching, demanding a statement from your candidate."
"Aren't you on maternity leave?" Blaise asked.
"You leave my womb out of this! Do I get to talk to Rona or not?"
"Not," said Blaise Perrin, hanging up. He left the phone off the hook after that. He had enough on his mind. First, Rona had been shot in a freak accident, freaking out the organization. Now there was a problem with someone named "Remo."
Only the day before, Blaise had been presiding over a busy campaign headquarters. But ever since the first report that Rona had been shot-never mind that it had been an accident-the volunteers had begun deserting in droves.
Now, less than six hours later, Blaise Perrin was responsible for every ringing phone in the office. Under a barrage of reporters' phone calls, he had been forced to disconnect all but the unlisted number that existed for the candidate's personal use.
How Cheeta Ching had gotten it was another matter. When Rona Ripper was governor of California, Cheeta Ching would be taken care of too, just like all the rest of them.
And just like this "Remo"-whoever he was.
Blaise Perrin knew exactly how to handle this guy. He'd never know what happened to him. And it would be a hell of a long time before he saw daylight again. He picked up the receiver, and punched out a phone number Blaise Perrin had committed to memory before the start of the Ripper campaign.
"Get ready, commandant," he whispered. "We have another candidate to be stubbed out."
Remo whatever-his-name-was arrived within the hour. He pulled up in a blue sedan and got out.
Blaise Perrin hadn't known what to expect. Rona hadn't said who the guy was. Blaise had assumed he was a reporter. He wouldn't be the first one.
But this guy was dressed like no reporter Blaise Perrin had ever seen. Unless he was from the gay press.
He wore a tight white T-shirt over tan chinos and walked with a casual, almost arrogant grace. He had parked across the street and stood beside his car, looking both ways before crossing.
It was still light, and Main Street was busy. Blaise hastily locked up and met the man on the street, so there would be no witness that he'd actually entered the storefront.
"You Remo?" he asked, giving him a disarming grin.
"I'm Remo," the guy said in a slightly bored voice. Mentally, Blaise Perrin rubbed his hands together. This would be a piece of cake. The guy looked like a pushover.
"Great. This your car? Great. Great. Let's go for a ride."
"Where?"
"Where you can get a position to help Rona into that corner office," Blaise said, grinning like a Rodeo Drive manikin.
"Suits me."
Blaise got into the passenger's side, thinking, This guy's dead meat. I can't believe how lucky I am.
"Take the Pacific Coast Highway north," he told Remo, as Remo started the ignition.
Nodding toward the empty storefront, Remo said, "You shut down this early?"
"I gave the staff the afternoon off. It's such a great day. Don't you think it's a great day, Remo?"
"I've had better," Remo said.
"Hah! I like a pessimist. They work that much harder."
Remo sent the sedan into traffic and up Main.
Coming down Main was a satellite TV van, and beside the driver was the cameo oval of a face that Blaise Perrin recognized at fifty yards.
"Cheeta!" Blaise croaked.
"Oh no," Remo moaned.
"Omar!" Cheeta Ching cried, as the two vehicles passed like high-speed trains on opposite tracks.
Blaise turned to Remo. "What did she say?"
"Sounded like 'Oman' " Remo said, pressing the accelerator.
"Who's Omar?"
"I don't know, but I'm glad I'm not him."
Craning his head to look back, Blaise Perrin saw the satellite van screaming into an illegal U-turn.
"Damn! She must have recognized me. Floor it, will you?"
"My pleasure," said Remo, sending the car rocketing in the direction of the Pacific Coast Highway.
"Go north," Blaise urged.
"North it is," Remo said grimly.
When they had blended in with the afternoon traffic, Blaise Perrin, his eyes sick, all but turned around in his seat in an effort to locate the pursuing van.
"I think we shook them," he said at last.
"You don't know that Korean barracuda."
"Do you?"
"Only by reputation," Remo said, sending the car weaving in and out of traffic with an easy skill that impressed Blaise Perrin. It was like the guy had personal collision-avoidance radar. The other cars seemed to slide away from him, not vice versa.
Cheeta Ching had one claw on the dashboard, and with the other was digging her bloodred nails into the shoulder of her driver.
"Don't lose them, you Caucasian idiot!"
"I'm trying," the driver snapped. "Just get your nails out of my shoulder. I can't drive with major blood loss."