"I'll tell you, this may be the third time this year that I've ordered vanilla fudge and gotten vanilla ripple."
"What about the people who were killed, Wade?"
"Serving me ripple instead of fudge ain't gonna bring 'em back."
"You ain't paying for it."
"I'll pay for it. Bring me fudge."
"We're out. You want another flavour?"
"No. Ripple will do."
Gertie, unwounded by combat, stayed near Wyatt.
"They say the wetbacks are talking about death. A lot of it. That they may go back home. That they got their warnings," said Gertie.
Sheriff Wyatt drained his cup. "Good riddance. Whole pack of 'em."
"Who'll pick the grapes?"
"Americans."
"At those wages?"
"Then they'll get machines. Machines don't stink like wetbacks. You can park a machine in a garage. The machine don't want to move in with you or go to the movies with you. Machines'll take orders too."
"Not nowadays," laughed Gertie.
Sheriff Wyatt laughed too.
"That new fellow who bought Feinstein's?" Gertie said.
"Remo Blomberg?"
"Yeah. I saw him this morning on my way to work."
"At five A.M.?"
"Yeah," Gertie said. "He was out on his lawn doing the damnedest exercises I ever saw."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It was like crazy. I mean, it was dark, so I can't be sure, but it was like he was running fast. Real fast. Faster than I ever saw anybody run. And then it would be like he hit a wall, he changed directions so fast. Like he did it without his legs. Like the cartoons or the old movies. He'd be zipping along here, then zipping along there, then pow, he'd be going somewhere else. Weirdest thing I ever saw.
"And then," she said, "then he lay down on the ground and it was like he was vibrating or something. Then he did the strangest thing I've ever seen. I mean ever. I mean, I've been to the Cowboy and all and I mean ever. He's laying face down on the lawn, and then he's in the air, flipping over backwards. Like a cat. I mean it."
Gertie played nervously with her counter-rag, twisting it and watching Sheriff Wyatt's eyes closely as she told her story.
Wyatt offered his cup for more coffee. Gertie reached behind her to the constantly-heated carafe and poured it. Wyatt added the sugar and real cream.
"What do you think about that?" Gertie asked.
Wyatt beckoned her closer with his fork. He had a bit of information for her.
"He's queer. Fagola. Probably doing ballet."
"No kidding?" said Gertie, shocked. "I'd never believe it."
"You can believe it."
"No kidding," repeated Gertie, quite satisfied with what she had gleaned. She paused. "You know, I know and most of the town knows what really happened at the motel with Feinstein and the other guy. Yeah, I know poisoning and all. It really happened at the motel, naked and all. But they weren't queer, in case you thought so. I know. The two of 'em were with broads."
"No."
"Yeah," Gertie said. "They were doing a real gang number with a bunch of broads."
"In the Cowboy?"
"You know it."
"No."
"Yeah," said Gertie conspiratorially. "With a bunch of broads."
"Oh," said Wyatt dumbly and dropped his fork to his plate. "I didn't know that."
He waited in the diner until he saw Lester Curpwell's silver Rolls Royce pull up in front of the Curpwell building. Let Gertie think whatever she wanted to think. He crossed the street. Wyatt knew how the two men had died. By whose hand. And he didn't like it.
He caught up with Curpwell just in front of the main door.
"I've got to speak with you right away," he said. "Last night was a warning. The earthquake people called me. There are some things we've got to do."
"One thing we've got to do," Curpwell said, "is not talk out here on the street. We'll talk this afternoon. I think it's time that Mr. Remo Blomberg learned about the expenses of owning Feinstein's."
CHAPTER TEN
Sheriff Wyatt himself went to pick up the new owner of Feinstein's. The store had remained open under the vice president's charge, and the new owner had yet to appear there. Curpwell had invited Remo Blomberg himself over the telephone. Wyatt was told to be friendly to sort of let the new man know he was among friends in San Aquino.
Sheriff Wyatt was tired, bone tired, as he drove up the curved driveway to the Feinstein house. Funny. He still thought of it as the Feinstein house. He trudged up the few steps to the front door and rang.
The little gook answered the bell.
"Is the master home?" asked Wyatt.
"Yes," said Chiun, Master of Sinanju, holder of the extreme mysteries of the martial arts, assassin whose labours supported the village of Sinanju in Korea, as his father's labour had supported the village, as his father's father's labours had supported the village, all by renting themselves to those with the money to pay for their services.