"Certainly," Barussio said and stepped through the door.
Albanese's eyes narrowed. Well, Marty Albanese didn't have to put up with that. Being called a servant by a dink. Ugly and impolite too. And that old has-been uncle, Barussio, agreeing. Why didn't he speak up? Albanese was definitely unhappy. He stepped toward the door to enter behind Barussio. Then his stomach suddenly hurt and he clutched it as the old dink shut the door behind Barussio.
"Wotsa matter?," Palermo asked.
"Don't know. Little cramp or something," he said, clutching his stomach. "It's all right now. Snotty little gook. Be a pleasure to take some of the starch out of him."
Inside, Barussio was escorted into a cool living room and motioned to a seat on a blue suede sofa.
He sat and Chiun stood facing him. Their eyes were still almost level.
"Now, your business."
"I don't quite know how to say this," Barussio began.
"Try saying whatever comes to your mind."
"Well, Mr. Chiun, a friend of mine is having trouble because of you."
"I?"
"Yes. The workers, you see, are very superstitious. There was a minor earthquake the other night, and now they are refusing to work because you have come to town. They say you bring some kind of Oriental curse, if you'll pardon the expression." Barussio had stopped sweating. He was relaxed now and he leaned back casually against the soft suede cushions.
Chiun only nodded, but said nothing.
Barussio waited for a comment, but when none came, he said; "They also feel that your employer ... is his name Remo?"
"Yes, Remo," Chiun interjected.
"Yes. Well, the workers feel he too has some kind of power and they refuse to work."
"And so?" Chiun asked.
Dammit, he was exasperating. He gave nothing.
"So we would like you and Mr. Remo to accompany us to the grape farm and to tell the workers that there is nothing special about you. Just let them see you, so that they know you're not some kind of ghosts or something."
Chiun nodded and folded his hands under the broad flowing sleeves of his robe. He walked to the front window and looked out at where Palermo and Albanese leaned on the front fender of the Cadillac.
"That is all?" Chiun said.
"Yes," Barussio said, and he chuckled. "It's really kind of a silly thing and you and Mr. Remo would have a perfect right to think it was stupid, but it's very important to my friend because it's harvesting time and if his workers don't work, his vineyards will be ruined. Just a drive of a few minutes." Yes, he was glad he didn't go the other route; that he had convinced Don Fiavorante of the sense of doing this.
"Will you do it?"
"I will," said Chiun. "But I don't know if Mr. Blomberg will."
"Is he here? May I ask him?"
"He is here. I shall ask him. Please wait here."
Chiun turned and shuffled away, his hands still hidden inside his sleeves, his feet noiseless, even on the stone floor. He walked slowly up the two small stairs to the dining room, and then slid open a floor-to-ceiling glass door and stepped out into a suddenly-sunny yard.
Barussio watched him walk away. The hot wedge of air that had slipped through the glass door before Chiun closed it now marched across the dining room, into the living room, and hit Barussio in the face. He did not even reach for his handkerchief; he had nothing to sweat about anymore.
Chiun walked across the gray flagstone and slate patio to the large kidney-shaped swimming pool. He stood on the edge of the pool and looked down accusingly, like a meticulous housewife trying to stare away an unexpected spot.
The crystal waters of the pool were motionless. Through them, at the bottom of the pool, eight feet below his feet, Chiun could see Remo, wearing bathing trunks, lying on his back, his hands grasping the lowest metal step. He saw Chiun and waved.
Chiun crooked an imperious finger toward him and motioned for him to surface.
Remo waved at Chiun to go away.
Chiun again summoned Remo with his index finger.
Remo rolled over on the bottom of the pool, his feet fluttering just enough to keep him down, and he turned face down so he could not see Chiun.
Chiun looked around and on a side table he spotted a giant chromium machine-nut, used as a decorative ashtray, and picked it up. Carefully, he extended the heavy nut over the pool ladder, then dropped it. It hit the water with a splash, then sloshed down, and hit the back of Remo's head.
Remo spun around, saw the gadget, picked it up and shot to the top of the pool.
He was shouting as soon as he broke through the surface of the water.
"Dammit, Chiun, that hurt."
"You are like the proverbial jackass. You perform well, but first it is necessary to get your attention."
Remo hung off the ladder with his right hand and looked at the watch on his left wrist.
"You really screwed me up," he said. "Five minutes and twenty seconds. This was the day I was going to make six minutes."
"If I had known that Dr. Smith sent you here to practice for the Olympics, I would not have disturbed you. But because I thought you had something else in mind, I thought it worthwhile telling you that we have visitors."
Remo pulled himself up to the flagstones. "Visitors?" he said. He dropped the metal nut to the stone deck where it hit with a sharp clack.
"Yes," Chiun said, "visitors. I think they represent your country's criminal element."
"What do they want with us?"
"They want us to go convince Mexicans to pick grapes."
"Why us? I ain't Cesar Chavez."
"Apparently the earthquake and our arrival in this community have caused some fears among these Mexicans. They think we are some kind of gods."
"I think we should go," Chiun said, "and tell them the truth."