"Which is that I am but a frail old Oriental servant and you are a champion swimmer in training. And we should see what else these criminals may want from us."
"As you wish, little father," Remo said, bowing from the waist
"Get your clothes on, honourable son," Chiun said.
Chiun went back through the glass door into the dining room, while Remo went through another set of glass doors into his bedroom to dry and dress.
Barussio looked up as Chiun approached.
"He agrees," Chiun said.
Barussio was relieved. "My friend will be very happy," he said. "It is important to him."
Chiun was silent.
After two minutes, Remo came padding quietly into the living room. He wore white leather tennis shoes with no socks, white slacks and a white knitted short-sleeved shirt.
"Hello, I'm Blomberg," he said, extending a firm hand to Barussio, before remembering that it should have been limp.
Barussio stood up. "Has your man explained things to you?" He didn't really look like a fairy, Barussio thought. Good handshake too. Still, you never could tell. Particularly in California. Suntans can hide anything, he thought.
"Yeah," Remo said. "He explained. It didn't make much sense, but it's a nice day to take somebody for a ride."
Barussio's ears picked up at the phrase but Remo Blomberg was still smiling insipidly. He meant nothing bv it.
Chiun led the way out the front door and Palermo and Albanese stood up next to the car when they saw the three men coming. Albanese saw Remo come out last and put his hand to his mouth. "Look at Doctor Kildare," he said in a stage whisper, meant to be loud enough for Remo to hear.
Barussio glared. Chiun looked on with equanimity. Remo walked up to Albanese and said, "Hiya, fella. How's tricks?"
"Oh, tricks are just fine," Albanese said. "Just fine."
With a mock curtsey, he opened the Cadillac door and waved the three men in. Chiun got in first, then Remo and as Barussio stepped by Albanese, he hissed: "Any more shit, I'm gonna pull your eyeballs out and squash 'em against a wall like grapes."
Albanese's face dropped. He'd have to watch his step. He got quietly into the car. Palermo got behind the wheel.
"Where to, Uncle Gummo?"
"To Bob Gromucci's farm," Gummo the Pipe Barussio said. The motor started and the air conditioning came on. It was not really necessary. Barussio was dry and cool. Why not? There was nothing to sweat about.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
But across town, in the office of the First Aquino Trust and Development Corporation, Lester Curpwell IV was sweating.
He faced two men. He had known they were trouble when they came in, without an announcement, without an appointment.
The tall man leading the way wore a dark blue suit that was hand-tailored. But even the tailor's art failed to conceal his muscular bulk. He almost rippled when he walked.
The man who followed him wore a brown suit with white shadow stripes. He had a face that was rat-like and twisted into a grim smile, as if he alone knew a joke that no one else had heard.
The burly man sat down in the chair facing Curpwell. The other man stood against the office door, his back to it, not too subtly shielding the office from intrusion.. With a penknife, he began to clean his fingernails.
"Why don't you have a seat?" Curpwell said to the man facing him, who was already seated.
"No thanks. This one'll do fine," the man said.
"Well, now that you're in here, suppose you tell me what you want," Curpwell said.
"Sure. I'll make it simple, Curpwell. You're a businessman, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Well, I'm a businessman too. So no fancy-schmantz around the bush. I want to know your earthquake secret. I'll pay for it."
"Earthquake secret?" Curpwell said. His stomach turned over. Harris Feinstein was right. Curpwell should have gone with him to Washington. It was only a matter of time before the thing got out of hand. That's what Feinstein had said. He had been right. It was out of hand now.
"Yeah. Earthquake secret. I want to know how you do it so that you're able to shake down the people around here."
"I'm afraid, Mister. . . ." Curpwell waited for the man to fill in the blank but there was no response, so he went on: "that I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any earthquake secrets. If you want to know about earthquakes, go see Doctor Quake at Richter Institute. Sign up for one of his seminars. But don't waste my time with nonsense."
"Curpwell, it can be easy or it can be hard. Have it your own way," Manny the Pick Musso said. "I want to know how you do it."
"And I don't know what you're talking about," Curpwell said, lowering his eyes to the desk where he had been reading a stack of financial reports showing that the Curpwell empire was in deep financial trouble. He did not look up, so he did not see the burly man in the blue suit nod to the man at the door. He did not see the coming of the blow against the back of his head.
And because he was unconscious, he did not see the big man in the blue suit slide a shiny ice-pick from his inside jacket pocket and carefully remove the cork from its gleaming dart-sharp point.
The aide wished that he had made his report to the Presidential aide a little more danger-filled. Perhaps the government would not have just disregarded the whole thing. Perhaps they would have assigned someone to check it out. Someone who could have done something.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The white Cadillac rolled between the banks of shade trees, along the red dusty road, kicking up sprays of grit that looked like powdered blood, which settled over and coated everything with the granular talcum of Southern California.
Off to the right, Remo could see a string of small tarpaper shacks-perhaps fifteen of them-and the rubble where other shacks once had stood. In front of the shacks, adults sat or stood and talked, and children ran in and out of their legs, playing with ropes, twigs and bits of ribbon.
The car screeched to a stop, rocking back and forth on over-soft springs. Albanese was out of the car before it stopped rocking.
The others stepped slowly from the cool, air-conditioned car into the heat of summer California. Albanese was already twenty-five feet away, talking to a wiry man with a drooping black moustache wearing dirty white pants and shirt of some rough, canvas-like material.
The pants and shirt were the right length but they drooped off the man as if they had once been tailored to fit, but-comfortably inside-the man had proceeded to lose thirty pounds.
The Mexican took off a natural coloured straw hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his waist.
He listened to Albanese. Then he shrugged, a shrug that spoke of centuries of labour on someone else's land, turned and walked away toward the string of cabins, calling out names in Spanish as he went.
Albanese came back to meet Remo, Chiun and the two others as they slowly walked toward him, their toes kicking up small swirls of red powder.
"It's all right," he said, smiling. "That's Manuel. He's their leader. He's going to call the others. Then these two can talk to them."