"Not even a smell. Tell me. What's going to happen? I keep hearing these rumbles about something big."
Remo shrugged and tried, without too much difficulty, to look unhappy. "Orders, pal. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I guess so," said Krishna, sipping heavily again. "Don't worry though. The San Francisco mission will be there in all its glory to cheer on old Blissful."
"You still think the swami's going to show up here?" asked Remo.
"The swami," Krishna laughed. "That's a good one. I don't know. But we've rolled in his ping-pong machine in case he does."
"I want to congratulate you, by the way," Remo said. "You run a pretty tight security ship. That was good with the girls out in the yard. With that blond guy."
"Yeah. Well, the chicks are always your best freedom fighters. It must be a bitch being a woman."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Otherwise, why are they always running around after bullshit? Like looking for some secret thing or some special way that's going to make everything perfect. What a way to have to live."
Remo nodded. "I see the silver stripe. You've been to Patna, but you seem to have kept your wits about you."
Krishna finished the glass and poured himself another. "Well, you know what they say, you can't crap a crapper. Dor's running the oldest hustle in the books. A little drugs, a lot of sex, and a lot more of make everybody feel good. Wanna blow up your mother? Go ahead. It is the way to bliss. Want to rob your boss or cheat the stockholders? You must if you are to attain bliss."
"And you?"
"When I went to Patna, I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. And it didn't work. I've been on drugs, I've had enough sex, and he couldn't impress me with that. And feeling good? Man, I always feel good. Anyway, I faked it and acted like everybody else, and here I am, a chief arch-priest. And I think they're gonna try to beat me out of my 20 percent. They better not try. If they do, man, I'm going into transcendental meditation."
Remo stood up. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'll give you a good report on the security here. You've got a good operation."
"Thanks. You fellas have a place to stay?"
Remo shook his head.
"Well, stay here. We've got plenty of rooms upstairs. This place used to be a whorehouse."
"I think we'll do that," Remo said. "That way we'll be close to everything. Particularly if Blissful shows up. Tell me something. How do you get your skin that color?"
"Tanning lotion," said Krishna, who had put down his glass and was now trying to stuff his hair back under his pink turban. "You know, that chemical crap. Use a lot of it, it's perfect Indian color. Only thing is when I go to Malibu for the weekends, man, I look like I got yellow jaundice."
The telphone rang. Krishna cleared his throat, and then, in a mock Indian accent, said, "Divine Bliss Mission, may Krishna bring you happiness?"
He listened, then whistled. "No shit," he said. "Thanks for calling."
He hung up the telephone and smiled at Remo. "Christ, I'm glad you're here."
"Why?" said Remo.
"We heard a rumble last week that there had been some kind of trouble at the San Diego mission. But everybody was clammed on it. But I just heard. The arch-priest down there, Freddy, done bought the farm. Somebody crushed his neck."
"Who did it?" asked Remo casually.
"They're not sure yet. Everybody in the place split so they wouldn't have to deal with the fuzz."
"You think it might be an attempt on the maharaji?"
Krishna shrugged. "Who knows? But I'll tell you, I'm glad you're here. I don't need any crazy people going around killing up my folks."
"Don't worry," Remo said. "We'll protect you."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"What is he, Elton?"
"He's an Indian."
"G'wan, Elton, they ain't no more Indians in this country."
"Not that kind of Indian. He's a from India kind of Indian." Elton Snowy leaned across the cigarette-scarred wooden counter and whispered into the florid ear of the bartender: "Like a nigger, he is."
"Sheeit. With your Joleen?" The cooked crab face of the fat man registered disbelief.
Snowy nodded glumly. "Drugs. He must have her on drugs. And I went and sent the nigger preacher to go and get her, and he never came back. He must be on those drugs too."
"Elton, I think things started to go bad when that peckerhead asked for that cup of coffee."
Snowy nodded his head, slowly, thoughtfully. He looked down at the glass of sarsaparilla in his hand.
"We shoulda shot him then," said the bartender. "Yep," he agreed with himself. "We shoulda shot him then."
Snowy, exhausted after a day of rounding up volunteer warriors for the posse to rescue his daughter, said sharply, "But how would that do anything to this little bastard from India?"
"Show him a lesson. Trouble was we let everybody get uppity. First it was niggers, and then it was Putto Rickens, and then it was real Indians, and now it's these funny Indians who are really niggers. Everybody's stepping all over us. Next thing you know, Catholics are gonna start getting uppity around here."
"Pray God it never comes to that," said Snowy.
"We'd better. 'Cause if they come, the Jews will be right behind them."
The horror of that thought stimulated Snowy's thirst, and he drained his glass of sarsaparilla and put it on the bar with a clunk.
"Want more, Elton?"
"No. That's enough. Well?"
"Whatever you want, I'm with you."
"Good," said Snowy. "Pack yourself a bag. We're leaving tonight."
"We?"