"Absolutely."
"Suit yourself," said Remo, who had then hung up and tried to keep the first-class stewardess out of his lap. Stewardesses were that way around him.
Assured that Roger Sherman Coe was determined to ride out the storm in the security of his expensive home. Remo had driven his rental car from the Wilmington airport and walked the last mile toward the beach because the state highway patrol was turning back cars on the main approach road.
Remo hadn't minded walking. The fresh air was good for him. And because this was a simple assignment and he was in a good mood, he couldn't help whistling.
There were a lot of reasons for Remo's good mood, not the least of which was that the man who had taught him to whistle into the teeth of a hurricane had been recalled to headquarters. Remo didn't know the reason for it, and it didn't matter. All that mattered was he had a solid week without complaints about the neighbors, having old soap operas constantly on the television, and carping. Remo especially didn't miss the carping. It usually took the form of Remo being told he didn't truly appreciate the person doing the complaining. Remo's comeback was that he never appreciated people who complained all the time. This invariably produced more carping and led to Remo's pointing out that it was easier to appreciate another person when that person carped less.
So when Upstairs had called him with instructions about the Roger Sherman Coe assignment, Remo had been only too happy to oblige.
The wind plastered the black front of his T-shirt against his lean but muscular chest as Remo walked along the sand leaving no discernible footprints. He would have to think about it to leave footprints because leaving footprints had been drilled out of him.
His chinos, snug against his trim legs, were also black. His dark hair was too short for the wind to mess it up, not that Elvis wasn't trying. Remo leaned into the oncoming wall of wind, walking at a slight angle the way he had seen people on TV news reports trying to negotiate hurricane winds.
Surprisingly it worked for him. The skills that had been drilled into him had taught him not to do the obvious Western thing when confronted with forces greater than he. He was doing the obvious Western thing and he wondered what Chiun would say about that. Maybe the obvious Western thing was sometimes the right thing to do after all.
Remo had no more time to think about it because he had come to the beachfront house numbered forty-seven. That was the number he remembered, but because he had no head for figures or trivia he pulled a sheet of paper out of his chinos pocket and verified it. He had the right house. He let the hurricane winds whip the sheet of paper from his loosening fingers, and it skimmed away like a chattering paper ghost.
Remo shifted direction, walking toward the beachfront house. Now he was walking with one side to the wind. His body, which understood these things better than he, adjusted itself, and Remo found himself walking at an angle, like the hunchback in an old Frankenstein movie.
The weathered-shingle house of Roger Sherman Coe was boarded up like all the others. Unlike the others, there was no spray paint graffiti defiance marring the wobbling plywood sheets. Not that the hurricane cared one way or the other.
Remo knocked on the door. The knock was surprisingly loud for the force Remo seemed to exert. The door shook and the house shook with it.
Evidently Roger Sherman Coe thought it was only the hurricane knocking because he didn't answer on the first knock. So Remo knocked again.
This time Roger Sherman Coe answered. The door whipped inward, and he thrust a pale, lantern-jawed head out.
"Good afternoon," Remo said brightly.
"I'm not leaving. I'm staying. You can't make me."
"I'm conducting a survey for the National Weather Service," said Remo. He smiled. The obvious Western thing would be to scowl. Scowls triggered the fear response and risked flight or retaliation. Smiles relaxed people-sometimes right into the boneyard.
The man looked incredulous. "In the middle of a hurricane?"
"Hurricanes tend to focus the mind," Remo assured Roger Sherman Coe. "We get better answers that way."
Roger Sherman Coe looked at Remo's empty fingers at the ends of his unusually thick wrists, and asked, "Where's your questionnaire?"
Remo tapped his head. "Up here. It's all up here." Roger Sherman Coe just stared.
"First question," said Remo. "Do you approve of the National Weather Service's new naming system for hurricanes?"
"What?" shouted Roger Sherman Coe over the growing roar.
"Hurricane Elvis," Remo shouted back. "It's an experiment. After we saw how popular the post office was with the Elvis stamp, we thought we'd try it. You know, try to improve the popularity of tropical storms. Do you approve of Elvis as a hurricane name? Please answer yes or no."
"No! I don't approve of hurricanes at all."
"Good. Now, the National Weather Service hopes that Hurricane Elvis will be just the first of a new series of celebrity hurricanes. We're considering the following names for the rest of the hurricane season-Tropical Storm Roseanne, Hurricane Madonna and Hurricane Clint."
"Eastwood or Black?"
"Black. Country music is big again. Now, could you rank the choices in order of preference?"
"Look, I'd like to get through Elvis before worrying about the next blow, if it's all the same to you."
"Got it. Now, the obligatory sexual-preference question. Do you prefer hurricanes named after men or women?"
"I prefer no hurricanes!" Roger Sherman Coe shouted, trying to hold the door open. Remo wondered why the man didn't simply invite him in, and decided some people just didn't know when to come in out of a blow.
"That wasn't a trick question. I need a sexual preference."
"Girl hurricanes sound better. I grew up in girl hurricanes."
"Same here," said Remo.
"Are we done now?" asked Roger Sherman Coe, squinting against the wind that seemed not to bother Remo at all.
"Stay with me. Just a couple more questions."
"Make it fast!"
"What about building so close to the water on hurricane-active areas? If Elvis smashes this place down, do you think FEMA money should be used to rebuild?"
"FEMA is a joke."
"Tell it to the Midwest flood victims."
"I almost lost this place to Hugo."
"No wonder you prefer girl hurricanes."
"I prefer no hurricanes."
Elvis's wail was building now. It didn't have the freight-train roar that characterized a full-blown tropical storm, but it was coming. Remo knew he would have to wind this up.
"Do you have any next of kin?" he asked.
"Why does the National Weather Service care about that?" Roger Sherman Coe wanted to know.
"Because you're not going to survive Elvis," Remo said in a casual voice.
Roger Sherman Coe saw the lips of the pollster from the National Weather Service move, but didn't catch the words.