"Of course not," Chiun said. With his thumbnail he etched four lines along the sides of the protrait, then punched it out. He handed the empty frame to Remo. "For you," he said.
Remo stared at the strange gift. "Well, thanks, Little Father, but! really--"
"It will make a nice frame for my picture of Cheeta Ching."
Remo groaned.
"In Korean dress," Chiun said.
Chapter Twenty
Harold W. Smith sat at his desk in front of the computers at Folcroft Sanitarium, looking even more lemony than usual. In front of him was a tangle of green and white striped printouts.
"Where is Remo?" he asked, his voice acid.
"He wil! be here shortly," Chiun said.
Smith shook the sheaf of paper on his desk. "Fifteen old soldiers dressed in World War II military uniforms were found dead of various symptoms of old age in the Black Hills of South Dakota this morning," he said. "Do you know about this?"
"Should I?" Chiun asked innocently.
"They died of old age," Smith repeated.
Chiun shrugged. "We all have our time."
"This was the Team, wasn't it?" he sputtered. "Foxx's Team. Remo didn't kill them. They were under orders to murder the president of the United States, and he didn't kill them. That's the truth, isn't it?"
Chiun sighed. "What do I know," he said philosophically. "I am but an old man, a being in the twilight of his years, who wishes only for a small ray of beauty to bring light into the weary darkness of his life. My one
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request to you, O mighty Emperor, was of a small photograph of the lovely Cheeta Ching in the timeless garb of her native land. But lo, even that humble request was denied. And I accept that denial. I am but an unworthy assassin whose knowledge is unwanted. I am but a small grain upon the pebbled beach of
life....''
"Oh, never mind," Smith said.
"Goddammit, I'm going to fry your ass," snarled Cheeta Ching as Remo tied the rope around her wrists into a neat square knot. Her feet were bound to the legs of the Bauhaus chair in Cheeta's living room furnished in early Gestapo. Remo still felt the bruises from that maneuver. The way the woman kicked, Remo reasoned she'd received her journalistic training in the Viet Cong.
In the scuffle, he managed to drag her into the flowing red and yellow satin robes he'd rented from a costume shop, but she'd slugged her way out of them three times, and by the time the newscaster was adequately restrained, the gown was a mass of tatters held together with several rolls of shiny scotch tape.
"I told you, I just want to get a picture," Remo said.
"Then call my press agent, asshole. From jail. Breaking and entering's a crime in this state, you turkey."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry about that," Remo said, adjusting his camera, "But I did ask you. And your agent. You both refused."
"Damn right, shitheel," Cheeta screeched. "Some pervert wants me to pose for him in this wierd getup straight out of a road show of Gilbert and Suliivan, what do you expe6t?"
"A picture," Remo said patiently.
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"I suppose you're going to rape me next."
"Wrongo," Remo said. "Smile."
"I know what you scumbags have on your minds. You see a gorgeous chick, all you want to do is whack it to her."
"I'll decide that if I happen to see one," Remo said. "You're drooling."
Cheeta seethed. "You know what you are?"
Remo sighed, advancing the film. He was going to get a whole roll of the harpy in all her glory, so that Chiun would have his choice of twenty-four different aspects of the nastiest human being on earth. And Remo wouid never have to return. "No. Tell me."
"You're a sexist, capitalist, imperialist, warmongering swine," she said, grinning triumphantly.
"Great," Remo said, snapping off two shots. The old man would like the smiling pictures. "What else?"
"Huh?"
"Tell me what else ! am."
She thought for a moment. "A foul, disgusting, loathsome degenerate?" she asked tentatively.
"Fine, fine," Remo said, snapping away. Those expressions would pass for Serene Contemplation. "How about an obnoxious, offensive, vile, inhuman beast?" he offered.
Cheeta brightened. Her face came as close to innocent joy as it was ever going to get. "Hey, that's okay, really okay. You ought to go into the news business. There's lots of opportunity for creative writing in the news."
"So I've noticed," Remo said. "Go back to calling me an imperialist warmonger. You look better that way."
"How dare you talk to me like that, you seedy, revolting, shit-brained clod."
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"Terrific," Remo snapped off a few more. " 'Seedy's' good. Works almost like 'cheese." "
"You don't know your pecker from a stick," Cheeta sneered.
Remo snapped. "Sure I do," he said pleasantly. "I'd touch you with a stick."
Cheeta emitted a high jungle yell. " "You sick, slimy, nauseating, vermin-infested, flee-bitten, loose-boweled, crap-eating jock-honkey-nigger-kike jerk-off!" she screamed.
Remo finished off the roll. "That did it. You're a natural, Cheeta. You ought to pose as a centerfold. Soldier of Fortune might be interested. They like pictures of tanks. Be seeing you."