The Master of Sinanju said nothing. He sniffed the air with concern.
Remo looked more closely. "You do look a little pale, at that."
"I do not like this place," Chiun said again.
"Fine," Remo returned. "Let's be on our way."
Officer Guadalupe Mazatl led them out to the drop-off area, where she flagged a cab.
"No official vehicle?" Remo asked as they got in.
"An FJP jeep might arrive in five minutes or five hours. This taxi is here now."
They pulled into traffic a moment later, and were soon traveling through a rundown area of scabrous stucco buildings; there was a general air of forlorn hopelessness about the people walking along the streets.
Remo kept an eye on the traffic, looking for bread trucks. Smith had told him the brand name. What was it again?
"You ever heard of Bimbo Bread?" he asked Lupe suddenly.
"Si. It is a well-known brand here in the Distrito Federal. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," Remo said evasively.
They turned on an artery called Viaducto. Remo wondered if it was Spanish for "viaduct," and if it was, why it was called that.
After a while the avenue sank into the ground and their view of the city was cut off by ugly gray concrete walls lifting on either side, like a viaduct that carried traffic instead of water.
The city was incredibly congested, Remo saw. Noxious exhaust poured from the tailpipe of every car and truck. It was worse than New York or L.A. But there was something different about it, too.
As they turned off Viaducto, under a huge electric pinwheel of a sign-"TOME COCA-COLA"-back into ground-level traffic, a blue VW Beetle slithered out of their way, causing a chain reaction of near-collisions.
Their cabdriver kept going as if this were an everyday occurrence. Remo looked back. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Then it hit him.
"Don't the cars have horns down here?"
"Si," Lupe said. "Why do you ask?"
"In New York, you'd hear a million car horns during a near-disaster like that."
A faint smile touched the corners of Lupe's lips.
"Perhaps we are more civilized in Mexico than you would think," she said.
"Matter of fact," Remo added, "I don't hear any horns. It's unnatural."
The cabdriver spoke up. "Many drivers, senior, they carry pistolas."
"So much for civilization," Remo said smugly.
Lupe Mazatl said nothing. In the front seat, beside the driver, the Master of Sinanju was equally silent.
Remo looked around for trucks. He saw none that said "Bimbo Bread." Then he realized that it might not say "bread" at all.
"What's the Spanish for 'bread'?" he asked Lupe.
"Pan."
"How about 'bimbo'?"
" 'Bimbo'?"
"Yeah. 'Bimbo.' What's that in English?"
Lupe shrugged her uniformed shoulders. " 'Bimbo' is . . . 'bimbo.' "
"In the U. S. a bimbo is a girl who's not very bright. "
Lupe's brown forehead puckered. "She is dark?"
"No, unintelligent. Dumb. You know, stupid."
"Ah, senorita estupida. 'Stupid girl.' That is what you wish to know?"
"Maybe," Remo said, frowning. He didn't think that anyone would invent a brand name that meant "stupid girl." Maybe Lupe was right. Maybe "bimbo" was just "bimbo." He decided on another tack.
"What color are the Bimbo Bread trucks down here?"
A dark notch formed between Guadalupe's thick brows.
"Why this concern with Bimbo Bread?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing special," Remo said innocently. "Just trying to soak up local customs."
"Why do you not ask about our fine culture, then? Our great city? Do you know that Mexico City is the most populous in the world?"
" I can believe it," Remo said, looking out at the congestion. They were stopped at an intersection where a traffic cop in a chocolate-and-cream uniform was attempting to unsnarl traffic with a white baton. It looked hopeless. The red "ALTO" signs were being ignored in both directions.
"We have the longest avenue in the world here in Mexico City," Lupe said proudly. "It is called the Avenida Insurgentes. And our Chapultepec Park is unrivaled for its magnificence."
"Skip the tourist-brochure stuff;" Remo said. "I'm already here."
When they got going again, Remo noticed that the Master of Sinanju was staring out the window, his face a frown of wrinkles, like a parchment death mask left too long in the sun.
"You've been awful quiet, Little Father," he said solicitously.
" I have a headache," Chiun's voice was muted.