Norman Belliveau checked the lists of representatives arriving and dormitory rooms still vacant. He stammered that there was very little room left.
"Oooh, that looks nice," said Patty, pointing to a small cottage with one hand while rubbing Belliveau's thigh with the other. She had to bear down to be felt through the stiff denim.
Norman stopped going through the lists.
"Uhhhh," he said, feeling lightheaded, "I don't see why we couldn't put you there… I mean, uhhh, I wouldn't mind."
And he didn't really. After all, it was his cottage and if he wanted to lend it to somebody, why not? And the dorm rooms really weren't that bad. He could stay in one for just a few days, even with all that horrid music all night long and the dirty students.
But he had only one cottage to give and now he was called to the gate again, where the guard had been given strict orders to admit no one who did not have a room already.
What a waste of his time. If he wanted to do something besides teach his class, there were plenty of things he could do. He could go to the cafeteria and make sure that they could get the student's macaroni-and-cheese dinner out in time, to bring in brisket of beef for the university's guests.
Norman was worried that the beef brisket wouldn't thaw out in time. He worried that it might cook up dry. He worried that the delegates to the conference wouldn't like it.
He worried about his health when he saw the huge black limo parked just inside the gate.
He stopped a full twenty feet away, blinked, and stood staring.
Outside the car stood a Chinese, wearing a chauffeur's uniform, and a big ugly man in a suit that didn't seem to fit because of the lumps between his chest and his arms.
Norman Belliveau worried about whether to run or not.
The man froze him in place with a growl. "Are you Bellevue?" he asked.
Norman worried about whether he should correct the man's pronunciation. He just nodded.
The big man tapped the black back window which was sealed off from the outside world by a curtain.
Belliveau worried about getting his pension in fifteen more years.
The back door of the Fleetwood opened and Belliveau heard a song ring out:
"Meet George Jetson!"
A head followed the sound.
"His boy, Elroy!"
The face was impassive and the dark eyes under the neatly combed hair seemed to bore into Belliveau.
"Jane, his wife!"
The fading strains of a highly orchestrated "chopsticks" disappeared. The green glow that had illuminated one side of the man's face faded as he leaned out of the car, away from its built-in television set.
Arthur Grassione looked at Norman Belliveau and said simply: "You're going to find room for me and my men."
Norman worried whether the new guests would like the rooms he had picked for them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday's Pub was not just any old bar.
When it had been called the St. Louis Tavern, it was any old bar. When it was the St. Louis Tavern it served the beer that made Milwaukee famous on tap to the bums that made St. Louis famous.
But then some smart cookie downtown figured that since it was near the train station and across the street from the Greyhound bus stop, and not far from the airport, the St. Louis Tavern was the perfect place to renovate into a modern watering hole.
So as the sodden regulars continued trying to see their gray futures in the golden liquid in their dusty glasses, the old interior was transformed into the smooth plastic decor of Tuesday's Pub.
The only problem was that it hadn't worked. The neighborhood had turned into a slum faster than the tavern could be turned into a cocktail lounge and now the owners were left with a joint, with a fancy name, new but ripped plastic seats and an even tougher clientele than the ones they had tried to chase.
When Dr. Harold Smith arrived, he was almost overcome by the pervasive stench of camaraderie that only dead drunks have for each other. Wood, urine, plastic, all combined their smells in an olfactory welcome, which was not shared by the people at the bar.
Standing inside the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, Dr. Smith with his precisely creased gray suit, white shirt and regimental tie, and his gray two-suiter that was guaranteed to withstand a fall from the top of a twenty-story building, drew a lot of attention from the regulars of Tuesday's Pub.
"Hey, hey, look at the honkey," someone called from the bar.
"Woowee, he look like a professor. I bet he think he in the city museum."
"No," Smith said aloud. "Not a museum."
He walked past the bar to the back room, where he saw Remo and Chiun sitting at a table. Remo was counting ceiling tiles and Chiun was watching a dart game in progress.
Smith eased himself into an empty chair across from Remo, who continued to look at the ceiling.
"Nice places you bring me to," Smith said.
Remo still stared at the ceiling. Chiun nodded to Smith.
"Remo, it is Emperor Smith. Emperor Smith is here," he said.
Without looking down from the ceiling, Remo said "Did you bring the money?"
"Into this place?" Smith said.
"Don't weasel-word me," Remo said. "Have you got the money for my house?"
"I can get it in ten minutes," Smith said. "Now what is all this about a house?"
While Remo tried to explain, about how he was discontented even though perfect, Chiun turned and watched the dart game.
The board was an old-fashioned American dart board, a large pie divided up into twenty equal slices. Each wedge-shaped slice was cut up again into three arc-like pieces. The largest one, closest to the center of the board, counted one point; the next, red arc, counted two points, and the smallest arc, another white one on the outside of the board, counted three points.
The two men were playing baseball with each man taking turns throwing three darts at the sections of the board number one through nine.
A man with an electrified Afro was leaning forward over the shooting line, when he sensed Chiun's eyes on him, and he rocked back on his heels and turned to the aged Oriental.