The comingled smells of antiseptics and medications poured from open doorways. Remo hesitated outside room 24A, but Chiun bullied by him.
Inside the small room were two beds. One was neatly made. The covers of the other were a crumpled mess that hung in a tangle off to one side.
An ancient woman sat in a vinyl chair near the window, an unlit cigarette dangling from between her dry lips.
She'd been plump a lifetime ago. Now the empty flesh hung off her shrunken frame like dirty sheets draped across a sagging clothesline.
Her black dress-extra large at one time-was a loose-fitting rag. The woman's ankles were too swollen for shoes. An unused black pair was tucked beneath her chair.
Rheumy eyes looked up as Remo and Chiun entered.
"You got a match?" she threatened.
Remo rolled his eyes. "Chiun, let's go," he whispered.
"Hush!" Chiun insisted. To the old woman he said, "Signora Scubisci?"
The crone pulled the cigarette from her lip. "Atsa me. You gotta match, or no?"
"Sorry, no," Remo answered.
"Eh." She shrugged, lowering the unlit cigarette. "They just take it away from me anyway."
"We beg a moment of your time," the Master of Sinanju said, bowing politely. He motioned to Remo.
"What?" Remo asked from the corner of his mouth.
"Ask her whatever foolishness it is you need to know," Chiun prodded. "And I would appreciate it if you did not draw her a map to the Sinanju treasure house while you are doing so."
Remo felt silly. Obviously, in his last minutes of life, Sol Sweet had had the courage enough to lie. Remo was surprised. The lawyer seemed too scared to offer anything but unvarnished truth.
"Sol Sweet sent me," he began reluctantly.
A light of understanding sparked in her ancient eyes.
"Oh, the Jew," the old woman said. Without another word, she reached for the table next to her chair. It was scarred with the deep black furrows of old cigarette burns.
Resting on the table was a plain manila envelope. A gnarled hand dropped across it. She dragged it across the table, flinging it to Remo. He snatched it from the air.
There was an airmail sticker on the envelope. It was addressed to "A.S. c/o Angela Scubisci, Mott Street Community Home." Along with the zip code and street address was the legend "New York, NY. U.S.A." There was no return address.
"A.S.?" Remo asked, reading the initials. "Anselmo." She said the name with contempt. "He issa my son. Didn't the kike tell you?"
He looked at the woman with new eyes. "He forgot to mention it," Remo said dully.
"Hah," the woman scoffed. "You know my son?"
Remo thought of the day he'd met Anselmo Scubisci. He had been on assignment, sent after the Don's younger brother, Dominic, Angela Scubisci's only other child.
"Only saw him once in passing," Remo said. A hard glint came to his deep-set eyes. "We knew your husband, though."
Both he and the Master of Sinanju had watched old Don Pietro Scubisci breathe his last.
The widow Scubisci pounded a blue-veined hand against her sagging chest. "Oh, my Pietro. Now there was a man who respected family. Even that idiot boy of ours, Dominic-God rest his soul-he knew where hissa loyalty should be. Not Anselmo. He don't respect hissa family."
Remo steered her away from the topic of family. "Sweet said you knew something about your son's backer."
The old woman sighed a pained, raspy exhalation. "It's in there," she said, pointing to the envelope. "All the betrayal. He no respect hissa father. All my Pietro's work, gone. That boy issa no good."
Brow furrowing, Remo tore one end off the envelope. He reached inside, pulling out a single sheet of paper. The printing was in some foreign language.
"Hey, whaddayou doing!" Angela Scubisci demanded.
He ignored her. "I can't read this," Remo said, handing the note off to Chiun.
"Atsa for Anselmo," the woman insisted angrily. "This is the language of the Kingdom of the Two," the Master of Sinanju pronounced.
"Twenty-first-century equivalent?" Remo asked.
"Italy," Chiun replied, displeased at having to use the modern name. He frowned as he read the lines. "There is nothing of interest here. It is merely a note of thanks for some unmentioned success."
"Hmm," Remo said. "Could be from Scubisci's backer. Does it say who he is?"
"It is unsigned," Chiun replied.
"Maybe Smith can track him from this." Taking the note back, Remo stuffed it back in its envelope before shoving it in his pocket. "You know who sent this?" he asked the old woman.
Unable to move, she sat glaring at the two strangers.
"No," she snarled. "They never tell me. I only know itsa from Napoli." She tipped her head. "Whassa you name?"
Remo figured it would do no harm to answer. "Remo," he admitted.
Her angry features softened. "Atsa good name," she said, nodding. "Paisan. I bet you don't turna you back on you family."
"Oh, I can tell you stories," Chiun offered coldly.
The widow Scubisci paid no attention to the old Korean.
"You work for that Jew, Sweet?" she asked Remo.
"No," Remo said. "And that anti-Semitism must make you the belle of the ball on mah-jongg night. Let's go, Chiun."
"You take that Jew-boy out, didn't you?" Angela Scubisci called as they walked away.
When Remo turned back, her eyes had grown crafty.