"Neither is he," Remo chimed in from the floor. "I saw that pig-in-a-beret he wasn't having dictionary sex with."
Smith gave them a withering look.
"Were those your men?" the President asked. There was an odd strain to his hoarse voice Smith hadn't heard before.
"Yes, sir," the CURE director replied.
"Caligula wasn't gonna marry any horse," Remo muttered at Chiun.
"It is called history," the old Korean said.
"It's called bullshit," Remo disagreed.
"It is only that when not said with authority," the Master of Sinanju retorted. "And I am not talking to you."
Smith slapped a firm hand over the mouthpiece. "Do you two mind?" he whispered hotly.
"So they're both okay?" the President asked. He seemed oblivious to what they'd said.
Smith's face grew puzzled. "They are fine," he replied.
"Good, good," the President said, suddenly seeming strangely distant. "Anyway, about this Raffair thing. If Anselmo Scubisci's behind it, I think they should be closed for good. I don't want people saying organized crime rode the coattails of my economy. Could you do me a great favor, Smith, and shut down those other offices around the country like you did in Boston?"
From the floor, Remo shook his head desperately while mouthing the word "no" repeatedly. Leaning a shell-like ear toward the phone, Chiun seemed supremely disinterested in the conversation he was eavesdropping on.
Smith closed his eyes on both of them. "Very well, Mr. President," he said.
"Great," the President enthused. "Gimme a call when you're through."
There was no dial tone when the dedicated line went dead. Smith replaced the phone in his bottom drawer.
"What's he want us to do next," Remo griped, "interview strippers for the first post-White House orgy? Count me out this time, Smitty."
"It did not seem an unreasonable request," Smith said.
"It does to me," Remo retorted. "I thought we could hang around here at least until that guy downstairs comes to. And I'm a little bit anxious to pay a visit to the goon squad that torched our house." At this, Chiun harrumphed.
"And I've had it up to here with you, too," Remo snapped at him. "It was my house just as much as it was yours. You don't own the copyright on indignation this time, Little Father. And you sure as hell didn't get the promise from some ghost of a truckload of crap getting dumped on you for the next decade, so why don't you just back off?"
The flash of injured anger in his pupil's tone caught the old man off guard. The harsh lines of Chiun's face tightened for an instant before relaxing somewhat.
"I sympathize with you for your loss," Smith said reasonably. "And I'm just as interested as you in the identity of your masked assailants, but at the moment we are in a holding pattern for both. Right now, it might be best for us all if you kept busy. At least until something new comes up with either situation."
On the floor, Remo closed his eyes, forcing calm. "Why don't I just stick a broom up my ass so I can sweep the streets while I'm traipsing all over the country?"
"There isn't room," Chiun said, his eyes hooded. "For your head would get in the way. We will go, Emperor Smith," he told the CURE director. "If only to give you the solitude you need to find those Sinanju seeks."
"Thank you, Master Chiun," Smith nodded. "I will print out a list of Raffair's national offices." He focused his attention on his computer.
"Thanks a heap, Chiun," Remo complained quietly as the old Korean swept around the big desk.
"For once the lunatic is right," the tiny Asian said, his voice pitched low enough that only Remo could hear. "Retribution will come in its time. If this distraction satisfies Smith's need to placate the departing billhilly he serves, then we will serve our emperor in this task."
Remo didn't answer. Scowling deeply, he crossed his arms.
Chiun said nothing more. As Smith worked, the aged Korean sank to the floor next to his pupil. He offered but one more glance at Remo. When he saw that the look of brooding had not yet fled, a new expression formed on the older man's weathered face. With an air of sad understanding, Chiun focused all his attention back on his mad employer.
THE PRESIDENT SAT On the edge of the bed. At his feet was the red phone used to contact Smith. The nightstand in which the telephone was supposed to be secreted had vanished the previous day.
With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself to his feet. The living room was empty as he trudged by. He had no idea how she'd managed that. It was as if all the furniture had been swallowed up by a black hole while he'd slept.
There were a few half-chewed photographs on the floor. On the scraps he saw his own thoughtful puffy eyes, earnest protruding chin and thoughtful bitten lip.
At least he didn't have to run from the First Menagerie anymore. The dog and the cat were in exile, locked across the street at Blair House. It was one of his last official acts as President. Probably ever. Thanks to her, he might never get the third term he so desperately wanted.
Past the living room, he entered the small study. The boxes containing billing records and personal files were gone, as were all the shredders. Relocated to New York.
He found a phone that his wife hadn't taken and stabbed out the number by memory.
"iHola!" said the female voice that answered.
"It's me," the President said glumly.
The woman's voice grew cold. "Oh. Ju hab news?"
Her Spanish accent was awkward. In the background, the same man's voice that the President had been hearing for more than a year continued to drone Spanish in soft, modulated tones.
"They're on their way," the President said. "I don't know which office they'll hit first, if that makes a difference to you, but they're goin' after them all."
"Eet duz not," the woman replied. "We will be ready for them. They stand in the way of my ascension to the throne and must therefore be crushed by my royal guard."
"Yeah," the President grumbled. "If that's all you need, I've got some stuff I've gotta do."
At this, the woman laughed. "For ju there is no more work. Ju are, as my people say, El Lamo Ducko."
He was pretty sure this wasn't real Spanish. He didn't have time to speak before the woman-still laughing that groin-injuring laugh of hers-slammed the phone in his ear.
He dropped his own receiver to its cradle. Since the coffee table had vanished, this phone was on the floor, too.
"New Year's resolution number one," the President muttered to himself. "I gona start bein' more picky about who I sleep with."
Chapter 26
Don Anselmo Scubisci felt the faint kiss of fear as he carefully pressed out the eleven-digit number. He'd used the redial button the first twenty times, but the last five he had entered the number manually, each time thinking he'd misdialed the previous times.
All the lines into the Neighborhood Improvement Association were busy, including Sol Sweet's private line. Something was wrong.