Remo tapped the toe of his right shoe against jaws, and the squirming pile of Hispanics became a slumbering pile of Hispanics. When the last one had gone quiet, the man who had stabbed himself lost his grip. The switchblade fell loose from his stomach-showing that it was in the folded position after all.
When the man woke up he would think it was a miracle, and that God had spared him for reasons unclear.
It would never occur to him, nor would he have believed it if it had, that his mysterious attacker had simultaneously folded the blade shut while driving the blunt hilt into his stomach. The pain had been identical to being stabbed.
Whistling, Remo returned to the car.
The Master of Sinanju was comforting the panting middle-aged man.
"What happened, pal?" Remo asked, as he slid behind the wheel.
"I . . . I had a flat. I got out to fix it. Those hoods tried to jump me."
"Next time, try not to get a flat in Little Havana."
"Little Havana? What are you talking about? This is Little Managua."
"Little Managua? I never heard of Little Managua."
"It's new," the man said.
"Okay. It's new. So where's Little Havana?"
"Give me a ride to a safe part of town and I'll tell you."
"Sounds fair enough," said Remo. "Hop in."
The man got in back. Remo drove off, asking, "Any place in particular you want to go?"
"The airport. I've had enough of this town."
"I know that feeling."
They drove to the airport, and as Remo dropped the man off at the terminal he asked, "So where's Little Havana?"
"It used to be all around Southwest 8th Street."
"So where is it now?"
"Now," the man said, as he turned into the terminal, "it's practically all of Miami."
"He was very helpful," Chiun said smugly after the man had gone.
"Don't rub it in," growled Remo, putting the airport behind them.
They took the Palmetto Expressway back to town and turned off on the Tamiami Trail. Soon, they were cruising along Southwest 8th Street. It looked amazingly like Little Managua. Remo couldn't tell the difference.
He tried asking passersby the question that he had been asking half the night.
"Is this Little Havana?"
People shrugged and said "Que?" or sometimes "Quien?" And Remo fumed.
"You could lend a hand, you know," Remo said pointedly to the passive Master of Sinanju.
"Of course. Que means 'what' and quien means 'who.' "
"Har de bar har har," muttered Remo.
His dark eyes alighted on a neon bar sign: PEPE'S. "When in doubt, ask a barman," he said jauntily.
Remo parked, got out, and went into the bar. Chiun followed silently.
It was a brightly lit saloon. Jukebox salsa music filled the air. Remo sauntered up to the bar, ignoring the hard stares at his white skin.
"I'm looking for Little Havana," he said.
"Por que?"
"He means 'why,' not 'what,' " Chiun whispered.
"Because," Remo answered, "I'm looking for Leopoldo Zorilla."
"I have not heard of this man," said the bartender, elaborately polishing his countertop. Too elaborately, Remo thought.
"I hear he lives around here," Remo said, laying down a twenty.
Disdainfully, the bartender swiped it away with his rag. "Senor, you perhaps hear wrong."
Remo looked around. Dark, liquid eyes glowered at him. He felt like Chuck Connors in a Rifleman rerun.
"Why do I get the feeling that we're being snowed?" he undertoned to the Master of Sinanju.
"Because we are," said Chiun.
"It would be good advice if you were to leave, senor," the bartender said pointedly.
"That is good advice," Remo returned lightly. "Guess I'll just keep asking around until I find my man," he added in a loud voice.
As they walked from the smoky bar, Remo and Chiun felt eyes on their backs. No one followed them out.
"Where do we ask next?" asked Chiun, looking around suspiciously.
"Nowhere," Remo said. "We just walk around." He started walking. Chiun followed.
"What will that accomplish?"
"Right now, that bartender is probably calling Zorilla or someone connected with Zorilla. We won't have to find him. His people will find us."
It took less than fifteen minutes.
They were about to cross a busy intersection when a large white Cadillac pulled in front of them. A black Buick slid in behind them.
"Jackpot," Remo whispered.
Doors popped open and bulky-shouldered men emerged, wielding short-barreled Uzis and other easily concealable automatic weapons.
"Jou seek Zorilla?" one demanded. He wore a plain gold hoop in one ear, making him resemble a well-tanned buccaneer.
"Word gets around," Remo said casually.
"Why jou seek Zorilla?"
"Only Zorilla gets to ask me that question."
Hard eyes looked them over carefully. Remo folded his arms. In his T-shirt and tight chinos, it was obvious that he carried no weapon larger than a concealed blade or flat .22 pistol.
The Master of Sinanju had been walking with his hands tucked out of sight in the joined sleeves of his ebony kimono. He was invited to bring his hands into plain view.
Chiun replied with a single pungent Spanish word that stung the faces of the men aiming at him.
Harsh Spanish spilled out. Chiun lashed back with short, declarative sentences.
Uneasily, the men looked to one another. Finally, in English, one said, "Jou will come with us."
"Suits us," Remo said easily.
They were herded into the back of the Cadillac. A man took the wheel and another, the front passenger seat. The latter turned in his seat and pointed his Uzi so that Remo and Chiun were covered.
"No fonny business," he warned. "Or pop-pop-pop-pop. "
Remo smiled back at him. "Sounds pretty brave, coming from a guy who took the death seat."
The Cadillac peeled off. The black Buick followed. Remo settled down for the ride.
"What did you tell them, Little Father?" Remo asked the Master of Sinanju as the ride lengthened. "I called them motherless sons of worthless fathers." "I've heard wore." "But they have not," Chiun said smugly.
Chapter 8
When Leopoldo Zorilla received the warning telephone call, he was drilling his soldiers in a remote corner of the Big Cypress Swamp. They were excellent soldiers-young, strong and fiercely willed. Destined to be liberators. They would form the nucleus of the New Cuban Army, and he was proud of them.
Yet they also reminded Zorilla that, sadly, he was no longer the young man he once was.
Not that Leopoldo Zorilla was old. He was, in truth, barely forty. But forty years of living on Castro-held Cuba had taken their toll on his erect body. There was not enough flesh on his bones, from improper diet, and his eyes were sunken. Even his mustache appeared sunken-the result of too much sugar and not enough meat and vegetables. The teeth he had retained were black with metal.
He let the soldiers exhaust their weapons against the targets-staked dummies, each dressed in olivedrab that bulged at the belt line and each with a Castro beard adorning its blank, chubby face.
"Fire above the beard!" he commanded. "Between the beard and the hat. That is your target. The flabby flesh between."
The men reloaded their Belgian-made FAL rifles and fired again. Instantly, the blank white areas collected sprinklings of holes that, had any of the dummies been the true Maximum Leader, would have splashed his brains back out of his head and into the eternal night.
An orderly came huffing up.
"A telephone call, Comandante."
Leopoldo Zorilla turned smartly, ever the military man. He had been a deputy air commander in the Cuban Air Force, and now he was a full commander in the army-in-training that would replace the Cuban Revolutionary Army.
"Who is it?" he demanded.
"It is Pepe. He says that two men seek you in Miami."