"Oh, yes," said Chiun, for the nine had been on the underside of the ball.
Those around would later say the old Oriental man had held the cue stick in a peculiar way. Sort of one hand in the middle, kind of. No bridge. Like a nail file almost. Alls he did was like flick it. Just flick and that cue ball'd got wham-bam spinnin' like you never seen. Drove right into the center of the rack and like zap. Clipped that nine and smacked it dead into the left corner pocket.
"Jeeezus," said Waco Boy.
"No. Not him," said Chiun. "Arrange the balls again."
And this time, because the rack was pressed with more tightness than the first, Chiun sent the white ball first into the rack to release the nine, so that the white ball coming off the left cushion caught it properly and propelled it into the right corner pocket.
In such a manner, he won seven games with seven strokes and all around wished to know who he was.
"You have heard in your lifetimes that no matter how good you are, there is always someone better?" said Chiun.
Everyone allowed as how they had heard that.
"I am that person. The someone better."
Remo, meanwhile, attended to business. In a forthright manner, he asked Pete simply why he had promised five thousand dollars to two men to kill Oswald Willughby. Pete answered forthrightly. He had gotten ten thousand for it and paid out five. The money had come from Johnny "Deuce" Deussio who had proprietary interests in numbers, gambling, and narcotics in East St. Louis. Deussio, it was said, worked for Guglielmo Balunta, who had a proprietary interest in all St. Louis. Pete noted he would be killed for saying this about Johnny Deuce. Of course, Deussio might be too late. Pete also noted that it would be nice if Remo could possibly return his intestines to his body cavity.
"They're not gone. It only feels like that. Nerves."
"That's nice," said Pete. "It's good to know it only feels like my stomach's been ripped out."
Remo worked the muscles near Pete's ribs taking pressure off the intestinal tract.
"Oh, my god, that feels good," said Pete. "Thank you. It feels like my stomach is back in."
"You won't tell anyone I've been here, will you?" asked Remo.
"Are you kidding? Mess with you?"
John Vincent Deussio, president of Deussio Realty and Deussio Enterprises Inc., had a steel-link fence around his estate just outside St. Louis. He had electronic eyes near the fence and what might charitably be described as a herd of Doberman Pinschers. He had twenty-eight bodyguards under command of his capo regime who was his cousin, Salvatore Mangano, one of the most feared men west of the Mississippi.
So what was he doing in his alabaster-tiled bathroom about three A.M. with his face in the flushing toilet? He knew it was about three a.m. because on an uplift which felt like his hair was coming out of his head, he saw his watch and one of the hands, which was probably the hour hand, was pointing toward his fingers. What was he doing? He was waking up. That was first. Secondly, he was answering questions which came rapidly now. He liked to answer those questions. When he did so, he could breathe and John Vincent Deussio had liked to breathe ever since he was a little baby.
"I got fifty grand from a friend of mine in a coast public relations agency. Feldman, O'Connor and Jordan. They're big. I was doing a favor. They wanted this guy Willoughby. I've done a lot of work for them lately."
"Commodities people?" came the next question. It was a man's voice. He had thick wrists. He was flushing the toilet again.
"Yes. Yes. Yes. Commodities."
"Who gave you the contracts?"
"Giordano. Giordano. That's Jordan's real name. It's a big agency. They got some kind of wonder grain. Gonna save the world. Make a fucking fortune."
"And what about Balunta?"
"He's gonna get his cut. I wasn't gonna hold out on him. For a crummy fifty grand. He didn't have to ask like this."
"So Balunta didn't have anything to do with this?"
"He's gonna get his cut. He's gonna get it. What is this shit?" And John Vincent Deussio saw the toilet flush again and everything became dark and when he awoke it was four a.m. and he was retching. He yelled for his cousin, Sally. Sally hadn't seen anyone, maybe Johnny Deuce had dreamed it, sort of sleepwalking like. No one had gotten in during the night. They checked the fences and checked the men who handled the dogs and checked the bodyguards and even called in this Japanese guy they had hired once as a consultant. He smelled the ground.
"Impossible," he said. "I gave you my word that even the greats of Ninja, the night-fighters of the Orient, could not penetrate your castle and I stand by my word. Impossible."
"Maybe somebody better than Ninja?" asked Johnny
Deuce, who was now getting quizzical looks from his cousin Sally.
"Ninja is the best," said the Japanese.
"Maybe you dreamed it, like I said," said Sally.
"Shut up, Sally. I didn't dream my head into a fucking toilet bowl." And turning to the consultant, he asked again if he was sure that there was nothing better than Ninja.
"In the world today, no," said the muscular Japanese. "In the martial arts, one art breeds another art and thus today there are many. But it is said, and I believe, that they all came from one, the sun source of the arts it is called. And the farther from the source, the less potent. The closer, the more potent. We are almost direct from this source. We are Ninja."
"What's the source?"
"Some claim but I do not believe that they have even met him."
"Who?"
"The Master. The Master of Sinanju."
"A yellow guy?"
"Yes."
"I saw a wrist. It was white."
"Impossible then. No one outside this small Korean town has ever possessed Sinanju." He smiled. "Let alone a white person. But it is only legend."
"I told you you was dreaming," said Sally, who didn't quite know why he got a slap in the face just then.
"I know I wasn't dreaming," said Deussio, as he phoned his contact on the coast and, in veiled words because you always had to assume someone was tapping your line, told Mr. Jordan that something had gone wrong with the recent account operations.
CHAPTER FOUR
"What went wrong?" asked James Orayo Fielding from his Denver offices. He glanced at his two-faced digital calendar clock. The inside figure read three months, eighteen days. He had stopped looking at the outside figure when the fainting spells had started two weeks and five days before.
"I don't have time for anything to go wrong," he said into the telephone receiver. The office was airconditioned yet he was sweating.
"Are the fields all right? Someone's gotten to the fields. I know it."
"I don't think that's it," came the voice of William Jordan, vice president of Feldman, O'Connor and Jordan. "In the overview, you're still in a highly positive launch position."
"I know what that means. You haven't done anything yet. Is the Mojave Field all right? That's the most important one."
"Yes. As far as I know," said Mr. Jordan.
"Is the field in Bangor, Maine, all right?"
"Bangor is top-notch."
"The Sierra field? There can be mountain floods, you know."
"Sierra is high."
"And Piqua, Ohio?"
"Buckeye beautiful."
"So what could have gone wrong?" Fielding demanded.
"I can't talk about it on the phone, Mr. Fielding. It's in that sensitive area,"
"Well, get over here and tell me."
"You couldn't come here, sir? I'm rather chockablock with work."
"Do you want to keep this account?" said Fielding.
"I can wedge in time this afternoon."
"You bet you can," said Fielding. "If you want to make millions."
He hung up the receiver and felt better. He had Feldman, O'Connor and Jordan just where he wanted them, just under his heel. If he had paid them a fancy retainer, they would have given him fancy footwork. But he had hung a piece of sweet bait just out of reach of their quivering tentacles, and that kept them scurrying where he wanted them to scurry. They smelled a monumental fortune and they had already killed for it.