Maria Gonzales, carrying a Russian passport because her country did not have relations with the United States, spoke with a French agronomist who noted his country had large farming sections with climate and soil like Ohio.
Chiun engaged several cameramen from television networks, asking why there was so much violence and filth in daytime dramas nowadays. Obviously one had replied with a sharp answer because Remo saw ambulance attendants lifting the portable TV camera from a man's shoulder and placing him on a stretcher.
Newsmen worked in shirt sleeves. The Miami County Sheriff's office wore open-necked short-sleeved shirts and carried heavy sidearms, the sheriff having vowed that there would be no Mojave-type incident here in Piqua, Ohio.
"We're not like those people out there," said the sheriff.
"Out where?" asked a reporter.
"Out anywhere," said the sheriff. Sweat ran down his face like glycerin beads over packaged lard. Remo scanned the crowd looking for any possible attack on Fielding. He caught Maria's eye. She smiled. He smiled back. Chiun walked between them.
A soft breeze caught the corn in a neighboring field and made the lazy summer day smell like life itself. Remo caught an exchange of glances between a man in a Palm Beach hat and another in a gray light summer suit. They were across the field from each other. And both looked at a paunchy man with large shoulders who glanced at something in his hands, then looked at Remo. When Remo looked back, the man tucked the object into his trousers pocket and became very interested in what was happening in the field. The three men had the field triangulated. Remo sidled to the paunchy man in the white suit.
"Hi," said Remo. "I'm a pickpocket."
The man stared straight ahead.
"I said hello," said Remo. The man's alligator shoes pressed into the newly turned Ohio soil under the weight of 280 pounds of muscles and flesh and a twoday growth. He had a face that had been banged here and there by fist and club and a whitish lumpy line which was the completed healing process of a long-ago blade. He was slightly taller than Remo and had shoulders and wide fists that had obviously done some banging themselves. His body oozed the odor of yesterday's scotch and today's sirloin.
"I said hello," said Remo again.
"Uh, hello," said the man.
"I'm a pickpocket," Remo repeated. The man's hairy heavy hand moved down to his right trouser pocket.
"Thank you for showing me which pocket I should pick," said Remo.
"What?" said the man and Remo cut two fingers down between fatty palm and hefty hip, making a neat tearing slice down the right side of the man's trousers.
"What?" grunted the man who suddenly felt his undershorts under his right palm. He grabbed for the skinny guy but when his huge hands closed on the shoulders, the shoulders were not there and the skinny guy kept on walking and looking through the trouser pocket as if strolling through a garden reading a book.
"Hey, you. Gimme back my pocket," said the man. "That's my pocket." He swung at the back of the head but the skinny guy's head was just not there. It didn't jerk or duck, it was just not there as the swing went through where it was. The two other men in the triangle moved toward the commotion. The Miami County sheriff's office moved toward the commotion.
"Anything wrong?" said the sheriff, surrounded by deputies with their hands on their sidearms.
"No," said the big man with the tear in his trouser. "Nothing wrong. Nothing." He said this by instinct. He could not remember ever telling a policeman the truth.
"Anything wrong?" the sheriff asked Remo.
"No," said Remo, examining the pocket he had picked.
"All right, then," said the sheriff. "Break it up." Seeing that all his deputies were clustered around him, he yelled for them to get back to their positions. There wasn't, he said, going to be another Mojave Desert incident in this county.
Remo threw away car keys and some bills from the pocket. He held onto a small square paper that looked printed. It was a sketch of two men, the stiff expressionless lines of what might have been a police composite. An old Oriental with wispy hair and a younger Caucasian with sharp features and high cheekbones. The Caucasion had hair similar to Remo's. The Oriental's eyes were deeper than Chiun's and then Remo realized it was a composite sketch of himself and Chiun. The deeper eyes told him and told him who had stood over the artist telling him 'yes' and 'no' as eyes and mouths appeared on paper. All eyes looked deeper when there was direct above light, as over a pool table in a pool hall.
Pete's Pool Parlour in East St. Louis. The Caucasian's eyes weren't so deep set because Remo had not stood at the table. He waved to Chiun.
Chiun came in behind the two other men of the triangle.
"Look," said Remo, showing the card to Chiun. "Now I know you won that money playing pool. You were at the pool table. Look at the eyes."
The man in the Palm Beach hat whispered something about having somebody. The big man trotted to a white Eldorado at the edge of the crowd.
"The shading of the eyes. Yes, I see," said Chiun. "The light from above."
"Right," said Remo.
The big man without the trouser pocket eased the Eldorado over the soft ground to Chiun and Remo. He threw open the driver's door, disclosing a shotgun in his lap. The door hid the gun from the sheriff's men. It pointed at Remo and Chiun.
"That could not be me," said Chiun. "It is a very close likeness of you considering it was obviously painted from memory. It lacks the character I put into your face. The other person is a stranger to me."
"Looks just like the gook," said the man in the Palm Beach hat, coming up behind them. "We got 'em. You two, get in that car and move quietly."
"This could not be my face," said Chiun. "This is the face of an old man. It could not be me. It lacks warmth and joy and beauty. It lacks the grace of character. It lacks the countenance of majesty. This is just the face of an old man." He looked up to the man in the Palm Beach hat. "However, if you could give me a large size of the white man, I would like to have it framed."
"Sure, old man," said the man in the Palm Beach hat. "How big? Eight by ten?"
"No. Not that big. My picture of Rad Rex is an eight-by-ten. Something smaller. To stand near my picture of Rad Rex, but slightly behind it. Do you know that Rad Rex, the famous television actor, called me gracious and humble?"
His face sparkled with pride.
"All right," said the man with a tight-lipped smile. "You got an eight-by-ten of a fag, I'll print you one of these but smaller."
"What is it, this fag?" Chiun asked Remo.
Remo sighed. "It is a boy who likes boys."
"A pervert?" asked Chiun.
"He thinks so," said Remo.
"A dirty disgusting thing?" asked Chiun.
"Depends on how you look at it."
"The way this creature-"Chiun jerked his head toward the man in the Palm Beach hat-"looks at it."
"The way he looks at it," Remo said. "Right, dirty and disgusting."
"I thought as much," said Chiun. He turned to the man in the hat who had begun to wonder why Johnny Deussio was sending all the way to Ohio to collect a couple of half-decks where there was no shortage of the mentally ill back home in St. Louis.
"You. Come here," said Chiun.
"Get in the car," said the man with the hat. Enough was enough.
"After you," said Chiun and the man with the Palm Beach hat did not notice anything and did not really feel anything and then he was being propelled over the old man's head, toward the open waiting door of the car. He slammed into its front seat. His head hit the head of the driver and his body slammed down atop the barrel of the shotgun. The driver's head snapped back and his finger jerked the trigger involuntarily. The shotgun went off with a muffled roar.