The aged Korean had left his belongings in the States: his robes and, more importantly, his special television setup provided by upstairs on which Chiun could watch his daytime soap operas without missing the ones that ran concurrently. The device taped the other channels so Chiun would have hours of uninterrupted soap opera. Chiun had also left his autographed picture of Rad Rex, star of As the Planet Revolves, who at this very moment, Chiun had noted, was pondering whether or not to tell Mrs. Loretta Lamont that her daughter's abortion had disclosed a cancerous tumor that somehow would prove Wyatt Walton was innocent of leaving his wife and seven children in Majorca before he came to Mrs. Lament's house as a spiritual adviser. Chiun was missing this, he noted.
And if Chiun could leave his daytime dramas, certainly Remo without second thought could leave the organization. But on this point Chiun had not dwelled too long. Survival was what he had daily lectured to Remo since they had come to St. Thomas almost a week before. But it was leaving the organization that bothered Remo to his very essence.
On the other end of the island at the Harry Truman Airport, an American Airlines jet was landing with another person who was bothered to his very essence. But unlike Remo, Robert Jellicoe showed it. While all the other passengers went to the front of the airplane, Robert Jellicoe went to the rear into the little lavatory and upchucked again. He did not bother to lock the door or even stay and hide, but flushed, left, and stumbled back down the aisle of the plane and down the debarking ramp into the terminal where Mr. Gordons, Moe Alstein, and Sergeant Pitulski were waiting. Alstein noted that the mugginess made his suit feel like liver. Sergeant Pitulski said the only cure for that was a shot of Seagrams Seven and a bottle of Bud.
Mr. Gordons forbade drinking. In the Windward Hotel overlooking the port, Mr. Gordons asked all three to wait for him a few moments. There was some shopping he had to do. Sergeant Pitulski told Mr. Gordons to take his time and when he was gone, ordered a bottle of Seagrams and a case of beer and proceeded to go shot and quaff until he confessed that today's Marines weren't really Marines. The real Marines didn't fight in Vietnam, otherwise America wouldn't have had to pull out, leaving unfinished business. The real Marines were those who served at San Diego, Japan, Cherry Point, North Carolina, and Parris Island.
"You serve at those places?" asked Moe Alstein.
As a matter of fact, Sergeant Pitulski had, Sergeant Pitulski admitted.
"Thought so," said Alstein.
Jellicoe was quiet. Alstein offered him a drink. Jellicoe refused. Alstein asked what the matter was.
"Nothing," said Jellicoe.
"You know, I don't like working with you either, you anti-Semitic sonuvabitch," said Alstein. "You're an amateur. Amateurs. I could get killed with amateurs."
"Could?" said Jellicoe.
"Whaddya mean amateurs? I'm a Marine."
"You're a rummy," said Alstein.
"You don't know what Marines can do," said Pitulski.
"Get drunk and lose fistfights," said Alstein. "Jeez, I wish I had my weapon with me. I wish I had it."
"You will," said Jellicoe.
"Naah," said Alstein. "He took it in Chicago. That Gordons is a funny guy. I bet he brings me some cheap piece of shit that I have to stick in the hit's nostrils to get a piece of the nose. You'll see. Everybody laughs at the chrome plate and the size of a .357 Magnum, the chrome being my own idea. But with that little doozy, I'm king."
"You'll get your gun back," said Jellicoe.
"Bullshit. He couldn't get a gun through customs. I know. They're spooky about those flights that go past Cuba."
"Marines could get guns into Cuba," said Pitulski. "As a matter of fact we got them there. Gitmo. God bless the United States Marines," he sobbed and moaned that he had deserted the only family he ever had, the Marines, and for what? Money. Filthy, dirty rotten money. Even stole a flamethrower—which the Marines would miss. Not like the Air Force where you could lose a fleet of planes and the government would resupply five squadrons. The Marines treasured their weapons.
"Shut up," said Alstein. "You're worried about a dinky six-hundred-a-month job and I've got a whole career riding on this."
"You'll both get your weapons," said Jellicoe.
"Not the same one," said Alstein. "Not the same feel."
"The exact feel," said Jellicoe.
"Not the same serial numbers."
"The same serial numbers. Right down to the pits in the chrome," said Jellicoe.
When Mr. Gordons returned to the hotel suite, he carried valises, swinging them slowly and easily. He instructed everyone to bring the packages he had given them back in Chicago and which had passed inspection at the airport, into his room. When he saw Pitulski stumble drunkenly, he put the bags down lightly.
"Negative. Cease. Not that much drink. Overabundance. Cease. Cease," said Mr. Gordons, and twice smacked the reddish face of Sergeant Pitulski, making the crimson cheeks shine just a little more brightly. He upended him and walked him to a closet where he locked the door on the upside-down Marine.
"Excessive drinking is dangerous, especially when people have tools in their hands and are responsible for the survival of other things," said Mr. Gordons.
"He didn't have any tools," said Alstein.
"I'm talking about his skills as tools and my survival," said Mr. Gordons. He nodded to the bags and Jellicoe bent down, gripped a handle, and jerked—himself to the carpeted hotel room floor. The valise wouldn't move.
"That is a bit excessive for you, isn't it?" said Gordons. "I will take them," and, as if the valises were filled with woven wicker and handkerchiefs, Mr. Gordons lifted them and walked them smoothly into the other room.
"You're pretty weak there, Jellicoe," said Alstein.
About a half-hour later, as Alstein read a magazine in the suite's living room and Jellicoe stared dumbly at the door that Mr. Gordons had locked behind himself, the door suddenly opened.
"What's that?" asked Mr. Gordons.
"Nothing," said Alstein.
"I hear something."
Alstein and Jellicoe shrugged.
"I hear something. I know I hear something," said Mr. Gordons. A canvas cloth covered his hands, at least where his hands should be, but the vague outline under the canvas was that of tools attached to his wrists. "Open that closet."
When Alstein opened the closet door, they all saw Sergeant Pitulski, upside down and red-faced. Alstein lowered an ear.
"He's humming 'The Halls of Montezuma,'" said Alstein.
"Right side him up," said Mr. Gordons. "And for him, no drinks. You others seem capable of drinking without wanting to become disorderly, so you may drink. But not Pitulski."
"How we gonna keep him from drinking if we drink?" asked Alstein.
"You mean just because a person sees someone else drink, he wants to drink?"
"It works that way," said Alstein.
"Feed that in," said Jellicoe.
"I just have," said Gordons.
"As a seventy-three percent positive," said Jellicoe.
"How are you using that?" asked Mr. Gordons.
"As in seventy-three percent of the time that would be accurate."
"Done, but with the standard deviation for human inaccuracy," said Mr. Gordons and disappeared into his room. When he returned, he held in his two hands—they appeared normal now to Jellicoe, as he had expected they would—a .357 Magnum with the bullets clutched in his palm, and the spear guns. The flamethrower was strung around his left arm; the scuba tanks and rubber suit hung from his right. The flamethrower sloshed. It was filled.
He gave Alstein the gun, Jellicoe the underwater gear, and put the flamethrower down at Pitulski's feet. Pitulski was snoozing in an armchair.