"Yeah, you," Johnny the Duck said. "We want to talk with you."
In musical English, Chiun said, "My house is your house. Make yourself at home. I will be with you soon," and he moved his head slightly to see around the right leg of Johnny the Duck.
The Duck looked at the other two men who still stood near the doorway behind Chiun and he shrugged. They grinned and shrugged back.
"But I must tell you," Vance Masterman's voice pleaded from the television. "I have borne this secret in silence for these many years and. . . ."
"The gook wants to watch his television show," Johnny the Duck said. "Maybe we ought to let him."
"Why not?" O'Boyle agreed and the Duck moved out of Chiun's way.
There were two tiling’s Pops Smith didn't like. First was calling the old man a gook and a dink. He couldn't help where he was born or what his colour was.
Pops mentioned this to O'Boyle and the Duck. "No need to make fun of the old man. He just old, is all."
Chiun heard the voice and the words. For that, Pops had earned himself a gift-the gift of dying last.
Unfortunately, Pop lost all claim to the gift later when he took action on the second thing he didn't like.
"What makes you think I would believe anything you say?" the woman's voice whined from the television.
Chiun continued to hum, but his rocking became more rhythmical, as if he were impatiently urging the players on. Tell her, he said to himself. Just tell her, I am your father,
Chiun would have done it. Remo would have done it. Any man would have done it. But now the picture was fading and the organ music was rising and Vance Masterman still had not told her. Chiun sighed, a deep anguished sigh. At times, Vance Masterman was a very imperfect human being.
If only he were more like the lady plumber who now appeared on the screen-racing in front of the camera, braying her message, demonstrating her wares and then leaving.
Ah, but Vance Masterman had had a difficult life and men reacted differently to adversity. He had once told that to Remo at a training session.
They had sat on the gymnasium floor at Folcroft Sanatorium and Chiun had looked at Remo's face. At first, he had despaired of ever making anything of this hard-faced, wisecracking young man. But as time went on and the legend grew, that had changed and Chiun felt for him, first kindness, then respect, then almost love, and he had shared with him a secret.
"In the world, Remo, you will find that men will do what men must do. Learn to anticipate men and you learn to control men. Learn also not to be anticipated. Learn to be like the wind that blows from all sides; then men will look at you and never know what window of their soul to close."
Chiun arose in one motion from his full lotus and stood up, slightly annoyed at himself for not realizing that Vance Masterman would have trouble telling his terrible secret.
He turned to his three guests. The one who had stood in front of him: he had had to because it was the way for an inferior man to demonstrate superiority. And the one who had agreed that Chiun should watch his television. He also had had to, because he was a stupid man, and being agreeable made it unnecessary to attempt to think one's way through to a decision. And the third man, the black man who had raised his voice in protest of the verbal abuse of Chiun. Well, that-too-was preordained. He defended himself by defending Chiun.
Chiun would have to tell Remo about these very interesting men. Remo was interested these days in why people did things.
Chiun smiled and folded his hands inside the large, flowing sleeves of his brocaded white robe.
"Gentlemen?" he said. It was a question.
"You finished watching that soap opera?" Johnny the Duck asked.
"Yes. For the time being. There will be commercials now and five minutes of news before the next program appears. We may talk." He waved them graciously to seats. They remained standing.
"We didn't come to talk, dink," O'Boyle said. "We came to hear talk."
"The speech therapist is on the next floor," Chiun said.
"Listen, Mr. Moto, you just go along with what we say and you ain't going to get hurt," Johnny the Duck said.
"This frail old spectre will remember you with nothing but gratitude," Chiun said.
The Duck nodded to O'Boyle. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he don't run." Then he walked toward the telephone to call a number in Hudson, a number he had never called before.
From his position on the floor under the fourteen-foot long mahogany table in Mayor Craig Hansen's office, Remo could not reach the telephone. From her position under Remo, neither could Cynthia Hansen, the mayor's daughter.
"Let it ring," Remo said.
"I can't let it ring," she said, placing the words in his ear along with the tip of her tongue. "I'm a public servant." She accented her words by plunging her naked pelvis against Remo's naked body.
"Forget about servicing the public. Service the private," Remo said and returned the stroke with interest.
"When I was told that working in city hall was just screwing the public, I never thought I'd be doing it one at a time," she said, and reached down between them and grabbed Remo. "Now unplug, will you?" she said squeezing slightly to make her point.
"Government is no career for weaklings," Remo sighed. He slowly, lovingly withdrew and rolled off her. Cynthia Hansen rolled out from under the table and padded naked across the seventy-two dollar a yard carpet, bought without public bidding, to the telephone. She picked it up as she sat back in the tan leather chair, $627 without bidding, put her long legs up on the desk and looked down at her left nipple which was still rigid with excitement.
"Mayor Hansen's office," she said, "May I help you?" squeezing her nipple between the index and middle fingers of her right hand.
She listened for a moment, then held out the phone with a shrug. "It's for you," she said in surprise, then shrugged again.
Remo groaned to himself, then still erect, got to his feet and walked around the desk, until he was between the desk and Cynthia Hansen. She dropped her legs to let him reach the telephone, but then put her legs back up onto the desk trapping Remo in the middle.
Remo picked up the telephone and propped it on his shoulder. "It's your dime," he said, and using both hands, he lifted Cynthia's knees slightly, then tilted the tan leather chair back so that her pelvis was tipped up toward him. He slowly leaned forward toward her.
"Listen, Barry," the voice came over the phone. "We know what you're doing."
Remo was in and he started to stroke gently, forward and back. "Five bucks says you don't," he told the voice.
"Yeah?" said Johnny the Duck.
"Yeah," said Remo.
"Yeah? Well, anyway we know everything about you, except who made you come."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Remo said, pumping harder now. "And after a couple of years, too." He leaned forward and with his hands began to manipulate Cynthia's breasts.
"Yeah? Well, we got the dink. What d'ya think about that?"
"Tell him to make you some chop suey. He's really good at it, but watch the soy sauce. He's got a tendency to use too much. . .too. . .much!," Remo said and then it was over.
"Hey, Barry. You all right?" Johnny the Duck wondered over the phone.
"Yeah. I'm fine now," Remo said, lying there heavily against Cynthia Hansen, waiting for the pulsating throb to cease.
"Well, if you ever want to see the dink again, you better talk."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Somebody's going to give you the password. Butterflies. When that someone does, you tell him everything you know. What you're doing here and who sent you and all. Otherwise, you'll never see the dink again."