And then there was a white face right in front of him and it was leaning close to him, and it said, "You killed her with the pick, animal, and now you're going to learn what it was like."
And then there was a ringing black starshine of pain at his left eye where the icepick was stuck. He could not see left anymore. And then the pain stopped and the big black man fell forward, his head smashing onto the concrete of the alley with a dull empty thud. The last thing he'd seen was that the white man had clean fingernails.
Remo spat down at the body and stepped out of the alley, back onto the sidewalk as a car came roaring down the street past him. It was followed by two more cars.
Remo looked down the street where the Saxon Lords were involved in a massive free-for-all, as it was suddenly illuminated by the onrushing headlights. Coming down the block the other way were three more automobiles.
The cars screeched to a stop and men jumped out. Remo could see they were carrying weapons. And then he heard a familiar voice. It was Sergeant Pleskoff.
"All right. Shoot 'em. Shoot the bastards. Shoot 'em right in the whites of their goddam eyes. We'll show 'em. America's had enough of this goddam violence. Kill 'em all. No survivors."
Remo was able to pick Pleskoff out. He was waving his arm over his head in a passable imitation of Errol Flynn's passable imitation of General Custer. He was wearing civilian clothes. So were the other dozen men who began firing into the mob with Police Specials and, shotguns.
Then Chiun was at Remo's side, with Tyrone in tow. Tyrone was looking back over his shoulder as the streets began to fill up with fallen bodies.
"Did you want him?" Chiun asked Remo.
"No. Not any more," said Remo.
Tyrone turned toward Remo, his eyes wide with fright.
"Ah doan wan' go back there."
"Why not?"
"It gettin' dangerous on de streets aroun' here," Tyrone said. "Can ah hang out wif you?"
Remo shrugged. Down the street the orgy of bulleting was slowing down. The screams were dying away. Few people were left standing. Pleskoff's voice kept roaring: "Shoot 'em all. We'll straighten this town out."
Chiun turned toward the voice also.
"I've created a goddam Wyatt Earp," Remo said.
"It is always the way when a man deals in vengeance," Chiun said. "Always the way."
"Always the way," Remo repeated.
"Allus de way," Tyrone said.
"Shut up," Remo said.
"Shut up," Chiun said.
Back at the Plaza, Chiun fished into one of his large lacquered trunks for a scroll of parchment and a bottle of ink and a large quill pen.
"What are you doing?" Remo asked.
"Writing for the history of Sinanju," Chiun said.
"About what?"
"About how the Master brought wisdom to his disciple by teaching him that vengeance is destructive."
"Be sure to write that it feels good too," Remo said.
He watched as Tyrone peered over Chiun's shoulder and then, behind Chiun's back, looked into the open trunk.
Chiun began writing. "You must see, Remo, that it would have done nothing to act vengefully against Tyrone. He is not responsible. There is nothing he can do about what he is."
Tyrone at that moment was slipping out the front door of the apartment.
"I'm glad you feel that way," Chiun," Remo said.
"Ummmm," the old man said, writing. "Why?"
"Because Tyrone just beat it with one of your diamond rings."
The quill pen flew upwards and stuck in the plaster ceiling. The bottle of ink flew off in another direction. Chiun dropped the the parchment scroll and moved quickly to his feet to the trunk. He bent forward, burying his head inside it, then stood up. His face was pale as he turned to Remo.
"He did. He did."
"He went thataway," Remo said, pointing to the door. But before he finished the sentence, Chiun was already out into the hall.
It was 11:30 p.m. Time to call Smith at the special 800 area code number that was open only twice a day.
"Hello," said Smith's acid-soaked voice.
"Hi, Smitty. How's it going?"
"I presume you have a report to make," Smith said.
"Just a minute." Remo covered the mouthpiece of the telephone. Outside the door, down the hallway near the elevator, he could hear thumping. And groans. And somebody weeping. Remo nodded.
"Yeah," Remo said. "Well, Spesk is dead. The guy who killed Mrs. Mueller is dead. There are at least a dozen New York City cops who are beginning to do something about criminals. All in all, I'd say a fair day's work."
"What about…"
"Just a minute," Remo said as the door to the suite opened. In walked Chiun, polishing his diamond ring on the black sleeve of his kimono, blowing on it, then polishing.
"You got it back," Remo said.
"Obviously."
"No vengeance, I hope," Remo said.
Chiun shook his head. "I suited the punishment to the crime. He stole my diamond; I stole his ability to steal again for a long time?'
"What'd you do?"
"I reduced his finger bones to putty. And warned him that if I ever saw him again, I would not treat him so kindly."
"I'm glad you weren't vengeful, Little Father. Be sure to put that in your history."
Chiun scooped up the parchment scroll and dumped it into the lacquered chest. "I don't feel like writing anymore tonight."
"There's always tomorrow." Remo turned his attention back to the telephone. "You were saying, Smitty?"
"I was asking. What about Spesk's two deadly weapons? Did you find them?"
"Of course. You asked me to, didn't you?"
"Well?"
"Well what?" asked Remo.
"What are they?" Smith asked.
"You can't have them," Remo said.
"Why not?" Smith said.
"Some things just aren't for sale," Remo said. He pulled the telephone cord from the wall and collapsed back on the couch. Laughing.