"No reason," Remo said. "We'll get right on it." As he spoke, he cocked an ear toward the hallway stairs.
The music seemed to have stopped. The silence lasted only a few seconds. Chiun had apparently bought a multi-CD player. Wylander's eardrum-detonating whooping began anew.
"I'm not kidding about Wylander, Smitty," Remo growled into the phone. "You'd better get on the blower to Monster Island, 'cause when the next contract comes due you're gonna need an awfully big cage for country's King Kong."
He slammed down the phone.
CHIUN AGREED to abandon his new lady love to accompany Remo to New York.
The short commuter flight was relatively incident free, with only two wet T-shirt contests and one midair chug-a-lug competition. Two drunken businessmen who threatened to defecate midway through the flight did so to protest the in-flight movie. Since it was an Adam Sandler film, Remo didn't blame them. The flight attendants were hosing down the carpets when he and the Master of Sinanju deplaned.
On the cab ride into the city, the old Korean was a picture of wrinkled contentment. He almost appeared to be in a state of grace. As they crossed the Williamshurg Bridge, Chiun let out a satisfied sigh.
"I know what's going on," Remo said abruptly. The wizened Asian continued to stare wistfully at the East River. His aged hands were clasped together in his lap, forming a tight knot of bone.
"Remind me to record such an historic moment in the sacred Sinanju scrolls," the Master of Sinanju replied.
Remo ignored the sarcasm. "Country music," he pressed. "I know why you like it so much."
Chiun turned a bland eye on his pupil. "Is there a way I might be spared this?" he asked.
"No, listen. You like Ung poetry, right?
A cloud formed on Chiun's brow. "Of course."
"Right," Remo nodded. "You like it even though it doesn't even rhyme, and everyone in the universe but you thinks it sounds like shit."
Chiun's eyes grew flat. "There are limits, Remo, to how much I will indulge you," he said in a level tone.
"Work with me here," Remo insisted. "Ung sounds awful, it's repetitive and totally devoid of any depth or beauty. Basically, it's Korean country music except with butterflies instead of barflies. That's why you like country music."
He nodded, a knowing look on his face.
Chiun's level gaze never wavered. "One day many years from now, Remo, scientists will crack open your granite skull and announce, 'Behold! Here was a being with the aspect of Man, yet possessed with a cavern between his ears!' School children will take field trips to see the hollowed head of Empty-Skulled Man."
He turned his aged face back to the cab window. The looming Manhattan skyline was reflected darkly in the glass.
"Empty head, but full heart," Remo smiled. "And I know I'm right."
"You are never right," Chiun replied without turning. "And you get more not right with every passing day."
LIPPINCOTT, FORSYTHE, Butler occupied most of a somber Wall Street building within shouting distance of Trinity Church. A plaque above the door read, simply, LFB. So celebrated was the firm that no more advertising was needed.
As their cab dropped them off, Remo took note of the police cruisers parked in front of the building. "Something's up," Remo commented as he and Chiun stepped around the police cars. "Maybe we should use a back door."
"You may climb through an alley window if you wish," Chiun sniffed. "I, however, will use the perfectly serviceable door before me."
Lifting up the hem of his purple kimono, the old man marched across the sidewalk. Eyes on the cop cars, Remo followed. Side by side, the two men strolled into the lobby.
The confusion inside was such that no one stopped them as they crossed to the elevators. They accompanied a pair of police officers up to the fourteenth floor.
The doors opened on the sedate LFB logo. It was etched into a small bronze plate that was secured to the wall above a vacant receptionist's desk.
The cops walked from the elevator area down past several lobby desks, Remo and Chiun trailing. "Remember, Little Father," Remo whispered. "We're looking for a guy named Larry Fine."
"Yes," Chiun droned. "I don't know why you trusted that that was not some new manifestation of Smith's madness."
"Let's give Smitty a break, okay?" Remo said as they walked. "He's been living a waking nightmare these past few years. We're only here so he can make nice with the President before he leaves office."
"Then this is truly a waste of all our time," the Master of Sinanju muttered. "For Smith has already told us that we will visit the Corpulent Pretender in but a few day's time to administer the Emptying Basin."
This was the Sinanju selective-amnesia technique used to erase all memory of Smith, CURE and Sinanju from the minds of departing Presidents.
"Too bad we can't use that technique on 270 million more Americans," Remo said. "Make them forget the last eight years ever happened."
They followed the policemen through a wide archway and into a large, drab room filled with small cubicles. Coming toward them up the long gray aisle was a sheet-draped gurney.
"Uh-oh," Remo said. "I hope that's not who I think it is."
While the gurney was still at a distance, Remo stopped near a group of LFB employees. They were watching the approaching covered gurney with sick fascination.
"I'm looking for Larry Fine," Remo announced. Judging by the looks he received, his instinct about the gurney's occupant was correct. "Lawrence," a sniffling woman corrected. She dabbed her mascara-smeared eyes with a sopped Kleenex. "His name was Lawrence. Those thugs murdered him in his own office."
All of a sudden, it wasn't funny to make fun of his name. That happened not long after Fine's body was discovered, his neck nearly sawed through with a garrote wire.
Chiun fell in with the passing coroner's office procession. An unseen fingernail bounced the gurney's wheels over Remo's loafers on its trip out of the office. The Master of Sinanju continued with the rest out into the hall.
One of the office workers lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to say it, but I'm just glad LFB didn't assign me to work with those racketeers."
"I knew something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on them," the weeping woman said. "Poor, poor Larry. I mean Lawrence." She blew her nose into her dripping tissue.
"Does all this have anything to do with Raffair?" Remo asked as she picked bits of tissue from her moist fingers.
All eyes turned to him. The crying woman took sudden notice of Remo's too casual attire. She froze in midsniffle.
"Are you with the police?" she asked suspiciously. "What's your name? Where's your identification?"
He rolled his eyes as he reached into his pocket for his phony ID. "My name's Remo-" he began. A shocked intake of air. Before he knew what was going on, the woman before him let out a bloodcurdling scream.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Remo asked as she shrieked bloody murder.
The other LFB employees dove for their cubicles. Cops spun Remo's way. Some were already running toward him.
"He's one of the killers!" the woman screeched.
"What?" Remo said, stunned. "No, I'm not." By this time, he was surrounded by police, their guns drawn.
"Let me see some ID," one of the officers demanded. "Slowly. "
Remo reached back into his pocket. When he searched his wallet, he came up empty. He checked his other pocket. The only things there were a small figure carved from stone and a crucifix he'd been carrying around as good-luck charms for the past few months. He suddenly remembered leaving Smith's newly issued IDs on his bureau back at Castle Sinanju.