"Nothing is," said Remo.
"How did you do that?" asked Viki when Remo sat down again. She asked him when they got off the bus, when they registered at the Houston Hilton, and when Remo showed her to her adjoining room. "How did you do that?"
"Find me a radio and I'll show you," said Remo, turning to go.
"Don't you want to come in?" asked Viki seductively.
Remo looked at her, put his hand on his chin, thought for a few seconds, then said, "No."
"Remo," said Chiun from the doorway of the other room. "Come in. We must speak of your soul."
"Yes," said Remo to Viki, not wanting to hear any more fairy tales about his inner being sneaking out to lunch when he had his right hand cut.
"I knew I'd finally get to you," Viki said with a smile.
"Whatever you say," said Remo.
Viki left the doorway of the room and moved over to the single bed. She plopped down on the bed, lifted her uniform hem and smoothed her right nylon from the top of her boot all the way up to her crotch. Then she repeated the procedure on her left leg. Then she took off her black boots, slowly, caressing the leather, filling the room with long, cracking creaks. She repeated the smoothing of her panty hose, from the bottom tippy toe to the very tippy top of her thigh.
Remo leaned against the desk in the room and watched her as if she were a mechanic changing a tire.
"Aaah, that's better," said Viki, stretching her arms above her head, lifting her hem even higher. "Come on. Sit by me and tell me all about yourself."
"Aah, shucks," said Remo. "Not much to tell." He moved toward the bed and Viki grabbed his wrist and pulled him down onto her lap.
"Are we going to meet your friend here?" she asked.
"What friend?"
"The one Chiun calls emperor."
"No. He doesn't get around much," said Remo.
"That's too bad. He seemed nice."
"Sure, he's nice," said Remo. "So are paper clips and pencil sharpeners." Remo slid off her thighs and bounced to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
"Who do you think killed your father?" asked Remo.
Viki's face closed like an off off Broadway show. But only for a moment. Then her eyes narrowed and she licked her lips.
"Aaah," she breathed more than said, and pulled herself up onto her knees.
"That's no answer," Remo said.
"An interesting question," said Viki, putting both hands against his chest and pushing. "How should I know?"
Remo's body did not move but his hand snaked its way between her knees. "There must have been a reason," he said.
"I don't know wha…" said Viki, arching her back, her head snapping toward the ceiling as Remo's hand moved.
"Didn't your mother or father ever tell you anything that might have given you a clue?" Remo slid off her panty hose and pressed her down onto the pillow.
"No… No. no… nothing," said Viki.
"Anything. Any clue," Remo pressed, moving atop her.
Viki shook her head.
Remo brought her to a galactic interstellar climax with a soft graceful movement of his body. And then to another one and another one, then moved away from her.
"Whoooosh," said Viki. "Way, way, way, way out." She wiped tears from her cheeks and sweat from her brow, then straightened her dress. She stood up and made a sign toward Remo with her left hand, opening a gap between her third and fourth fingers.
"That's a Vulcan salute," she said. "Live long and prosper."
Remo held up the three middle fingers of his right hand. "Boy Scout salute. Be prepared," he said.
He turned toward the door.
"Remo?"
"Yeah?" He turned back.
"How well do you know Chiun?"
Remo watched as Viki pulled a soft, floor-length green bathrobe out of her bag and wrapped it around her.
"Well enough. Why?"
"Well, he told me a little about what he does."
Remo laughed. "You mean write soap operas, belittle white people and moon over hook-nosed singers?"
"No. He talked about killing. You ought to be careful, Remo." Remo blinked. "I'm afraid of him, Remo. I think he might be planning something behind your back."
Remo shook his head and left.
Viki smiled. So the man called "the emperor" wouldn't be here in Houston. It didn't matter. She would kill Remo and Chiun first. And then get the third man.
Charlie Ko waited until the undead settled into his hotel room. Charlie drank a vodka and orange juice from a plastic glass while waiting, careful to keep his right forefingernail away from his face.
Charlie Ko was a born leader of men. He had known it when he was a kid, leading the children of P.S. 189 in New York in unattendance. He knew it as a teenager, when he led the Devil Dragons through seven rumbles in three years to be the number one street gang in Chinatown. And he knew it as a young man, when he moved up to mobilizing student troops at the Chicago Democratic convention.
Charlie had become a master of his craft. All over the east coast, men knew that if you wanted a head busted you came to Charlie Ko.
But it was a long time since those carefree college days when he did it for free. A man with the most skulls on the inside of his locker, signifying acknowledged kills during riots and street fights, just couldn't continue in his magnanimous murderous ways. He had to industrialize, internalize, and incorporate.
So Charlie partnered up with his three best friends from the Chinatown days and went out for hire. Their strike-busting led to body-guarding. Their bodyguarding led to clandestine operations. Their clandestine operations led to mercenary mobilization.
And mercenary mobilization led to inquiries by appointment and inquiries by appointment led to his office on Lexington Avenue in New York and his office led to his reputation as the best and that led him to the Houston Sheraton and a final meeting with the undead.
For Charlie's three partners had met their untimely ends in a meat factory in Westport, Connecticut. Up until that time, they had been his arms and legs. They were the ones who had to go flying all over the country to locate and report on possible victims. They were the ones who had to do in those victims. And they were the ones who had to make it look like swine-flu vaccine reactions.
But no more. Charlie was left to complete the leader's instructions with a bunch of raw recruits. Raw, inexperienced, but blood-thirsty recruits.
"Alright," said Charlie, putting the cold plastic glass down and wiping a bit of liquid from his thick, soft, lower lip. "Let's get started."
Yat-Sen, Sheng Wa, Eddie Cantlie, Gluck, and Steinberg leaned back in their seats, on the sofa, and on the bed.
Charlie walked to the writing desk and picked up some Sheraton stationery. He handed out the sheets, then moved back to his drink.
"This is our next plan of attack," he said.
A low groan rose from the group. "Another one?" said Eddie Cantlie, who had been in it from the beginning. "That's the fourth one this month."
Charlie shrugged. "Either you control the situation or it controls you."
While the group was checking over the material, Charlie checked over his fingernail. He and his three partners had been outfitted with one of these things when they took the job.
The crazy things I have to do for my art, Charlie thought. Spend every morning varnishing and sharpening the permanently affixed, artificial fingernail blade until it shone like steel and could cut paper.
Three times a day drinking a mixture of vitamins and gelatin to fortify his own nails. Every afternoon spent checking his speed and accuracy until he could pinion olives hurled into the air.
But it was worth it. What he was getting paid for this job would keep his wife, his mistress, his lawyer, his agent, his office, his staff, and his car for two years. If everything went smoothly, and why shouldn't it? He was in charge. If everything went smoothly he had an "option" for continued service at a very pretty price indeed-a share of the combined wealth of the United States of America.