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crippled dwarfs to have good teeth. People who liked teeth might be attracted to them. Viola, now, had always had a warm spot in her heart for people with good teeth.
"I love your good teeth," she said, swilling and spilling.
"Thank you, my dear. All my own. Never a cavity in my life."
Maybe he was cheap. If he had all the money he ever wanted, all and more, why didn't he spend some money on his teeth ?
"Why not?" Viola asked. She pushed forward the wine glass for a refill.
"Why not what?"
"Why didn't you spend something on them?"
Montrofort tried to chuckle casually. Maybe she was crazy. "Your job with the Congress must be very interesting," he said. He handed her glass forward.
"How much did this wine cost?" asked Viola.
"Who cares about money?" said Montrofort. "Whatever it cost, it was a small price to bring you pleasure. Who thinks about money?"
"People who are too cheap to have their teeth fixed right," yelled Viola. She slammed her Waterford goblet on the table for emphasis. The stem snapped smartly, an inch up from the base. She held the rest of the wineglass as if it were a dixie cup, her hand around the fat bowl, and slurped down her wine. When she was done, she threw the goblet toward the fireplace. She missed.
"We were talking about your job with the Congress," Montrofort said. He looked around for another glass for Viola, but three had already been broken. The only one left was his. He filled it and handed it over.
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"It's a job," Viola said. "The massage parlor I worked in, now that was interesting."
"You worked in a massage parlor ? How droll."
"Yeah," Viola said, peeking out from around her uplifted wineglass. "Three years. That's where I met... whoops, no names."
"I understand, dear. I certainly do. From a massage parlor to Congress. How interesting."
"Yeah. The money was better in the massage parlor. Until now, anyway. With this book I'm gonna write. More of that wine, okay?"
"Your book should be very interesting." Montrofort upended the bottle over Viola's glass, filling it halfway.
Viola took the glass. "Yeah. About ashash . . . assash ... about killings and like that."
"Oh yes. Assassinations."
"You're going to help me, aren't you?" Viola asked.
"Day and night. Weekdays and weekends. We can go visit the scenes of the great assassinations of history. Just you and me."
"Better bring somebody to wheel you around too. I don't wheel any too good," Viola said.
"Of course, my dear," said Montrof ort.
"I need you to help me with my book, 'cause I don't write too good, and you talk like you could really write and all, and besides you know about things."
"Not only will I help you with the book, but when you make your million I'll help you manage your new-found wealth, if you wish."
"You don't have to do that," Viola said. "I work for Congress. I know all about Swish . . . Swish... Shwiss bank accounts."
"That's like the kindergarten, however, of
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money hiding. To really eliminate all chance of being traced, you must wash your funds through Switzerland and then through more accounts in other friendly nations. African nations are particularly good because they make up their banking regulations to fit the customer and for five dollars you can buy all the treasury secretaries on the continent."
"Right. I see. We'll worry about that later," Viola said.
"Very wise. First the book, then the money," said Montrofort. Viola's head was nodding. Her eyelids drooped. It was the time to make his move.
"Why don't we go into my studio to discuss this further?" he said. "We can allocate responsibilities that each of us should have to insure a good book."
"Right," said Viola. "Lead the way." She yelled as if leading a charge of the cavalry. "Okay, everybody. Roll on out. You get it? Roll on out. Get it?"
"Yes, my dear. Follow me."
Montrofort rolled back from the table and toward a side door leading from the dining room. He opened the sliding door and turned to let Viola through first. She was not with him. She was still at the table, her head on her plate, the plate partially filled with wine from her overturned goblet, sleeping gently.
Montrofort rolled back to her side. She breathed deeply and steadily.
Cautiously he extended an index finger and touched one of Viola's breasts which hung threateningly over the floor.
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"Unnh, uhnnh," Viola mumbled, her eyes still closed. "No feelies. Looksies."
"Please," said Montrofort to the sleeping woman.
"Only brush-touchies. No feelies. My lash word on the shubject. Now don't get fresh and make me have to wheel you into the fireplace."
"No, my dear," said Montrofort. He rolled to the dining room's main door, opened it, and summoned Raymond with an imperial crook of his finger.
The butler stepped forward hurriedly.
"Get her out of here, Raymond," Montrofort said.
"Shall I call her a cab?"
"No. Just put her on the curb," Montrofort said. "I'm going to bed."
A laughing stock, was he? He would see who would be laughing on Saturday. And he knew the answer.
No one in the country but him.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
The sky's black was diluting into a deep gray when Remo came back to the hotel room. Chiun was sitting in the corner of the room on a fiber mat, watching the door.
"How did your wonderful idea work?" he asked as Remo came in through the unlocked door.
"I don't want to talk about it," Remo said.
"The man is an idiot."
"Whatman?"
"What man ? The man you were talking to. The emperor with the funny teeth."
"How did you know I went to see him?"
"Do I know you, Remo? After all these years, don't you think I know what foolishness will strike your fancy?"
"He wouldn't go along. He's going to appear on Saturday."
"That's why he is an idiot. Only an idiot goes blithely rushing forward into danger, whose dimensions he knows not. Really, Remo, I don't know how this country has lasted long enough to have a bicenental celebration."
"Bicentennial," said Remo.
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"Yes. And being run by idiots all that time. Americans always act as if they are protected by God. They drive those awful belching machines at each other. They poison each other with what they call food. There is a smokehouse in Sinanju where we smoke codfish, and it smells better than the air here. Despite that, you have lasted for a bicenental celebration. Maybe God does protect you idiots."
"Then maybe he'll protect the President."
"I hope so. Although how God can tell one of you idiots from another is beyond me. Since you all look alike."
"Actually, what the President said was that he had total faith in the Master of Sinanju. That he knew he was in the finest, strongest hands in the world."
"Hands, no matter how fine or strong, work only if they have something to clutch."
"He said he thought you would protect him."
"Impossible."
"He said nothing could stop you," Remo said.
"Except that which we know nothing of."
"He said if he survived this, he was going to take a commercial on television and tell everybody that the House of Sinanju was responsible for his protection."
Chiun unfolded his arms and let them drop to his sides. "He said that?"
"That's exactly what he said. I remember his exact words. He said, 'If I survive this, I'm going to go on television and say that I owe it all to the bravest, most wonderful, awe-inspiring, magnificent
"Enough. He was clearly talking about me."