Chiun had opened this door and was about to slam it shut when he heard a familiar rhythmic heartbeat move into his sphere of detection. It came from out front.
Leaving the door to creak shut on its own, the Master of Sinanju slipped into the hallway. He deliberately lowered his own heartbeat and stilled his other life signs to avoid detection.
The front door inched open a few seconds later. When Remo tried to sneak inside, Chiun sprang like an angry feline from the shadows of the foyer.
"Where have you been?" the old Asian asked accusingly, his voice a squeaky singsong.
Remo jumped back, startled. "Geez, I thought I canceled the attack order for tonight, Cato," he groused.
"I will not be distracted by your crazed non sequiturs," Chiun challenged, hands clenched in knots of bony anger. A thread of beard quivered at the tip of his upthrust, accusatory chin. "You are late."
"I wonder why," Remo grumbled to himself. He shut the door behind him, careful to keep from turning his back on Chiun. "And you're lucky the neighbors didn't complain about all that door slamming."
"They are lucky they didn't complain," the Master of Sinanju sniffed, adding, "And I do not know what you are talking about."
"Yeah, right," Remo said. "I heard it down the block."
Chiun's hazel eyes steeled. "Do not 'yeah right' me," he said, his voice even. The wizened Korean tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his kimono. Placing both sandals firmly on the floor in an impersonation of a five-foot-tall colossus, he struck an imperious pose. "While you were out prancing about the countryside like a retarded grosshopper, I reached a decision."
"That's grasshopper." Remo sighed.
"I know what I said," Chiun retorted coldly. Remo seemed eager to leave the foyer, but Chiun barred his way. For some reason, the younger man seemed to not wish to skirt the tiny Korean. Leaning carefully back against the door, he crossed his arms. "What's the big decision?" he asked, perturbed.
"You need to show me proper respect."
"I do show you respect," Remo said, careful not to move.
"Saying that I am 'on the snot' is not respect. It is vulgar insolence. As well as incorrect."
"If you say so," Remo agreed.
"That is the sort of thing to which I am referring," Chiun said, stomping his feet. "Everything is 'yeah right' this and 'if you say so' that. The Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju should not speak thusly to his master."
Remo had a flash of anger. "I don't know why you're dumping this all on me. Ever since we got back from L.A., I've been your personal punching bag. I'm not even the one you should be mad at, but you're ticked at me because you already killed everyone who was involved. I'm your whipping boy by default."
"Do not be ridiculous," Chiun retorted. "I have already forgotten my miserable adventure in that land of lies. It matters not to me that the chimpbrained prevaricators of Hollywood snared me in their web of deception. Why should I be concerned in the least that producers and directors possessed of morals that would shame a Manila streetwalker have treated me as they would the oaf with the bucket who follows the horse in a parade? If that ever mattered to me-which it did not-it does no longer. What matters to me now is the constant scorn you show me, your father in spirit."
"I don't do that," Remo said, the fight draining out of him. "We both know that you're pretty much the only thing that matters to me in the world."
Chiun's wrinkled face puckered in unhappy lines. "I did not wish for you to become mawkish," he complained.
"So what do you want?" Remo asked. Although his tone was exasperated, his expression was sincere. "I'll do anything you ask."
Remo meant it. He'd lived on edge for too long. It was like walking on eggshells every day. He just couldn't take it anymore.
He braced himself as the old man's wrinkled lips parted. He was ready for anything.
"Stop saying that I am in any way connected to snot," Chiun said, his face looking disgusted to even utter the word. "It is gross. And untrue."
The tension drained from Remo's shoulders. "I'll try, Little Father." He smiled. "Promise. Look, if that's all-"
"It is," Chiun interrupted, "save one small thing." He tipped his bald head inquisitively to one side. "Tell me what you have hidden behind your back."
Remo instantly straightened. "Uh, what do you mean?" he asked, a note of forced innocence in his tone.
"Please, Remo," Chiun derided impatiently. "If you were any more transparent, I could see whatever it is you are hiding behind your back."
"I'm not hiding anything," Remo challenged. "And don't you have a kitchen door to break?" Chiun's gaze narrowed. He didn't budge an inch. The prickling electricity that preceded attack raised the short hairs on Remo's forearms. He braced himself, already knowing what he'd do. When Chiun grabbed for the videotape he had tucked into the waistband of his trousers, Remo would yank the movie out from the other side. While the Master of Sinanju was distracted by his own search, Remo would lob the box through the open door of the living room where it would land silently on the sofa. He could then collect it later. A blur of movement before him. Chiun lunged as expected. The old man feinted right and darted left. A bony hand snaked around behind Remo.
Remo's own hand flew right, grabbing for the hard plastic video box. He plucked it free just as he felt the rush of displaced air from Chiun's flashing hand.
In a move so fast it was light-years beyond blindingly quick, he slipped the box up next to his head. As he'd done with the quarters at the rally in New York, he flicked his thumb. The box rocketed silently from his fingertips.
It didn't make it more than two feet on its path to the living room before another blur raced to intercept it.
As Remo's heart sank, the box jumped into Chiun's palm as if drawn by magnetic force. The old man's face was smug as he waggled the Die Down box.
"Predictable, as well as insolent," the wily Korean proclaimed with a superior smile.
"You don't want to see that," Remo cautioned quickly, grabbing at the box.
But Chiun held the video away from Remo. Curious eyes darted to the cover.
The rectangle of cardboard under a sheet of laminate was a shrunken version of the poster Remo had torn from the Bombshell store window. When Chiun read the title, his eyes grew wide with rage.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"I warned you," Remo replied. "Give it here." He made another fruitless grab at the box.
"How long have you known of this?" Chiun accused.
"I just found out tonight. It only came out this week."
Angry, Chiun flipped the plastic case around in his hand. Remo knew what he was looking for. He also knew that the Master of Sinanju wouldn't find it.
"Where is my name?" Chiun demanded hotly, glancing up at his pupil. His eyes were furious.
"I think that's it." Remo pointed at a name three lines up from the movie's director.
Chiun's eyes squeezed to walnut slits. "That is not my name," he said levelly. Every word dripped menace.
"It must be some kind of mistake," Remo offered with a shrug. "No one contacted you to make sure it was right?"
"Of course not," the old man spit viciously. "Do you think for one minute I would have allowed this-this slur to pass without my notice?" He brandished the video like a dagger beneath Remo's nose, so that his pupil could read the name on the box.
" 'Mr. Chin,'" Remo read obediently.
Chiun clapped palms to ears. "Do not speak it aloud!" he shrieked.
"It sounds Chinese."
"A worse insult there has never been," Chiun lamented, hands still pressed to the sides of his head. The video box stuck out like an angry black dorsal fin. "Why did they not make me Thai, or the lowest of the low-French?"
"I think I've got an explanation," Remo said. "Did you tell them you were Master Chiun?"