"I know," said Chiun sagely. "You compare me to the great American who goes quickly in circles to destroy ugly pollution machines. It is not much of a compliment. But for an American with so little worthwhile to compare me to, it suffices."
Remo felt as if he were going in circles too. "I've got big news for you, Little Father. I don't know what you're talking about."
"That is not news, Remo. Heh, heh, heh. That is not news. But I thank you because you know that I too try to destroy pollution. I pour out tainted water when it is filled with dangerous amounts of magnesium, copper, mercury, iodine, toxic alloys…"
The truth finally struck Remo. "Petty. Right. Petty. I don't mean Richard Petty, the race driver. I mean petty, the word. Meaning small, trivial, shallow, chintzy, nit-picking."
"Because I try to do what is right and good, you throw words at me. With a female at your side, even tainted water in your stomach is of no importance to you. When will my efforts be recognized?"
"Don't worry," said Remo, slipping on the brown loafers he had worn to Israel. "I'm sure they've been heard all over the hotel by now."
"Good. It is good that they know," said Chiun, settling down on his mat and turning on the suite's television set.
"And I've got more news for you," said Remo, going to the door. "That female happens to be an Israeli agent."
Chiun turned. "As we met in Hollywood?" he asked excitedly. "Can she get me good water?"
"No, not that kind of agent. A secret agent, like me."
"In that case," said Chiun turning back, "she is no agent of mine."
Remo opened the suite's door. "I'm going out to make a call. This phone might be tapped. Want anything?"
"Yes," said Chiun, face intent on the screen, "some good water and a son who recognizes undying effort."
"I'll look for water," Remo said.
Remo drifted down the access road that serves as a kind of beach-front driveway for all the hotels on Tel Aviv's Mediterranean shore.
On this spring day, thousands of people were crowding the beaches of Israeli's "Miami," so Remo simply watched the groups of tourists dragging beach chairs, teenagers running with surfboards, and venders hawking ice cream and popsicles. Off the boardwalk, some soldiers were batting at a rubber ball, with frenzied determination, making it look like a red pole and sound like a locomotive.
Remo looked beyond all this, trying to spy a phone. He had not raised his body temperature to match that of the 105-degree air around him, because he wanted to sweat. In case Chiun had not merely been complaining about the water, he wanted to get its poisons out of his body quickly. He wiped the water from his forehead as he moved past the crowd onto Hagarkon Road and arrived at the main shorefront strip of Ben Yehuda.
Still no phone. Remo moved down a block to Keren Kayemet, where he asked a passing old man, "Telephone?"
The old man raised a weak arm and gestured down the hill along Ben Yehuda, indicating quite a distance and saying, "Shamma."
Remo continued on his way, enjoying the suntanned passersby and the outdoor cafes with their colorful umbrella tables. That is, he enjoyed them for five blocks, and then he began to get impatient.
He stopped a passing tourist, "Do you know where Shamma is?"
Remo guessed that the man with meat on his breath and fat on his belly was a tourist because of the two cameras, a binocular case, and a Mexican tequila medallion that were hanging from his shoulders.
"Shamma?" the tourist said, bathing Remo in the scents of yesterday's falafel, a purse-shaped sandwich of dough filled with deep fried, mashed, chick pea meatballs. "Let's see now."
The tourist unzipped his binocular case and pulled a map from between a bottle of vodka and a bottle of orange juice. He unfolded it across Remo's chest and began to read out loud.
"Judea, Samaria, Gaza, Sinai, Golan, Safed, Afula, Tiberias, Hedera, Nathania, sounds like the roll call for the goddamn Mickey Mouse Club, don't it, buddy? Ramleh, Lydda, Rehebot, Beer-Sheba. Nope, can't find no Shamma here. Want me to check the Arab map, mister?"
"Thanks, but no thanks," said Remo, moving away from the map on his chest.
"Sure, buddy," said the man, folding the map badly. "Any time."
Remo crossed Allenby Street and there, finally, in Mograbi Square, was a phone booth.
The phone looked about the same as the non-push-button variety back home except for the slanted glass tube just above the dial, which Remo was trying to slip a dime into. The phone was not having any. Remo then tried a dollar bill. Nope. He wondered if he could sign for the call. Probably not. Would the booth take a check? Not likely. Remo then considered how the Jewish Momma Bell would like a floating punch right in the receiver.
In the old days in Newark, when Remo and his pals wanted to make a call and nobody had a dime, Woo-Woo Whitfield would always hit the phone casing a certain way and the dial tone came on. Remo tried to remember how and where he hit it. Was it just above or just below the dial? Remo laid an effortless flat-edge slap across the metal housing, which elicited a high-pitched squeal from a small Arab boy who had appeared on the curb next to the booth.
Too bad, thought Remo. He never could beat Woo-Woo at anything, anyway. The Arab kid was shaking his head. "No, no, no," the boy said carefully.
Remo glanced down in his direction. "Not, now, kid, unless your name is Woo-Woo Whitfield."
Actually, the boy's name was Michael Arzu Ramban Rashi, and like Woo-Woo Whitfield, he was a master at what he did.
Some Arab men tried to be great fighters. Some tried to be great talkers and followers of Allah. Others even tried to live in peace in the Israeli occupied land, but none could match Michael Arzu at doing what he did best. Ramban Rashi was the finest 10-year-old tourist cheat Israel had ever seen.
The dark boy with the face of a greasy Arab angel hung around the seafront environs waiting for marks like the untanned American in the phone booth. Michael began his career selling maps, that he had drawn himself, of an Israel that did not exist. After creating incredible traffic foul-ups with that racket, he moved on up to hawking cups of ice cream with no ice cream in them. Graduating from that fix, Michael developed a talent for monetary exchange.
Ramban Rashi had come to the rescue of many a tourist who had found that he did not have enough Israeli currency to cover a check, Michael Arzu was kind enough to exchange their foreign money for the needed cash. All at a 300 percent rate of profit.
Michael Arzu was waiting for his credit-card machine from the black market, but he already accepted American Express Traveler's Checks.
Michael Arzu Ramban Rashi was enjoying Remo's displeasure immensely. He reached into his own pockets and pulled out a handful of what looked like silver subway tokens.
"Simmonim," the boy pronounced. "Telephone tokens," he then translated for the stupid tourist.
"Not shamma?" asked Remo. Michael stepped back a bit to protect his valuable treasure. "Simmonim," he repeated, grinning.
Remo looked carefully at the tokens. They were small, with round holes in the middle. "Metal bagels for the phones," Remo grumbled, pulling a $5 bill from his pocket.
But Michael Arzu shook his head fiercely and closed his hand around the goods.
Remo smiled pleasantly and produced a $10 bill from his pants. Michael shook his head, leering at the coins in his hands like a midwestern teenager with his first pack of dirty playing cards.
Remo took out a $50 bill and waved it at the boy.
Michael Arzu moved forward and with the speed and experience of a professional, plucked the bill from Remo's hand, dropped three simmonim, then raced away, laughing.