For two yards.
Then his feet were pointed straight up, his body was upside down, and his head hung a foot over the sidewalk.
His laugh turned into a frightened scream, then a string of choice expletives from many lands, as Remo, holding onto both his ankles, shook him out. The multilingual obscenities continued as pounds, francs, dollars, yen, agarots, IOUs, coins of all shapes and sizes, can openers, a few watches, fans, and monopoly money began to come down off Ramban Rashi's body.
Before Michael could start productively screaming for the police, he was on his feet again. Remo had already collected what simmonim there were, while several passing children were making short work of the rest of the spoils.
"That's a good old American shakedown," Remo announced. "When I was your age, I was rolling drunks." He saluted and turned toward the phone. Michael pushed through the children and aimed a vicious kick at the back of Remo's parting knee.
Suddenly Michael found himself gently floating over the other children in the opposite direction. All without the aid of his own legs, which were pointed out behind him. He fully enjoyed the euphoria of flight and watched the passing environment, which included several posts, a fence, and a jeep being driven in the opposite direction by a beautiful brunette. Then Michael met a curly thorn bush and came back to his senses. It was not the beginning of a beautiful friendship. It would be some time before Michael Arzu Ram-ban Rashi went out of his way to help a tourist again.
Remo began to feed the silver tokens into the phone until they completely filled the slanted glass tube. He dialed "O." A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Then some more. Several more seconds passed after that. Following this, a few more passed, followed by a few more.
Finally a voice came on the line and asked if she could be of assistance. In Hebrew.
Remo said, "What?"
The operator replied in kind. "Ma?"
Which was when Zhava Fifer pulled up to the curb in a jeep. "I have been looking for you," she said. "I saw a small Arab body fly by. Was he a suspect of yours?"
"Never mind," replied Remo. "Do you speak the language here?"
"Yes," said Zhava.
"Good," said Remo, handing her the phone. "The operator thinks I'm her mother."
On Remo's instructions, Fifer asked for the overseas operator, then handed the phone back to Remo, explaining that "ma" means "what."
"Thanks," said Remo, looking her over while he was being connected. She was wearing another khaki shirt and mini skirt, but both seemed tighter and shorter than before, if that was possible. Her deeply tanned arms and legs were exposed, plus an ample portion of cleavage. Remo was glad he was not enough like Chiun to think of her as just a female. Damn it, she was a woman. Her hair was down across her shoulders and shone as if just washed. Her lips were a deep rose without lipstick, and she looked remarkably fresh, considering the heat.
Remo decided to take her on a little trip to Shamma, once he found out where the hell that was.
"Overseas operator, may I help you?" said a voice in Remo's ear. Remo replied yes, then gave her Smith's number for that week. The operator promised to connect him, so while he waited, he looked at Zhava as she leaned against the booth. Her left breast was pressed up against the glass so that the tan of her shirt and brown of her skin and the green of her eyes made a fascinating landscape panorama.
"Zhava," said Remo, "where's Shamma?"
Zhava looked quizzically at Remo for a moment, then replied, "There."
"Where?" asked Remo.
"There," repeated Zhava.
"You're not pointing anywhere," said Remo, "Where's there?"
"Shamma," answered Zhava.
"Yes," said Remo, "I'd like to take you there."
"Hello?" came a distant voice. Even though it was very low volume, it still cast a pallor halfway across the world. Remo did not mind, the interruption took his mind off the incredible confusion he had just created.
"Hello, Dr. Smith, head of the super-secret organization, CURE."
The silence was deep and unfathomable. When the reply finally came, two simmonim had been consumed by the phone.
"I do not believe you," came the voice of Smith, registering somewhere in the vicinity of shock, anger, exasperation, exhaustion, and citrus fruit.
"Don't worry, Smitty, even if someone is listening in, which I doubt since this is a public phone, who'd believe it?"
"Anybody who watches television," was the reply. "What do you have for me?"
"An ulcer, an invitation to shamma, which is there, and the names of three freaks who tried to kill us as soon as we arrived."
"Oh, my," Smith sighed wearily. "Who were they?"
"Just a minute," said Remo as three more telephone tokens disappeared into the machine.
"What were those names?" he asked Zhava. "You know, the LPO."
"PLO," she corrected. As she spoke each name, Remo repeated it into the phone.
"Who is that?" asked Smith. "It doesn't sound like Chiun."
"That's because it wasn't. That was an Isareli agent who knew just where to find me when I landed here and just what my name was and just where I came from. She wants to know my mission here. Can I tell her?"
Smith replied as if he were speaking with his head on the desk. "Remo. Try to control yourself. Please?"
"No sweat. I only tell my very best friends. Have you got anything for me?"
Smith breathed deeply a few times before replying. "Yes. The special devices we discussed, you will find them beneath a sulphur extraction plant near Sodom in the Negev desert. It might be worth taking a look. I'll check out your three friends."
Smith broke the connection with audible relief as the last simmonim disappeared. Remo smiled at Zhava and stepped out of the booth.
"That," she said hesitantly, "what you said on the phone. Was that true?"
"Sure," replied Remo. "I'm a secret agent and Chiun is the world's greatest assassin and taught me everything I know, and together we could make a nuclear bomb look like a sparkler."
"You Americans," Zhava laughed, "always with the stories."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Their jeep was racing across the dunes of the Negev desert due southeast toward the Dead Sea. Zhava bounced about, too busy trying to keep from falling out to notice that both Remo and Chiun remained level in their positions, seemingly oblivious to the jolting.
"It was awful," said Chiun from the back of Zhava Fifer's gray army jeep. "There was this wild man shouting English nonsense, and then they sang a song. Barbarism."
"That sounds like the afternoon English lesson telecast from Tel Aviv University," Zhava said. "I got my ooooh…" there was a few seconds pause while she regained her seat, "… start on your language from that show."
"My language?" said Chiun, "There is no need to be insulting."
"Come to the point, Little Father," said Remo from the driver's seat. "What was so bad about the show?"
"Ignorance is no excuse for enjoyment," reported Chiun, "You must be aware of all the facts before I tell you the ultimate barbarism."
Remo and Zhava had picked up Chiun outside the Sheraton, where he stood under a frail bamboo and paper umbrella in the middle of the rush-hour traffic. Since then, he had been haranguing the two about the poor quality of Israeli television.
"There is no daytime drama. There is no poetry. There is no beauty. There are only funny-looking men singing about… oh, it is too barbarous for me to think about."
Zhava perked up. "I know! I know! I remember the song now. It was about the perfect hamburger!"
She giggled girlishly, Remo laughed, and Chiun's face froze in an expression of disgust.
"Poor young thing," he said. "And I had thought there was hope for you. There is no such thing as the perfect hamburger."
"Uh-oh," said Remo.
"That's true," said Zhava. "But I have tasted a few very good ones in my time."