Neither the woman nor the chief noticed Remo as he entered the room and approached the bed. She was grunting and moaning with effort, while Dinnard was grunting and moaning with pleasure.
"Excuse me, miss," Remo said, looking over the woman's bare shoulder.
"Huh?" she said, staring at him in surprise. He placed his hand on her smooth back and exerted pressure on her fifth vertebra. A blank look came over her face as she experienced more pleasure than she had ever before felt in her life. Slowly the corners of her generous mouth curved up, and then she keeled over on the bed, oblivious to what was going on around her. She would remain that way for some time.
Dinnard, who moments before had been languishing in sensations of his own, slowly became aware that the blonde had stopped working on him.
"Hey, Sally," he said, his eyes slowly beginning to focus again. "What's the matter?"
"Sally's taken the rest of the afternoon off, Dinnard," Remo said. "I'm her replacement."
"What? Who the hell are you? How'd you get in here?"
"Which question do you want answered first?"
"Who the hell are you?" Dinnard snapped, trying to push himself up into a seated position. Remo placed one hand on his chest and exerted just enough pressure to keep him on his back.
"I'm the garbage collector," he said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dinnard demanded, his face turning red from the effort he was expending in trying to sit up. "Do you know who I am?"
"I know, Chief," Remo said. "You're a fat piece of slime who's had this little town under his thumb long enough. I'm here to take out the garbage for good."
"What garbage?"
"You."
"You're crazy. Leo!"
"Is that the man who answers your door?"
"Leo!"
"He can't answer you. He's taking a nap."
"I've got guards at the gate."
"They're taking a permanent nap."
"I've got dogs. Did you kill them?"
"Of course not," Remo said, looking hurt. "Do I look like the kind of man who would hurt a dumb animal?"
"What do you want? You want money? I can give you a lot of money."
"You know, there was a time in my life when I might have said yes to an offer like that."
"For a split second, Remo thought back to that time, the time before Smith and CURE and Chiun, but then he shook his head and decided that he was better off now.
"I've got an awful lot of money," Dinnard said.
"I'm afraid I don't like the way you made your money, Chief."
"Look, I'll do anything you want, anything…"
"Be quiet, then. Take the end like a man."
"The end?" Dinnard screeched like a woman. "What do you mean the end?"
"I mean that your time has come, Duncan Dinnard. This is your death!" Remo said in his best game-show voice. At least, he hoped it was his best. He hadn't seen a game show in a long time.
"Glug—" Dinnard started to say, but he couldn't speak after that because Remo's hand had tightened on his chest, just over the heart, and suddenly the chief's heart was beating very rapidly, picking up speed until the fragile organ couldn't take it anymore and just exploded.
Remo found Chiun seated on the dock next to Dinnard's yacht, staring out at the water. "Composing some more Dung— oops— Ung poetry?" he asked.
"Do not be insolent with me."
"I'm sorry, Little Father."
"It took you all this time to accomplish our purpose here?"
"Well, I had to give some lessons in leverage, and—"
"I do not wish to hear your excuses. On top of everything else, your technique was faulty."
"You were down here and I was up there," Remo said, then asked, knowing that he was going to be sorry; "How do you know my technique was faulty?"
"I know," Chiun said cryptically. He looked at his student and sniffed once. "Also, you have the scent of a woman on you, and a white woman, at that. No doubt you were indulging in pleasures of the flesh while you were supposed to be working."
"Who, me? How can you say such a thing?"
"Because you are an ungrateful lout who has allowed the Master of Sinanju to sit out here alone, waiting, while you rutted about…."
"I did not! As a matter of fact—"
He was drowned out by the din of an explosion coming from Dinnard's house.
"You took care of the yacht?" Remo asked Chiun.
"Yes, you took care of the house, I see."
"Gas line."
Chiun stood up and said, "We can go, then? Have you finished wasting my vaulable time?"
"Smith won't think it was a waste," Remo said.
"Perhaps. But I am concerned with technique, with execution, with the poetry of the movement. Your Philistine Emperor Smith is concerned only with results," he sniffed.
"I'm satisfied with the results," Dr. Harold W. Smith said, leaning back in his chair behind his desk at Folcroft Sanitarium.
"See?" Chiun said to Remo.
"Excuse me?" Smith asked. "Did I miss something?"
"He knew you were going to say that," Remo said.
"Say what?"
"That you were satisfied."
"Why shouldn't I be?" Smith asked, looking at Chiun, but it was Remo who answered.
"My technique was faulty."
"Oh," Smith said. "Er— you'd better work on that, Remo." Chiun tittered. "At any rate," Smith continued, "the assignment was relatively minor. I've got something else for you."
"Something that does not require good technique," Chiun said.
Smith ignored him. "A fifteen-year-old boy was murdered in Detroit three days ago. A William— Billy— Martin. He was stabbed to death by at least three people with knives."
Remo shook his head. "That's too bad. But it's a case for the police, not us."
"A child has been killed," Chiun said indignantly, as if that explained it all, Remo was afraid that Chiun was going to go off on one of his diatribes concerning the holiness of children, but Smith cut him off.
"Let me explain. This is just the most recent in a rash of juvenile murders around the country."
"What's the spread?"
"It's happened more often in Detroit, but we've also had reports from New York, Los Angeles, and New Orleans."
"What was this last kid's claim to fame?"
"He murdered his parents, most likely, although he was killed before his trial."
"Sweet kid."
"He beat them to death with a baseball bat or something while they were asleep."
"What was he doing on the street?"
"He was out on bail."
"What the hell kind of laws do they have in Detroit?" Remo asked.
"Everybody was surprised," Smith said, "especially considering the judge who was on the bench for the arraignment. No explanation. The kid was just out on bail."
"How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long was he out on bail before he was killed?"
"Less than an hour."
"So somebody set him up. They went his bail to get him out so they could kill him."
There was silence for a moment, then Remo asked, "What about the others? Were they killers too, or just hubcap snatchers?"
"Some of them had records, but none had been arrested for murder."
"So what do you want us to do? Find out who killed the killer? I mean, if the kid killed his own parents, who cares who killed him, anyway?"
"He was a child," Chiun said, and Remo knew it was just a matter of time now.
"Whatever," Smith said in exasperation. "Go to Detroit, since that's where the most recent incident was."
"Incident?" Chiun shrieked, and Remo knew that zero hour was finally upon them. "You call the murder of a child an incident?"
Smith looked at Remo, who shrugged and prepared for the verbal onslaught that was about to take place.
"Children are promises of greatness…"