"Okay, Siggy. That's it for the kid."
"Good," said the driver. He pulled out into the traffic and passed two police cars going in the opposite direction, their sirens ablaze.
"You know," said the driver. "I never did this stuff before. Most of us never had anything to do with anything like this before. I don't like it. I just don't like it. I just never thought this thing would go this far. First one, then another, then another, and it never ends. This isn't unionism."
"You eat good?" asked the Pig.
"Yeah. I eat. But I ate good before."
"Nobody stuck a gun in your face to make you do these things," said the Pig. "You did them. We do them. Companies do them. Loan sharks do them. Numbers bankers do them. Everybody does them."
"I never did them before, and with rare exceptions, neither do any other locals."
"So, I don't like it."
"Tough titty," said the Pig. "It's life."
Gene Jethro was waiting in the garage of his hotel when the car with his two men (and the man they were sent to get if they could) pulled in. He gave everyone a big Gene Jethro smile.
"How are you all?" asked Jethro.
"We're okay. It all worked out fine," said the Pig.
"Good. I hate violence. That's a disruption of the flow of life," said Jethro. The Pig looked puzzled. He reached to meet Jethro's hand which was coming through the car window. The hand went by him. The hand went to the back seat. Rocco 'the Pig' Pigarello's eyes followed the hand to the back seat. He fainted.
"Oh, gracious Lord," said the pale-faced driver. Sigmund Negronski, who suddenly noticed that there was someone in the back seat and that someone was the man he had been feeling guilty about killing. 'Gracious Lord," he said again.
Remo shook Jethro's hand.
"Hmmm," said Remo. "You. I thought so."
"Glad to meetcha, fella," said Jethro. His love beads dangled over his pale madras blouse.
"Can't stay," said Remo. "Gotta run."
"Hey, baby. I'm welcoming you to the family. Don't leave so soon."
"Gotta run," said Remo.
"I'm offering you a job."
"Got more important things," said Remo.
"There's nothing more important than the drivers," said Jethro. Remo slid from the car and walked out of the garage to the street with Jethro following.
"Hey, wait. Wait," called Jethro. "Where are you running to?"
"Got to get a three-stone duck," said Remo. He accosted a woman. Would she know where there was a poultry store? Supermarket? queried the woman. No, said Remo. Poultry store. The woman pointed. Two blocks, she said. She was pointing east. Remo followed the finger and the new president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers followed Remo.
"Two blocks east," said Remo. "The woman said two blocks east."
"This union has got a future. You've got a future. We're going places and you can go places with us. Now how about it?"
"There it is," said Remo, pointing to a store which had a horizontal necklace of yellowish, plucked birds strung in the window.
"The truth is that you're known as a stand-up guy, and I'm a bit suspicious of you. I want you on my team or out of the union. Now I'm being honest with you. I want you to be honest with me."
"A two-and-a-half-pound duck," Remo said to the proprietor.
"You want the giblets?"
"I don't know. I guess so."
"Look," whispered Jethro. "I'll level further. If you hadn't come with Pigarello and Negronski, you'd be a dead man now. How's that for levelling?"
Remo wiped his ear.
"That looks pretty small for two and a half pounds."
"That's two and a half pounds," said the owner wiping his hands on his entrail-splattered white smock.
"Okay. If you say so," said Remo.
"Now I tell you. You've gotten to me, dude. I'll make the offer once more for the last time. You're either my recording secretary or a corpse."
Remo looked at Jethro. He studied the face. He bit his lower lip in deep concentration and study.
"Does that look like two and a half pounds to you?" he asked.
"Jeeezuz," wailed Gene Jethro. "What is the matter with you? You have got to be the loosest dude I have ever un-shaded my orbs for."
"Does that mean you think it looks like two and a half pounds?"
Jethro sighed. "Okay. I'll look." He stood on his toes to peer over the counter at the yellowish fowl being encased in thick white paper.
"Yeah, two and a half pounds," he said. "Now. Death or the job."
"You only gave it a little peek," said Remo. "I mean one look, and you say yes. How can I trust you? What do you know about fowl? What do you know about ducks? What do you know about anything?"
"All right," said Jethro. "It's your life." He shrugged and walked to the door.
"Hey, sweetheart, the truck with the funny steel front doesn't work."
Jethro stopped as though slapped by a wet pontoon. He stared at Remo, open-mouthed.
"That funny truck with the unfunny alley. It doesn't work. I only went along with Pigarello to see who sent him. Although I really knew." Remo took the package from the owner, and felt the heft of the duck.
"Light," he said. He struck the bird under his arm and strolled out the door, past a shocked Gene Jethro.
By the time Remo was scampering through traffic, Jethro had caught up with him. The usually calm and cool face was now a red mask of rage.
"All right, you sonuvabitch. What's your price?"
"I'll think about it, okay?"
"Well. You better do some real fancy thinking if you want to see your gook nutritionist again. Yeah. I know about him. I sent some of my people over to him to explain why he should come with us. Now if you need him for a special diet, buddy, and I figure it's got to be very special and very necessary otherwise you wouldn't bring him with you, if you really need him, you better start naming some prices for your services."
"How many men did you send?"
"Three. One to carry him, one to look out, and one to drive."
"Hmmm," said Remo. He asked a passerby for a luggage store.
"Just four stores over," he was told. He went, Jethro followed.
"Yes, sir. Can I help you?" asked the clerk.
"Yeah," said Remo. He turned to Jethro. "How big were the men?"
"Why do you ask. Ah, forget it. One 5' 10", one 6' 1", and one 6' 6"."
Remo ordered three trunks, one very long.
Chiun wanted to be a writer. He pondered upon the possibility of this career during a commercial. He would tell the world of a man who wished to be alone with beauty. A man whom the moons of time had made desirous of only the gentlest beauty. A man who asked little for himself and gave much. A man who saw in a wild and boisterous land a glorious art form which thrilled the soul. This poor old wise and beloved man wanted nothing more than to be allowed the few precious moments of peace in which to spend his declining years appreciating the beautiful stories of 'Edge of Dawn."
"As the Planet Revolves," and 'Dr. Lawrence Walters, Psychiatrist."
Then upon this wonderfully sweet and most gentle man did thoughtlessly burst in three crude and cruel villains. They cared not for the beauty of drama. They cared not for the few meager pleasures of this sweet, wise, beloved old man. They cared only for their villainous, cruel and despicable schemes. They stole light from the box which gave the art. With disdain, they pressed the button which made beauty no more. With cruel heartlessness they stole the beloved wise man's only little joy.
So what could this beloved creature do, but arrange as best he could to watch the show in peace?
Ah, but the story was not finished. Would an ungrateful, lazy student understand this? Would he care that the Master of Sinanju, who had given him knowledge beyond that of any white man, lost the one true meagre pleasure of his sparse life? No. He would not. He would concern himself with who picked up this piece of something. Or who picked up that piece of something. Or who did which cleaning chore or the other. That is what the ingrate would concern himself with. That was his nature. That was his character.