"Some know Ninji," said Chiun, referring to the Japanese art that teaches people to move at night and penetrate castles.
"But the teaching of Ninji is only part of Sinanju." Chiun was silent. "I myself must look."
"That's all we need from the building for now. I'll work it from the other end, from Jethro," said Remo. "And, little father…"
"Yes?" said the Master of Sinanju preparing to darken his face and don the robes of the dark so that he could become part of the night.
"Bring home victory in your teeth," said Remo.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The hardware stores were closed. Remo had to open one. He went through the front door of a little shop around the corner from his hotel, because it had a special kind of burglar alarm that held a special kind of guarantee for Remo. If the door were snapped open very quickly and then closed again just as quickly, the alarm turned itself off and one could walk right in.
Remo selected a Stanley crowbar about three feet long, $4.98. He forgot whether there was a sales tax in Chicago or how much that tax would be, so he left $5, assuming that he had saved the owner a salesman's fee. He wrapped the crowbar in brown paper, careful not to touch it with his bare hands. Then he slipped from the shop, resetting the alarm, and went to Abe Bludner's room.
Bludner had a suite in the same hotel as Remo and Chiun.
Remo knocked on Bludner's door.
"Who is it?" came Stanziani's voice.
"Remo."
"What do you want?"
"I want to see Bludner."
"He's not in."
"Open the door.'"
"I said he's not in."
"Either you'll open the door, or I'll open the door, but the door is going to open."
"You want a table in your face?"
"If you have to open the door to throw it, yes."
The door opened and a heavy, lacquered coffee table came flying through it. Remo caught the table's center with his free left hand. A little chop down its center. Split.
Stanziani stood in the doorway in gray slacks and sports shirt. He looked at the left side of the table against the far wall, and the right side near the door. Then he looked at Remo and smiled weakly. A dark stain began to spread in the crotch of his grey slacks.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," said Remo.
"Wanna come in?" asked Tony.
"Yeah," said Remo. "I thought you'd never ask."
A voice bellowed from another room.
"Did you let in the kid? I told you I didn't want to let in the kid." It was Bludner.
Remo followed the voice to the bedroom. Bludner was part of a three-handed card game. The door to another living room was open. Three middle-aged, matronly women, obviously the wives, were playing cards.
"You must be Remo," called out one of them. "I'm Mrs. Bludner. Did you eat? Why didn't Abe tell me you were so cute. Hey, Abe, he's cute. He's the first cute official you've ever had. The rest look like gangsters. Answer me, Abe."
Bludner shot Remo a baleful look.
"What is it, Dawn?"
"Why didn't you tell me he was so cute? I don't think he's faggy at all. Some weight you could use, however. Did you eat?"
"I ate. Thank you, ma'am. Abe, why didn't you tell me your wife was so attractive."
Giggles from the living room.
"What do you want, kid?"
"I want to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk to you." said Bludner.
"What's wrong?"
"What's this, you come in the driver's union because I say so and then you're national recording secretary without I even know? What's this?"
"Abe, you know I'm loyal to the local," said Remo, the politician.
"Loyal to the local, you don't even know the local."
"Abe, you should be happy. Now the local's got a national officer."
"I should have been asked. Jethro should have cleared it with me. How does that make me look to my own men, Jethro appointing someone from my local without it being cleared by me."
"Jethro is a sonuvabitch and I don't trust him," said Remo, the politician. "But you can trust me. I'm your man in there," said Remo the politician.
"Trust you, kid? I don't even know you."
"Are your feelings hurt?" asked Remo.
"Hurt? How the hell could two young punks like you and Jethro hurt me? I've spit better men than you two out of my mouth. Hey, Tony. Am I hurt?"
"No, boss," answered Stanziani. He was in the other room, changing.
"Hey, Paul. Am I hurt?"
"No boss," came a voice from a far off bathroom.
"He's hurt," came a woman's voice from the living room. Abe Bludner left the cards and shut the door to the living room.
"You really know how to hurt, kid," said Abe 'Crowbar' Bludner.
"I'm sorry," said Remo.
"That for me?" asked Bludner.
"This. No. It's for me. It's a crowbar. I'm going to hang it in my office to remind me forever that I owe my career to Abe "Crowbar" Bludner."
"I don't know whether that's such a good idea," said Bludner. He reached for the crowbar, and Remo slipped off the paper. Bludner grabbed it and took a few practice swings, like a batter warming up. Then he brought the crowbar a hair from Remo's head with a great swishing of air.
"Scare you, kid?" asked Bludner.
"No," said Remo. "I knew you wouldn't hit me, Abe. We're from the same local."
"Don't you ever forget it, kid. You hear?"
Bludner returned the crowbar and Remo carefully wrapped it without getting his own fingerprints on it. They shook hands and Remo departed. No, Remo did not care to make a pinochle foursome.
He hid the crowbar under the mattress of his hotel bed, careful not to smudge the prints any more than he had to. The crowbar would be for the extreme plan, if all else didn't work.
Jethro now had a whole floor in the posh Delstoyne Hotel across town. The elevators did not stop there unless permission was granted by telephone from the top floor where Jethro was staying. The stairwells were locked. When the recording secretary, Remo Jones, asked permission to see Jethro, this was surprisingly denied because Jethro wasn't in.
"Where is he?" asked Remo.
"He's out."
"That tells me where he isn't, not where he is. Where is he?"
"I can't say any more. Do you want to leave a message? Where you can be reached?"
"No. I'm coming up."
"You can't do that, sir. The elevator won't stop and the stairwells are locked."
"See you in a minute."
Actually it was closer to five minutes. Remo took his time walking up the steps. The stairwell lock to the eighteenth floor was reinforced by a freshly installed, super-strength padlock.
Remo took the bolts out of the hinges and opened the door from the other side. He handed the startled guard the bolts.
"I'll only be a few minutes," he said.
"You can't do that. That's breaking and entering."
"They wouldn't have a name for it if it couldn't be done," said Remo. The guard tried to grab Remo's shoulder, but the shoulder wasn't there. He tried to grab the shirt collar but that was suddenly just out of reach. He tried to crack the head with a rosewood billy club. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his chest, a heavy sinking to the floor, and then he felt nothing.
Remo surveyed the hallway. Jethro was probably in the end room. The reasoning behind this deduction impressed Remo himself. Jethro was the most important man in the driver's union. He would, therefore, have the biggest suite. The biggest suites would have windows looking out on two streets instead of one. Therefore, the Jethro suite would be at the end of the corridor. Remo cracked open the locked door at the end of the corridor.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, staring at a middle-aged man with tousled jet-black hair on his head and graying hair on his crotch. The middle-aged man was on his back and mounted by a svelte young redhead.
"Hi. What can we do for you?" she asked.