A caravan of Greyhound buses filled the parking lot of the Settle Inn, creating an uninviting scene for any families who might otherwise have found the hotel a decent place to stop for the night. If the buses did not discourage visitors, the congregation amassing outside the automatic door certainly would have. Bob Janos was all that stood between the throng of people ready to save history — for a stipend — and the buses that would carry them to glory.
“We’re on the right side of history here, folks,” he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear him. “These hippies and ultra-liberals and dad-gum social justice warriors, they want to erase our history. They want to do away with anything that hurts their little fee-fees. And are we gonna let ’em?”
Parts of the crowd hollered back “Hell no!” with great exuberance. Others gave a half-hearted response, and shuffled anxiously, ready to sit down for long drive ahead.
Remo stood at the far edge of the lot with Chiun, observing with bemusement. “I wonder how many people would show up to save a statue if they weren’t being paid to go?” he asked nobody.
Chiun shrugged. “If they were of Sinanju, and the statues were those in the Monument to the Masters, they should all rise up and meet death gladly in the name of preserving the tribute. But as these are mostly whites and mostly Americans, I would hazard that none of them would get off their couches to save their own grandmothers, save that someone offered them money for the appearance of an effort.”
“Speaking of which, when do I pose for my Sinanju statue?” Remo asked. “I want to make sure they get my good side.”
“I have been assured that sculpting has already begun,” Chiun replied flatly. “I have provided them with photography myself.”
“Really?” Remo asked. “When did you sneak a photo of me?”
Chiun smiled thinly. “You were doing a most splendid task,” he said. “It was after your training with the Rain of Rice.”
“That was a long time ago, Little Father,” Remo said, recalling the training maneuver. He had already become proficient at avoiding bullets, but Chiun had insisted this was a basic skill, and said that when Remo truly achieved mastery, he would be able to advance on an army and not be hit. Then he flung a fistful of rice at him, many of which penetrated his upper arm and deltoid. The rest of the afternoon was spent with Chiun plucking them out, one by painful one, while telling him how worthless a student he was.
“Was it the first time or the last time?”
“The last time, of course,” Chiun said. “The first time, I was convinced you were going to get yourself killed before the week was out. The last time, you avoided every grain. I was very proud. And so, as you were bent over, and picked up the rice from the floor, I commemorated the moment with a photograph.”
“While I was bent over?”
“I wanted to be sure to capture your better side.”
“So they’re going to sculpt me that way.”
“Even so,” Chiun nodded. “It was a great moment in your training, fitting for memorialization.”
Remo nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “That’ll make it easier for generations of Sinanju to come up and kiss my —”
“As I live and breathe, you just keep slipping away from me, Remo Lee!” Ewe had spotted Remo from the crowd that Bob Janos continued to try to work up, and had sprinted over to him, throwing herself against his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Oh,” Remo said, nonplussed. “Ewe. It’s you.”
“You broke her, you bought her,” Chiun chided.
“We’re sitting together on the bus, aren’t we?” Ewe chattered, with the buoyant energy of a schoolgirl’s crush. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation of hours and hours of cramped bliss to be shared.
Chiun turned abruptly to Remo. “What does she speak of, ‘bus?’ Surely, you do not expect me to ride in one of those metal cattle carriers, do you?”
“Oh, we’re going to have such fun,” Ewe said, giggling and snuggling up to Remo. “Especially at night when it’s dark,” she whispered, her grin promising mischief of a carnal variety.
“Loads of fun,” Remo said, less enthusiastically. “But you know where we can have the most fun?”
Ewe looked up at him vacantly, expecting this dangerous man to tell her what to do. “Where?” she asked, vibrating with excitement.
Remo leaned in close and whispered. “Back of the bus,” he said. “No one can sit behind you and eavesdrop, right?”
“Right,” she said, her face beaming with agreement. “All the way in the back.”
“Back of the rear bus,” Remo amended. “The most private, private place to play around.”
Ewe was hopping with glee. “Oh yes, Remo! Yes!”
“I have to take care of the old guy here,” Remo said. He winked at the girl. “Can you save our seats?”
She threw herself at him and landed a passionate kiss on his mouth before pulling away. “I’ll see you there soon!” she said, then ran full tilt toward the string of buses, pushing people out of her way as she forced herself onto the last bus. Remo almost felt sorry for anyone who might already have claimed the rear bench, although he could not imagine anyone clamoring for it, as it was located next to the door to the chemical toilet.
Chiun gave Remo a disappointed look. “And how are you to take care of ‘the old guy,’ may I ask?”
Remo grinned. “By getting him one of a pair of first-class plane tickets, courtesy of Smitty,” he said, pulling out his phone.
Less than five minutes later, Remo tucked the phone back into his pocket, looking less than satisfied.
“What is it?” Chiun asked. “Did you fail at the negotiations? I knew I should have stepped in when you went silent.”
“No, it’s fine, Little Father,” Remo said. “We have the tickets. I just have to go talk to Bob one more time.”
“To let him know you will not be riding the bus?” Chiun asked. “This would be the courteous thing to do, especially for one who so rightly honored the Master of Sinanju with such fine vestments.”
“I don’t give a rat’s patootie if he knows we’re on the bus or not,” Remo grunted, as he started back toward the lines of people making their way onto the buses. “I’ll be right back.”
As he walked, Remo pulled a neatly folded triangle of cloth from his back pocket, unfurling it into the red-white-and-blue bandana given him earlier, which he knotted around his forehead.
He found Bob Janos standing at the door of the lead bus, checking names off a clipboard. “Mr. Lee,” he said cheerily, looking up. “I had you on the second bus, but Miss Johnson informed me you had other arrangements.” He gave Remo a knowing smirk and a wink.
“About that,” Remo said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to make other other arrangements. It’s my father. He has a medical appointment we completely forgot.”
“Oh?” Bob looked concerned. “I hope he’s all right. He was looking so forward to the march.”
“Believe me, it’s all he talks about,” Remo replied. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re just going to have to meet up with you there.”
“At the march?” Bob asked. “Well, that’s a bit of a problem. See, we have what you might call ‘a man on the inside’ with the protesters who want to tear down our history.” He lowered his voice. “We know where to head them off, but if we let out early that we know, they’re apt to change their mind and head off in a new direction. You get what I’m saying?”
“Sure, sure,” Remo said reassuringly. “You can’t trust us not to spill the beans.”
“Not on purpose, of course,” Bob added quickly.
“Loose lips sink ships,” Remo said.
“Exactly,” Bob said. “Tell you what I can, do, though.” He wrote on the corner of the page, then ripped it off and handed it to Remo. “Here’s the hotel where we’ll be regrouping. Think you can meet us there? We’ll arrive in four days.”
Remo looked at the address and smiled. “We’ll be there,” he replied.