“I flip when a fellow sends me flowers…”
Remo sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Apparently, Mei was not just tightly packaged and easily triggered — she also repressed a desire for a career as a lounge singer. Now freed of any and all repressions, she had no compunctions about letting loose in the shower with show tunes. “I drool over dresses made of lace…”
“Hey, honey, isn’t your guy going to be looking for you soon?” Remo asked, hoping she would realize how much time had gone by since she left the refrigerator repair business for a long lunch that was now encroaching on the dinner hour.
“You’re my only guy, Remo,” Mei called sweetly from under the running water. “I talk on the telephone for hours, with a pound and a half of cream upon my face!”
So much for fluidity, Remo thought. Mei was enjoying being a girl for now. A few steps of the art had brought some much-needed clarity to her life, he rationalized. Still, there had to be a better outlet.
“Next time I’m just going to have to kill somebody,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that, Remo sweetie?”
“The time,” he said, more loudly. “I’m going to have to tell somebody where I am.” He moved toward the door and into the hallway faster than she could respond. Standing by his door was Chiun, his arms folded. To anyone else, it might have appeared the old, withered Korean might have fallen asleep standing up. Remo felt the blood rise to his cheeks. “Chiun, how long have you been standing there?”
“Since long before the Hammers and Rogerstein revival began,” he replied sadly. “I would have knocked, but you know I am loath to interrupt you when you are training.”
“I wasn’t…I mean, technically I was, but…”
Chiun raised his hand, stopping him. “You were training,” he said flatly, and turned to walk away.
“Chiun, I…”
“Training!” he insisted, his back to Remo, a bony finger stabbed skyward. “But, perhaps, work more on keeping your elbow straight. This is of much more importance for a Sinanju master.”
Remo sighed. Talking to Chiun was not going to be as easy as he had hoped, and he certainly was not helping himself any.
“Definitely killing someone next time,” he said.
· · ·
The lobby was a bustle of activity. Every table was full, and the guests were chatting and helping themselves to the complimentary beer and wine.
“What happened to Refrigerator Guy?” Remo asked the young black lady behind the front desk. “Gaylord something-or-other?”
The young black girl at the counter shrugged. “Beats me,” she said. “He said something about making a call and coming back later, but I got so busy checking in these buses that I lost track of him.”
“Buses?” Remo asked.
She nodded toward the crowd mingling in the common area. “All these folks,” she said. “They didn’t even call in advance.”
Remo surveyed the crowd. They were a mixed lot, but they all came together. He could see the cliques forming: the normal people, the apathetic and antisocial people, the tight-knit knots of people whispering about marches, signs, punching Nazis…
“Hey.” He glanced at the desk clerk’s name badge. “Marquisha. Do you have any reservations for another load about this size, in about two or three days?”
Marquisha tapped the keyboard. “Nope. We don’t have any group reservations until later next month.”
“You may want to buckle up,” Remo said. His eye caught a figure in the back of the room, going from table to table, checking on each little group and couple. “Call it a hunch, but I think you’ll probably be full to capacity very soon.”
Reaching into the pocket of his black chinos, Remo pulled out the star-spangled bandana and knotted it about his forehead, as he walked toward the man who looked identical to Bob Janos — identical to anyone but a Master of Sinanju.
Two twins leading two sets of protesters fit with Smitty’s theory of someone playing both sides of the riots. Now that Remo had this bit of information, he felt one step closer to endgame.
“Mr. Janos,” Remo said, approaching the man, hand extended.
Tom Janos smiled. “I told you,” he said. “Call me Tom.” Then he looked more suspiciously at Remo. “We…did meet, didn’t we?”
“Remo!” Mei Hernandez literally skipped over to him and wrapped her arms around his bicep. “You left me! Oh! They’re here already! I mean…” She dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned in toward Tom Janos. “You guys are here for the march, right?”
Tom smiled and winked. “You must be Mx. Hernandez,” he said, blending the words ‘Mister’ and ‘Miss’ with a sort of buzzing Russian accent.
“Just ‘Miss’ right now,” Mei giggled. “Oh Remo, it’s going to be so exciting! I’m going to actually fight Nazis and white supremacists!”
“Shh.” Tom Janos put a finger to his lips.
“Oh. Right,” she said, and quieted. “I signed up to join their march online,” she told Remo. “I was going to fly to Houston to join them, but then I found out they were going to be coming here, so…” She let go of Remo and gave a spin and flourish. “Here I am! Oh, Remo, you will join us, won’t you? Please say you will!”
Remo looked from Mei to Tom, and shrugged. “Hey, I’m down with punching Nazis if you’ll have me,” he said. “It’s not like I have anything better to do anyway.”
Tom Janos looked Remo over appraisingly. “What’s your opinion on hate speech?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Hate crimes?”
“I definitely hate crime.”
“Hate groups?”
Remo smirked. “I hate groups worst of all,” he said.
Tom Janos tapped his pencil on the clipboard he carried. “I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t really have any more slots in our group.”
“Are we joining this group?” The singsong voice of Chiun made Mei jump, so silently had he slipped up behind them. He wore a black kimono, threaded with metallic red silk that made the lower portion seem to shimmer with crimson flames.
“They won’t let us in, Little Father,” Remo said.
“This is your father?” Tom asked, suddenly interested.
“On my father’s side,” Remo said.
Tom’s attitude underwent a metamorphosis from concern to great appreciation. So many demographics in one little old man. He would be great optics, Tom thought, if he got in front of a camera.
“Oh, what the heck,” he said, enthusiastically. “The more the merrier, right? Can’t have too many hands in the fight against fascism, after all.” He pointed up to the bandana around Remo’s forehead. “You mind wearing that differently?”
Remo cocked his head. “What, like, tied around my leg or something?”
Tom Janos chuckled. “No, like this.” He reached up and tugged the bandana down Remo’s face, unfurling it as he did until it hung down, covering Remo’s nose and mouth like an old-time bank robber. “Perfect,” Tom said. “Just for the march, mind you. And as for you, Mister…Chiun, was it? You’d look very respectful in a Guy Fawkes mask.”
“And why should I wish to look like a white?” Chiun asked, his eyes glinting dangerously.
“Good point, good point,” Tom said, backing off. Hates whites, he noted mentally. Definitely get him in front of a camera. “Maybe some traditional Asian attire?”
Chiun sniffed and looked down at his kimono, then back up at Tom.
“Right, right,” Tom said. “Looks like you’ve got it all covered, Mister Chiun.” He took out his pencil and clipboard. “So that’s Mister Chiun and…?” He looked up at Remo.
“Remo,” he said. “Remo Grant.”
“Great,” Tom said, jotting the names down. “So, the counter-protest is three days out. Remember to keep this quiet, and try not to get arrested or anything until then, okay?”
Remo was about to ask where the march would be held, but Tom Janos was already moving on to the next group, carefully shepherding each of them, keeping tabs and making sure they were happy and content. “Three days until we counter-protest what?” he muttered to himself.
“The memorial, silly,” Mei giggled.
He looked down at the young girl with the mop of blue hair. “Of course,” he said. He took her wrist and softly stroked along her ulna. “But remind me.”
Mei shivered. “The white supremacists,” she cooed. “The ones who killed Marissa Meyer. They’re coming here to protest the removal of the Confederate Memorial.”
Remo stopped. “The one in Arlington Cemetery?” he asked.
She looked up at him, doe-eyed. “Of course,” she said.
“Who wants it removed?”
“We do, naturally,” she said.
“Very wise,” Chiun said.
“Chiun,” Remo said.
“What?” Chiun responded. “It is an ugly piece of stone, crudely carved with idols of Greek cults.”
“He gets it,” Mei smiled. “And we want it gone.”
Chiun nodded. “Then I must finish preparing for this parade,” he said, walking away from them. “The Master must look magnificent when appearing in public, even if only before a crowd of whites.”
Remo groaned, then looked at Mei. “Hey, if we want it gone, doesn’t that mean the other guys are really the counter-protesters?”
“Of course not, silly,” she leaned into him, pressing her body against his. “We’re doing the right thing, and they’re protesting us doing it. But we’re on the right side of history. Good guys always win, don’t they?”
“Usually,” Remo said. “Sweetie, why don’t you go get yourself a drink? I need to make a phone call and let my mother know where I’m staying.”
· · ·
“Twins,” Remo said. “Bob and Tom Janos.”
“Assuming that is their real names,” Smith replied tersely into the phone. In his Rye offices, he was already initiating a search on Tom Janos, bitterly concerned that his earlier searches on Bob Janos did not disclose this important bit of information.
The pulsing icon in the corner of the screen began to flicker and turn crimson. Smith winced. The reminder that the CURE computer was directing attention to a connection made between Hal Bluntman and Cheryl Sparks was not an annoyance he wanted at this moment. But the color change meant something had changed, and the situation was now a critical priority.
He clicked the icon, and the computer displayed the earlier information, noting Bluntman and Sparks’ recent flights. Added to this were two other flight manifests. One flight carried Bob Janos; the other carried Tom.
Smith pursed his lips so tightly they disappeared into a thin line. As he tapped and clicked on new leads the CURE computer digitally unearthed, more and more flight manifests began appearing, showing the unobtrusive arrival of many well-known political and media figures, including former-sportscaster-turned-political-blogger Kirk Ehrlichman, and feminist march organizer Contessa Shilling.
Smith performed deeper searches, looking for speaking venues, organizing events, anything that might be justifiable reason for these disconnected people to suddenly appear in the same area at the same time.
He saw nothing.
“You still there, Smitty?”
“Yes, Remo,” Smith said acidly. “I am always here. If these patterns are correct, I may be close to locating the source of the recent social unrest.”
“I hope that means you’re finding the bad guy,” Remo said. He absently began rotating his free wrist, like a runner stretching before a sprint.
“That is precisely what I mean,” Smith replied. “Remo, I want you to stay close to this Tom Janos person. He may let something slip that could be useful.”
“No problem there,” Remo said. “The guy likes to stay close to everyone who volunteers for him. But I do have one question.”
“What is that, Remo?”
“Who do I stick close to when his twin brother shows up?”