No Contest

“I’m big enough,” the Waif challenged with a ring of invitation. She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear and cocked her hip. “We didn’t cheat, pretty boy. Anga won fair and square.”

“That’s right,” the others answered in chorus. They had taken up battle ranks behind their leader. “We don’t like people who accuse us of cheating,” a willowy blonde added.

“You know what we do to people who tick us off?” added an Egyptian girl with stick arms.

“Hey, I guess I was wrong,” Remo said, convinced of their sincerity. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You’re not getting off that easy.” A wispy black girl slipped behind them and guarded the door.

“Remo, stop playing,” Chiun complained.

“This is your assignment, not mine. You handle it.”

“Grandpa can go,” the leader announced. “Our beef is with you, pretty boy!” She yanked off her halter top with a flourish. The other Waifs followed suit.

Chiun colored crimson and stomped his foot as he barked, “Remo, come!” He turned in a whirl of skirts and swept aside the now topless door guard. She spun into the others and bowled them over.

Remo paused outside the door long enough to grab a photographer from Extreme Women of Skating magazine. “You want to triple your circulation next month?” he asked, and pushed the photographer in the direction of the open door. He whooped at the vision of the famous Waifs in a topless tangle.

“That’s a cover shot!” the photographer exclaimed. The bursts of his flash punctuated the threats of the Waifs. “That’s a centerfold!”

Chiun was boiling. “Such women are hideous, Remo. Tell me you would never stoop to rutting such a creature.”

“I thought the dark-haired one was kind of cute, in a praying-mantis kind of way,” Remo observed.

“But coarse, and not at all feminine.”

“On the other hand, they’re nothing like the big-boobed bimbos that you’re always complaining about, Chiun.”

“They have their own faults.”

“You haven’t approved of any woman I ever showed an interest in. So I guess I should let you pick my women. Which means I would end up with some mud-wallowing Korean teenager with good teeth and hips as big as a tool shed.”

The photographer sprinted past them and waved his camera. “I owe you big-time, buddy!” he shouted, and slammed the exit door as the Waifs, in hastily donned jerseys, scampered after him and screeched for his blood.

“They do look like they were made out of wire and kindling,” Remo admitted. “I promise, no waifs.”

Chiun shook his head sadly. “That still leaves much room for error.”

“You want me to say ‘no wives,’ right?”

“Of course you should take a wife—one that is appropriate. The sooner you do so, the sooner you will sire a suitable trainee, and then I may finally retire.”

“You want to retire like I want to sire a litter with the dog-faced women you call ‘appropriate.’”

“Bigotry is ugly, Remo,” Chiun sniffed.

“I’m not a bigot. I like lots of Korean women. But the Sinanju purebreds you want me to shack up with? Pee-yew.”

Chiun sighed. “Then I must resign myself to more years of toil and labor. Oh, when will my aching bones be allowed to rest? Must I wait for the comfort of the grave?”

“Speaking of pee-yew, you know what’s kind of familiar about this whole thing?” Remo stopped, looking back at the stadium.

“I know of many things, but I’m certain you have an idea that is quite unique.”

“Digestive disorders,” Remo declared.

“Very unique indeed.”

“No, think about it. The winner of the Nude Luge had all kinds of noisy things going on in his lower guts. And the skater winner couldn’t wait to get to the crapper.”

“I do not wish to discuss this,” Chiun snapped.

“But it’s weird, isn’t it, that both of them had the same problem? What if they were taking some sort of performance-enhancing drug that happened to have intestinal side effects?”

“We would have sensed it,” Chiun argued. “Now the subject is closed.”

“Maybe we would have sensed it, maybe not. But there’s another reason that doesn’t make sense—both of them won because of obvious sabotage. So why go to the extra trouble of drugging up the competitors?”

“Yes. Why? And why are we still discussing it? Next you will want to have a long conversation about their nasal secretions.”

“You have to admit it’s a weird coincidence, Chiun,” Remo said.

“Weird enough to fascinate a mind which has matured little since his days of puberty and carpenter worship.” Remo shut up, but he was thinking about his problem all the way back to the RV. Where the telephone message light was blinking.

Chapter 16

Mrs. Mikulka took the call as she was straightening her immaculate desk before leaving. She left earlier these days.

“Hi Mrs. M. It’s Romeo.”

“Yes?”

“You know, dark hair, snappy dresser, hangs around with the old Asian fella?”