No Contest

“It was alive. Its heart beat with growing vigor. I recognized it—and then I forgot what I had just seen. Then I was in this place, but it was not this place. The sun was hot…and then I heard you speak. You said my name.”

“Yes? I did that.”

“But it was someone—it was not you speaking. My name was spoken by—” He shook his head. “It was vivid, and then gone, forgotten in an instant.” Chiun was thoughtful, and he reentered their hotel room. The air was fifty degrees warmer, but neither of them took notice of it. They readjusted the circulation in their bodies to accommodate the change. Chiun descended cross-legged onto his mat and was silent, pondering his experience.

This was not the silent treatment Remo was used to—the tense silence that Chiun inflicted on him at the slightest provocation. Remo could handle that. He was used to it. He thrived on it.

But this silence was hollow. Chiun wasn’t angry with Remo; Chiun was simply absorbed in his own thoughts. Remo felt lonely.

He searched out the restaurant and barged into the kitchen, inspecting the catch of the day. “Of course we have fresh fish—we are on an island!” the French-Kiwi chef exclaimed. He calmed down when Remo dumped a wad of bills in the pocket of his apron. There were some hundreds in there. Probably more than strictly necessary, Remo thought, but money was one thing he just didn’t care about.

The money made the chef cooperative, however, and he even allowed himself to be micromanaged throughout the preparation of steamed fish, steamed Jasmine rice and roast duck.

“This is for an old person, yes? Someone who appreciates finely prepared food but must eat it bland?”

“Yes, something like that. But I eat the same thing.”

The chef didn’t press the issue, but he did slip sprigs of greens on the platters before the intruder wheeled off his dinner cart. What harm could a little touch of green do except make the plate more appetizing? He later found the parsley in his apron pocket with the money. Chiun sat there still, as if frozen, when Remo returned, but he roused himself to eat, then stretched out on his mat to sleep. He had failed to notice Remo’s specially prepared meal. Remo failed to notice that Chiun didn’t notice.

He was too worried to think about much of anything.

Chapter 31

Olaf Dasheway was distraught and he wasn’t thinking clearly. When the phone rang he answered it—without checking the display to see who it was. Big mistake.

“It’s me, Dasheway, and I’m as mad as a Mexican.”

“I’ve got my own problems right now, Mr. Pres—”

“You stabbed me in the back and I want an explanation.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Dasheway replied, voice dull. What was going on with Romeo Dodd? That man was the key to his comeback. That story about a trip to New Zealand was obviously a lie. He wasn’t even trying to sound legitimate. The man had something else going on.

“My production schedule gets cut back, and next thing I know I’m seeing ads for this new show you’re doing. The Ladies’ Man. My show is getting shafted!”

“We’re not dropping the Slick Willy show, just postponing production.”

“But, Dasheway, The Ladies’ Man?” The caller’s feelings were hurt. “I’m the ladies’ man. That should be my show. Instead they’re filming me taking naps on the display beds at Sears for a cheap laugh!”

Yeah, right. Dasheway clearly recalled the reaction when they screened the Slick Willy pilot to a focus group. There were no laughs, not even cheap ones.

“Who cares about this guy anymore?” commented one white female in the seventeen-to-thirty age bracket. “He’s more last week than Ozzy Osbourne.”

“You could have at least let me audition for The Ladies’ Man,” Dasheway’s caller bemoaned. “Wait! How about another Ladies’ Man—The Ladies’ Men. We’ll alternate episodes.”

Dasheway hung up. This guy, he simply could not deal with right now.

They woke together at 3:00 a.m. Remo rolled their mats around two down parkas purchased in the gift shop and cleaned of their feather filling. Exerting proper compression on the parkas flattened them into packages no thicker than a cheap paperback. That was all the preparation they needed. They went out via the patio doors, stepping off the balcony and landing lightly on the snowy earth three stories beneath. The mechanical trolls were cold and silent. The mountains were peaceful. It seemed criminal to allow the natural beauty of this place to be subverted by these noisy contraptions.

“Give me a sec.” Remo found a service door under a flap in the troll’s breeches and in he went.

Chiun patiently stood on the crust of snow, hands in his robe sleeves. Remo emerged from the nether regions of the troll, only to repeat the behavior with the second one.

“Was it enjoyable?” Chiun asked as they walked on.

“Very,” Remo answered. “Would you like to know what I was doing in there, exactly?”

“Please do not tell me.”